Can I be honest here for a minute?
I don’t really want to write this blog. I don’t. I’d rather go lie down and veg out. Or pretend to be productive working on a brochure or website or something. Or paint. Or talk on the phone to someone. Or even just write about something funny or silly.
But I got something to say… not to anyone in particular. Just in general.
So a few weeks ago I somehow I found myself one evening watching oh, I don’t know, several hours’ worth of the show ANIMAL HOARDERS on Animal Planet (yes, all caps is necessary). If you know Hilton and me, you know we are not big TV watchers. Reruns of The Office and certain classic movies are pretty much the only thing that captivate us anymore. Because we’re just so counter-culture like that? No, because we’re too busy catching up on life in the evenings once the kids go to bed.
I digress.
So I’m lying there in bed watching show after show as if it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve seen in years (this is possibly true). I’m only slightly gorked out on Percocet (more on that later), but the entire situation is enough to just put me in a light trance and percolate some interesting thoughts in my little head.
It doesn’t take me long to determine the show is set up with a set formula: introduce deranged person, give a sweeping overview of the trainwreck that is their life, go back in time through person’s ancient history to discover exactly when it all went wrong (and it always goes WAY back), interview concerned family members, introduce a third party to help person pick up the pieces, show person taking steps to make their life more on-the-grid, and then wrap up with a happy update.
Just good TV, all the way around (bet you can’t tell if I’m being sarcastic here or not). Considering my addiction to the A&E show Intervention (yes, I get the irony), it shouldn’t be surprising that a similar show PLUS animals would suck me in. In the course of time I watched, I learned the story of a couple with 100 cats in their home, a man who was overwhelmed with caring for a huge pack of feral dogs, a many-times divorced older lady with a bird problem, and an older couple with 83 dogs. Not a typo.
Of course, I had time to pontificate on these people and how screwed up they were…. Which is an easy task. But I was more intrigued by the pattern across the board for ALL of them… they were making up for a deep-down need that most of the time originated in childhood to be LOVED. To be WANTED. To have a PURPOSE.
Oh how sad it was. Little girls who never got the attention they so desperately needed. Runaways who had no place to turn to. Wives who were ignored and mistreated by their husbands. Young men who were literally kicked out of their home because they didn’t “fit in” their family. Even mothers who’d seemingly led a normal life until their kids were old enough to move out and no longer needed them anymore.
I cried. I’ll admit it. These people were LOST. They had a huge, gaping hole in their hearts that they were trying to fill with ANIMALS. At first glance, you wonder why animals? So many people turn to other extreme addictions… but animals… they depend on you. They love you unconditionally. They accept you…
But still… when it comes down to it, at the end of the day they are ANIMALS… and their redeeming power is limited…. Right? You could see the struggle they all had coming to grips with this reality. Each person made the decision toward the end of each show to part with some of their animals and make a step toward recovery. Watching them make that decision and go through with it was wrenching. It was like listening to the story of that rock-climber who had to cut off his own arm when he got wedged down in a ravine… You KNOW it was hard. You KNOW it took so much courage and conviction. But they KNEW they had to do it to be free of this sickness and false belief system they’d been trapped under.
Pretty deep huh? Think it doesn’t apply to you? Ready to close this browser window? Hold up, hear me out.
So much of the stuff we see on TV or read about involves extreme stories, extreme lengths, extreme circumstances…. It catches our attention. We are drawn to the intense.
But I also think we are drawn to it because on some level whether we will admit it or not, we can empathize. We know what it’s like to hurt, to hold onto a cure that is only for the symptom, to cover up our problems with something pretty, to throw ourselves into a purpose that we’ve convinced ourselves will fulfill us.
It’s just usually on a much smaller scale… we’re all screwed up. There’s just a continuum of screwed-upness (yep, just made myself a new word).
Most of us never come face-to-face with that reality. We might laugh and say we’re all a mess and no one’s perfect, but usually that’s as deep as it gets. Who wants to be that honest? It’s ugly and messy and what if damage is permanently done? I have heard this world would be a much better place if all our personal darkness was front and center on the evening news every day…. I’m not suggesting we all go on national TV and air our crap…. But how about some authenticity and vulnerability? … starting with ourselves.
Allow me to go first. A few months ago I hurt myself running. Because I am stubborn and vain and not very intelligent, I pushed through the pain and continued to exercise. This happened not once but twice. Five weeks, two doctors’ appointments, two MRIs, many tears, a great deal of harassing of my poor dad, and lots of “quiet time” later, I have come to the realization that I am broke. I have a muscle tear in an extremely difficult place to heal, and my recovery in the short term is uncertain.
Let me be clear that this is not a running injury. This is a disabling situation that requires I am stationary as much as possible. No lifting, no housework, no going up or down the stairs for goodness’ sake. Sound like a dream come true? Does anyone remember what 11 weeks of bedrest was like for me?
Suffice to say, it’s been very humbling. I can’t get away from this problem. It has taken away my independence and seemingly, much of my identity. I’ve been lost. I’ve been depressed. I’ve been angry. BUT (there’s always a but, right?), I’ve been reminded. This is NOT my identity. I am not what I do or what I am able to do.
I’ve been humbled beyond belief by my helplessness and in turn, Hilton’s care for me and our family. Rebuked for my vanity and selfishness. Realized my impatience and misplaced values. Provided for time after time. Lifted up by family and friends. And brought to my knees in gratitude for His love and mercy that fills all my gaps if I will get out of the way and let Him.
With so many options for soaking up our problems, it’s just really easy to try to make a deep wound “all better” when a symptom pops up. I’m starting to think that trying to immediately fix it is just as much avoidance as running away. I think sometimes we are called to just sit in the misery and be humbled for however long it takes for Him to do His thing.
Whether your problems qualify you to be featured in a documentary or you’re putting lots of seemingly harmless band-aids on your hurt, recognize we all live in that place and we don’t just need intervention… we need His restoration.
A haphazard and inconsistent collection of melodramatic musings and quasi-intelligent insights we've gained in the chaos that is life... how's that for quirky and humble?
Friday, March 4, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
We R Fish-Killers
(First, this is going to sound real cheesy but wanted to give a big ole shout-out to my peanut gallery who encouraged me to blog yet again... I promise I'm trying to get my act together, y'all)
Okay.
The title pretty much says it all. We’re the Hastings, and we kill fish.
Except that it didn’t. And I want to clarify it is Not Granny and Papaw’s Fault. They had no way of foreseeing that we the Hastings were destined to become serial fish killers. That the laws of science as they apply to algae simply don’t apply in our house. That we’d find a way to break the bounds of ineptitude in owning a couple of (sorry) dumb fish.
For the last few months things have been fairly uneventful with the fish. But then Hilton got all brave with the boys last week and brought home two big and stout suckerfish, from the Nice Wal-Mart, no less. These guys will make it, he said hopefully. They seemed to take to their new habitat well, sucking away all the day. The boys showed a renewed interest in the tank, watching the new additions carefully.
How long did they last? Five days.
At morning feeding this week, Ben noticed one was missing. Closer inspection revealed he wasn’t missing but dead at the bottom of the tank. Where was the other? Oh, he was dead, too. At 6:40am, the boys and I all stood there and blinked, stunned. We had managed to kill two more fish. Fish that were supposed to make it. I nearly cried (it was early, people). I thought the boys might. No one spoke. Jake finally spoke.
“Yeah, I thought they might die.” It’s a good thing my kids are made of stronger stuff than me.
So what’s the worst part of a fish dying? Yep. Getting rid of it. With how many fish we’d lost, one would assume we had a net to scoop them out. But we didn’t. Somehow with the detachment that only a police officer could have, Hilton has scooped them out without a net and disposed of them. Hilton wasn’t due home until late in the evening. And the tank already smelled off. I couldn’t even stand to glance at it with those now-disgusting fish corpses floating at the bottom (hope none of y’all are reading this on your lunch break).
This is a perfect time to insert just how disgusting a fish tank really is. I mean, they are swimming around in their own filth and grossness. I can’t even stand to walk by the seafood counter at Kroger…. Bleccchhh!!! Gag me with a spoon and all that.
But by 4pm I was getting desperate. There was no doubt the room reeked of nastiness. I had a Bible study starting at 6:30pm and there was no way my house was going to smell like Dead Fish. I tried, I really tried to make myself reach down and scoop them up with a cup. As soon as my hand hit the water, I screamed and shook my hands like the baby I am. I finally decided to sacrifice a ladle spoon from the kitchen and scoop them up. I say sacrifice because I afterward I threw it in the trash afterward. Not even the hottest water or strongest soap could make that thing usable again. Into the trash, buh-bye.
But I couldn’t just flush the fish. Hilton wanted me to save them in a bag in case W-mart needed evidence the fish had actually died (we were getting our $8.00 back, by golly). So I had to pour them into a bag, which I put in another bag and threw in the garage. Then I did another tank cleaning and sprayed the room with so much Febreeze it made my children cough and sneeze.
The End.
(Granny, I hope you’re not upset by any of this—it has been an adventure for all of us and I do not blame you a bit!!! I am in awe of your Fish-Raising abilities!)
Okay.
The title pretty much says it all. We’re the Hastings, and we kill fish.
My apologies go out to Granny and Papaw, who bought the boys a very special gift for their 5th birthday last summer. A full, ready-to-go, comprehensive, dummy-proof goldfish and tank set-up. A perfect package deal sort of thing that should have simply set us down the path of goldfish ownership.
Except that it didn’t. And I want to clarify it is Not Granny and Papaw’s Fault. They had no way of foreseeing that we the Hastings were destined to become serial fish killers. That the laws of science as they apply to algae simply don’t apply in our house. That we’d find a way to break the bounds of ineptitude in owning a couple of (sorry) dumb fish.
I believe our first fish died within 36 hours of entering our house. I think the next followed soon after. That first week, I lost track of how many replacements died for reasons we still can’t determine. Maybe they got sucked into the filter, maybe the water was toxic, maybe we fed them too much/too little… we don’t really know. Because we suck at this.
Multiple calls to and visits from were made to Granny, our official fish expert who has become something of a goddess to me for her ability to raise and sustain aquatic life in her home for decades. She was stumped. I don’t think she’s seen such incompetence. More than once she’s offered to take the poor fish off our hands (more for the fishes’ benefit than anything). Visitors to our house have marveled at the cloudiness of the tank water and chastised us for our negligence. We’re trying, people! Something is seriously wrong with us. Personally, I am kind of amazed that the girl who grew up wanting to be a veterinarian, who managed to drag in and care for countless animals into our family (including two horses) somehow now at 30 cannot manage to care for some fish in a tank.
We are also creative at how we manage to kill fish. One day while changing the water out in the tank (a lovely task that I look forward to for weeks and shouldn’t be necessary) I managed to scoop out a perfectly healthy little gray sucker fish and deposit him down the drain in our kitchen sink. The boys were supposed to be making sure Mommy didn’t scoop up a fish accidentally, but they’re five… and I should know better. The worst part is we didn’t even notice he was gone until a week had gone by.
This was probably the same sucker fish that nearly got killed before we even left Wal-Mart because we let Ben carry the bag around and he’d sloshed the poor thing up to the top of the bag where 
he helplessly held on, oxygen-less, with his little sucker mouth. That would have been a record kill time. The other sucker fish in that pair we bought somehow mysteriously disappeared a few weeks later. The only thing we could figure was he was eaten by one of the two freak-of-nature goldfish that somehow have remained living in the tank for the last six months or so. They’re huge, they’re smart, they fight, and I’m really not sure how they’ve stayed alive. I don’t believe in Darwinism but there's something about watching them live despite the odds against them that makes me pause.
he helplessly held on, oxygen-less, with his little sucker mouth. That would have been a record kill time. The other sucker fish in that pair we bought somehow mysteriously disappeared a few weeks later. The only thing we could figure was he was eaten by one of the two freak-of-nature goldfish that somehow have remained living in the tank for the last six months or so. They’re huge, they’re smart, they fight, and I’m really not sure how they’ve stayed alive. I don’t believe in Darwinism but there's something about watching them live despite the odds against them that makes me pause. For the last few months things have been fairly uneventful with the fish. But then Hilton got all brave with the boys last week and brought home two big and stout suckerfish, from the Nice Wal-Mart, no less. These guys will make it, he said hopefully. They seemed to take to their new habitat well, sucking away all the day. The boys showed a renewed interest in the tank, watching the new additions carefully.
How long did they last? Five days.
At morning feeding this week, Ben noticed one was missing. Closer inspection revealed he wasn’t missing but dead at the bottom of the tank. Where was the other? Oh, he was dead, too. At 6:40am, the boys and I all stood there and blinked, stunned. We had managed to kill two more fish. Fish that were supposed to make it. I nearly cried (it was early, people). I thought the boys might. No one spoke. Jake finally spoke.
“Yeah, I thought they might die.” It’s a good thing my kids are made of stronger stuff than me.
So what’s the worst part of a fish dying? Yep. Getting rid of it. With how many fish we’d lost, one would assume we had a net to scoop them out. But we didn’t. Somehow with the detachment that only a police officer could have, Hilton has scooped them out without a net and disposed of them. Hilton wasn’t due home until late in the evening. And the tank already smelled off. I couldn’t even stand to glance at it with those now-disgusting fish corpses floating at the bottom (hope none of y’all are reading this on your lunch break).
This is a perfect time to insert just how disgusting a fish tank really is. I mean, they are swimming around in their own filth and grossness. I can’t even stand to walk by the seafood counter at Kroger…. Bleccchhh!!! Gag me with a spoon and all that.
But by 4pm I was getting desperate. There was no doubt the room reeked of nastiness. I had a Bible study starting at 6:30pm and there was no way my house was going to smell like Dead Fish. I tried, I really tried to make myself reach down and scoop them up with a cup. As soon as my hand hit the water, I screamed and shook my hands like the baby I am. I finally decided to sacrifice a ladle spoon from the kitchen and scoop them up. I say sacrifice because I afterward I threw it in the trash afterward. Not even the hottest water or strongest soap could make that thing usable again. Into the trash, buh-bye.
But I couldn’t just flush the fish. Hilton wanted me to save them in a bag in case W-mart needed evidence the fish had actually died (we were getting our $8.00 back, by golly). So I had to pour them into a bag, which I put in another bag and threw in the garage. Then I did another tank cleaning and sprayed the room with so much Febreeze it made my children cough and sneeze.
The End.
(Granny, I hope you’re not upset by any of this—it has been an adventure for all of us and I do not blame you a bit!!! I am in awe of your Fish-Raising abilities!)
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Thisclose
Ha! Betcha didn't expect to see me here.
Me neither.
Gonna make this real quick. Please give me a reason to not take this blogsite down for good... because I am thisclose. I mean... I still have my FALL photos up. And they are from 2009, people. 2009!
Trying to re-evaluate my priorities (again!) and figure out life and how it should look. Not sure this fits in. The only thing that is currently keeping this site alive is I'm not smart enough to find the delete account button.
Anyone out there?
Me neither.
Gonna make this real quick. Please give me a reason to not take this blogsite down for good... because I am thisclose. I mean... I still have my FALL photos up. And they are from 2009, people. 2009!
Trying to re-evaluate my priorities (again!) and figure out life and how it should look. Not sure this fits in. The only thing that is currently keeping this site alive is I'm not smart enough to find the delete account button.
Anyone out there?
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Ummmm.....
So, I’ve decided that facing long gaps of time between posting blogs here is a lot like putting off that dreaded six-month teeth cleaning appointment at the dentist when it’s really been more like nine months. Or twelve or eighteen… not that I have any experience doing something like that.
And not that I dread posting blogs. I don’t. I rather like it. But when my LIFE gets in the way and I push ut further and further back, guilt grows like bacteria on the bottom of a pack of strawberries, and before long I’m tempted to chuck the whole thing rather than trying to salvage my investment.
I’ve decided my problem is I put way too much pressure on myself to write some brilliant masterpiece each time, requiring gobs of time and thought. Neither of which I have do I much to spare (so that would make me busy and thoughtless, right???).
So my solution is to copy my BFF’s often-used blogging mode of stream of consciousness. Which essentially means write whatever comes to mind and pretend it’s brilliant. I’ve got some big topics to blog about but don’t have the willpower to sit down and stamp them all out with my stubby little fingers on the keyboard. So I’m going to chitchat with you about the random stuff in my life as it comes to mind.
Since I last blogged, lots of big stuff’s been going on in our lives. Just wrapped up my huge calendar project for the company I work for, designing 13 different calendars from scratch. I started the work back in June and finished up way ahead of schedule as compared to other years. Which is great except sometimes I wake up wondering what important step I left out or screw-up I might have made that cancels all that out. I remain hopeful that a miracle occurred and I really did get ‘er done.
This past weekend we had a big block party bash for our neighbors, alongside members of our amazing church. We had about 100 people out and I’m pretty sure God was partying along with us. I think Hilton and I have been blessed with the gift of hospitality but lately I’d been letting that twist into a form of anxiety over expectations of being the perfect hostess and doing it all. God took over for this event and I’ve never felt such a peace about serving others in this way. It was like I’d taken a Xanax. Except I hadn’t. Yay God!
Now I pretty much don’t know what to do with myself. Wait, I do. I just don’t feel like doing it. That would be detail-cleaning my kitchen (scrubbing down cabinets, appliances, floors, chairs, etc). Have you every detailed your kitchen? Me neither. But I’m pretty sure it sucks. I’ve been meaning to do it for a YEAR. Whoops. My mom says she’s never even done this to her kitchen. And they’ve been there for like eight years. I’m compelled to use that as evidence I can keep putting this off. But y’all I swear my kitchen is nasty. We’re having another big party in a few weeks (wait, it’s next weekend… good grief) and I’m trying to use that as motivation. But my new relaxation revelation about hosting events is kind of cancelling that out.
I know I’m biased. But I think my kids might be the most creatively hilarious creatures I’ve ever met. I really can’t effectively convey how funny they truly are through the written word because anymore, it’s not just what they say; it’s HOW they say it. Even though there’s only two of them, I think I could pitch a TV show to TLC execs and they’d buy it. This morning, Jake was putting on his shoes and I thought he kept saying, “Look Mommy, it’s a statue, look Mommy, it’s a statue.” (Jake just goes on repeat repeat repeat until you finally give up and answer… it’s GREAT). Finally I caved and walked over, looking for the freaking statue. He kept holding up his shoe, and because it was only 7:10am and I was still staggering around, I leaned over and spent a good 30 seconds looking for a statue on his shoe, pretty certain one of us was Not Right. Finally I realized he was holding the Velcro strap backwards and down past the shoe, declaring it a “Sad SHOE.” That would be funny enough, but then Ben came marching in proclaiming he was the Statue of Liberty, freezing in a perfect pose (I don’t think he knows Liberty is a girl). Then there were questions about who gave us the Statue of Liberty. Still staggering around, I mistakenly thought he was asking who gave us the Statue of Liberty magnet on our fridge. No, he wanted to know which country gave the United States the actual statute. And me, college grad (ONE B in all my years of school) could not tell my five-year-old son which country it was. The fact escaped me and I was again reminded what a waste school was on me. But the blessing of being five (especially if you are Ben) is that you can make up your own reality and people think it’s funny. Ben informed Jake “I think it came from the country where Rock [Barack] Obama came from.”
I can’t make this up.
We also recently had the stomach bug (known in the EKY as the Vomit Virus) pay a visit to our home last week. Fall always sucks at our house because we all get slammed with sickness, but we hadn’t welcomed in a stomach bug in probably three years. I’m pretty sure angels of health were surrounding Ben and me, because we miraculously escaped unscathed. I felt like the house that the tornado somehow missed while it destroyed the rest of the neighborhood. It’s a very good thing, because Mommy Doesn’t Throw Up. No sirree. I will do Lamaze breathing and swallow it down and wail and moan and sweat but I REFUSE to vomit. I would rather be beaten with a baseball bat or run over by a car or something like that rather than be nauseated to the point of vomiting.
When you become homebound with small children, you begin to let down boundaries you previously swore as off limits in Times of Wellness. Last year it was the Wii (hello, we were trapped for like 5 weeks) that we said we’d never buy. This year it was the introduction to the Star Wars trilogy (or whatever). The boys are all about Star Wars but don’t have a CLUE what it’s all about… after watching about three of the movies so far, I can honestly say that status hasn’t changed. Hilton did censor much of it, but have you ever watched Star Wars with a five year old? I don't reccomend it without a strong dose of patience and humor. Here’s a sampling of the questions that came out during the viewing: How many light sabers are in this entire movie? Is Darth Vader a boy or a girl? Why is Yoda so small? Are those aliens or is this real life? Why do they call it Star Wars? … I have to admit, I have no idea what’s going on in Star Wars either, so I think these are pretty valid questions.
Do you love your Wal-Mart? I hate mine but the boys tell me hate is not a nice word. I boycotted it for some time over the summer when they were out of things like milk and bananas and simply turned off the light and left the customer service department unmanned (is this even legal?). I even bookmarked the Wal-Mart corporate number to file a complaint but I was too lazy to actually do it. Eventually my convictions wore off and I got tired of driving across town to the Good Wal-Mart and going broke going Krogering. So I went back and got myself a new attitude about my Crappy Wal-Mart. When they refuse to re-stock items over the course of weeks, when they simply discontinue items every single week without checking with me first, when they only have one (ONE) cashier lane open at 8:45am on a Tuesday morning, I take a deep breath and take the beating. I briefly curse the store under my breath and then repent, making it a lesson of humility and grace. Instead of flipping it the bird, I smile my happy face to the Greeter Person and say “Grace to you, Wal-Mart” I say as I wheel away my cart to the parking lot that smells like a sewer. Because eventually, I’ll have to come back.
Enough randomness for now. I’ll leave you with what I think might be one of the funniest commercials I’ve ever seen. You're welcome.
And not that I dread posting blogs. I don’t. I rather like it. But when my LIFE gets in the way and I push ut further and further back, guilt grows like bacteria on the bottom of a pack of strawberries, and before long I’m tempted to chuck the whole thing rather than trying to salvage my investment.
I’ve decided my problem is I put way too much pressure on myself to write some brilliant masterpiece each time, requiring gobs of time and thought. Neither of which I have do I much to spare (so that would make me busy and thoughtless, right???).
So my solution is to copy my BFF’s often-used blogging mode of stream of consciousness. Which essentially means write whatever comes to mind and pretend it’s brilliant. I’ve got some big topics to blog about but don’t have the willpower to sit down and stamp them all out with my stubby little fingers on the keyboard. So I’m going to chitchat with you about the random stuff in my life as it comes to mind.
Since I last blogged, lots of big stuff’s been going on in our lives. Just wrapped up my huge calendar project for the company I work for, designing 13 different calendars from scratch. I started the work back in June and finished up way ahead of schedule as compared to other years. Which is great except sometimes I wake up wondering what important step I left out or screw-up I might have made that cancels all that out. I remain hopeful that a miracle occurred and I really did get ‘er done.
This past weekend we had a big block party bash for our neighbors, alongside members of our amazing church. We had about 100 people out and I’m pretty sure God was partying along with us. I think Hilton and I have been blessed with the gift of hospitality but lately I’d been letting that twist into a form of anxiety over expectations of being the perfect hostess and doing it all. God took over for this event and I’ve never felt such a peace about serving others in this way. It was like I’d taken a Xanax. Except I hadn’t. Yay God!
Now I pretty much don’t know what to do with myself. Wait, I do. I just don’t feel like doing it. That would be detail-cleaning my kitchen (scrubbing down cabinets, appliances, floors, chairs, etc). Have you every detailed your kitchen? Me neither. But I’m pretty sure it sucks. I’ve been meaning to do it for a YEAR. Whoops. My mom says she’s never even done this to her kitchen. And they’ve been there for like eight years. I’m compelled to use that as evidence I can keep putting this off. But y’all I swear my kitchen is nasty. We’re having another big party in a few weeks (wait, it’s next weekend… good grief) and I’m trying to use that as motivation. But my new relaxation revelation about hosting events is kind of cancelling that out.
I know I’m biased. But I think my kids might be the most creatively hilarious creatures I’ve ever met. I really can’t effectively convey how funny they truly are through the written word because anymore, it’s not just what they say; it’s HOW they say it. Even though there’s only two of them, I think I could pitch a TV show to TLC execs and they’d buy it. This morning, Jake was putting on his shoes and I thought he kept saying, “Look Mommy, it’s a statue, look Mommy, it’s a statue.” (Jake just goes on repeat repeat repeat until you finally give up and answer… it’s GREAT). Finally I caved and walked over, looking for the freaking statue. He kept holding up his shoe, and because it was only 7:10am and I was still staggering around, I leaned over and spent a good 30 seconds looking for a statue on his shoe, pretty certain one of us was Not Right. Finally I realized he was holding the Velcro strap backwards and down past the shoe, declaring it a “Sad SHOE.” That would be funny enough, but then Ben came marching in proclaiming he was the Statue of Liberty, freezing in a perfect pose (I don’t think he knows Liberty is a girl). Then there were questions about who gave us the Statue of Liberty. Still staggering around, I mistakenly thought he was asking who gave us the Statue of Liberty magnet on our fridge. No, he wanted to know which country gave the United States the actual statute. And me, college grad (ONE B in all my years of school) could not tell my five-year-old son which country it was. The fact escaped me and I was again reminded what a waste school was on me. But the blessing of being five (especially if you are Ben) is that you can make up your own reality and people think it’s funny. Ben informed Jake “I think it came from the country where Rock [Barack] Obama came from.”
I can’t make this up.
We also recently had the stomach bug (known in the EKY as the Vomit Virus) pay a visit to our home last week. Fall always sucks at our house because we all get slammed with sickness, but we hadn’t welcomed in a stomach bug in probably three years. I’m pretty sure angels of health were surrounding Ben and me, because we miraculously escaped unscathed. I felt like the house that the tornado somehow missed while it destroyed the rest of the neighborhood. It’s a very good thing, because Mommy Doesn’t Throw Up. No sirree. I will do Lamaze breathing and swallow it down and wail and moan and sweat but I REFUSE to vomit. I would rather be beaten with a baseball bat or run over by a car or something like that rather than be nauseated to the point of vomiting.
When you become homebound with small children, you begin to let down boundaries you previously swore as off limits in Times of Wellness. Last year it was the Wii (hello, we were trapped for like 5 weeks) that we said we’d never buy. This year it was the introduction to the Star Wars trilogy (or whatever). The boys are all about Star Wars but don’t have a CLUE what it’s all about… after watching about three of the movies so far, I can honestly say that status hasn’t changed. Hilton did censor much of it, but have you ever watched Star Wars with a five year old? I don't reccomend it without a strong dose of patience and humor. Here’s a sampling of the questions that came out during the viewing: How many light sabers are in this entire movie? Is Darth Vader a boy or a girl? Why is Yoda so small? Are those aliens or is this real life? Why do they call it Star Wars? … I have to admit, I have no idea what’s going on in Star Wars either, so I think these are pretty valid questions.
Do you love your Wal-Mart? I hate mine but the boys tell me hate is not a nice word. I boycotted it for some time over the summer when they were out of things like milk and bananas and simply turned off the light and left the customer service department unmanned (is this even legal?). I even bookmarked the Wal-Mart corporate number to file a complaint but I was too lazy to actually do it. Eventually my convictions wore off and I got tired of driving across town to the Good Wal-Mart and going broke going Krogering. So I went back and got myself a new attitude about my Crappy Wal-Mart. When they refuse to re-stock items over the course of weeks, when they simply discontinue items every single week without checking with me first, when they only have one (ONE) cashier lane open at 8:45am on a Tuesday morning, I take a deep breath and take the beating. I briefly curse the store under my breath and then repent, making it a lesson of humility and grace. Instead of flipping it the bird, I smile my happy face to the Greeter Person and say “Grace to you, Wal-Mart” I say as I wheel away my cart to the parking lot that smells like a sewer. Because eventually, I’ll have to come back.
Enough randomness for now. I’ll leave you with what I think might be one of the funniest commercials I’ve ever seen. You're welcome.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Jakeroo
I have been trying to write this blog now for two weeks and quite simply have not been able to find the time in my schedule or my mind to give Jacob the attention that he deserves through the written word. I won’t bore you with the details of the craziness that has kept me from this place. Today is no different, but I am here at the end of another work week that got whisked out from under me. Before my rear hits the floor and I wonder how it all happened, I’m going to tell you about Jake and what sets him apart.
He has a servant’s heart that I can only attribute to his daddy. I will never forget his first self-initiated and self-led prayer, in which he prayed “that all of those who were poor were helped by their neighbors.” Months later, he prayed for someone we knew who’d lost two loved ones within weeks of each other that the person would have people around him to make him not feel sad anymore. Did you catch that? He didn’t pray for God to simply do this or that… he prayed that God would use other people to help the situation. We are the hands and feet of God, and I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that Jake gets that.
Agreeable and hardworking to a fault, Jake will take criticism and take it to heart, something I have to be mindful of when coaching him to do anything the right way. I see him realize he’s messed up on something and I cringe as I watch him process it and try his guts out trying to make it better. I’ll never forget him seeing him sit on the toilet when he was learning to potty-train. So proud of himself and eager to please with a success, he’d ask, “Dat make mama hey-appy [happy]?” With his big ole soft almond eyes and sweet accent, you’d have to be a coldhearted you-know-what to not be melted by that.
Ben will self-destruct immediately because he hates being told what to do, but I worry Jake will self-destruct further down the road from the burnout that I know firsthand comes from being so dang hard on yourself. If you examine the photos of him carefully, you’ll even see the difference in their expressions that tell the story: Ben is carefree, impish, wild. Jake is studied, inward, almost self-conscious. Again, I want to take out the parts of me I see in him and delete them…. But it would make him not Jake, so I try to steer them in a healthy way.
This sensitivity plays out in other ways that have broken my heart and will no doubt continue to do so. Such consideration and intuitiveness don’t come without a great deal of inward thinking and thought, and co-dependency is so often borne out of it. I hate to say it, but he comes by it naturally through his mother’s lineage. In fact, my sister says I should just go ahead and enroll him in therapy for it—and she might be right. It’s not uncommon for Jake to be wronged by some kids at school, notify the teacher, and then be nearly sick with sadness as he sees the kids sit in timeout during recess because they got in trouble. Sometimes the worst part of his day is seeing other kids get in trouble. I’ve even seen him trying to give away his hard-earned money through our chart system for being good to Ben, who’s had a rough day and lost some money here and there. To these things, I repetitively pull him aside and given him the same gentle but firm talking-to I have to give myself periodically as well: you can pray for your brother and your friends, you can help remind them, you can be a good example, and you can love them, but you are NOT responsible for what they do. You focus on how YOU behave and trust God it will be okay.”
I’ve gone on long enough speaking about his sensitivity, and lest you think that’s he’s all rainbows and teddybears, I’ll speak to Jake’s other attributes. While Ben has an in-your-face, completely quirky, strange-old-man funkiness to him, Jake has a subtle, sly, passive-aggressive twist to his wit. Rarely going after Ben directly, he’ll often casually do something that might seem like a coincidence but it is anything but. Like tripping and “accidentally” knocking down Ben’s wall of bricks he’s built. Or singing a song he knows Ben can’t stand just loud enough for Ben to hear in the backseat but not loud enough for us. Or refusing to play a game Ben wants to do just for spite. It’s an “I’m-not-touching-you” strategy as he holds his finger in front of his face that just goes right through Ben. And Jake knows it. Let me just say that disciplining this type of disobedience is much more difficult than dealing with Ben, who’s more likely to just smack Jake in the face and walk off. Often a spectator in watching Ben sabotage his evenings with meltdowns, he’ll sit on the sidelines and helpfully hand out parenting pointers to Hilton and me. “Give him a spanking, Daddy. Get him. Don’t let him have any candy, either.” Thanks Jake.
Still makes me laugh just remembering it.
Although I described Ben as an overconfident, comical, and sometimes angry little man, my goal with these two blogs is not to portray the boys as caricatures of themselves and broadly generalizing images of starkly contrasting good/evil personalities… they are way too complex to paint with that wide of a brush. Instead, my hope is to somehow give a glimpse of how even sharing the same DNA, God has created them both so uniquely and wonderfully… as he’s done with all of us. I know they are difficult to tell apart and it’s easier to simply call them “the twins,” but whenever I feel their distinctiveness is overlooked and they are seen as a unit because of the novelty of duplicity, there’s a part of me that wants to plead “They can’t help it that the egg split into two for some reason! They are so special apart from one another, too! Please let them know it!”
I know— MY issue. On to Jake.
The best way I can describe Jake is that he’s a pillow. He’s soft and snuggly and sweet and incredibly easygoing. It’s so hard to separate nature from nurture, but Hilton and I often wonder if his laidback characteristic came from his six days in the NICU after birth. Probably the healthiest baby in the unit, he learned to lay flat on his back under the bilirubin lights with his little sunglasses on, wearing nothing but a diaper and lots of tubes and wires and surrounded by beeping noises, monitors, and all the other chaos of a NICU. Totally comfortable, he progressed at a much faster rate than anticipated and would show the doctors when he was ready to move on to the next stage by ripping tubes and wires out with his little preemie newborn fingers, including twice removing the gastric tube fed down through his nose, despite having it taped firmly to his face the second time.
He was and has always been just ahead of Ben in terms of weight and his bones and structure have always felt more solid. We were never sure if it was just his nature or the fact, the fact that he ate more reliably, or that he had more meat on his bones to sustain him, but he rarely screamed to be fed, in contrast to Ben-the-fire-alarm. Jake would wake slowly and quietly and politely begin making murmuring noises. “Hello, it’s me, Jake,” he seemed to be saying. “Whenever you get around to it, it’d be great if you could feed me.” After a month or so I began feeling terrible that he always got fed last simply because I knew he’d tolerate it, just one small piece of the guilt baggage I carried around trying to split my resources equally.
I’m happy to say that despite our screw-ups, his sweet, good-natured ways haven’t left him. This is going to sound disgustingly biased on so many levels, but Jake is quite simply one of the most sensitive, nurturing, giving children I’ve ever come across. When given the opportunity to give his resources away for someone/something else or use it for his own needs, 99.9% of the time he will selflessly give it away. We try to be realistic about our finances when talking to the boys, and if Jake has an inkling that we can’t afford something (for something clearly not intended for him), he will pipe up that we can have his money he’s saved in his piggy bank. We have a sliding glass door with a finicky lock that needs to be replaced. The whole process has taken some time, and Jake asked me last week if he needed “to give us some money to get that door fixed.” When the earthquake hit Haiti last winter, it was Jake who over and over wanted to send all his money “up to the people in Haiti.”
Agreeable and hardworking to a fault, Jake will take criticism and take it to heart, something I have to be mindful of when coaching him to do anything the right way. I see him realize he’s messed up on something and I cringe as I watch him process it and try his guts out trying to make it better. I’ll never forget him seeing him sit on the toilet when he was learning to potty-train. So proud of himself and eager to please with a success, he’d ask, “Dat make mama hey-appy [happy]?” With his big ole soft almond eyes and sweet accent, you’d have to be a coldhearted you-know-what to not be melted by that.
This sensitivity plays out in other ways that have broken my heart and will no doubt continue to do so. Such consideration and intuitiveness don’t come without a great deal of inward thinking and thought, and co-dependency is so often borne out of it. I hate to say it, but he comes by it naturally through his mother’s lineage. In fact, my sister says I should just go ahead and enroll him in therapy for it—and she might be right. It’s not uncommon for Jake to be wronged by some kids at school, notify the teacher, and then be nearly sick with sadness as he sees the kids sit in timeout during recess because they got in trouble. Sometimes the worst part of his day is seeing other kids get in trouble. I’ve even seen him trying to give away his hard-earned money through our chart system for being good to Ben, who’s had a rough day and lost some money here and there. To these things, I repetitively pull him aside and given him the same gentle but firm talking-to I have to give myself periodically as well: you can pray for your brother and your friends, you can help remind them, you can be a good example, and you can love them, but you are NOT responsible for what they do. You focus on how YOU behave and trust God it will be okay.”
I’ve gone on long enough speaking about his sensitivity, and lest you think that’s he’s all rainbows and teddybears, I’ll speak to Jake’s other attributes. While Ben has an in-your-face, completely quirky, strange-old-man funkiness to him, Jake has a subtle, sly, passive-aggressive twist to his wit. Rarely going after Ben directly, he’ll often casually do something that might seem like a coincidence but it is anything but. Like tripping and “accidentally” knocking down Ben’s wall of bricks he’s built. Or singing a song he knows Ben can’t stand just loud enough for Ben to hear in the backseat but not loud enough for us. Or refusing to play a game Ben wants to do just for spite. It’s an “I’m-not-touching-you” strategy as he holds his finger in front of his face that just goes right through Ben. And Jake knows it. Let me just say that disciplining this type of disobedience is much more difficult than dealing with Ben, who’s more likely to just smack Jake in the face and walk off. Often a spectator in watching Ben sabotage his evenings with meltdowns, he’ll sit on the sidelines and helpfully hand out parenting pointers to Hilton and me. “Give him a spanking, Daddy. Get him. Don’t let him have any candy, either.” Thanks Jake.
It’s Jake’s cleverness and sharpness that makes me think he’ll be a lawyer some day. He’s the king of finding a loophole, clearly calling you out for ambiguity or failure to follow through on some random promise or rule you’ve made, whether it’s in regards to whether fruit qualifies as a dessert or if I said we’d be going up to Nana and Boppaw’s for the day or to Huntington in general. He forgets nothing, and there is meaning in EVERYTHING.
I’ll close with this recent interaction between the two of them. I was rushing around the kitchen trying to clean up and asked if one of them could do me a favor and take a stack of mail to Hilton’s office. They were both in foul moods and neither of them wanted to do it, so they began bickering.
“Alright, alright, boys,” I interrupted. “What would Jesus do?”
“He’d do it,” Ben reluctantly, clearly indignant.
“Okay, so who’s gonna be Jesus here?” I asked.
The answer came with no hesitation from Ben.
“Jake is.”
And with that, Jake took the mail.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Profile: The Benstigator
This blog topic is all about Ben.
I’ve given this topic some thought over the last few weeks, wrestling and turning over in my head whether or not he’d grow up and use this blog as evidence that I wasn’t quite right as a mother. Or if it could be construed as making fun of my own child, who can’t even make his own retorts here in the comments section. Or if it would somehow subconsciously cause me to egg his behaviors on even more so in a type of self-fulfilling prophecy. Or if it was unfair to single him out apart from Jake.
But pushing aside these concerns of social acceptability, I’ve decided to do it anyway. Besides, Jake’s turn is next week.
So, onto Mr. Ben.
So many times people ask me just how alike the boys really are in their personalities. Considering they share the same DNA, it’s not surprising that they do share quite a few characteristics—about the food they eat, the lilt in their voices, their love for sports, the way they like to engage in intense imaginative play. But I always laugh when I hear this question, because after spending less than an hour with them, you can see there are remarkable differences in their personalities. And it’s not necessarily because one is on one extreme and one is on the other extreme.
It’s mainly because Ben is on one extreme.
Ben was the first born by one minute, a fact that doesn’t escape him in the least and which he feels entitles him to all sorts of random privileges. Although Jake was several ounces heavier at birth and simply felt more “solid” when held (our theory is he had more room in the womb to move around while Ben stayed low and caused all my preterm labor issues), he had breathing issues and stayed in the NICU for six days.
Meanwhile, scrawny, feisty little Ben was perfectly healthy and living it up in the room with us, soaking up all the attention and completely forgetting that the pesky little brother of his who’d been kicking him in the head for months had ever existed (we think he was a little ticked they were finally reunited and he’s been plotting how to be an only child again ever since). The day we brought him home he weighed four pounds even, but we quickly learned that when he was upset about something, he was the loudest four-pound creature we’d ever come across. When feeding time came in the middle of the night, it was as if an alarm went off. The entire house would go from zero to DEFCON 1 in a matter of seconds.
As the boys got older and interacted with each other, we went through a phase where we worried that Jake would take advantage of his own strength and use it against Ben to steal toys, smack him in the face, and whatnot. That phase quickly passed. Ben might have been smaller, but he made up for it by being mean (it was immediately confirmed by Hilton that Ben took after me and Jake took after Hilton). In fact, Ben was a biter. Jake could bite, too, but the marks Ben left on Jake made us anxious that CPS would somehow get involved.
Eventually outgrowing that phase (thank God), Ben moved onto other strategies of getting his way, which included stirring up trouble and instituting his own scams. My dad coined him “The Benstigator” for his ways of entering into a room with an eye toward creating a situation that was all about him. I haven’t figured out exactly what career this will serve him well in, but he’s always had a knack for spotting something (figuratively) just out of his reach and strategizing a way to get his hands on it. Even before he really had conversational skills, you could offer him one piece of candy and he’d state in no uncertain terms he’d like three pieces. Many times I found myself in negotiations with a two-and-a-half year old over something, often caving. You can even see in the pictures of him that he’s got the shining, picture-perfect, impish big smile going on, as if he’s just swallowed the canary whole.
I have to say what has always stood out the most about Ben is his never-flagging assurance in himself. We like to joke that Ben has a confidence problem. Once as a toddler (barely able to express himself with any words) he began to climb the log steps in Mom and Dad’s house. Mom followed close behind, “spotting” him with her hands. The child stopped what he was doing, turned his body to face her, held up his hand and firmly said, “NO, Nana. BACK. NO.” He wanted to do it himself. We still laugh about that story today because it so accurately sums him up.
I’ve come to realize that in Ben’s mind, his world mostly occurs as some sort of video game. And he is the champion of the video game. You’ll often catch him randomly spouting off all sorts of video-game language about “beating the bad guys in the battle with the swords” or “getting blammed up by that big ole rocket booster” or something. Last night he informed me that he was braver than a shark, and that if he saw a shark he’d just punch it right in the face. It doesn’t faze us anymore, but we sometimes have to remind him to talk about normal things when in public.
Speaking of being in public, last weekend everyone at the boys’ soccer game had a front-seat to Ben’s display of overflowing confidence. While both boys did crouch dramatically before any play on the field began (we think they were confusing it with football?), it was Ben who was also randomly leaping in the air and spouting off soccer “smack” to no one in particular as the rest of the players meekly waited for the play to start. I wish I could say that the behavior was appropriate because he was trying to psyche himself for the game, but we often catch him standing in front of the mirror talking smack to himself when he’s supposed to be brushing his teeth.
Obviously, this cockiness does have some benefits (usually it doesn’t occur to him to be scared of something), but it has presented some interesting challenges along the way. For one thing, when someone thinks highly of himself but happens to also need corrected in regards to behavior, he often doesn’t understand what the big deal is. I think part of what made Ben so difficult to potty-train (check out my blog archives for the gory details) was the fact that he simply didn’t see what was so bad about pooping his pants. He’d eventually get cleaned up and be given new underwear, so who cared? In fact, when he had not one but two accidents a few weeks ago at kindergarten (an event that would have made Jake suicidal), Ben literally had forgotten it had even happened by the time he got off the bus. Firmly asked by me what happened, Ben simply replied “I got these ole school undies on me.”
This ambivalence toward things that don’t concern him has made it difficult at times to instill certain values like social responsibility . One evening while wound up he tore a page in a library book, and I informed him he’d have to fess up to the librarian when we returned the books later that month. Clearly more horrified than his brother, Jake came up to me a week later and tearfully confided that whenever it came time for Ben to talk to the librarian, he “didn’t want to be a part of that conversation” (his words). Sauntering up, Ben asked what we were talking about and I told him. “Hmm,” was his reply with a shrug of his shoulders. And he walked off, the thought gone from his mind entirely.
Lastly (because this has turned into another marathon blog), I have to speak to what has happened to the way Ben talks. I like to joke that he’s simply picked up the Eastern Kentucky twang, but I don’t think that can account for all of it. Ben has developed a serious, dramatic southern accent that is so pronounced I think it could qualify as a dialect or a speech disorder. I have no idea where it’s come from, but what began almost as a schtick or comedy routine has become so deeply ingrained that it is now officially a part of him. Combining it with the way he uses his “jazz hands” to describe things is almost too much. The other day as I got him out of car at school I commented on how his hair smelled nice, to which he replied, “Yay-up, it’s becuz of that ole bay-ath I hay-ed lay-est nat (Yep, it’s because of that old bath I had last night).” I try not to laugh at him when he talks, but I couldn’t stop laughing. Now at school (where there are big kids to impress), he was intensely aware of his surroundings. “Now, stop that, Mommy,” he said. “Thay-at’s enuff.”
So while some of you might think it overkill to spend so much time and space describing a little man who obviously already thinks highly of himself, in my heart I know his unique, strong-willed, hilarious character merited display and discussion. Hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have. Next week I’ll take on sensitive Jakeroo. ;)
I’ve given this topic some thought over the last few weeks, wrestling and turning over in my head whether or not he’d grow up and use this blog as evidence that I wasn’t quite right as a mother. Or if it could be construed as making fun of my own child, who can’t even make his own retorts here in the comments section. Or if it would somehow subconsciously cause me to egg his behaviors on even more so in a type of self-fulfilling prophecy. Or if it was unfair to single him out apart from Jake.
But pushing aside these concerns of social acceptability, I’ve decided to do it anyway. Besides, Jake’s turn is next week.
So, onto Mr. Ben.
So many times people ask me just how alike the boys really are in their personalities. Considering they share the same DNA, it’s not surprising that they do share quite a few characteristics—about the food they eat, the lilt in their voices, their love for sports, the way they like to engage in intense imaginative play. But I always laugh when I hear this question, because after spending less than an hour with them, you can see there are remarkable differences in their personalities. And it’s not necessarily because one is on one extreme and one is on the other extreme.
It’s mainly because Ben is on one extreme.
If I had to describe Ben’s personality in one word, that word would be “STRONG.” This has always been the case, but in the last six months it has become even more obvious. In fact, the only way I can really describe the situation is that my son has turned into a cartoon character of himself. I don’t know if I can truly paint an accurate picture of what Ben is all about, but it is worth a try.
I would be thoughtless and remiss if I didn’t say here that Ben was named after the precious child of our dear friends Tom and Jennifer Bowen. Their Ben passed away while I was pregnant with the boys, and we were honored to take on the name Ben and the legacy it carries. Although Ben Bowen was a child clearly set apart in his purpose here on earth, I do feel in some way our Ben carries on his fighting spirit, his love of life, and “go big or go home” attitude about life in general.
Ben was the first born by one minute, a fact that doesn’t escape him in the least and which he feels entitles him to all sorts of random privileges. Although Jake was several ounces heavier at birth and simply felt more “solid” when held (our theory is he had more room in the womb to move around while Ben stayed low and caused all my preterm labor issues), he had breathing issues and stayed in the NICU for six days. Meanwhile, scrawny, feisty little Ben was perfectly healthy and living it up in the room with us, soaking up all the attention and completely forgetting that the pesky little brother of his who’d been kicking him in the head for months had ever existed (we think he was a little ticked they were finally reunited and he’s been plotting how to be an only child again ever since). The day we brought him home he weighed four pounds even, but we quickly learned that when he was upset about something, he was the loudest four-pound creature we’d ever come across. When feeding time came in the middle of the night, it was as if an alarm went off. The entire house would go from zero to DEFCON 1 in a matter of seconds.
As the boys got older and interacted with each other, we went through a phase where we worried that Jake would take advantage of his own strength and use it against Ben to steal toys, smack him in the face, and whatnot. That phase quickly passed. Ben might have been smaller, but he made up for it by being mean (it was immediately confirmed by Hilton that Ben took after me and Jake took after Hilton). In fact, Ben was a biter. Jake could bite, too, but the marks Ben left on Jake made us anxious that CPS would somehow get involved.
I have to say what has always stood out the most about Ben is his never-flagging assurance in himself. We like to joke that Ben has a confidence problem. Once as a toddler (barely able to express himself with any words) he began to climb the log steps in Mom and Dad’s house. Mom followed close behind, “spotting” him with her hands. The child stopped what he was doing, turned his body to face her, held up his hand and firmly said, “NO, Nana. BACK. NO.” He wanted to do it himself. We still laugh about that story today because it so accurately sums him up.
I’ve come to realize that in Ben’s mind, his world mostly occurs as some sort of video game. And he is the champion of the video game. You’ll often catch him randomly spouting off all sorts of video-game language about “beating the bad guys in the battle with the swords” or “getting blammed up by that big ole rocket booster” or something. Last night he informed me that he was braver than a shark, and that if he saw a shark he’d just punch it right in the face. It doesn’t faze us anymore, but we sometimes have to remind him to talk about normal things when in public.
Speaking of being in public, last weekend everyone at the boys’ soccer game had a front-seat to Ben’s display of overflowing confidence. While both boys did crouch dramatically before any play on the field began (we think they were confusing it with football?), it was Ben who was also randomly leaping in the air and spouting off soccer “smack” to no one in particular as the rest of the players meekly waited for the play to start. I wish I could say that the behavior was appropriate because he was trying to psyche himself for the game, but we often catch him standing in front of the mirror talking smack to himself when he’s supposed to be brushing his teeth.
Obviously, this cockiness does have some benefits (usually it doesn’t occur to him to be scared of something), but it has presented some interesting challenges along the way. For one thing, when someone thinks highly of himself but happens to also need corrected in regards to behavior, he often doesn’t understand what the big deal is. I think part of what made Ben so difficult to potty-train (check out my blog archives for the gory details) was the fact that he simply didn’t see what was so bad about pooping his pants. He’d eventually get cleaned up and be given new underwear, so who cared? In fact, when he had not one but two accidents a few weeks ago at kindergarten (an event that would have made Jake suicidal), Ben literally had forgotten it had even happened by the time he got off the bus. Firmly asked by me what happened, Ben simply replied “I got these ole school undies on me.”
This ambivalence toward things that don’t concern him has made it difficult at times to instill certain values like social responsibility . One evening while wound up he tore a page in a library book, and I informed him he’d have to fess up to the librarian when we returned the books later that month. Clearly more horrified than his brother, Jake came up to me a week later and tearfully confided that whenever it came time for Ben to talk to the librarian, he “didn’t want to be a part of that conversation” (his words). Sauntering up, Ben asked what we were talking about and I told him. “Hmm,” was his reply with a shrug of his shoulders. And he walked off, the thought gone from his mind entirely.
Lastly (because this has turned into another marathon blog), I have to speak to what has happened to the way Ben talks. I like to joke that he’s simply picked up the Eastern Kentucky twang, but I don’t think that can account for all of it. Ben has developed a serious, dramatic southern accent that is so pronounced I think it could qualify as a dialect or a speech disorder. I have no idea where it’s come from, but what began almost as a schtick or comedy routine has become so deeply ingrained that it is now officially a part of him. Combining it with the way he uses his “jazz hands” to describe things is almost too much. The other day as I got him out of car at school I commented on how his hair smelled nice, to which he replied, “Yay-up, it’s becuz of that ole bay-ath I hay-ed lay-est nat (Yep, it’s because of that old bath I had last night).” I try not to laugh at him when he talks, but I couldn’t stop laughing. Now at school (where there are big kids to impress), he was intensely aware of his surroundings. “Now, stop that, Mommy,” he said. “Thay-at’s enuff.”
So while some of you might think it overkill to spend so much time and space describing a little man who obviously already thinks highly of himself, in my heart I know his unique, strong-willed, hilarious character merited display and discussion. Hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have. Next week I’ll take on sensitive Jakeroo. ;)
Thursday, August 26, 2010
It's baaaaa-aaackk.... and why
Okay, let’s just get it out of the way.
I haven’t posted a blog here in one year, five months, and eight days (but who’s counting?).
In the blogging world, I’m likely known as a deadbeat blogger. If there were such a thing as a “Dead Blogs” list, mine would be listed. Faithful readers removed their bookmarks of this site off their computers long ago and moved on.
You get the idea. The blog was stuck in a corner and forgotten for some time.
If you ask me why, I could give you a dozen answers, all of them valid (for starters, I’m on my computer enough for work as it is, and there’s barely enough time to communicate with my own husband and children).
But most of those answers would neatly and conveniently skirt around much less apparent and much more entrenched issues in my own heart. Issues that are complicated on their face but underneath the surface all point to one undeniable diagnosis: living life without intention.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Here she goes.
Yep, here I go.
I don’t know about you, but I tend to somewhat blindly rush through my day, beating deadlines, wiping noses, and neatly wrapping up everything in my schedule. Messy things like relationship problems and looming obstacles and personal flaws are rationalized, justified, shoved to the side to deal with later, or just plain old ignored. In short, I bulldoze.
I get it done, but I couldn’t possibly tell you what I did or why I did it. At the end of any given week not to save my life could I tell you what I fixed for dinner or who I talked to or what I accomplished on any day of that week. I often have to check my calendar backwards or my emails from the day before to get an idea of just what happened with those hours in my day.
There’s no awareness. There’s no pause. There’s no evaluation. There’s no reflection. There’s just doing. All in the name of busyness/productivity/efficiency/gratification/fill in the blank.
Sounds pretty horrible, right? Sounds pretty personal, too, hmm? It is. Then why on earth am I sharing it for all the world to see here?
To be honest, I’m not counting on many others reading it…. Just kidding… sort of.
I actually have to give some credit to my best friend, who has recently bared her soul and flaws and questions for a much, much wider audience through her blog. For someone who’s motto has often been “fake it till you can make it,” it’s been huge and humbling and inspiring. And completely a God thing… for who or what else could give us the strength and courage to look ourselves in the face and admit just how screwed up we really are?
If I were to be even more honest, I’d say we’re ALL faking it until we can make it… we’re all wearing masks of perfection and got-it-together images to cover up something that is anything but.
Can I just say I think this world would be in much better shape if we were all more real with ourselves and with each other? About our fears, about our hopes, about our mistakes, about our struggles… why do we try to be something we’re clearly not? I’m on a mission to be authentic.
I even intentionally chose the photo at the topic of this blog to prove my point. Looks like a beautiful, profound photo of a perfect family walking down a perfect beach on a perfect evening. Right? WRONG. Did you know the wind was blowing at approximately 45mph and we could barely see straight? That we all had our panties in a wad because the stupid weather had prevented a photo shoot that actually WOULD have been perfect? That minutes before this photo was taken Hilton and I had gotten into a silly spat and were holding hands only for the photo? That with our faces turned away we were both muttering about the injustice of it all and Ben would you STOP kicking the sand?
See?
And then there’s something to be said about accountability. Putting big statements out there even on a little ole blog in the corner of the vast Internet puts my feet to the fire, so to speak. If I believe these things, if I say these things, if I communicate these things-- I better be living them out. If not, feel free to call me out (just know that turnabout is fairplay… lol).
Let me speak to a minute here on using our gifts as well. It’d be a slap in God’s face for me to not freely say that He has blessed me with a gift of communication through creativity—through words and art/designs. I have several choices on where to go with that. I can ignore/deny it. I can abuse/hoard/exploit it for selfish purposes. Or I can let Him work through this gift and somehow glorify Him with it through whatever I create or do.
The right choice seems so simple, but I can assure you it’s not. As someone paid hourly, it’s a moment-by-moment thing for me to avoid a life where I am calculating how much money I’m making or losing based on what I happen to be doing. The only thing that truly keeps me on track is the CONSTANT question I must ask myself: What I have been created to do RIGHT NOW?
Good grief, this is getting LONG, but I also want to recognize the fact that I’ve traded the “This is my life” blog title to “To this is OUR life.” It might already seem obvious, but my goal is to make it clear that I don’t live in a vacuum (and neither do you). It’s not just about me. This can be taken in a broader perspective, but I want to make clear that this blog belongs to my family, first and foremost.
So, Sarah, exactly what does all of this babbling this have to do with funny stories about your kids pooping their pants and saying hilarious things? You wonder. Speaking of which, when are we going to hear those stories? You ask. And are ALL your blogs going to be so melodramatic and uncomfortable? You question.
All good questions. And my answer simple: My ability to use the resources I need to collect, input, and share those stories hinges directly on all of the things I’ve mentioned here. And I can’t promise it’s all going to be laugh-out-loud anecdotes and epic tales of disastrous days… but I will do my best to carve out a part of my life to come here and share what God’s doing in our lives.
In short: No inner peace, no funny.
Mm-kay?
I haven’t posted a blog here in one year, five months, and eight days (but who’s counting?).
In the blogging world, I’m likely known as a deadbeat blogger. If there were such a thing as a “Dead Blogs” list, mine would be listed. Faithful readers removed their bookmarks of this site off their computers long ago and moved on.
You get the idea. The blog was stuck in a corner and forgotten for some time.
If you ask me why, I could give you a dozen answers, all of them valid (for starters, I’m on my computer enough for work as it is, and there’s barely enough time to communicate with my own husband and children).
But most of those answers would neatly and conveniently skirt around much less apparent and much more entrenched issues in my own heart. Issues that are complicated on their face but underneath the surface all point to one undeniable diagnosis: living life without intention.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Here she goes.
Yep, here I go.
I don’t know about you, but I tend to somewhat blindly rush through my day, beating deadlines, wiping noses, and neatly wrapping up everything in my schedule. Messy things like relationship problems and looming obstacles and personal flaws are rationalized, justified, shoved to the side to deal with later, or just plain old ignored. In short, I bulldoze.
I get it done, but I couldn’t possibly tell you what I did or why I did it. At the end of any given week not to save my life could I tell you what I fixed for dinner or who I talked to or what I accomplished on any day of that week. I often have to check my calendar backwards or my emails from the day before to get an idea of just what happened with those hours in my day.
There’s no awareness. There’s no pause. There’s no evaluation. There’s no reflection. There’s just doing. All in the name of busyness/productivity/efficiency/gratification/fill in the blank.
Sounds pretty horrible, right? Sounds pretty personal, too, hmm? It is. Then why on earth am I sharing it for all the world to see here?
To be honest, I’m not counting on many others reading it…. Just kidding… sort of.
I actually have to give some credit to my best friend, who has recently bared her soul and flaws and questions for a much, much wider audience through her blog. For someone who’s motto has often been “fake it till you can make it,” it’s been huge and humbling and inspiring. And completely a God thing… for who or what else could give us the strength and courage to look ourselves in the face and admit just how screwed up we really are?
If I were to be even more honest, I’d say we’re ALL faking it until we can make it… we’re all wearing masks of perfection and got-it-together images to cover up something that is anything but.
Can I just say I think this world would be in much better shape if we were all more real with ourselves and with each other? About our fears, about our hopes, about our mistakes, about our struggles… why do we try to be something we’re clearly not? I’m on a mission to be authentic.
I even intentionally chose the photo at the topic of this blog to prove my point. Looks like a beautiful, profound photo of a perfect family walking down a perfect beach on a perfect evening. Right? WRONG. Did you know the wind was blowing at approximately 45mph and we could barely see straight? That we all had our panties in a wad because the stupid weather had prevented a photo shoot that actually WOULD have been perfect? That minutes before this photo was taken Hilton and I had gotten into a silly spat and were holding hands only for the photo? That with our faces turned away we were both muttering about the injustice of it all and Ben would you STOP kicking the sand?
See?
And then there’s something to be said about accountability. Putting big statements out there even on a little ole blog in the corner of the vast Internet puts my feet to the fire, so to speak. If I believe these things, if I say these things, if I communicate these things-- I better be living them out. If not, feel free to call me out (just know that turnabout is fairplay… lol).
Let me speak to a minute here on using our gifts as well. It’d be a slap in God’s face for me to not freely say that He has blessed me with a gift of communication through creativity—through words and art/designs. I have several choices on where to go with that. I can ignore/deny it. I can abuse/hoard/exploit it for selfish purposes. Or I can let Him work through this gift and somehow glorify Him with it through whatever I create or do.
The right choice seems so simple, but I can assure you it’s not. As someone paid hourly, it’s a moment-by-moment thing for me to avoid a life where I am calculating how much money I’m making or losing based on what I happen to be doing. The only thing that truly keeps me on track is the CONSTANT question I must ask myself: What I have been created to do RIGHT NOW?
Good grief, this is getting LONG, but I also want to recognize the fact that I’ve traded the “This is my life” blog title to “To this is OUR life.” It might already seem obvious, but my goal is to make it clear that I don’t live in a vacuum (and neither do you). It’s not just about me. This can be taken in a broader perspective, but I want to make clear that this blog belongs to my family, first and foremost.
So, Sarah, exactly what does all of this babbling this have to do with funny stories about your kids pooping their pants and saying hilarious things? You wonder. Speaking of which, when are we going to hear those stories? You ask. And are ALL your blogs going to be so melodramatic and uncomfortable? You question.
All good questions. And my answer simple: My ability to use the resources I need to collect, input, and share those stories hinges directly on all of the things I’ve mentioned here. And I can’t promise it’s all going to be laugh-out-loud anecdotes and epic tales of disastrous days… but I will do my best to carve out a part of my life to come here and share what God’s doing in our lives.
In short: No inner peace, no funny.
Mm-kay?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Retail therapy
Sigh. It's been kind of a blah day.
Actually, it's been kind of a blah past few weeks, but I'm fighting through it and trying to brace myself for a few difficult weeks ahead on the calendar. Like the Zicam I've been obsessivly using to wage war against any cold germs from the kids, I've been finding little ways to try to keep my spirits up.
Unfortunately, those ways are largely comprised of retail therapy.... yep, that's right. Cha-ching cha-ching.
Pretty sure it all started when I was handed a few gift cards for my birthday and I immediately went and blew them, going way past my total allotted amount and literally having to hand items back to the cashier so I could afford what I bought. Ouch.
From there it's been downhill.
Honestly, I know better. I keep telling myself... "happiness is only circumstantial"... "this isn't healthy"... or my personal favorite "stupid, stupid, stupid!" But the scientists are right, folks. There's a real chemical thing going on with shopping therapy. Dopamines and all.
This evening, I was quite honestly close to going crazy in my head. Hilton not so subtlely asked if there was anywhere I might need to go. There wasn't, but that wasn't going to stop me. So I left.
And like a magnet, I drove to the one place that I knew was more sad and down and depressed than I was.
That's right. The Sad Mall.
Can't remember if I've mentioned The Sad Mall in any past blogs, but in case not, here's a rundown: it's comprised of about 45 stores, 35 vacant and 10 in business but just barely. It's little store map when you come in is just about the most pathetic thing you've ever seen. It might as well say "just go home, nothing here to see." The food court on average has one restaurant open (tonight, the pizza parlor had a sign up that said "CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS"). Besides Sears, the biggest store is a bridal/prom gown place. There's a video arcade that the boys used to love until the Simpson's bowling game was replaced with another deer hunting shooting game. Where a nice Bath and Body Works store was, there's now a super creepy doll baby boutique, complete with a crib full of Hispanic babydolls in its front window. And now they are apparently teaching free Zumba classes in one of the stores three mornings a week.... as a Zumba lover, I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. When you walk in any of the few stores still open, not a single employee head turns your way. They've given up hope.
So I wasn't really sure what my plan was when I pulled up to the mall while on the phone with a friend who mercifully had answered her phone when I called. Okay, that's a lie. I totally knew why I was there. To buy something, of course.
One Yankee candle later, I came out and realized I felt a lot better. But this time, I think it was only partly due to the purchase.
Mainly, though, I think it was because I had been someplace that was more down than I was. Misery really does love company.
Sorry, Sad Mall.
(p.s. To those who are worried about my mental state... acknowledgement is the first step in recovery....)
Actually, it's been kind of a blah past few weeks, but I'm fighting through it and trying to brace myself for a few difficult weeks ahead on the calendar. Like the Zicam I've been obsessivly using to wage war against any cold germs from the kids, I've been finding little ways to try to keep my spirits up.
Unfortunately, those ways are largely comprised of retail therapy.... yep, that's right. Cha-ching cha-ching.
Pretty sure it all started when I was handed a few gift cards for my birthday and I immediately went and blew them, going way past my total allotted amount and literally having to hand items back to the cashier so I could afford what I bought. Ouch.
From there it's been downhill.
Honestly, I know better. I keep telling myself... "happiness is only circumstantial"... "this isn't healthy"... or my personal favorite "stupid, stupid, stupid!" But the scientists are right, folks. There's a real chemical thing going on with shopping therapy. Dopamines and all.
This evening, I was quite honestly close to going crazy in my head. Hilton not so subtlely asked if there was anywhere I might need to go. There wasn't, but that wasn't going to stop me. So I left.
And like a magnet, I drove to the one place that I knew was more sad and down and depressed than I was.
That's right. The Sad Mall.
Can't remember if I've mentioned The Sad Mall in any past blogs, but in case not, here's a rundown: it's comprised of about 45 stores, 35 vacant and 10 in business but just barely. It's little store map when you come in is just about the most pathetic thing you've ever seen. It might as well say "just go home, nothing here to see." The food court on average has one restaurant open (tonight, the pizza parlor had a sign up that said "CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS"). Besides Sears, the biggest store is a bridal/prom gown place. There's a video arcade that the boys used to love until the Simpson's bowling game was replaced with another deer hunting shooting game. Where a nice Bath and Body Works store was, there's now a super creepy doll baby boutique, complete with a crib full of Hispanic babydolls in its front window. And now they are apparently teaching free Zumba classes in one of the stores three mornings a week.... as a Zumba lover, I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. When you walk in any of the few stores still open, not a single employee head turns your way. They've given up hope.
So I wasn't really sure what my plan was when I pulled up to the mall while on the phone with a friend who mercifully had answered her phone when I called. Okay, that's a lie. I totally knew why I was there. To buy something, of course.
One Yankee candle later, I came out and realized I felt a lot better. But this time, I think it was only partly due to the purchase.
Mainly, though, I think it was because I had been someplace that was more down than I was. Misery really does love company.
Sorry, Sad Mall.
(p.s. To those who are worried about my mental state... acknowledgement is the first step in recovery....)
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
I'm just now starting to see the funny in it
If you've had a great day today, are an optimistic person, or are just feeling particularly chipper right now, consider this your cue to exit stage left and find your funny elsewhere today.
Let the cone of safety descend on me as I commence the whining about my day.
It began with the sound of a much-worsened hacking cough of Ben. Perhaps he'll feel better once he eats, I thought. Preschool wasn't out of the question yet.
I put the bacon in the microwave and turned around to get the rest of breakfast ready. At least I thought I put the bacon in. One minute later, I turn around to see I was merely warming up the microwave. In goes the bacon, minus the forgotten paper towel. Three minutes later, it was ready and the microwave was disgusting, impossible to tell that ten hours prior I had just scrubbed it thoroughly.
After it became apparent that Ben was no longer eating or feeling better, I made the call to preschool to let them know I'd like to flush the day's tuition down the toilet, thanks.
And at that point my thinking took a wrong turn to the decision to go grocery shopping. Not just at one measly store. Not even at two wimpy stores. No, we were hitting Krogers, Sam's, and Wal-Mart. Why not get all your shopping done at just one store, Sarah? you might ask. Well, because that would simply be too easy, my friend.
We hit our first snag in the Kroger check-out line, where an over-eager cashier rang us up without noticing the fistful of coupons I was trying to hand her before the transaction was completed.
"Ooops," she apologized. "You can just redeem them at the customer service counter," she advised.
I got in line at the customer service counter. Except that it wasn't. It was the pharmacy line. Ooops again. I detoured to the correct place, behind three elderly women (did I mention it was Senior Citizen's Day at Kroger today?) with various issues with their purchases. Because I am completely OCD about saving money, we stuck it out and got our $3.50, thanks.
On to Sam's. Cue the doomsday music.
Sam's went totally fine. Until we were ready to check out. I happened to get in a line where an older gentleman was waiting for his wife to bring the last item. After unloading everything on the belt, I started to zero in on the payment options at Sam's. Hmmm... no comforting Visa logo.
"Ma'am?" I asked the cashier. "Do you take Visa?"
"Ummm, we take Visa debit."
Guess what. I don't got one of them. This happened to be my very first time shopping alone at Sam's. We go all the time, but I never stand at the register when checking out because we always buy so much I can't stand to see what the final ridiculous total will be. I would just rather not know. As it turns out, I missed out on the crucial Payment at Sam's 101 lesson.
Sick to my stomach, I started pulling my items off the belt and placing them back in the cart. For one crazy second, I thought What if I just took off with this cart right now? Nah, just kidding. I just cursed under my breath and removed the two very confused children from the cart, dragging them away from the sadly abandoned cart.
"Mommy, why we leaving our groceries?!?"
"I want my blueberries!! NO MOMMY! PLEASE!"
"I want my bacon! Why we leaving it?!?"
It is safe to say we were all traumatized by this incident. They weren't the only ones crying, although I was doing it while also calling and taking my vengeance out on poor Hilton, who never saw it coming. How could he NOT tell me that Sam's doesn't take a credit card?? Furthermore, how was it possible that Sam's didn't take a credit card, period? It must all be his fault, somehow.
Off to Wal-Mart.
Did you know at the Ohio Wal-Mart they have exceptionally small carts? So small, in fact, that if you have two kids that need to ride in a cart, you must push them in one cart and drag another cart of groceries behind you. It's fantastic. Especially when you find yourself trekking all other the store searching for some ridiculously random item like sunflower seeds, finally giving up and just going to check out, angry and bitter. I must add that at one point I had to push the boys' cart a few steps away from the grocery-laden cart to get a better look at something, eliciting true panic in the boys, fresh from their Sam's trauma.
"No, Mommy! Don't leave the groceries again! The groceries!!"
I wish I could say the day went better after that. Unforunately, the only thing that really went up was Ben's temperature, and we ended up at a "Now Care" (an ironic misnomer) health clinic at 4:45pm. An eternity later, we had a $95 Thomas the Train sticker (thanks, Health Savings Account plan) and no real answers.
But I say this with a smile on my face: God is still good, and so is life.
Let the cone of safety descend on me as I commence the whining about my day.
It began with the sound of a much-worsened hacking cough of Ben. Perhaps he'll feel better once he eats, I thought. Preschool wasn't out of the question yet.
I put the bacon in the microwave and turned around to get the rest of breakfast ready. At least I thought I put the bacon in. One minute later, I turn around to see I was merely warming up the microwave. In goes the bacon, minus the forgotten paper towel. Three minutes later, it was ready and the microwave was disgusting, impossible to tell that ten hours prior I had just scrubbed it thoroughly.
After it became apparent that Ben was no longer eating or feeling better, I made the call to preschool to let them know I'd like to flush the day's tuition down the toilet, thanks.
And at that point my thinking took a wrong turn to the decision to go grocery shopping. Not just at one measly store. Not even at two wimpy stores. No, we were hitting Krogers, Sam's, and Wal-Mart. Why not get all your shopping done at just one store, Sarah? you might ask. Well, because that would simply be too easy, my friend.
We hit our first snag in the Kroger check-out line, where an over-eager cashier rang us up without noticing the fistful of coupons I was trying to hand her before the transaction was completed.
"Ooops," she apologized. "You can just redeem them at the customer service counter," she advised.
I got in line at the customer service counter. Except that it wasn't. It was the pharmacy line. Ooops again. I detoured to the correct place, behind three elderly women (did I mention it was Senior Citizen's Day at Kroger today?) with various issues with their purchases. Because I am completely OCD about saving money, we stuck it out and got our $3.50, thanks.
On to Sam's. Cue the doomsday music.
Sam's went totally fine. Until we were ready to check out. I happened to get in a line where an older gentleman was waiting for his wife to bring the last item. After unloading everything on the belt, I started to zero in on the payment options at Sam's. Hmmm... no comforting Visa logo.
"Ma'am?" I asked the cashier. "Do you take Visa?"
"Ummm, we take Visa debit."
Guess what. I don't got one of them. This happened to be my very first time shopping alone at Sam's. We go all the time, but I never stand at the register when checking out because we always buy so much I can't stand to see what the final ridiculous total will be. I would just rather not know. As it turns out, I missed out on the crucial Payment at Sam's 101 lesson.
Sick to my stomach, I started pulling my items off the belt and placing them back in the cart. For one crazy second, I thought What if I just took off with this cart right now? Nah, just kidding. I just cursed under my breath and removed the two very confused children from the cart, dragging them away from the sadly abandoned cart.
"Mommy, why we leaving our groceries?!?"
"I want my blueberries!! NO MOMMY! PLEASE!"
"I want my bacon! Why we leaving it?!?"
It is safe to say we were all traumatized by this incident. They weren't the only ones crying, although I was doing it while also calling and taking my vengeance out on poor Hilton, who never saw it coming. How could he NOT tell me that Sam's doesn't take a credit card?? Furthermore, how was it possible that Sam's didn't take a credit card, period? It must all be his fault, somehow.
Off to Wal-Mart.
Did you know at the Ohio Wal-Mart they have exceptionally small carts? So small, in fact, that if you have two kids that need to ride in a cart, you must push them in one cart and drag another cart of groceries behind you. It's fantastic. Especially when you find yourself trekking all other the store searching for some ridiculously random item like sunflower seeds, finally giving up and just going to check out, angry and bitter. I must add that at one point I had to push the boys' cart a few steps away from the grocery-laden cart to get a better look at something, eliciting true panic in the boys, fresh from their Sam's trauma.
"No, Mommy! Don't leave the groceries again! The groceries!!"
I wish I could say the day went better after that. Unforunately, the only thing that really went up was Ben's temperature, and we ended up at a "Now Care" (an ironic misnomer) health clinic at 4:45pm. An eternity later, we had a $95 Thomas the Train sticker (thanks, Health Savings Account plan) and no real answers.
But I say this with a smile on my face: God is still good, and so is life.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Dangerous Territory
Discussing and explaining the concept of death with your children really isn't something you think about until you're right upon it and you realize you have zero gameplan. My desire to have that conversation ranks right up there with the one about the birds and the bees and the one about why bad things happen to good people.
The discussion hadn't even been on my radar, to be honest, until we received a wonderful preschool-age devotional from the church. One evening in January as I sat down at bedtime to read it, it crossed my mind that the topic would undoubtedly come up in this devotional. As it turned out, it was my lucky day; the topic was heaven and how wonderful it was.
The boys' eyes got as large as saucers as they learned heaven had all of their favorite things-- most importantly, toys and bowling. After saying yes to a long list of questions about what might be there, Jake turned to me, exclaiming, "They have everything we need there!"
"We go there right now?" asked Ben.
Oh geez.
Then there's the bugs/bees/etc that they know are dead... the fact that "kill" is known as a bad word in our house... and the delicate area when the two paths meet. Such as when I stomped a huge black widow-ish looking spider in our driveway and Jake aked me what I did.
"I killed it," I answered triumphantly.
"Mommy, that is not a nice word," Jake admonished.
He was right of course. But so was I. I killed the dern thing.
Most recently they've started wondering exactly what the ginormous cemetery/mausoleum is that we pass when we go to the YMCA. You seriously can't miss it. I'm calling it a flower place until I figure out something better.
They've also asked about the special CD and Mickey Mouse that came from Ben Bowen, who died four years ago and for whom Ben is named.
"Where is he?" our Ben asks.
"Well, he's up in heaven now," I reply.
"With God and Jesus?" from Jake.
"Yes," I say.
"Oh, he's their boy now?" he asks.
See what I mean?
But to inject some humor into it (because you have to), there was this conversation this evening.
When I do bathtime alone (such as this evening), I pull one out of the tub first and put on his diaper in the hallway while I keep an eye on the one still in the tub. Now, I am not one to sugarcoat what happens to little boys when they're not careful. You run across the parking lot, you might get run over. You play on the stairs, you might fall and crack your head open. You're not careful in water, you might drown.
So as I pulled Jake out of the tub first, I reminded Ben to not lie down in the tub while I was away from it.
"Why you tell Ben that?" Jake asked.
"Because I don't want him to drown."
"Why?"
"Because he might die and that would be very sad. He would be gone forever," I answered truthfully, trying to make my point but regretting that I might have gone too far and scared poor Jake. Not a worry.
"Yeah, we get a new one if that happen?" he snapped back with a big smile on his hands, literally wringing his hands with excitement. To be honest, it was totally a Ben move.
I quickly sat him up and firmly had a heart-to-heart about how dying was not a funny thing and that people are very sad when it happens.
And then I walked into my bedroom, shut my door, and had a good long...
laugh.
The discussion hadn't even been on my radar, to be honest, until we received a wonderful preschool-age devotional from the church. One evening in January as I sat down at bedtime to read it, it crossed my mind that the topic would undoubtedly come up in this devotional. As it turned out, it was my lucky day; the topic was heaven and how wonderful it was.
The boys' eyes got as large as saucers as they learned heaven had all of their favorite things-- most importantly, toys and bowling. After saying yes to a long list of questions about what might be there, Jake turned to me, exclaiming, "They have everything we need there!"
"We go there right now?" asked Ben.
Oh geez.
Then there's the bugs/bees/etc that they know are dead... the fact that "kill" is known as a bad word in our house... and the delicate area when the two paths meet. Such as when I stomped a huge black widow-ish looking spider in our driveway and Jake aked me what I did.
"I killed it," I answered triumphantly.
"Mommy, that is not a nice word," Jake admonished.
He was right of course. But so was I. I killed the dern thing.
Most recently they've started wondering exactly what the ginormous cemetery/mausoleum is that we pass when we go to the YMCA. You seriously can't miss it. I'm calling it a flower place until I figure out something better.
They've also asked about the special CD and Mickey Mouse that came from Ben Bowen, who died four years ago and for whom Ben is named.
"Where is he?" our Ben asks.
"Well, he's up in heaven now," I reply.
"With God and Jesus?" from Jake.
"Yes," I say.
"Oh, he's their boy now?" he asks.
See what I mean?
But to inject some humor into it (because you have to), there was this conversation this evening.
When I do bathtime alone (such as this evening), I pull one out of the tub first and put on his diaper in the hallway while I keep an eye on the one still in the tub. Now, I am not one to sugarcoat what happens to little boys when they're not careful. You run across the parking lot, you might get run over. You play on the stairs, you might fall and crack your head open. You're not careful in water, you might drown.
So as I pulled Jake out of the tub first, I reminded Ben to not lie down in the tub while I was away from it.
"Why you tell Ben that?" Jake asked.
"Because I don't want him to drown."
"Why?"
"Because he might die and that would be very sad. He would be gone forever," I answered truthfully, trying to make my point but regretting that I might have gone too far and scared poor Jake. Not a worry.
"Yeah, we get a new one if that happen?" he snapped back with a big smile on his hands, literally wringing his hands with excitement. To be honest, it was totally a Ben move.
I quickly sat him up and firmly had a heart-to-heart about how dying was not a funny thing and that people are very sad when it happens.
And then I walked into my bedroom, shut my door, and had a good long...
laugh.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
A Sappy Valentine Poem (I couldn't resist!)
He stole my heart at only fifteen
Before then I only dated boys who were mean
I soon learned what it was to be swept off your feet
Two fools more in love you would never meet
But we grew up and nearly parted ways
Love can be tough, so proved those days
We hung in there with faith and our love grew
Took root even deeper and followed through
A family was next, from two hearts to three – to four?!
We found out there were two, and he almost hit the floor
Our life now a circus, we rarely get to stop
Sometimes it’s all perfect; sometimes we’re a flop
But even on bad days, we know where we stand
Beside each other, hand in hand
He’s good to me in ways that could make only a mother’s heart sing
Laundry and sleep-in Saturdays-- to heck with a fancy ring!
And for Valentine’s Day I am truly blessed
A gift of sprinkled donut holes—he surely does know me best!
I love you, Silly Silly Suntan Man!
Before then I only dated boys who were mean
I soon learned what it was to be swept off your feet
Two fools more in love you would never meet
But we grew up and nearly parted ways
Love can be tough, so proved those days
We hung in there with faith and our love grew
Took root even deeper and followed through
A family was next, from two hearts to three – to four?!
We found out there were two, and he almost hit the floor
Our life now a circus, we rarely get to stop
Sometimes it’s all perfect; sometimes we’re a flop
But even on bad days, we know where we stand
Beside each other, hand in hand
He’s good to me in ways that could make only a mother’s heart sing
Laundry and sleep-in Saturdays-- to heck with a fancy ring!
And for Valentine’s Day I am truly blessed
A gift of sprinkled donut holes—he surely does know me best!
I love you, Silly Silly Suntan Man!
Friday, February 6, 2009
Where's Truh?
I will cut to the chase.
Ben has a friend who may or may not be imaginary. His name is Truh (like "truck" without the "-ck" or "Duh" with a "t"). I'm pretty sure he came up with this name completely on the fly when someone called him out on who this "friend" was that he was constantly referring to all the time... and I only wish I was exaggerating by using the term "constantly."
Before I delve further into this subject, I have to say this: I can understand why kids who have no one else to play with would invent a friend. I don't hold it against them or think they're strange or whatever. But a child with a TWIN SIBLING? Their very own personal built-in playmate for life? Is this not enough?
Apparently not.
First, the facts. So far with random questioning we've learned the following about Truh.
- He's really tall.
- He's USUALLY at Grant's house (Grant is a super-cool cousin). However, a visit to Grant's house conveniently revealed no Truh.
- He's nine years old.
- He's really good at lots of sports and games.
- He has blue hair and black eyes.
- He has no parents.
- He lives in a factory in the big city.
As you let these facts sink in, consider also that all of this information was relayed by Ben with no hesitation or reluctance whatsoever, but instead with the absolute confidence and self-assuredness of a self-possessed pathological liar... okay, okay, maybe he just has an overactive imagination.
Whatever the case may be, I'm stuck between thinking this is an imaginary friend and thinking that perhaps he's just made this friend up to enhance his own coolness... "MY friends do this..." "MY friends do that... " Unfortunately, this talk isn't restricted to our house. Preschool, church, the YMCA and who knows who else are subjected to this talk... And it's all said in that snot-nosed-kid-next-door-who-brags-nonstop-about-how-cool-he-is tone.... I'm starting to think it's related to... vanity? At age three?
But I have to consider also that both boys have agreed on another character out there. Cank the Trashman, aka Cank the Junkman. It's been determined that Cank doesn's necessarily come to pick up the trash but he DOES reside in the trash truck. He's also "not very nice." We've also heard muttering about someone named "Dew" who also lives in the big city.
So....a figment of the imagination? A scam to make everyone think they're really cool and popular? Or simply a world of their own that we just happen to be living in?
You be the judge.
Ben has a friend who may or may not be imaginary. His name is Truh (like "truck" without the "-ck" or "Duh" with a "t"). I'm pretty sure he came up with this name completely on the fly when someone called him out on who this "friend" was that he was constantly referring to all the time... and I only wish I was exaggerating by using the term "constantly."
Before I delve further into this subject, I have to say this: I can understand why kids who have no one else to play with would invent a friend. I don't hold it against them or think they're strange or whatever. But a child with a TWIN SIBLING? Their very own personal built-in playmate for life? Is this not enough?
Apparently not.
First, the facts. So far with random questioning we've learned the following about Truh.
- He's really tall.
- He's USUALLY at Grant's house (Grant is a super-cool cousin). However, a visit to Grant's house conveniently revealed no Truh.
- He's nine years old.
- He's really good at lots of sports and games.
- He has blue hair and black eyes.
- He has no parents.
- He lives in a factory in the big city.
As you let these facts sink in, consider also that all of this information was relayed by Ben with no hesitation or reluctance whatsoever, but instead with the absolute confidence and self-assuredness of a self-possessed pathological liar... okay, okay, maybe he just has an overactive imagination.
Whatever the case may be, I'm stuck between thinking this is an imaginary friend and thinking that perhaps he's just made this friend up to enhance his own coolness... "MY friends do this..." "MY friends do that... " Unfortunately, this talk isn't restricted to our house. Preschool, church, the YMCA and who knows who else are subjected to this talk... And it's all said in that snot-nosed-kid-next-door-who-brags-nonstop-about-how-cool-he-is tone.... I'm starting to think it's related to... vanity? At age three?
But I have to consider also that both boys have agreed on another character out there. Cank the Trashman, aka Cank the Junkman. It's been determined that Cank doesn's necessarily come to pick up the trash but he DOES reside in the trash truck. He's also "not very nice." We've also heard muttering about someone named "Dew" who also lives in the big city.
So....a figment of the imagination? A scam to make everyone think they're really cool and popular? Or simply a world of their own that we just happen to be living in?
You be the judge.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I know, I know
Yikes... it's been OVER a month since I've posted a blog. And I haven't even been posting with regular consistency since well before Christmas.
What's my deal? I've been asking myself the same thing. The same sorts of things happen to me as they always do. My days are full of irony. I'm humiliated on a daily basis. My kids are still hilarious. My life is still... my life.
And yet I feel even more drained lately and unable/unwilling to take the effort to post here. All I can figure is that my creative juices are being even more used in my job, and there's nothing left at the end of the day. Or sometimes even at the beginning. The other night I had an absolutely perfect opportunity to do this... . and then I got sucked into the Discovery Health Channel, where they were running a feature on one woman who was 76 years old with a calcified baby in her womb, and another woman who was pregnant with twins AND a third baby growing in her abdominal cavity... I mean, how was I supposed to turn THAT off?
But I digress.
The longer this dry spell does, the harder it gets for me to sit down and just spit out a blog.
This is all just another example of my life cramping my style.
But I've never been one to be submissive to the rat race. Whether it's part of my nature or I learned it in my angst-drenched teen years, I hate the feeling of Rules backing me into a corner. Rage against the machine and all that.
So life, watch out. I'm writing a new blog today. Not because I have the time, but because I'm making the time.
Besides, with quotes like these that literally came from my childrens' mouths just in one day, how can I continue to keep my life from you all?
"Hey! I peed on my face!"
and
"Mommy, are those wipes getting dried out? They hurt my bottom when you wipe. Are you using toilet paper instead?"
and
"God made us to be funny kids, didn't he?"
See?
What's my deal? I've been asking myself the same thing. The same sorts of things happen to me as they always do. My days are full of irony. I'm humiliated on a daily basis. My kids are still hilarious. My life is still... my life.
And yet I feel even more drained lately and unable/unwilling to take the effort to post here. All I can figure is that my creative juices are being even more used in my job, and there's nothing left at the end of the day. Or sometimes even at the beginning. The other night I had an absolutely perfect opportunity to do this... . and then I got sucked into the Discovery Health Channel, where they were running a feature on one woman who was 76 years old with a calcified baby in her womb, and another woman who was pregnant with twins AND a third baby growing in her abdominal cavity... I mean, how was I supposed to turn THAT off?
But I digress.
The longer this dry spell does, the harder it gets for me to sit down and just spit out a blog.
This is all just another example of my life cramping my style.
But I've never been one to be submissive to the rat race. Whether it's part of my nature or I learned it in my angst-drenched teen years, I hate the feeling of Rules backing me into a corner. Rage against the machine and all that.
So life, watch out. I'm writing a new blog today. Not because I have the time, but because I'm making the time.
Besides, with quotes like these that literally came from my childrens' mouths just in one day, how can I continue to keep my life from you all?
"Hey! I peed on my face!"
and
"Mommy, are those wipes getting dried out? They hurt my bottom when you wipe. Are you using toilet paper instead?"
and
"God made us to be funny kids, didn't he?"
See?
Sunday, January 4, 2009
My New Year's Revelation: It's Not About Me
I've posted two different blogs in the last few months about Michael Angelo, the little boy from the Philippines. Those blogs and that information were not easy reading, and they weren't designed to be. I know it's not fun or appealing to be shaken, even momentarily, from the comfort of our lives. But acknowledging pain and suffering is one thing... doing something about it is entirely another.
For me, it took the face of MA to get to that place. For you, it might be something else... the homeless in your own town.... the child soldiers in Africa... the victims of natural disaster here in the U.S..... whatever it is, I encourage you this year leave yourself open to what finds you and then take it on. This life, this world, is not about us.
The video below is a teaser from an upcoming documentary from the music group Hillsong. Its message is unmistakable, and I can't get enough of it.
For me, it took the face of MA to get to that place. For you, it might be something else... the homeless in your own town.... the child soldiers in Africa... the victims of natural disaster here in the U.S..... whatever it is, I encourage you this year leave yourself open to what finds you and then take it on. This life, this world, is not about us.
The video below is a teaser from an upcoming documentary from the music group Hillsong. Its message is unmistakable, and I can't get enough of it.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
And the Award Goes To...
Because I could use a little cheering up right now (and because you might need the same), I'm going to share a story that I've been holding in my pocket for a while now, waiting until I really wanted to post it.
Before I begin, I will preemptively state that I know the words I'm about to write could easily land me a runner-up spot for the Worst Mother of the Year Award. I KNOW. But it's already happened, and I have to share this.
It all actually began several years ago one nice afternoon when the boys and I were itching to get out and enjoy the weather. About a mile from the house was a playground at a brand new elementary school. I'd seen it from the road and thought it was a grand idea to try it out that day.
A word about me and playgrounds that I've learned with time: I don't know what it is, but we tend to not get along. I use poor judgment about the boys' abilities, I often get even myself hurt, and other parents rub me the wrong way. Bad things happen there. But that didn't stop me that day, because the boys weren't really all that old yet and I was just getting started in the world of playgrounds.
After the excitement and anticipation of going to a special new playground, we arrived and I quickly deflated, realizing that upon closer examination, this playground was way beyond what the boys' gross motor skills were capable of. Perhaps it was because it was designed for elementary school age children and not two-year-olds.
But in typical stubborness, I was determined to make the best of it. We were going to play, by golly. I helped and assisted and demonstrated the best I could, but the look on the boys' faces clearly told the story: This sucks, Mommy.
At the end of the playground stood what might have been the redeemer of the afternoon-- a huge (that should have been clue #1, Sherlock), slicky-slide complex. After a long climb up some steep steps (clue #2), you had the option of taking three different slides: one that twisted to the left, one that twisted to the right, and one that went straight down the middle.
As I gestured and enthusiastically guided them to the slide, the boys just kind of looked at me. As if I was a total nutcase. But bless their hearts, they were good sports and I know they trusted my judgment... which was their first mistake. Up the stairs we all went. It wasn't until I watched (from the top) Ben get about 1/4 of the way headed down the middle slide that I realized this was a Horrible Idea.
Perhaps it was because he had no core strength in his little body.... perhaps it was because he weighed less than 25 pounds... or maybe it was because the slide was much steeper than I realized.... but as he headed down the slide, he started to lose control of his body and pick up more speed. As he flew off the end of the slide, he seemed to hang in mid-air, his whole body twisting superfast so that in one motion, he was facing downward, deposited facedown in the mulch.
Thank God for mulch. It was in his mouth, in his shoes, and down his shirt, but it saved us a trip to the ER, I'm convinced. Picking up and comforting the now completely mortified Ben, I first glanced around to see if anyone else had seen this and was dialing CPS. Coast was clear. I then turned my attention to Jake, standing at the top of the slides. Firmly (and wisely) resisting my pleas to slide down the slide and let me catch him, Jake insisted I come up and rescue him, which I did. Tail tucked, we packed up and went home.
Showing the true resilience of children, Ben never really let that experience bother him, and as he got older and stronger, he enjoyed slides of all types. So when we discovered that the great playground at the elementary school right over the hill from our new house had an identical triple slide, I never even thought twice about suggesting he try it out. He was nearly 3 1/2 now, and probably weighed a good, what, four pounds more now? (I wish that was just a joke, but it's probably accurate).
"Come on, Ben! Come down the slide!" I cheered from the bottom. I even had my camera ready to take a picture in the perfect evening sunlight of autumn.
He looked me square in the eye, scooted his little bottom to the top of the slide and pushed off.
I am sad to say that the same exact event occurred. Little Ben was doing fantastic until he got to the end of that slide and did a perfect re-enactment of his past slicky-slide mishap. I tell the truth-- I had no idea he'd bite the dust like that again. I would have gone down the slide with him. Or been there to catch him. Or not suggested it at all. But instead I stood there with my camera ready, like the ignorant, terrible parent that I sometimes am. I was even able to quickly snap a pic of him pre-flight (see Exhibit A below).
There were tears this time around, again, but most of all, he was just mad. And indignant. And clearly in disbelief that he'd been suckered into that one again. But once the mulch had been brushed off, the tears wiped away, and the boo-boos kissed, he got back up and marched to the slide again.
This time with Mommy's help.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Prove Your Point
Through the miracle of technology, a considerable donation is headed toward little Michael Angelo and his family in the Phillipines, gathered from family and friends who otherwise would have spent the resources on probably unnecessary Christmas gifts... What probably would have bought relatively luxury items such as sweaters, jewelry, and electronics has instead been wired across the planet to literally feed and clothe a family that has nothing at all. But more on that in a minute.
Last week on Thanksgiving Day, I was going on a much-needed run and was approached by a stray dog that I immediately recognized as being some sort of Pitbull mix. Our neighborhood is a virtual landmine of dogs for a jogger, and as I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck, I tightened my grip on my pepper spray. The dog seemed playful, but when he tried to jump on my back, I let loose with screaming and nearly used the spray. He ran off briefly, but by the time I'd finished my run, he was hanging around the house. He continued to stay around the house, making me uncomfortable and angry with his presence. I used to be a dog lover, but I wanted him gone.
A few days later on another run, he caught up with me again. He seemed a little aggressive, but on that day, I noticed he was looking pretty ribby and was scavenging trash cans. This dog was hungry and lost. Still annoyed with him, I continued to yell and try to shoo him away from me. Once back inside, I called animal control but only got a voicemail saying they'd open in a few days.
I kind of forgot about him, but today when I opened the garage door, there he was, right in front of the boys. I screamed loudly, waved him away and called animal control, who said they'd come pick him up. When we arrived home from preschool later in the day, I passed the animal control truck leaving the neighborhood and assumed they'd found the dog. But as I fixed the boys lunch I saw him saunter around the front lawn. Throwing the boy their lunch, I grabbed a fistful of dog treats and my cell and ran to the door. I was going to keep him on the porch until animal control came back.
As I reconfirmed my address over the phone, I really noticed for the first time how thin this dog had become. Every rib and point of his spine stuck out prominently. His stomach was completely caved in. His eyes were sunken in and dull. When he ate those first few treats, his tail wagged and he looked at me with hope. I considered what these last few days had probably been like for him and the uncertainty he was headed into within a matter of minutes.
I ran back and grabbed about ten more treats. And then back for a hotdog. And another hotdog. And then bowl after bowl after bowl of dogfood.
I have never seen a dog eat so fast in my life. It was frightening and heartbreaking. And probably also a little misleading to him about where this was all headed, as well as likely to give him a stomachache. But it was all I could think to do. I would have emptied out my fridge to feed that dog. And this is pretty much my MO when it comes to helping those in need, and possibly my tendancy toward co-dependancy. I just want to take the creature in, nourish them, fill them up, make them better. What do you need? I'll get it.
When I first saw Michael Angelo, my first instinct was to hop a plane and find a way to get him home where I could make sure nothing bad ever happened to him again. But then I looked at his picture again and saw two other brothers behind him, and I knew there were many more. What about them? What about their neighbors? Their neighbor's neighbors... it would never end. Finding a way to adopt him wasn't practical, and it wasn't the answer. So I've worked to find a way to help them in other ways. I don't know where our help will lead them or what Michael Angelo's future is, but I know that for a certain period of time, they will eat decently, drink clean water, and have items like new clothes and beds that they could only dream of before. And for now, that will have to do.
So as I watched that dog fill his belly as fast as he could, wagging his tail furiously and nearly gasping between bites, all I could think was Eat, poor creature, eat. Eat as fast as you can, take whatever you can fit in your belly. I can't fix the problem that got you into this mess in the first place, I can't take care of you once that truck shows up, and I can't promise you your life is going to get better with this. But for right now, I can feed you, so eat. For goodness' sake, eat.
I cannot fix the world's problems. I cannot take all of the hungry, hurt children into my home. And I've learned over time that I cannot bring all of the pain in this world into my heart, or it will shut down and break forever. But I can focus on this one boy, this one family. And I'll do it, for a multitude of reasons, beginning with His command to love one another, and not this world, for it it not our true home. But I'll also do it as my way of proving a point (however small) to the world that I will not be changed by it and its darkness.
If you also want to make your statement to the world in the Philippines, PCF (The Philippine Community Fund) could not have made it any easier, practical, or effective. Go to http://www.p-c-f.org/ and check out what they do. Online donations can be taken through the site, and if you want your contribution to go directly to a certain cause (such as Michael Angelo's family, or another family they choose for you), simply e-mail Ange ange@p-c-f.org to let her know.
I promise you'll make a difference.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
How Do I Love Thee, Doritos?
Confession Time.
I'm addicted to Baked Doritos. Completely, unequivocally, obsessively addicted. I want them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I try to resist them all evening and then I just can't help myself. Even if I'm not really hungry, it's an itch that has to be scratched. When I notice we're getting low, I'll make a special trip to Wal-Mart to buy some more (they have the best price on them there, belive me I've checked) under the guise of needing something else to buy. I even have a special way of eating them: I crunch them up into tiny pieces so it lasts longer. Strange? I don't think so.
But I think my family's on to me and intervention is imminent.
Last night as I settled down with the computer I tried to discreetly munch away, but it wasn't long before Hilton noticed in the next room. Busted.
"Do I smell Doritos?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think I smell Doritos."
"At least they're baked! It's not like they're the real thing!"
Even the boys know Mommy Has a Problem. When Jake saw me getting stuff together to make dinner the other night, he had it all figured out.
"Mommy, you making Doritos for dinner tonight?"
Step #1: Admitting you have a problem. Check.
I'm addicted to Baked Doritos. Completely, unequivocally, obsessively addicted. I want them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I try to resist them all evening and then I just can't help myself. Even if I'm not really hungry, it's an itch that has to be scratched. When I notice we're getting low, I'll make a special trip to Wal-Mart to buy some more (they have the best price on them there, belive me I've checked) under the guise of needing something else to buy. I even have a special way of eating them: I crunch them up into tiny pieces so it lasts longer. Strange? I don't think so.
But I think my family's on to me and intervention is imminent.
Last night as I settled down with the computer I tried to discreetly munch away, but it wasn't long before Hilton noticed in the next room. Busted.
"Do I smell Doritos?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think I smell Doritos."
"At least they're baked! It's not like they're the real thing!"
Even the boys know Mommy Has a Problem. When Jake saw me getting stuff together to make dinner the other night, he had it all figured out.
"Mommy, you making Doritos for dinner tonight?"
Step #1: Admitting you have a problem. Check.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Poof!
When the boys were still drinking out of sippy cups for meals, we'd let them carry around their cups and drink even after they got down from the table, something I learned was a big no-no in parenting magazines but let them do it anyway because honestly, it wasn't worth the battle to me. However, they had a maddening habit with those cups.
They hid them.
They hid those stupid cups in a different place nearly every time, causing you to crawl around the room cursing for ten minutes until, like the Holy Grail, it was uncovered and there was much rejoicing (along with some incoherent rambling about "those %$&* cups). I never really figured out if they were intentionally trying to make us crazy, but I have a sneaking suspicion they were watching with amusement out of the corner of their eyes.
And that suspicion has been confirmed even more so with a new and much more deliberate game.
The object to hide these days is a doorknob cover, a childproofing item that was previously considered, well, childproof. Until Jake figured out he could squeeze the heck out of them until "the eggs hatches!" Well, isn't that great. But wait, there's more.... He "hatches" the doorknob covers while I'm not looking, and then in what I'm certain is part of their ultimate plan to send Mommy to the Crazy Place, they leave one half of the cover out as a tease for me, and then hide the other somewhere I'm sure not to find it.
The first few times they did this, I gave up after about 15 seconds of looking and simply put a brand new cover on. But I started to wonder where these covers were all going, so the other day I went on a hunt. I asked the boys to help me and politely obliged. At least, I thought they were helping me. What they were really doing, however, was simply playing along.
They knew where they were. This was a game.
"Boys, where did the doorknob covers go?"
"We hid them!" The truth was out. Finally, some honesty.
"Where did you hide them?"
"I can't tell you," replied Ben. "It's a secret hiding place."
"Poof!" interjected Jake with glee. "We made it disappear!"
"Poof!" agreed Ben.
I gave up at that point. My life motto anymore is pretty much "Whatever." They won.
But the next day, I decided that two (or three) could play this game. Tired of having them play with their bedtime "loveys" (little blankets) all over the house, I decided I would put them in a place where they wouldn't be accessed until bedtime. Somewhere they'd never look. Like my underwear drawer.
"Where you put our loveys?" Ben asked.
"Hmm... let me see... oh yes. A secret hiding place. Can't tell you," I replied. Maybe a little too smugly.
And the hide-the-hatched-egg game hasn't been played since.
They hid them.
They hid those stupid cups in a different place nearly every time, causing you to crawl around the room cursing for ten minutes until, like the Holy Grail, it was uncovered and there was much rejoicing (along with some incoherent rambling about "those %$&* cups). I never really figured out if they were intentionally trying to make us crazy, but I have a sneaking suspicion they were watching with amusement out of the corner of their eyes.
And that suspicion has been confirmed even more so with a new and much more deliberate game.
The object to hide these days is a doorknob cover, a childproofing item that was previously considered, well, childproof. Until Jake figured out he could squeeze the heck out of them until "the eggs hatches!" Well, isn't that great. But wait, there's more.... He "hatches" the doorknob covers while I'm not looking, and then in what I'm certain is part of their ultimate plan to send Mommy to the Crazy Place, they leave one half of the cover out as a tease for me, and then hide the other somewhere I'm sure not to find it.
The first few times they did this, I gave up after about 15 seconds of looking and simply put a brand new cover on. But I started to wonder where these covers were all going, so the other day I went on a hunt. I asked the boys to help me and politely obliged. At least, I thought they were helping me. What they were really doing, however, was simply playing along.
They knew where they were. This was a game.
"Boys, where did the doorknob covers go?"
"We hid them!" The truth was out. Finally, some honesty.
"Where did you hide them?"
"I can't tell you," replied Ben. "It's a secret hiding place."
"Poof!" interjected Jake with glee. "We made it disappear!"
"Poof!" agreed Ben.
I gave up at that point. My life motto anymore is pretty much "Whatever." They won.
But the next day, I decided that two (or three) could play this game. Tired of having them play with their bedtime "loveys" (little blankets) all over the house, I decided I would put them in a place where they wouldn't be accessed until bedtime. Somewhere they'd never look. Like my underwear drawer.
"Where you put our loveys?" Ben asked.
"Hmm... let me see... oh yes. A secret hiding place. Can't tell you," I replied. Maybe a little too smugly.
And the hide-the-hatched-egg game hasn't been played since.
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