I got pulled over by a cop this morning on my way home from having coffee at a friend's house (insert label: my pastor's wife). I was on a great high, feeling splendid:
- fabulous coffee (she too is a connoisseur)
- great conversation with this new-found friend who really gets it ... some fun stuff, some heavy topics, plus the "pastor's wife" connection
- my kids (well, Aidan) are making friends (they have two kids as well) and they play really well together.
- a quick comment to her that I'm searching for bunk beds, resulting in an immediate call over her fence to her neighbor, who just happens to be getting rid of her bunk beds ... a quick chat to the neighbor and a planned visit tonight to pick them up
So I'm driving home and I get pulled over. I know I wasn't speeding -- I was way below the speed limit, having just turned the corner at the stop street. This eagle-eyed officer noticed that I had NJ plates but a PA inspection sticker. Sheesh. I explained our situation -- we just moved here, we had gone to the DMV, we're just waiting for our appointment to get the car inspected on Saturday (we had 14 days to get that done to get new stickers). He said, "You know you don't have to make an appointment -- you can just go and get it done quickly." I hope my answer wasn't too obnoxious when I said, "With these kids, I need to make an appointment. I can't go anywhere with them. My husband will do it." He said I was supposed to have a pink card in the windshield as proof of this (what pink card? Don went to the DMV, not me). Thankfully, as I was rummaging around in the glove box looking for the registration, I saw that Don put the pink card in there so I produced that as well. Phew. No harm done, no problem.
Thanks for deflating my balloon. At least he wished me a good and safe day. He could have been a little cheerier, though.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Laugh Lines for the Week 5
There's just something about holidays ...
- On the way to the Memorial Day Parade, Aidan exclaimed as we were driving down our hill, "I see Nick Wert City!" (His way of saying New York City, which you can clearly see from our home). My dad, who was sitting in the back seat between the kids, disagreed with him, saying that he was looking at another city closer to us, and that it was too hazy to see the NYC skyline clearly. Aidan wouldn't give up. "Nooooo, I can see it. I have extra special reflective eyes." My dad responded, "Oh? Where did you get those?" Aidan said, "God gave them to me. That's why I can see so great."
- Before leaving for the Memorial Day parade, I smeared lots of sunblock on my kids, the first slathering of the year. Aidan said, "Mmmmmmm! That's smells good! It smells like carrots!" (carrots?!?!). Later that day we were hanging out in the yard, and Aidan went around smelling the different flowers (roses, peonies, etc.). In the pots on the patio I have a combination of vinca, ageratum, and a super-mini daisy-like flower called "snowland." Upon taking a whiff of the snowland, Aidan declared, "Mommy! This smells like macaroni!" I think I need to get his nose checked.
- Memorial Day: I broke my toe. The littlest one on my left foot. I had intended to peek my head out of the kitchen area to see what the kids were up to, but I walked too far to my left and smashed it into the door frame of the kids' room. I knew it was broken (I couldn't bend it, and if I tried it hurt like crazy; it's rather multi-colored at the moment) but I also recalled that there wasn't much you can do about it. My brother told me to tape it next to the other one, but since I don't have any of that kind of tape, I am currently wearing an odd conglomeration of band-aids. It's kind of funny, really, which is why it made "Laugh Lines" this week -- I am 35 years old and haven't (until now) broken a single bone in my body. Thank goodness I'm starting small!
- Aidan is still fascinated with butts, and anything having to do with butts. His latest source of amusement is hearing something with the word "butt" in it. Grace had on a cute pair of red shorts with a blue star smack in the middle of her rear end, which sent Aidan into a peel of giggles -- "Starbutt! Starbutt! You know, like the coffee store. Starbutt!" The other evening we were talking about a possible visit to the graveyard where Don's family is buried (he hasn't been back there in about ten years), and -- of course -- the graveyard is in the town of Butler. All we've been hearing, in Aidan's silly sing-song voice, is "Butt-ler! Butt-ler! Let's go to Butt-ler!"
- On the way to the Memorial Day Parade, Aidan exclaimed as we were driving down our hill, "I see Nick Wert City!" (His way of saying New York City, which you can clearly see from our home). My dad, who was sitting in the back seat between the kids, disagreed with him, saying that he was looking at another city closer to us, and that it was too hazy to see the NYC skyline clearly. Aidan wouldn't give up. "Nooooo, I can see it. I have extra special reflective eyes." My dad responded, "Oh? Where did you get those?" Aidan said, "God gave them to me. That's why I can see so great."
- Before leaving for the Memorial Day parade, I smeared lots of sunblock on my kids, the first slathering of the year. Aidan said, "Mmmmmmm! That's smells good! It smells like carrots!" (carrots?!?!). Later that day we were hanging out in the yard, and Aidan went around smelling the different flowers (roses, peonies, etc.). In the pots on the patio I have a combination of vinca, ageratum, and a super-mini daisy-like flower called "snowland." Upon taking a whiff of the snowland, Aidan declared, "Mommy! This smells like macaroni!" I think I need to get his nose checked.
- Memorial Day: I broke my toe. The littlest one on my left foot. I had intended to peek my head out of the kitchen area to see what the kids were up to, but I walked too far to my left and smashed it into the door frame of the kids' room. I knew it was broken (I couldn't bend it, and if I tried it hurt like crazy; it's rather multi-colored at the moment) but I also recalled that there wasn't much you can do about it. My brother told me to tape it next to the other one, but since I don't have any of that kind of tape, I am currently wearing an odd conglomeration of band-aids. It's kind of funny, really, which is why it made "Laugh Lines" this week -- I am 35 years old and haven't (until now) broken a single bone in my body. Thank goodness I'm starting small!
- Aidan is still fascinated with butts, and anything having to do with butts. His latest source of amusement is hearing something with the word "butt" in it. Grace had on a cute pair of red shorts with a blue star smack in the middle of her rear end, which sent Aidan into a peel of giggles -- "Starbutt! Starbutt! You know, like the coffee store. Starbutt!" The other evening we were talking about a possible visit to the graveyard where Don's family is buried (he hasn't been back there in about ten years), and -- of course -- the graveyard is in the town of Butler. All we've been hearing, in Aidan's silly sing-song voice, is "Butt-ler! Butt-ler! Let's go to Butt-ler!"
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
"A" is for "Ansel"
A few weeks ago the kids and I went to the park. Aidan walked on the rocks by the brook while I put our mega-3-wheeler stroller to good use, with Grace enjoying every minute of the ride. Like all kids, Aidan loves the camera, and he begged and pleaded for me to allow him to use the digital camera. Normally I refuse, fearing the breakage of an expensive item, but this time I handed it over. He was absolutely delighted and proceeded to snap away at will. We had a lovely day.When I downloaded the pictures to iPhoto (all 42 of them!) I expected to see the usual random shots taken by a 4-year-old: several pictures of his feet, quite a few blurry shots taken on the run, about 10 of my butt (which were all promptly deleted). But what surprised me was the very large number of really, really beautiful pictures he took! I know quite a few of them were aimed -- I saw him pause deliberately. I wanted to post some of his first photographs here -- perhaps an Ansel Adams in the making? I'm proud of my little guy -- he's got a good eye and produced some beautiful shots.
Breaking Tradition (?)
"Traditions" can be good and not-so-good, and one such tradition we have involves morning television. My hopes of being a mother who could so breezily limit TV-watching to, say, one hour a day, had been flushed down the Toilet of All Flushed Hopes years ago. Our "tradition" started a long time ago, when Aidan was very little. He was a horrible sleeper (especially when it was nap time), and he woke up way too early in the morning. Yet even though he was awake in the early a.m. hours, he was not ready to function, so the habit formed: sitting in the big comfy chair with a little boy in my arms, watching PBS Kids (usually Sesame Street or Clifford at that hour). That's how we started every day.
This "tradition" continues. At 4 and a half, Aidan wakes up, goes to the bathroom, requests a cup of juice, and settles into PBS Kids for a while until he fully wakes up. Dare I admit this? I don't mind. It's relatively quiet in the house, I can take the time I need to shake the cobwebs out of my head, perhaps even complete a chore or two. Naturally, Grace -- though not much of a TV watcher herself -- has settled into this routine, sitting near her brother with her sippy cup full of a yogurt drink, shaking her own cobwebs away. PBS isn't so bad.
This morning something different occurred. Something I didn't think I would ever hear. After a couple of programs (Curious George, Clifford, Dragon Tales) Aidan said to me, "Mommy, I think it's time to turn off the TV." He is now in his room, using his imagination, playing with his cars.
Awwwwwlllll-right!!!!!!!
This "tradition" continues. At 4 and a half, Aidan wakes up, goes to the bathroom, requests a cup of juice, and settles into PBS Kids for a while until he fully wakes up. Dare I admit this? I don't mind. It's relatively quiet in the house, I can take the time I need to shake the cobwebs out of my head, perhaps even complete a chore or two. Naturally, Grace -- though not much of a TV watcher herself -- has settled into this routine, sitting near her brother with her sippy cup full of a yogurt drink, shaking her own cobwebs away. PBS isn't so bad.
This morning something different occurred. Something I didn't think I would ever hear. After a couple of programs (Curious George, Clifford, Dragon Tales) Aidan said to me, "Mommy, I think it's time to turn off the TV." He is now in his room, using his imagination, playing with his cars.
Awwwwwlllll-right!!!!!!!
"The Art of Forgiving"
Some time ago I wrote about the feeling that God was being pretty vocal about my need to forgive those by whom I/we have suffered a tremendous amount of hurt and wrong. This divine shout-out came in several different forms, by several different and unconnected people, all with the same message. OK, I said, I got it. But while I knew this journey toward forgiveness was inevitable for me, I had absolutely no clue how to begin, nor frankly had any desire to do so. Where I was at the time -- and honestly still am more often than not -- was at a place of vengeance, wanting to see them pay for what they did, wanting to see them hurt the way they hurt us, wanting to see them fail and suffer pain. I wrote that about a month ago (or more), and while I am able to see where I am supposed to go on this journey, I'm not quite sure I've made any progress. I still have the map in my hand, but my feet haven't started walking.
A short time ago I received a surprise package in the mail from an old friend, a book entitled "The Art of Forgiving" by Lewis B. Smedes. The subtitle jumped out at me instantly: "When you need to forgive and don't know how." From the very moment I picked up this book I knew this is something I had to read. Each paragraph, each chapter is speaking to me in profound ways, addressing every single question I have had since it all happened, and (thankfully) providing a great amount of relief and affirmation, that what we experienced did not come because we "asked for it" (as some actually said), but simply we had been terribly wronged and wounded and there are steps that need to be taken. "When we forgive, we set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner we set free is us."
I have not read his previous book, "Forgive and Forget: Healing the Hurts We Don't Deserve," but this one I'm reading is described as a more practical guide toward the "art of forgiving," outlining such issues as why we forgive (and often the one who benefits the most is the forgiver), what we do when we forgive, whom we forgive (only those who directly wrong us), and how we forgive (starting by ownership of our own pain). There were many times during the course of those six awful months of torture when I let my thoughts travel elsewhere: did we do something to deserve this? This guy who is saying these things is a highly respected leader -- is he really right? He has a lot of people behind him, more experience -- is he justified in what he's saying and doing? Are we making too much of this? The funny thing is that every single time a thought like that crept into my head, I immediately received some word on the contrary, affirmation of our ministry and our calling, outrage at what was being said and done, that this was so wrong on every level. I am sure that there were days where we were so gripped by fear that we said something the wrong way, or responded in a way that was coming from a hurting gut rather than a cool head. Yes, we have to own that and we do. But even so, that is merely being human, and responding like a human to horrible things. It was not even close to "asking for it." Someone actually said to Don that he shouldn't be surprised this happened to him, because he is a "very big person with a big voice and a big personality -- people are afraid of you." Come on. Nobody asks for abuse, or brings it on in any way. Even today, we received a letter in the mail from the very first priest whom Don talked to when he first received his call, the priest who knows Don probably better than any other "church person" on the planet, the priest who first supported Don's journey to seminary, who knows all of the people involved. His letter to us today was full of shock and outrage, yet love for us and affirmation once again that we did not do anything to bring this on -- we were wronged, period.
It happens. I'm not saying, "Oh, woe is me" because I know this happens all the time, this kind of injustice. My point is that from what I'm learning from this book, I have to stop going to that place of questioning (own our part in it, yes) and name it for what it was. The author lays it out very, very simply, saying we have two choices: to stay in this place of desiring vengeance and pain on the other person (which will inevitably become all-consuming), or we can forgive. There is no other option. I know which fork I have to take but it is extremely difficult.
There's one particular point that is seriously sticking in my proverbial craw, and while I know it is true, my mind (heck, why limit my mind -- my entire being) instantly rebels. "No, no, no! I don't want to do that! I can't do that!" Smedes mentions the three stages of forgiveness:
- We rediscover the humanity of the person who wronged us ... looking past the sin, past the wrong-doing, you see the fallen, hurting person. OK, fine -- I get that. I do know a little bit about some things, and there was a time when I felt pity rather than anger.
- We surrender our right to get even ... That's a little tougher. Yet I still think I can handle this element, since I wasn't planning on "getting even." While my imagination might have a good time, I am grounded enough in reality to know there's nothing I can do about this anyway. OK, I'll let that go.
- We revise our feelings toward the person we forgive. In other words, we wish them well. OUCH. "The flagship word of the gospel is grace. No wonder, for grace is shorthand for God wishing us well." OUCH OUCH. Wishing them well? Wishing those people happiness, even success in their ventures? OUCH OUCH OUCH. The next thing the author wrote produced some audible noise from me and I nearly jumped out of bed. It's like he swam around in my hurting soul and resurfaced with these words: "What we felt before was simple hate. We may disguise it so we don't have to recognize it in ourselves. But hate is hate no matter how we pass it off. It may be the passive hate that makes us feel good when we hear that bad things have happened to the person who wronged us. Or it may be an aggressive hate screaming for the other person to feel a pain at least the size of ours ... When we begin to forgive, however, we feel a real though perhaps reluctant wish that some good things might come the weasel's way ... The feeling of good will is likely to be weak and hesitant at the start, and we are almost bound to backslide into malice along the way. But if we feel any stirring of benevolence inside us, any hint that it will be all right with us if some modest bit of good fortune comes our enemy's way, we can be sure that we are teamed with God in a modest miracle of healing." Oh my goodness. I still have to hold my breath when I read that passage. Do I want to get through this journey? Yes, I do. I do not want to become consumed by this. I do not want to be shackled to them any more. Points One and Two I can handle. But ... do I wish them well?
If I'm being honest here ... no. I do not. I just can't get there.
But you know, I'm not too discouraged. I know I am supposed to do this. I know, in a sense, that this is my calling for the here and now. I know I am a "candidate" for this forgiveness process, and that I am not crazy. I know I am able to own this pain and identify the wrong that was done. It's like I have all the necessary pieces of the puzzle; I'm just struggling to fit them all together. I still harbor too much anger. I still receive a sense of satisfaction when I hear of negative things happening. That last step is going to be a doozy. Clearly this is not a step I'll be taking on my own.
A short time ago I received a surprise package in the mail from an old friend, a book entitled "The Art of Forgiving" by Lewis B. Smedes. The subtitle jumped out at me instantly: "When you need to forgive and don't know how." From the very moment I picked up this book I knew this is something I had to read. Each paragraph, each chapter is speaking to me in profound ways, addressing every single question I have had since it all happened, and (thankfully) providing a great amount of relief and affirmation, that what we experienced did not come because we "asked for it" (as some actually said), but simply we had been terribly wronged and wounded and there are steps that need to be taken. "When we forgive, we set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner we set free is us."
I have not read his previous book, "Forgive and Forget: Healing the Hurts We Don't Deserve," but this one I'm reading is described as a more practical guide toward the "art of forgiving," outlining such issues as why we forgive (and often the one who benefits the most is the forgiver), what we do when we forgive, whom we forgive (only those who directly wrong us), and how we forgive (starting by ownership of our own pain). There were many times during the course of those six awful months of torture when I let my thoughts travel elsewhere: did we do something to deserve this? This guy who is saying these things is a highly respected leader -- is he really right? He has a lot of people behind him, more experience -- is he justified in what he's saying and doing? Are we making too much of this? The funny thing is that every single time a thought like that crept into my head, I immediately received some word on the contrary, affirmation of our ministry and our calling, outrage at what was being said and done, that this was so wrong on every level. I am sure that there were days where we were so gripped by fear that we said something the wrong way, or responded in a way that was coming from a hurting gut rather than a cool head. Yes, we have to own that and we do. But even so, that is merely being human, and responding like a human to horrible things. It was not even close to "asking for it." Someone actually said to Don that he shouldn't be surprised this happened to him, because he is a "very big person with a big voice and a big personality -- people are afraid of you." Come on. Nobody asks for abuse, or brings it on in any way. Even today, we received a letter in the mail from the very first priest whom Don talked to when he first received his call, the priest who knows Don probably better than any other "church person" on the planet, the priest who first supported Don's journey to seminary, who knows all of the people involved. His letter to us today was full of shock and outrage, yet love for us and affirmation once again that we did not do anything to bring this on -- we were wronged, period.
It happens. I'm not saying, "Oh, woe is me" because I know this happens all the time, this kind of injustice. My point is that from what I'm learning from this book, I have to stop going to that place of questioning (own our part in it, yes) and name it for what it was. The author lays it out very, very simply, saying we have two choices: to stay in this place of desiring vengeance and pain on the other person (which will inevitably become all-consuming), or we can forgive. There is no other option. I know which fork I have to take but it is extremely difficult.
There's one particular point that is seriously sticking in my proverbial craw, and while I know it is true, my mind (heck, why limit my mind -- my entire being) instantly rebels. "No, no, no! I don't want to do that! I can't do that!" Smedes mentions the three stages of forgiveness:
- We rediscover the humanity of the person who wronged us ... looking past the sin, past the wrong-doing, you see the fallen, hurting person. OK, fine -- I get that. I do know a little bit about some things, and there was a time when I felt pity rather than anger.
- We surrender our right to get even ... That's a little tougher. Yet I still think I can handle this element, since I wasn't planning on "getting even." While my imagination might have a good time, I am grounded enough in reality to know there's nothing I can do about this anyway. OK, I'll let that go.
- We revise our feelings toward the person we forgive. In other words, we wish them well. OUCH. "The flagship word of the gospel is grace. No wonder, for grace is shorthand for God wishing us well." OUCH OUCH. Wishing them well? Wishing those people happiness, even success in their ventures? OUCH OUCH OUCH. The next thing the author wrote produced some audible noise from me and I nearly jumped out of bed. It's like he swam around in my hurting soul and resurfaced with these words: "What we felt before was simple hate. We may disguise it so we don't have to recognize it in ourselves. But hate is hate no matter how we pass it off. It may be the passive hate that makes us feel good when we hear that bad things have happened to the person who wronged us. Or it may be an aggressive hate screaming for the other person to feel a pain at least the size of ours ... When we begin to forgive, however, we feel a real though perhaps reluctant wish that some good things might come the weasel's way ... The feeling of good will is likely to be weak and hesitant at the start, and we are almost bound to backslide into malice along the way. But if we feel any stirring of benevolence inside us, any hint that it will be all right with us if some modest bit of good fortune comes our enemy's way, we can be sure that we are teamed with God in a modest miracle of healing." Oh my goodness. I still have to hold my breath when I read that passage. Do I want to get through this journey? Yes, I do. I do not want to become consumed by this. I do not want to be shackled to them any more. Points One and Two I can handle. But ... do I wish them well?
If I'm being honest here ... no. I do not. I just can't get there.
But you know, I'm not too discouraged. I know I am supposed to do this. I know, in a sense, that this is my calling for the here and now. I know I am a "candidate" for this forgiveness process, and that I am not crazy. I know I am able to own this pain and identify the wrong that was done. It's like I have all the necessary pieces of the puzzle; I'm just struggling to fit them all together. I still harbor too much anger. I still receive a sense of satisfaction when I hear of negative things happening. That last step is going to be a doozy. Clearly this is not a step I'll be taking on my own.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The Parental Bellow
Our family traditions of Memorial Day continued yesterday with an annual picnic in our backyard. Don and I spent the day working feverishly in order to get our house back together after our painting adventure (I still have a lot of work to do, like putting everything back into the medicine cabinet, etc.). Around noon my oldest brother, Steve, called me and asked if I could come over and help him plant a few things in his yard, since he "hates yard work," as he put it, and had no idea what to do with those green leafy things. When I returned, I tackled the chore of wiping down the outdoor furniture, arranging the patio for eating and arranging the lawn for comfortable seating. I finally hit the shower and emerged in time for the arrival of our first guests.
We had a loaded yard: 10 adults and 5 children. It was relaxing, comfortable, and fun. My oldest brother, now 42 years old, actually teeters on the line of childhood and adulthood, spending just as much time with the little ones as the adults. We had some disciplinary issues: Aidan was sent to his room for pushing his sister, and he was also reprimanded for lying, saying his cousin Adam knocked down another cousin Steven Henry, when Aidan himself did the tackling (although I think it was all done in play). Ugh. Overall, the kids played wonderfully well together. At one point my brother Steve made a funny comment, saying "You just wait -- years from now these kids will still be banded together, roaming out in the neighborhood, getting a beer ..."
Leave it to my brother to make a beer comment in front of my dry parents, but beyond that, I thought of his comment about "roaming out in the neighborhood." I thought about growing up in this same house, this same yard, this same neighborhood and doing my own fair share of roaming with my brother Jim and my friends who lived nearby. Recently I read an article in "Family Fun" magazine that struck a chord with me. It spoke of a time when kids roamed free in their neighborhoods, being pushed out of doors and not being seen until it was time for a meal, or time for bed. It spoke of a phenomenon called "The Parental Bellow," the signal for kids to know it was time to come home, the vocal chords of a parent utilized to its maximum capacity, sending its sound out over the rooftops, across the blocks, like a siren's call luring them back home. The article went on to say that these days are over, that kids don't play outdoors as much as they used to, or if they do it's in the safety and privacy of their own yards (hence the rise in purchases of swing sets and mega-jungle gyms, I assume). The author stated that the play of children today is much, much more structured -- play dates, or organized activities and sports that take place in other facilities. Kids don't roam free any more, they don't use their imaginations as much in free-range outdoor play, coming up with their own games and activities with any items they can find on their own.
I thought a lot about this article in the context of my own childhood, and in the raising of my children now. I certainly had that childhood he was talking about -- the countless hours spent in our yard playing wiffle ball, pickle, or anything else we could think of; the many trips to the yards of other neighborhood kids, and then venturing further away to the Hay Fields, roaming through the various paths in the woods, climbing rocks, making up adventures of exploring or pirates or whatever else our imaginations cooked up for the day. Yes, we were called in for dinner -- my mother had her own signature "parental bellow," a sound that I have never heard anywhere else. Every child in the neighborhood knew when Sue and Jim were being called home; every child knew that sound. After dinner we headed back outdoors, and the evening rule was that we had to come home when the street lights went on. That parental bellow was a daily sound for us, along with birds chirping and the fire siren going off at noon.
But what about today? The thought of letting my kids roam about without my supervision kind of freaks me out. Is it because we hear of so many awful things in the news? Is it because every parent fears things like abduction or abuse of some kind? I don't think that was any different years ago -- there were bad people and bad things back then too. I am certain my parents had those very same concerns. Are things really different today? What will "childhood" look like for my children? I do know that being a mother has alighted in me a fierce sense of protectiveness, never wanting to let my kids out of my sight. I know when Aidan first rides a school bus I will be a mess. I know when Aidan has to go to school all day, every day I will freak out (for a while). Will I let my kids roam free, hooking up with other neighborhood kids (whom I don't know) until it's dinner time? Will I develop my own "parental bellow" (sheesh - I hope not) ... and what if my kids don't respond? I know, I know -- you can really drive yourself crazy thinking these things. But it really did make me curious, wondering what kind of childhood my kids will have.
We had a loaded yard: 10 adults and 5 children. It was relaxing, comfortable, and fun. My oldest brother, now 42 years old, actually teeters on the line of childhood and adulthood, spending just as much time with the little ones as the adults. We had some disciplinary issues: Aidan was sent to his room for pushing his sister, and he was also reprimanded for lying, saying his cousin Adam knocked down another cousin Steven Henry, when Aidan himself did the tackling (although I think it was all done in play). Ugh. Overall, the kids played wonderfully well together. At one point my brother Steve made a funny comment, saying "You just wait -- years from now these kids will still be banded together, roaming out in the neighborhood, getting a beer ..."
Leave it to my brother to make a beer comment in front of my dry parents, but beyond that, I thought of his comment about "roaming out in the neighborhood." I thought about growing up in this same house, this same yard, this same neighborhood and doing my own fair share of roaming with my brother Jim and my friends who lived nearby. Recently I read an article in "Family Fun" magazine that struck a chord with me. It spoke of a time when kids roamed free in their neighborhoods, being pushed out of doors and not being seen until it was time for a meal, or time for bed. It spoke of a phenomenon called "The Parental Bellow," the signal for kids to know it was time to come home, the vocal chords of a parent utilized to its maximum capacity, sending its sound out over the rooftops, across the blocks, like a siren's call luring them back home. The article went on to say that these days are over, that kids don't play outdoors as much as they used to, or if they do it's in the safety and privacy of their own yards (hence the rise in purchases of swing sets and mega-jungle gyms, I assume). The author stated that the play of children today is much, much more structured -- play dates, or organized activities and sports that take place in other facilities. Kids don't roam free any more, they don't use their imaginations as much in free-range outdoor play, coming up with their own games and activities with any items they can find on their own.
I thought a lot about this article in the context of my own childhood, and in the raising of my children now. I certainly had that childhood he was talking about -- the countless hours spent in our yard playing wiffle ball, pickle, or anything else we could think of; the many trips to the yards of other neighborhood kids, and then venturing further away to the Hay Fields, roaming through the various paths in the woods, climbing rocks, making up adventures of exploring or pirates or whatever else our imaginations cooked up for the day. Yes, we were called in for dinner -- my mother had her own signature "parental bellow," a sound that I have never heard anywhere else. Every child in the neighborhood knew when Sue and Jim were being called home; every child knew that sound. After dinner we headed back outdoors, and the evening rule was that we had to come home when the street lights went on. That parental bellow was a daily sound for us, along with birds chirping and the fire siren going off at noon.
But what about today? The thought of letting my kids roam about without my supervision kind of freaks me out. Is it because we hear of so many awful things in the news? Is it because every parent fears things like abduction or abuse of some kind? I don't think that was any different years ago -- there were bad people and bad things back then too. I am certain my parents had those very same concerns. Are things really different today? What will "childhood" look like for my children? I do know that being a mother has alighted in me a fierce sense of protectiveness, never wanting to let my kids out of my sight. I know when Aidan first rides a school bus I will be a mess. I know when Aidan has to go to school all day, every day I will freak out (for a while). Will I let my kids roam free, hooking up with other neighborhood kids (whom I don't know) until it's dinner time? Will I develop my own "parental bellow" (sheesh - I hope not) ... and what if my kids don't respond? I know, I know -- you can really drive yourself crazy thinking these things. But it really did make me curious, wondering what kind of childhood my kids will have.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Lost and Found
Yesterday was a strange day for me. A few weeks ago I lost one of my favorite rings -- a gold (completely fake, I'm sure) mesh ring -- that I received for Christmas. I knew it had to be in the house, but I had absolutely no idea where it was. Yesterday afternoon I changed out of my "church clothes" and put on a comfortable skirt, and voila! There in my pocket was my ring! I was very, very happy.
Later that afternoon we drove up to the area of far-northern NJ where Don's family put down their roots and paid a visit to the cemetery where his grandparents are buried. We haven't been there in about ten years, when his "Granny" was buried. His family, for generations, had been Catholic so, naturally, they are buried in a Catholic cemetery, complete with a monstrous white marble Jesus hanging from the cross as you come into the drive, flanked by equally large statues of Mary and John, the Beloved Disciple, under which were buried all of the priests and Franciscan monks laid out neatly in a large circle. Aidan got such a kick out of seeing his last name on the headstone, and then got an even bigger thrill (????) when he saw his first name on the stone of one Irish priest buried underneath Jesus. It was an interesting day, to say the least! Thankfully Aidan was too absorbed in his surroundings to ask the million "why?" questions I was anticipating (and didn't feel like answering).
Anyway, back to my topic. When we returned home, the kids stayed out in the yard to play, and after a while I went out to be with them. I laid a blanket on the ground and the three of us looked up at the sky; we had races in the long side yard; we kicked balls back and forth. When I finally came in I went to my room to remove my jewelry ... only to find now that my earring was missing! I was truly bummed -- I love these earrings. I purchased them in St. Martin, the Caribbean island we visited on our 5th wedding anniversary. They are silver, with a beautiful dark blue lapis lazuli stone in the center, and I wear them often. My "high" from finding my ring quickly dissipated, now having lost one of my favorite earrings.
"It's only a material item," I kept telling myself, mantra-style, as I walked barefoot through the grass. I walked with my eyes glued to the ground, down our front steps, up the sidewalk a bit, and into our next door neighbor's yard (where I had earlier gone to fetch a ball that had gone over the fence). I retraced my steps back to my own yard. Nothing. Aidan asked me what I was doing, so I told him that I lost an earring, and showed him the one that was left so he could see what it looked like. He then did a cute (and powerful) thing: he laid a blanket on the grass and told me to kneel down with him. He folded his little hands and started to pray that Mommy would find her earring -- one of his "magical prayers." I thanked him, stood up ... and wouldn't you know it, within 30 seconds -- just a few paces away from where we were kneeling -- I found my earring in the grass! Aidan was beaming and declared that "magical prayers are great!" I was indeed thankful, and Aidan then took my hand to kneel on the grass once more so we could thank God for helping us find what was lost.
Yes, we'll work on the theology aspect of this one of these days. Aidan will definitely need to learn that sometimes prayers aren't answered in the way that we would like. But for now this is a really neat lesson for him, and for myself. Our grown-up lives can get so messy, so cluttered, so complicated. I am learning to love the simplicity of his childlike faith, looking at things through his uncomplicated childlike eyes. What was lost had been found. And I'm one happy be-jeweled camper!
Later that afternoon we drove up to the area of far-northern NJ where Don's family put down their roots and paid a visit to the cemetery where his grandparents are buried. We haven't been there in about ten years, when his "Granny" was buried. His family, for generations, had been Catholic so, naturally, they are buried in a Catholic cemetery, complete with a monstrous white marble Jesus hanging from the cross as you come into the drive, flanked by equally large statues of Mary and John, the Beloved Disciple, under which were buried all of the priests and Franciscan monks laid out neatly in a large circle. Aidan got such a kick out of seeing his last name on the headstone, and then got an even bigger thrill (????) when he saw his first name on the stone of one Irish priest buried underneath Jesus. It was an interesting day, to say the least! Thankfully Aidan was too absorbed in his surroundings to ask the million "why?" questions I was anticipating (and didn't feel like answering).
Anyway, back to my topic. When we returned home, the kids stayed out in the yard to play, and after a while I went out to be with them. I laid a blanket on the ground and the three of us looked up at the sky; we had races in the long side yard; we kicked balls back and forth. When I finally came in I went to my room to remove my jewelry ... only to find now that my earring was missing! I was truly bummed -- I love these earrings. I purchased them in St. Martin, the Caribbean island we visited on our 5th wedding anniversary. They are silver, with a beautiful dark blue lapis lazuli stone in the center, and I wear them often. My "high" from finding my ring quickly dissipated, now having lost one of my favorite earrings.
"It's only a material item," I kept telling myself, mantra-style, as I walked barefoot through the grass. I walked with my eyes glued to the ground, down our front steps, up the sidewalk a bit, and into our next door neighbor's yard (where I had earlier gone to fetch a ball that had gone over the fence). I retraced my steps back to my own yard. Nothing. Aidan asked me what I was doing, so I told him that I lost an earring, and showed him the one that was left so he could see what it looked like. He then did a cute (and powerful) thing: he laid a blanket on the grass and told me to kneel down with him. He folded his little hands and started to pray that Mommy would find her earring -- one of his "magical prayers." I thanked him, stood up ... and wouldn't you know it, within 30 seconds -- just a few paces away from where we were kneeling -- I found my earring in the grass! Aidan was beaming and declared that "magical prayers are great!" I was indeed thankful, and Aidan then took my hand to kneel on the grass once more so we could thank God for helping us find what was lost.
Yes, we'll work on the theology aspect of this one of these days. Aidan will definitely need to learn that sometimes prayers aren't answered in the way that we would like. But for now this is a really neat lesson for him, and for myself. Our grown-up lives can get so messy, so cluttered, so complicated. I am learning to love the simplicity of his childlike faith, looking at things through his uncomplicated childlike eyes. What was lost had been found. And I'm one happy be-jeweled camper!
Sunday, May 27, 2007
A Quest Accomplished
I finally made it to the cemetery yesterday afternoon -- a mini-journey that I have been wanting to embark upon, as I've written over the past couple of days, but haven't been able to make it. This was a trip that I had to do without my children. When I visited the place last week, I had both kids with me. Some of my relatives were easy to find, but we simply could not find my great aunts (Henrietta and Johanna) nor their parents. Johanna died five years ago -- the last I had been to that particular spot -- and I vaguely recalled it was closer to the highway than my grandparents, who were in a different section, but after a long time of romping amongst the "ten commandments" (Aidan's version of headstones), I had to give up without success. I returned the next day, after picking up Aidan from school, and did another drive-by, but I still could not find them. Finally my aunt got involved and gave my mother directions, so yesterday my dad and I loaded up the car with the essentials (peat moss, mulch, geraniums, spade, trowel, watering can, and directions) and headed out.
We did the easiest one first: my dad's parents, Edward and Ida, buried by the only white birch tree on the property. We planted two geraniums there, one on either side of the stone. A very funny thing happened during the digging of the first hole, next to my grandfather's name. Now I never knew my grandfather -- he died of cancer four years before I was born -- but he is one individual that I truly wish I could have known. From what I've been told, he was hilarious -- a jokester, a prankster, a funny, funny man. As my dad commenced digging, he commented on the large roots he was encountering, not knowing where the were coming from. He continued to dig while I got our things ready, when suddenly I heard a very loud "POP!" which was immediately followed by my dad's "Whoa!" and a shower of dirt on me. I laughed -- leave it to my grandfather to play another joke! That was a good moment.
Directly behind them was the stone of my great-grandparents, Edward's parents Pieter and Henrietta, so we planted one flower there. We walked over a short way to visit the place of my mom's parents, Henry and Alberdiena (Trina) -- boy, I still can't look at that stone without getting emotional. We had nothing for them -- my aunt informed me that she takes care of them. (Although I think I might just go back with one little flower from me -- I feel compelled).
Then we hopped back in the car for our final quest: my great-aunts Henrietta and Johanna, and their parents Johannes and Johanna. Not very creative in the naming department, were they? :) With directions in hand, I slowly wound my way through the curving paths, but still we could not find them! We saw several stones with the same last name (a common Dutch name, the equivalent of "Smith" in Holland) but they continued to elude us. Finally I parked the car and we decided to get out and walk. My dad finally found them, and we planted the last two geraniums between their stones.
I felt very, very good after that adventure. I got to talk to my dad, which was nice. Having him there was not only a big help, but his presence probably kept my emotions in check. We talked about little things, like why do most people plant geraniums in cemeteries? We did see some pansies and mums, but the hands-down winner was the geranium. We talked a little about the people we were honoring, and my dad recalled a few stories -- his grandmother Henrietta was laid-out in her kitchen when she died, but he couldn't remember anything about his grandfather's funeral. He told me that his brother, my Uncle Bern, used to plant flowers every year but had stopped at some point along the way; my dad too used to tend to the plots on a regular basis in the past. He told me that my mom's side, however, refused to do anything, saying adamantly, "Well, they're not there, so why bother?" I wonder if my great-aunts and great-grandparents wouldn't appreciate my quest to find them, and scorn my desire to plant flowers by them. My aunt told me she used to plant things by them in the first years but nothing ever lived, no matter what she tried. Maybe that's not a coincidence! :)
Yes, it was a good day. I'm glad I did it. I think I'll go back, with a flower for my mom's parents. My dad told me that his maternal grandparents are somewhere in there too, Bouwe (Barney) and Antje (Anna), but he doesn't know where. I sense another quest coming up! I wonder what compels us to do things like this? To visit people who have passed away? To plant flowers by their headstones? To make repeated return trips to water and care for those plants? I am fascinated with the idea of them in heaven -- just what does that mean? If I sat by my grandparents' plot and talked to them, will they hear me? Do they know we're back? Do they know what we've gone through? Do they know I have children of my own now? Does my grandfather know that my son's middle name was chosen after him (as well as my dad, Henry)? I know people -- theologians and commoners alike -- have debated these issues for years and years, and the Bible certainly isn't very helpful in this department. These thoughts have always interested me. But enough musing ... time to get ready for church. It was a good, good day yesterday.
We did the easiest one first: my dad's parents, Edward and Ida, buried by the only white birch tree on the property. We planted two geraniums there, one on either side of the stone. A very funny thing happened during the digging of the first hole, next to my grandfather's name. Now I never knew my grandfather -- he died of cancer four years before I was born -- but he is one individual that I truly wish I could have known. From what I've been told, he was hilarious -- a jokester, a prankster, a funny, funny man. As my dad commenced digging, he commented on the large roots he was encountering, not knowing where the were coming from. He continued to dig while I got our things ready, when suddenly I heard a very loud "POP!" which was immediately followed by my dad's "Whoa!" and a shower of dirt on me. I laughed -- leave it to my grandfather to play another joke! That was a good moment.
Directly behind them was the stone of my great-grandparents, Edward's parents Pieter and Henrietta, so we planted one flower there. We walked over a short way to visit the place of my mom's parents, Henry and Alberdiena (Trina) -- boy, I still can't look at that stone without getting emotional. We had nothing for them -- my aunt informed me that she takes care of them. (Although I think I might just go back with one little flower from me -- I feel compelled).
Then we hopped back in the car for our final quest: my great-aunts Henrietta and Johanna, and their parents Johannes and Johanna. Not very creative in the naming department, were they? :) With directions in hand, I slowly wound my way through the curving paths, but still we could not find them! We saw several stones with the same last name (a common Dutch name, the equivalent of "Smith" in Holland) but they continued to elude us. Finally I parked the car and we decided to get out and walk. My dad finally found them, and we planted the last two geraniums between their stones.
I felt very, very good after that adventure. I got to talk to my dad, which was nice. Having him there was not only a big help, but his presence probably kept my emotions in check. We talked about little things, like why do most people plant geraniums in cemeteries? We did see some pansies and mums, but the hands-down winner was the geranium. We talked a little about the people we were honoring, and my dad recalled a few stories -- his grandmother Henrietta was laid-out in her kitchen when she died, but he couldn't remember anything about his grandfather's funeral. He told me that his brother, my Uncle Bern, used to plant flowers every year but had stopped at some point along the way; my dad too used to tend to the plots on a regular basis in the past. He told me that my mom's side, however, refused to do anything, saying adamantly, "Well, they're not there, so why bother?" I wonder if my great-aunts and great-grandparents wouldn't appreciate my quest to find them, and scorn my desire to plant flowers by them. My aunt told me she used to plant things by them in the first years but nothing ever lived, no matter what she tried. Maybe that's not a coincidence! :)
Yes, it was a good day. I'm glad I did it. I think I'll go back, with a flower for my mom's parents. My dad told me that his maternal grandparents are somewhere in there too, Bouwe (Barney) and Antje (Anna), but he doesn't know where. I sense another quest coming up! I wonder what compels us to do things like this? To visit people who have passed away? To plant flowers by their headstones? To make repeated return trips to water and care for those plants? I am fascinated with the idea of them in heaven -- just what does that mean? If I sat by my grandparents' plot and talked to them, will they hear me? Do they know we're back? Do they know what we've gone through? Do they know I have children of my own now? Does my grandfather know that my son's middle name was chosen after him (as well as my dad, Henry)? I know people -- theologians and commoners alike -- have debated these issues for years and years, and the Bible certainly isn't very helpful in this department. These thoughts have always interested me. But enough musing ... time to get ready for church. It was a good, good day yesterday.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
A good start to the weekend
Today is turning out just fine. Don is working and that's a bummer, but so far three good things have occurred:
1. I looked out my kitchen window this morning and saw that my little baby bird (from a few posts ago) is alive and well! His mother must have stashed him somewhere for safekeeping, and not only did I see my little friend, but his mother and sibling were there too. Both little ones have grown (the other had been in the bird bottle this entire time) bigger and fatter, but still with that lovely soft down on their bellies. I assume they'll be flying very soon, due to their hoping and wing-flapping. When my little guy disappeared the other day I had hoped for the best but assumed the worst (is that how the saying goes?), figuring that if he indeed met his demise, then at least I didn't have to see it. But now they're back and doing well, and I was very pleased.
2. My parents and I met my sister-in-law and headed to the local parade. The kids absolutely loved it, even Grace who was waving quite enthusiastically to everyone who passed. Aidan loved the cars passing by, picking out the ones that looked similar to characters in the CARS movie, and he eagerly looked for the flying candy. My brother Jim drove one of his company trucks (landscaping), and in the back were a bunch of kids (including his own two boys), pulling a float of flowers. It was a joy for me to see my kids really getting into the whole thing.
3. Now we're back home, and the kids are outside having a ball with this crazy sprinkler thing that Aidan calls "the flippity-flop." I absolutely love hearing their giggles and squeals, and I love the fact that they play so nicely together (for now, at least!). I'm going to make lunch and then it's naptime. So far this day is going great, the start to a good holiday weekend.
1. I looked out my kitchen window this morning and saw that my little baby bird (from a few posts ago) is alive and well! His mother must have stashed him somewhere for safekeeping, and not only did I see my little friend, but his mother and sibling were there too. Both little ones have grown (the other had been in the bird bottle this entire time) bigger and fatter, but still with that lovely soft down on their bellies. I assume they'll be flying very soon, due to their hoping and wing-flapping. When my little guy disappeared the other day I had hoped for the best but assumed the worst (is that how the saying goes?), figuring that if he indeed met his demise, then at least I didn't have to see it. But now they're back and doing well, and I was very pleased.
2. My parents and I met my sister-in-law and headed to the local parade. The kids absolutely loved it, even Grace who was waving quite enthusiastically to everyone who passed. Aidan loved the cars passing by, picking out the ones that looked similar to characters in the CARS movie, and he eagerly looked for the flying candy. My brother Jim drove one of his company trucks (landscaping), and in the back were a bunch of kids (including his own two boys), pulling a float of flowers. It was a joy for me to see my kids really getting into the whole thing.
3. Now we're back home, and the kids are outside having a ball with this crazy sprinkler thing that Aidan calls "the flippity-flop." I absolutely love hearing their giggles and squeals, and I love the fact that they play so nicely together (for now, at least!). I'm going to make lunch and then it's naptime. So far this day is going great, the start to a good holiday weekend.
Painting Project Finished!
Well, the Painting Project of 2007 is completed. In fact, the guy was a whiz, finishing in a day and a half. After the first day, the kids' room was completely finished so we ended up sleeping downstairs after all. We put their room back together (somewhat) while Don and I slept on our mattress on the living room floor. Then yesterday morning at 11:00 a.m. Frank called me downstairs to check it out, I gave my approval, handed him the much-deserved check, and that was it!
So what did I learn from all of this? One thing is that I definitely made the right decision in paying someone to do this for me. He did a fabulous job in record time, whereas it would have taken me two weeks to complete it all. Th
e other thing I learned is that I must finally admit to myself that I really, really suck at looking at a 1-inch-square sample of color and envision it on a wall. While I am truly happy with the outcome, none of the rooms turned out the way I had planned.
Our bedroom is probably the best, but it's a brighter shade of light blue than I imagined (rather than a sm
okey shade). The bathroom takes second place -- again, while I do love the color, it's a much, much richer and deeper buttery yellow than I had anticipated. Still very pretty.
Then the kids' room ... I had a chosen a fun, bright, yet light lime-y green. So I thought. Their room is now neon -- the color of those non-traditional firetrucks. The color of the brightest Granny Smith apple you can imagine. It's extremely bright and extremely bold -- not what I had in mind at all. My first thought was, "Hmmmmm ... now what. I just paid this man mucho-bucks to p
aint this, so the color is staying." It's all right, though, really -- once we got the furniture back in place (hiding some of the wall space), and once we get the pictures back on the wall and other things in place then it will be great. It's growing on me, mellowing out a bit. Aidan loves it so I guess that's all that matters. Our next project is to find bunk beds -- preferably a dark blue painted set (otherwise there's way too much wood in that room), and I'd also like to paint their three cheap-o fake laminate bookcases to lighten things up a bit. I think, in the end, it will be a very fun room.
Isn't it so strange how you can be fooled by color? I am completely inconsistent in this field. In our former house (painful memories here, but applicable) I was allowed to pick out all of the paint colors (and there were many, many, many rooms) and it was a huge success. Every single color was absolutely and positively perfect. Yet this time around, with just three rooms to manage, each one was not what I thought. Just one of those strange, inexplicable things, I guess. That's OK -- I love the transformation, I love how clean and bright and fresh the rooms are, I love the smell. But I don't love the work -- today I have to try to put everything back, but since Don was told he has to work today (major bummer) I'm limited in what I can do. Oh well -- we'll get there.
So what did I learn from all of this? One thing is that I definitely made the right decision in paying someone to do this for me. He did a fabulous job in record time, whereas it would have taken me two weeks to complete it all. Th
e other thing I learned is that I must finally admit to myself that I really, really suck at looking at a 1-inch-square sample of color and envision it on a wall. While I am truly happy with the outcome, none of the rooms turned out the way I had planned. Our bedroom is probably the best, but it's a brighter shade of light blue than I imagined (rather than a sm
okey shade). The bathroom takes second place -- again, while I do love the color, it's a much, much richer and deeper buttery yellow than I had anticipated. Still very pretty.Then the kids' room ... I had a chosen a fun, bright, yet light lime-y green. So I thought. Their room is now neon -- the color of those non-traditional firetrucks. The color of the brightest Granny Smith apple you can imagine. It's extremely bright and extremely bold -- not what I had in mind at all. My first thought was, "Hmmmmm ... now what. I just paid this man mucho-bucks to p
aint this, so the color is staying." It's all right, though, really -- once we got the furniture back in place (hiding some of the wall space), and once we get the pictures back on the wall and other things in place then it will be great. It's growing on me, mellowing out a bit. Aidan loves it so I guess that's all that matters. Our next project is to find bunk beds -- preferably a dark blue painted set (otherwise there's way too much wood in that room), and I'd also like to paint their three cheap-o fake laminate bookcases to lighten things up a bit. I think, in the end, it will be a very fun room.Isn't it so strange how you can be fooled by color? I am completely inconsistent in this field. In our former house (painful memories here, but applicable) I was allowed to pick out all of the paint colors (and there were many, many, many rooms) and it was a huge success. Every single color was absolutely and positively perfect. Yet this time around, with just three rooms to manage, each one was not what I thought. Just one of those strange, inexplicable things, I guess. That's OK -- I love the transformation, I love how clean and bright and fresh the rooms are, I love the smell. But I don't love the work -- today I have to try to put everything back, but since Don was told he has to work today (major bummer) I'm limited in what I can do. Oh well -- we'll get there.
Summer Scenes
The other night my nephews came over (my youngest brother's kids) to spend some time with their grandparents (my parents) and have dinner with them upstairs. After our respective suppers, we all headed outdoors. My dad and I did some gardening, Don wanted some time to himself so he could sit inside and listen to headphones (I'm not kidding), and my mom played with the kids. I love this picture -- it doesn't matter how old you are, 7 or 67, you can still play with Monster Trucks in the sandbox.
Their play was interrupted by that ever-present tinkly music from the ice cream truck. Aidan, of course, heard it first, screamed "Ice Cream Truck!" and ran to the front of the house, with the others in tow (Grace shouting "Cree! Cree!" as she galloped behind). I'm so glad I was able to capture this shot:
The perfect image of summer -- kids of all ages hanging on a fence, watching the ice cream truck drive by. The only thing missing is that dog Petey with that weird circle around his eye. I love these kids.
Friday, May 25, 2007
My "G"-rown up boy
Today was "Alphabet Day" in Aidan's class -- each child was assigned a letter of the alphabet and was told to dress up as something or someone beginning with that letter. Last week Aidan told me he was given the letter "G," which didn't quite jive with his anticipation of being an astronaut. I tried to reassure him and get our imaginations to work -- what begins with the letter "G?" Aidan very quickly said, "I know what I want to be -- a grown-up!"How stinking clever can a little boy get? I was thrilled! It was creative -- kudos to him -- and it was super easy for me. I mean, what would I have done if he said "gorilla" or "goat" or something difficult like that? I thought he could take his toy doctor kit and be a gastroenterologist, but I had a feeling he would have some difficulty with pronunciation. A grown-up is great! So today he proudly went to school wearing his 9-year old cousin Adam's shirt (if he wore his father's shirt it would be the equivalent of a ball gown on him) and his Uncle Jim's tie, my boy all grown-up.
I love this kid.
Laugh Lines for the Week 4
- I knew this day was bound to come sooner or later. After their baths (taken together), we were in the kids' room getting them ready for bed. I was putting on Grace's diaper when Aidan suddenly asked me, "Mommy, why doesn't Grace have a penis?" Oh no! Not yet! Not these kinds of questions! I was not ready for this at all, so of course my brain shut down. My answer?
"Because she doesn't."
Oh, how LAME! How infernally lame! I held my breath, hoping that ridiculous come-back would suffice. Of course, it didn't.
"But why?"
My next lame response ...
"Because that's how God made her. Boys and girls are different."
Thankfully that one worked. Anytime you say "God did it" you can't really argue with that. At least not at age 4. I seriously have to start working on my answers ...
- In the car on the way to school, I spoke to Aidan about some important safety topics, such as the need to come indoors if you see lightening (and not to stand under a tree), we're working on memorizing our phone number and address, don't talk to strangers, etc. Aidan decided he needed to step in:
"Mommy, I have something for you. If you see a giant log rolling toward you, you had better run into the house." Pause. "Now that is a very important safety tip. Don't forget it!"
- Sunday: Aidan got dressed for church and looked great. I said, "Boy, Aidan, you sure look handsome today." His reply, with little hands on his hips: "Yeah, and I look super cool too!"
- Sunday again: We had a few cold, yucky, rainy days in a row and we were itching for some sunshine. That day especially -- our pastor and his family are coming over for dinner that afternoon, and we had originally planned a picnic, taking it all outdoors (a far bigger space than indoors). However, it was raining, which means everyone would be indoors: four adults, four children, and a dog. It would be cramped, to say the least. Aidan so badly wanted to be able to play outside with Caleb (and I so badly wanted that as well!), so I said to him, "Why don't you pray about it? Ask God if He would be willing to make the rain stop today." So he folded his little hands and closed his eyes and prayed so earnestly as only a little boy can, pleading with God to make the rain stop so he could play outside. Sure enough ... about an hour later the sun came out! Aidan was flabbergasted. I said, "Hey, Aidan, look at that! God answered your prayer! How cool is that?" I suggested he pray again, this time thanking God for answering his prayer, and he did. After his prayer, with a huge smile on his face, he said in awe, "Mommy! I just said my first magical prayer!" Hmmmm ... next time we'll work on a little theology.
- Don was using the bathroom and suddenly Aidan burst in, dropped his pants, stood proudly next to his father and aimed away. He then proclaimed with gusto, "Look, Daddy, we're making a big X!" Considering the fact that his 4-year old bladder is considerably smaller, he was happy to announce that he then won the "pee race."
- I am laughing about this one: not too long ago I posted an entry about the insane number of audio/visual gadgets and equipment that we have in our home (due to my marriage to an audiophile). Well, folks, we have replaced one item -- a TV -- with another item -- a bigger TV! A perk from Don's job -- his customer was getting a plasma-monster, so he asked Don if he was interested in his "cast-off." Don, with trash-picking genius in his blood, of course took him up on the offer, so now here it sits, some kind of huge monument in our tiny living room. It's insanely big -- not the biggest thing on the planet, of course, but bordering on being too big for our space. The kids love it (all three of them) -- "Dragon Tales" can now be viewed larger-than-life in our household, and all is well.
"Because she doesn't."
Oh, how LAME! How infernally lame! I held my breath, hoping that ridiculous come-back would suffice. Of course, it didn't.
"But why?"
My next lame response ...
"Because that's how God made her. Boys and girls are different."
Thankfully that one worked. Anytime you say "God did it" you can't really argue with that. At least not at age 4. I seriously have to start working on my answers ...
- In the car on the way to school, I spoke to Aidan about some important safety topics, such as the need to come indoors if you see lightening (and not to stand under a tree), we're working on memorizing our phone number and address, don't talk to strangers, etc. Aidan decided he needed to step in:
"Mommy, I have something for you. If you see a giant log rolling toward you, you had better run into the house." Pause. "Now that is a very important safety tip. Don't forget it!"
- Sunday: Aidan got dressed for church and looked great. I said, "Boy, Aidan, you sure look handsome today." His reply, with little hands on his hips: "Yeah, and I look super cool too!"
- Sunday again: We had a few cold, yucky, rainy days in a row and we were itching for some sunshine. That day especially -- our pastor and his family are coming over for dinner that afternoon, and we had originally planned a picnic, taking it all outdoors (a far bigger space than indoors). However, it was raining, which means everyone would be indoors: four adults, four children, and a dog. It would be cramped, to say the least. Aidan so badly wanted to be able to play outside with Caleb (and I so badly wanted that as well!), so I said to him, "Why don't you pray about it? Ask God if He would be willing to make the rain stop today." So he folded his little hands and closed his eyes and prayed so earnestly as only a little boy can, pleading with God to make the rain stop so he could play outside. Sure enough ... about an hour later the sun came out! Aidan was flabbergasted. I said, "Hey, Aidan, look at that! God answered your prayer! How cool is that?" I suggested he pray again, this time thanking God for answering his prayer, and he did. After his prayer, with a huge smile on his face, he said in awe, "Mommy! I just said my first magical prayer!" Hmmmm ... next time we'll work on a little theology.
- Don was using the bathroom and suddenly Aidan burst in, dropped his pants, stood proudly next to his father and aimed away. He then proclaimed with gusto, "Look, Daddy, we're making a big X!" Considering the fact that his 4-year old bladder is considerably smaller, he was happy to announce that he then won the "pee race."
- I am laughing about this one: not too long ago I posted an entry about the insane number of audio/visual gadgets and equipment that we have in our home (due to my marriage to an audiophile). Well, folks, we have replaced one item -- a TV -- with another item -- a bigger TV! A perk from Don's job -- his customer was getting a plasma-monster, so he asked Don if he was interested in his "cast-off." Don, with trash-picking genius in his blood, of course took him up on the offer, so now here it sits, some kind of huge monument in our tiny living room. It's insanely big -- not the biggest thing on the planet, of course, but bordering on being too big for our space. The kids love it (all three of them) -- "Dragon Tales" can now be viewed larger-than-life in our household, and all is well.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Trigger Alert!
The painter just arrived. I've been up since 6:00 a.m. doing all of the last-minute things necessary (taking down beds, moving dressers, etc.). I was concerned about Aidan's reaction, and rightly so -- there were a few nervous conversations yesterday, a few questioning looks at his rearranged bedroom, a few tears last night -- but overall I think he's OK.
What I did NOT expect was my reaction. This is freaking me out! I can indeed laugh about it a bit, because I know what this is. This is one of my triggers. Seeing my house, my belongings completely helter skelter around the living room is bringing back some bad, bad memories. This is the "exposure therapy" our counselor has talked about -- exposing ourselves to a "trigger" and pushing through it. Well, I'm pushing with the intensity of labor pains! I am very glad I can identify this -- of course this is a good thing! It's only for two days and we're not going anywhere ... and we're getting a makeover in the process! But oh, how powerful your psyche can be! The tricks it can play! I am in awe at the mind.
So I am a little freaked out this morning, but at least this time I can laugh about it. I am looking forward to Saturday in a big, big way when this is all over -- and then comes the task of putting it all back together.
What I did NOT expect was my reaction. This is freaking me out! I can indeed laugh about it a bit, because I know what this is. This is one of my triggers. Seeing my house, my belongings completely helter skelter around the living room is bringing back some bad, bad memories. This is the "exposure therapy" our counselor has talked about -- exposing ourselves to a "trigger" and pushing through it. Well, I'm pushing with the intensity of labor pains! I am very glad I can identify this -- of course this is a good thing! It's only for two days and we're not going anywhere ... and we're getting a makeover in the process! But oh, how powerful your psyche can be! The tricks it can play! I am in awe at the mind.
So I am a little freaked out this morning, but at least this time I can laugh about it. I am looking forward to Saturday in a big, big way when this is all over -- and then comes the task of putting it all back together.
My gosh - this would freak anybody out!
Jack's got the right idea -- he's making a run for it while he still can
Worship - easier said than done
I just finished reading "A Tempered Faith," by Jennifer Sands -- the woman whose husband was killed in the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center, and whom I met at a speaking engagement earlier this month. I was hesitant to read the book -- like everyone, I'm sure, the thoughts of 9/11 are just so terribly ... sad. And with all the stuff I'm dealing with, I wasn't sure I could handle reading about someone else's grief (which, I must say, far outweighed anything I am dealing with). To my surprise, while there were certainly incredibly sad, heart-squeezing moments, it was overall a wonderfully written book, very easy to read -- as if she was speaking to you in a friendly conversation. A short while ago I wrote how her testimony really hit home for me, to hear that she struggled with the same questions and was on a similar journey as I am, and it gave me hope to see that she got through it, and was a better and stronger person for it. And she was completely and utterly human at the same time.
The last chapter in the book spoke about a journal that she was given for her first Christmas without her husband, just four months after he was killed. I believe it was a Max Lucado journal, with each page including a snippet of writing from him, maybe a thought-provoking question, something to chew on. She wrote in that journal every day for the next year -- her first full year without her husband -- and this final chapter of the book had select entries of that journal throughout her year. As the reader, it was invaluable to see her journey through each day, each week, each month -- how she would progress, then fall back, move forward a little more, gain strength, then have a terrible day. A back and forth yo-yo trip that I feel now. But how transformed she was by the end of that year! Hope, indeed.
One of her journal entries struck in me a pretty profound way, for it addressed something -- quite out of the blue when looking at her entries before and after -- that I have been struggling with lately, a piece of this crazy puzzle that I haven't been able to really think about, or put my finger on. It was dated November 13, 2002 -- over a year after her husband died -- and the entry included Max Lucado's portion for that day:
"Worship is the "thank you" that refuses to be silenced. Worship is a voluntary act of gratitude offered by the saved to the Savior, by the healed to the Healer, and by the delivered to the Deliverer."
Worship. I'm extremely grateful that I've been able to identify some key things on my journey, some important revelations that I needed to see, some important lessons that I needed to learn, and some profound issues that I needed to address (like trust). But worship ... this is one of those things that I think I've been afraid to touch, and I hadn't been able to figure out why. Until now. While we really like our new church, and the kids and I will be joining very soon, it still hasn't felt the same for me. That is not to say that I think "church" should be touchy-feely necessarily, but it has just felt ... different. Like something has changed. (Well, yes, something has changed -- not only was my trust in God rattled, but also my trust in other people, especially people within the church, and church itself). I thought, is it the music? I love classical music with the depths of my soul, the classic hymns played by a talented organist; throw in a great choir and I'm rejoicing. Our new church has a different style, with a great praise band and more contemporary music. It's very well-done -- but was that the reason I was having trouble worshiping? A music style issue? Or was it the sermons ... again, incredibly well-done by both the pastor and the intern, but I've gotten so used to listening to my husband for the past 8 years and seeing him up there. Was I distracted by seeing someone else, a breathing reminder of why we're here? Was that why I was struggling with worship?
Then I read this entry and I was floored. "Worship is the 'thank you'" -- I'm not thankful. Not for what happened. Not yet. "Worship is a voluntary act of gratitude offered by the saved" -- while I'm doing better, I still have many many moments where I feel that I was/we were abandoned rather than saved ... "[offered] by the healed" ... I know I'm still not healed, even though I know who the Healer is ... "[offered] by the delivered" ... was I delivered? Many people have told me that indeed we were delivered from a horrible situation (but why were we there in the first place?), and we were delivered to a place of safety and love. I know that -- but it's still hard sometimes. So that's why I have been struggling with worship -- the very essence of worship is clashing with the part of me that is struggling to move on; the very nature of worship is in direct conflict with that part of me that still hurts. I'm getting there, I'm getting there ... I know it. But man, this is one intense, multi-faceted process!
It seems to me that worship is going to be my last missing link, that final chapter in this part of my journey, that moment when I am truly set free from these shackles binding me to these painful memories and feelings of bitterness and anger. I think that with each day, each baby step, each movement forward toward healing and learning, I will reach that moment where I will almost be able to feel those shackles fall off, and then I will truly be able to worship again. I truly look forward to that day -- a day of completion.
The last chapter in the book spoke about a journal that she was given for her first Christmas without her husband, just four months after he was killed. I believe it was a Max Lucado journal, with each page including a snippet of writing from him, maybe a thought-provoking question, something to chew on. She wrote in that journal every day for the next year -- her first full year without her husband -- and this final chapter of the book had select entries of that journal throughout her year. As the reader, it was invaluable to see her journey through each day, each week, each month -- how she would progress, then fall back, move forward a little more, gain strength, then have a terrible day. A back and forth yo-yo trip that I feel now. But how transformed she was by the end of that year! Hope, indeed.
One of her journal entries struck in me a pretty profound way, for it addressed something -- quite out of the blue when looking at her entries before and after -- that I have been struggling with lately, a piece of this crazy puzzle that I haven't been able to really think about, or put my finger on. It was dated November 13, 2002 -- over a year after her husband died -- and the entry included Max Lucado's portion for that day:
"Worship is the "thank you" that refuses to be silenced. Worship is a voluntary act of gratitude offered by the saved to the Savior, by the healed to the Healer, and by the delivered to the Deliverer."
Worship. I'm extremely grateful that I've been able to identify some key things on my journey, some important revelations that I needed to see, some important lessons that I needed to learn, and some profound issues that I needed to address (like trust). But worship ... this is one of those things that I think I've been afraid to touch, and I hadn't been able to figure out why. Until now. While we really like our new church, and the kids and I will be joining very soon, it still hasn't felt the same for me. That is not to say that I think "church" should be touchy-feely necessarily, but it has just felt ... different. Like something has changed. (Well, yes, something has changed -- not only was my trust in God rattled, but also my trust in other people, especially people within the church, and church itself). I thought, is it the music? I love classical music with the depths of my soul, the classic hymns played by a talented organist; throw in a great choir and I'm rejoicing. Our new church has a different style, with a great praise band and more contemporary music. It's very well-done -- but was that the reason I was having trouble worshiping? A music style issue? Or was it the sermons ... again, incredibly well-done by both the pastor and the intern, but I've gotten so used to listening to my husband for the past 8 years and seeing him up there. Was I distracted by seeing someone else, a breathing reminder of why we're here? Was that why I was struggling with worship?
Then I read this entry and I was floored. "Worship is the 'thank you'" -- I'm not thankful. Not for what happened. Not yet. "Worship is a voluntary act of gratitude offered by the saved" -- while I'm doing better, I still have many many moments where I feel that I was/we were abandoned rather than saved ... "[offered] by the healed" ... I know I'm still not healed, even though I know who the Healer is ... "[offered] by the delivered" ... was I delivered? Many people have told me that indeed we were delivered from a horrible situation (but why were we there in the first place?), and we were delivered to a place of safety and love. I know that -- but it's still hard sometimes. So that's why I have been struggling with worship -- the very essence of worship is clashing with the part of me that is struggling to move on; the very nature of worship is in direct conflict with that part of me that still hurts. I'm getting there, I'm getting there ... I know it. But man, this is one intense, multi-faceted process!
It seems to me that worship is going to be my last missing link, that final chapter in this part of my journey, that moment when I am truly set free from these shackles binding me to these painful memories and feelings of bitterness and anger. I think that with each day, each baby step, each movement forward toward healing and learning, I will reach that moment where I will almost be able to feel those shackles fall off, and then I will truly be able to worship again. I truly look forward to that day -- a day of completion.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
A short visit
This morning, on the way to the grocery store, I swung by the cemetery to see if I could find the graves of my grandparents. My dad's parents are easy to find -- by the only white birch tree in the place. My parents told me my other grandparents were a short distance down from there. I drove slowly by, passing the birch tree, but I couldn't find the headstone. I thought perhaps it was facing the other direction, so I turned the corner and went down the other side. Still no sighting. I circled around, in vain searching for my great-aunts and great-grandparents (that's going to be an out-of-the-car foot expedition, I think), and then I decided to make one more pass on my way out. All of a sudden - WHAM. There it was, right in front of me. I think I had resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't find it on this trip, so I was clearly unprepared for this. I hadn't seen the headstone with my grandmother's name on it, since the last time I was there was when she was buried three years ago. I stopped the car and stared, and suddenly just started (quietly) sobbing. Thankfully the kids were oblivious, singing songs in the back seat. I couldn't take my eyes off of that stone -- my grandparents were there. In the ground. It was just weird! Oh, I believe in heaven and I believe they are there, but this is all I have left in a physical sense. I guess I had geared myself for this, but when I couldn't find it on the first pass I let my guard down. It hit me like a million bricks. I was completely unprepared -- hence, the tears. It's incredible how you can mourn all over again, just by seeing something like this. I cried all the way to the grocery store.
I'm going back later today or perhaps tomorrow, in search of my other relatives. This is definitely a trip to make without the kids -- for now. I need some time alone. But if I broke down this morning, how am I going to handle it later on? It's OK, though -- all a part of being human.
I'm going back later today or perhaps tomorrow, in search of my other relatives. This is definitely a trip to make without the kids -- for now. I need some time alone. But if I broke down this morning, how am I going to handle it later on? It's OK, though -- all a part of being human.
Project: Transformation
I am totally psyched -- the painter is coming tomorrow! I can't wait to see color on the walls in my apartment. But the preparations for this transformation are many and tiresome for me. Yesterday I had to fold 4 laundry baskets filled with laundry (my absolute worst household chore -- even worse than washing my dishes in my dishwasher-less kitchen) and then put all of that laundry away. Unfortunately, I only got to 2 of the 4 (figures). Then in the afternoon I started dismantling the rooms -- especially the kids' room. One of their bookcases has to be completely emptied so the bookcase can be unscrewed from the wall and moved into the living room. Only one or two pieces of furniture can stay in each bedroom, since the rooms are quite small and the guy needs to be able to maneuver. Since the bathroom is currently wallpapered, I have to empty out the large medicine cabinet so Don can take it off the wall.
Today will be an even crazier day. When Don gets home from work, he has to do a lot of the "manly" things that I can't handle. Believe it or not, I still can't figure out how to work the drill properly, so he has to take down the two shelves in the kids' room, and together we'll move out dressers and other larger items. First thing Thursday morning will involve dismantling the beds and moving them out too. We'll be staying upstairs with my parents for those next few days -- the painters can go to town without any of us underfoot.
For these next few days I need my kids to be angels. I know, I know -- I'm just setting myself up again. And of course, we didn't start off on the best foot yesterday. They're overtired -- I'm overtired -- and they were especially clingy. I put them outside as soon as I could, but instead of playing in the focused manner I had hoped for, they are making constant trips back into the house -- "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" Yesterday afternoon Grace refused to let me out of her sights. I laid the large blanket outside on the grass with their favorite toys (the Robin Hood tree house and the castle, complete with Merry Men and Knights). Aidan had a ball, but Grace would not let me go. She wrapped her little arms around my neck (who could resist that? She knows the tricks!), she pushed me down so she could lay full-length on me, she rested her sweet little head in my lap. Cute but, oh the work to be done!
Today we hit the grocery store first. I wish I woke up with more energy but I have not -- I've been waking up tired every morning for quite a while. I just hope my tired state, their neediness, and my lack of patience doesn't detract from my anticipation of this upcoming transformation. I also hope Aidan doesn't freak out, seeing his things dismantled ... again. That's been his trigger, for him recalling the pain of uncertainty and insecurity, resulting in his questions, "Why are we moving again, Mommy?" He knows the painter is coming -- I'm curious to see how he interprets all of this.
Yes, I am excited -- very, very excited. I just have to get through "life" first.
Today will be an even crazier day. When Don gets home from work, he has to do a lot of the "manly" things that I can't handle. Believe it or not, I still can't figure out how to work the drill properly, so he has to take down the two shelves in the kids' room, and together we'll move out dressers and other larger items. First thing Thursday morning will involve dismantling the beds and moving them out too. We'll be staying upstairs with my parents for those next few days -- the painters can go to town without any of us underfoot.
For these next few days I need my kids to be angels. I know, I know -- I'm just setting myself up again. And of course, we didn't start off on the best foot yesterday. They're overtired -- I'm overtired -- and they were especially clingy. I put them outside as soon as I could, but instead of playing in the focused manner I had hoped for, they are making constant trips back into the house -- "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" Yesterday afternoon Grace refused to let me out of her sights. I laid the large blanket outside on the grass with their favorite toys (the Robin Hood tree house and the castle, complete with Merry Men and Knights). Aidan had a ball, but Grace would not let me go. She wrapped her little arms around my neck (who could resist that? She knows the tricks!), she pushed me down so she could lay full-length on me, she rested her sweet little head in my lap. Cute but, oh the work to be done!
Today we hit the grocery store first. I wish I woke up with more energy but I have not -- I've been waking up tired every morning for quite a while. I just hope my tired state, their neediness, and my lack of patience doesn't detract from my anticipation of this upcoming transformation. I also hope Aidan doesn't freak out, seeing his things dismantled ... again. That's been his trigger, for him recalling the pain of uncertainty and insecurity, resulting in his questions, "Why are we moving again, Mommy?" He knows the painter is coming -- I'm curious to see how he interprets all of this.
Yes, I am excited -- very, very excited. I just have to get through "life" first.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Bird Rescue
This afternoon I was playing outside with the kids when I noticed that a baby bird had fallen out of its nest in our yard. My parents have a colonial bird bottle attached to the underside of their addition, and every year birds make their nests in there. And every year my parents find a dead bird on the concrete below. Yesterday Don found a dead bird and promptly got rid of it, but today I saw a cute little one scrambling about. I don't think he was supposed to leave the nest. He can't fly yet -- he tries valiantly but just manages a little hop. I have a terrible, terrible soft spot when it comes to animals, and seeing this little baby in distress is breaking my heart. One of the very few things I remember about handling wildlife is never to touch them -- great. That about limits my choices of rescue to ... what? I'm not sure what to do about this. My dad suggested wearing a glove, scooping him up and putting him back in the nest. But will a gloved hand fool the mother? I hear him cheeping right now outside of my window. The mother knows he's there -- she flew down a few times, checked him out, and then flew off. I don't know what that meant in the bird world. He becomes absolutely frantic when she comes by. Is she going to abandon him? Can we help him into the nest? All I know is that I get way too attached to animals -- even little baby birds. I'm not sure what to do.
Grandma-on-the-Brain: source of amusement
I definitely have Grandma-on-the-Brain. I'm inspired to head over to the cemetery today or tomorrow to plant flowers on their graves. However, I still haven't gone there. The first and only time I visited my grandfather's grave was when we buried my grandmother (couldn't avoid that visit), but I haven't been able to go back since. I'm feeling pulled to go, and I'll go with the beauty and new life of flowers -- for their graves, for the graves of my dad's parents, and also for the graves of my grandma's two spinster sisters and their parents.
My mom reminded me of something my grandmother had said about 10 years ago and I had completely forgotten. I think I laughed just as hard this time around as I did back then. It was Memorial Day and we were at my parents' house (here) for the annual picnic. My grandparents were present, as were my youngest brother and his wife Michelle. Little did we know that Michelle was pregnant, and they chose that day to tell us all. Their revelation was very creative: they handed the ultrasound picture to my grandmother without saying anything. She looked at it, then frowned: "What is this?" she asked. My brother didn't answer right away -- just smiled -- and then she said with 100% certainty: "Oh, I know what this is -- it's the face of JESUS!" We absolutely roared. She was referring to that picture that you see every once in a while, that optical illusion of black-on-white, where you stare at it for a length of time, and when you close your eyes you can see "the face of Jesus." That was priceless.
The next hilarious memory occurred upon the death of Princess Diana. We were all glued to the TV, and at one point my grandmother called my mother, flustered and perplexed.
"I can't believe it -- I just can't believe it," she said over and over.
"What's wrong?" asked my mom.
"I just can't believe he did that!" she replied.
"Who? Did what? What are you talking about?" asked my mom.
"I just cannot believe that Pavarotti killed Princess Diana!" my grandmother said.
It took us a little while to figure out that she misunderstood the press -- they implied that the "paparazzi" was responsible for her death, but my grandmother -- having no clue what that word meant -- interpreted it as "Pavarotti" doing the deed. She seriously thought he flew by on a motorcycle, coattails flying ... possibly singing some aria as he sped on his way ...
My mom reminded me of something my grandmother had said about 10 years ago and I had completely forgotten. I think I laughed just as hard this time around as I did back then. It was Memorial Day and we were at my parents' house (here) for the annual picnic. My grandparents were present, as were my youngest brother and his wife Michelle. Little did we know that Michelle was pregnant, and they chose that day to tell us all. Their revelation was very creative: they handed the ultrasound picture to my grandmother without saying anything. She looked at it, then frowned: "What is this?" she asked. My brother didn't answer right away -- just smiled -- and then she said with 100% certainty: "Oh, I know what this is -- it's the face of JESUS!" We absolutely roared. She was referring to that picture that you see every once in a while, that optical illusion of black-on-white, where you stare at it for a length of time, and when you close your eyes you can see "the face of Jesus." That was priceless.
The next hilarious memory occurred upon the death of Princess Diana. We were all glued to the TV, and at one point my grandmother called my mother, flustered and perplexed.
"I can't believe it -- I just can't believe it," she said over and over.
"What's wrong?" asked my mom.
"I just can't believe he did that!" she replied.
"Who? Did what? What are you talking about?" asked my mom.
"I just cannot believe that Pavarotti killed Princess Diana!" my grandmother said.
It took us a little while to figure out that she misunderstood the press -- they implied that the "paparazzi" was responsible for her death, but my grandmother -- having no clue what that word meant -- interpreted it as "Pavarotti" doing the deed. She seriously thought he flew by on a motorcycle, coattails flying ... possibly singing some aria as he sped on his way ...
A lifetime of treasured memories
I just finished reading my grandmother's journal last night, having picked it up from time to time and reading a couple of pages here and there. I didn't want to devour it -- first of all, I didn't have time to read it all in one sitting, but I think a part of me wanted to stretch this experience out for as long as possible, for the longer I was reading about her the longer I would have this feeling of being closer to her. Thankfully I'm not an emotional wreck -- I did get emotional, tearing up at certain entries, but that's OK. I am enjoying so many things about her, about her family, about history, what life was like back in the 1920s and 1930s. But what amazes me is how much I'm learning! Things I never knew about her or others in my family:
- I never knew that she didn't learn how to drive a car until after I was born. Her reason: she just had way to much to do and didn't want to rely on others for rides. She was determined, to say the least.
- I never, ever knew my grandfather had such a soft, loving side to him. He did cute, little romantic things for her, telling her he loved her (that was good to hear). He very often took care of their daughters -- when my mother was a newborn (my grandmother didn't know how to handle babies and my grandfather came from a family of eight), when she was sick so many times, etc.
- I never knew that my grandfather was in the hospital for 17 days for quadruple bypass surgery, back in the early 1980s (times have changed!). I have a vague memory of him being sick but that's it. My grandmother rented a room in a local motel to be near him. My other grandmother stayed with her for a weekend, but she was afraid of the neighbors because they had "beer parties."
- I never knew my great-aunt Ruth was a church organist for many years.
- I never knew my grandparents went to a certain inner-city church for years
- I never knew my great-aunt Henrietta played the trumpet
- I never knew my great-grandfather (my grandpa's dad) had a stroke
- I never knew that my grandfather taught evening classes on textiles (he worked in a textile factory), and I never knew that the extra money he made went toward the purchase of their beloved piano (which was bequeathed to me. Unfortunately, though, I couldn't take it with me during this last move because we have no room in our apartment. That broke my heart into a million pieces. It's still in the family, though -- my cousin has it in her home now).
- When my grandparents first met and started dating, my grandfather asked her to start an orchestra with him (he played cello, she the violin).
- My grandmother's education ended at the 8th grade. She so desperately wanted to continue on to high school but her parents adamantly said, "No." She asked for a compromise -- a two-year course -- but her parents stood firm. She had to go to work, so she did at a local factory.
- My grandmother and her two sisters all died at the same age of 91.
Some really cool things about my grandmother that are good to remember:
- She was born in Holland, and my great-grandfather went to Canada to find a job. When he found one, my great-grandmother traveled across the ocean alone with her three young daughters (aged 5 1/2, 3 1/2, and 1 1/2 - my grandma was the baby). Interesting stories of their travel on the boat: other immigrants were "rough characters," stealing their soap or their food; my great-grandmother praying for safety every night outside, looking up at the heavens.
- Their primary method of transportation were their feet -- walking everywhere -- or the bus. Very, very common back then.
- My grandmother was a very accomplished violinist, singer, and composer of hymns. One of her greatest achievements: meeting and playing the violin for George Beverly Shea, as well as playing on a Christian radio show with my great-aunt (her oldest sister).
- My grandmother and her sisters were quite the evangelists! They used to go to the inner city prisons and give their testimonies before all of the inmates.
As I progressed through her journal, the latter entries ceased to be reminiscences but rather became diary entries -- "Today, Judy and Henry came to visit me ..." or "Labor Day 2001 - Today we expect to have a Picnic at Joanne and Hans' - Johnnie, Dick and Ruth are coming too." Her entries about Don and me are funny, especially when Aidan was born. My grandmother had a terrible time adjusting to the name of our son. She just didn't understand it -- an Irish name didn't make sense to her. When my mother first told her of the name (probably a few times so she would get it), my grandmother responded, "Well, I don't think I like that name. I'm going to call him Adrian instead." (Who does that?!). She had quite a few Dutch acquaintances named "Adrian" so I guess she could relate to that. Sure enough, that first journal entry mentioned our new baby, Adrian ... then "Adian" ... then finally Aidan.
Her final entry was dated Oct. 20, 2003, almost four months before she fell and broke her ribs (the beginning of the end) and five months before she died of a terminal stroke. She first spoke of her mother, born in 1886: Dear Mother Veenstra passed away today, 10/20/1967. I was thinking how all my life I loved music, then I remembered my dear parents loved to sing, too. Dad Veenstra's favorite was "Jesus, Priceless Treasure" in the Psalter Hymnal. Mother Veenstra loved "Jesus is all the world to me." When we went to church in Canada we sang, "No, not one." Mother loved also "Jesus Savior Pilot Me" -- was sung by Henrietta at our wedding. I added an extra verse, "Jesus, Savior, Pilot me / as we travel on with Thee / Be our guide and be our stay / Lead and guide us on our way / Help us trust thee day by day / Savior, lead us all the way." Johanna's favorite, "Old Rugged Cross." A singing family. We sang "Heavenly Sunshine" when our girls were babies."
We sang her wedding hymn at her funeral, along with the final verse that she composed. I cried when I finished reading this journal last night -- that closeness I felt to her came to a close, in a sense. What a wonderful time I had with her these past few days! It had gotten to the point where I could see her so clearly, I could hear her voice speaking these entries to me, and when I finished reading it, thinking of this last hymn at her funeral and now she's seeing that "Heavenly Sunshine," I mourned her all over again. The theme of her life had been trust -- it appeared over and over and over again in her journal. I miss her strength of spirit, her strength of faith, but I'm glad this journal -- this small part of her -- will always be with us.
- I never knew that she didn't learn how to drive a car until after I was born. Her reason: she just had way to much to do and didn't want to rely on others for rides. She was determined, to say the least.
- I never, ever knew my grandfather had such a soft, loving side to him. He did cute, little romantic things for her, telling her he loved her (that was good to hear). He very often took care of their daughters -- when my mother was a newborn (my grandmother didn't know how to handle babies and my grandfather came from a family of eight), when she was sick so many times, etc.
- I never knew that my grandfather was in the hospital for 17 days for quadruple bypass surgery, back in the early 1980s (times have changed!). I have a vague memory of him being sick but that's it. My grandmother rented a room in a local motel to be near him. My other grandmother stayed with her for a weekend, but she was afraid of the neighbors because they had "beer parties."
- I never knew my great-aunt Ruth was a church organist for many years.
- I never knew my grandparents went to a certain inner-city church for years
- I never knew my great-aunt Henrietta played the trumpet
- I never knew my great-grandfather (my grandpa's dad) had a stroke
- I never knew that my grandfather taught evening classes on textiles (he worked in a textile factory), and I never knew that the extra money he made went toward the purchase of their beloved piano (which was bequeathed to me. Unfortunately, though, I couldn't take it with me during this last move because we have no room in our apartment. That broke my heart into a million pieces. It's still in the family, though -- my cousin has it in her home now).
- When my grandparents first met and started dating, my grandfather asked her to start an orchestra with him (he played cello, she the violin).
- My grandmother's education ended at the 8th grade. She so desperately wanted to continue on to high school but her parents adamantly said, "No." She asked for a compromise -- a two-year course -- but her parents stood firm. She had to go to work, so she did at a local factory.
- My grandmother and her two sisters all died at the same age of 91.
Some really cool things about my grandmother that are good to remember:
- She was born in Holland, and my great-grandfather went to Canada to find a job. When he found one, my great-grandmother traveled across the ocean alone with her three young daughters (aged 5 1/2, 3 1/2, and 1 1/2 - my grandma was the baby). Interesting stories of their travel on the boat: other immigrants were "rough characters," stealing their soap or their food; my great-grandmother praying for safety every night outside, looking up at the heavens.
- Their primary method of transportation were their feet -- walking everywhere -- or the bus. Very, very common back then.
- My grandmother was a very accomplished violinist, singer, and composer of hymns. One of her greatest achievements: meeting and playing the violin for George Beverly Shea, as well as playing on a Christian radio show with my great-aunt (her oldest sister).
- My grandmother and her sisters were quite the evangelists! They used to go to the inner city prisons and give their testimonies before all of the inmates.
As I progressed through her journal, the latter entries ceased to be reminiscences but rather became diary entries -- "Today, Judy and Henry came to visit me ..." or "Labor Day 2001 - Today we expect to have a Picnic at Joanne and Hans' - Johnnie, Dick and Ruth are coming too." Her entries about Don and me are funny, especially when Aidan was born. My grandmother had a terrible time adjusting to the name of our son. She just didn't understand it -- an Irish name didn't make sense to her. When my mother first told her of the name (probably a few times so she would get it), my grandmother responded, "Well, I don't think I like that name. I'm going to call him Adrian instead." (Who does that?!). She had quite a few Dutch acquaintances named "Adrian" so I guess she could relate to that. Sure enough, that first journal entry mentioned our new baby, Adrian ... then "Adian" ... then finally Aidan.
Her final entry was dated Oct. 20, 2003, almost four months before she fell and broke her ribs (the beginning of the end) and five months before she died of a terminal stroke. She first spoke of her mother, born in 1886: Dear Mother Veenstra passed away today, 10/20/1967. I was thinking how all my life I loved music, then I remembered my dear parents loved to sing, too. Dad Veenstra's favorite was "Jesus, Priceless Treasure" in the Psalter Hymnal. Mother Veenstra loved "Jesus is all the world to me." When we went to church in Canada we sang, "No, not one." Mother loved also "Jesus Savior Pilot Me" -- was sung by Henrietta at our wedding. I added an extra verse, "Jesus, Savior, Pilot me / as we travel on with Thee / Be our guide and be our stay / Lead and guide us on our way / Help us trust thee day by day / Savior, lead us all the way." Johanna's favorite, "Old Rugged Cross." A singing family. We sang "Heavenly Sunshine" when our girls were babies."
We sang her wedding hymn at her funeral, along with the final verse that she composed. I cried when I finished reading this journal last night -- that closeness I felt to her came to a close, in a sense. What a wonderful time I had with her these past few days! It had gotten to the point where I could see her so clearly, I could hear her voice speaking these entries to me, and when I finished reading it, thinking of this last hymn at her funeral and now she's seeing that "Heavenly Sunshine," I mourned her all over again. The theme of her life had been trust -- it appeared over and over and over again in her journal. I miss her strength of spirit, her strength of faith, but I'm glad this journal -- this small part of her -- will always be with us.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Welcome to the Garden State
It's official: we are now true residents of the state of New Jersey. Again. We were both born here, Don left at the age of 4, I left (officially) at the age of 24, and now the prodigals have returned. With two little newcomers and a dog in tow. Don paid a visit to the DMV this morning, and this afternoon he installed our new NJ plates. This afternoon we took the kids to the park and another mom was there with her little girl. She asked me, "Are you from the neighborhood?" I paused before I answered: "Yes, actually."It's funny -- it felt a little weird to say that. Not bad-weird necessarily, just ... I don't know. A bit unexpected. I was surprised at my emotional reaction. That "yes" solidified the fact that my journey took me somewhere I wasn't intending, or expecting, to go -- back home to NJ. It was a simple answer, but a loaded one for me. It's good, though, being back here in NJ. I miss my friends terribly -- I always will. But it's very, very good. When we got back into the car to come home, Don said to me, "This is the best move we've ever made."
Life-changing Pants
This past January we were walking through the mega-King of Prussia Mall in PA when we came across this huge poster/ad hanging in the window of Banana Republic. We absolutely cracked up, and Don took this (horrible) picture on his cell phone. Our friend Jeff used to have these hilarious running scenarios of a conquistador and his pants (long, long side-splitting story) -- perhaps we recalled that. Perhaps it was just so incredibly silly-sounding and it melded with our goofy sense of humor. (There's gotta be a sermon illustration in here somewhere.) I love this poster.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
The Journal
In late November/early December 2000 Don and I attended the annual clergy conference at the Hershey Hotel in Hershey, PA. As usual, there was a book table and my purpose in browsing that day was to purchase a journal for my grandmother, newly widowed (after 64 years of marriage) and living in an assisted living home. I have always had a deep love for history, especially personal histories. I realized that when my grandfather died, so many tales and stories and memories died with him, and I truly regretted that. I did not want that to happen with my grandmother, so I took a gamble in this journal idea, not knowing if she would be interested but I wanted to try nonetheless.
My grandmother died three years ago this past April 1 at the age of 91. One of the first things I found amongst her belongings was this journal, almost every paged filled with her old-fashioned, neatly slanted handwriting. I read the "prologue," what I had written on the first few pages, a letter to her when I gave her this journal for Christmas four years earlier. I saw her first entry, dated February 2001, beginning with the sentences, "When we were growing up I remember a very happy life. I remember Toronto, Canada where it was so cold and our bedrooms were upstairs. We always had a hot drink (hot water, milk, and anise flavor) before coming downstairs in the morning." I could not stop crying, mourning this beautiful woman who filled such an incredible place in my life, and who I believe I will miss for the rest of my days. I closed the journal, unable to read it.
A short while ago I went to my aunt's house to pick up some clothes for Grace, borrowed from my cousin Sharon. On the kitchen table was my grandmother's journal. My aunt had finished reading it, although she admitted she was unable to do so until two years had passed. "Guard it with your life," she said. Oh, I will -- there's no doubt about that. But when I saw that journal, I felt a twinge in my heart. Oh, how I miss her! It's even harder now, being home, driving past their home frequently on my errands or on the way to church. She prayed for me daily with a fervency that I have never seen before. She was a rock, a tremendous support, someone I relied upon and could easily talk to. Will I even be able to read this journal, now three years after her death?
I just opened it up and saw first the opening page where my grandmother wrote, "This Journal belongs to: Alberdiena V. Dyer, given by dear Susan Lee Sehulster, 2000 Christmas." I turned the page and once again read my "prologue:"
Dear Grandma,
You once said to me, "You know, I've had such a wonderful, blessed life. I could really write a book." Well, here is your chance! I have come to realize how truly priceless your memories and stories are, and it would be such a joy to have some of them written down so we will be able to enjoy them for all time.
Let me tell you the story about this journal. I was browsing through a few journals, but none were appropriate, for I wanted one with Scripture verses on the pages. A woman overheard me saying this to Don, and she came up to me and said, "I took the last one with Scripture verses. Why do you want it?" So I explained to her that Grandpa passed away recently and that my Grandma was very lonely. I told her about our visit over Thanksgiving and all the wonderful stories that you told. When I told her of my wish to give you a journal for Christmas, she said, "Here. You take this and give it to your grandmother with a hug from me. She needs this." With that, she left.
Soon after I told Mom this story, and that the verse on the cover was "God is our refuge and strength" (Psalm 46:1). Suddenly, Mom got very quiet and said, "Do you know about this verse?" I said no, not realizing its importance. She then told me something that brought tears to my eyes -- how for the last few years of Grandpa's life, as he was struggling with his physical limitations and the frustration it would often bring, you would always pray with him, that the joy of the Lord would be his strength, an ever-present help in trouble. I was amazed. God's ways are indeed mysterious and perfect -- my desire to give you a journal, running into a kind stranger who just "happened" to pass along this journal with a verse that had for so long been your prayer for Grandpa. So, my dear Grandma, you have indeed had a truly wonderful life. Perhaps one evening, when it's quiet and you're in your room, you might suddenly think of a story, of a tale from your childhood or a fond memory of Grandpa, or your parents, or your daughters. Perhaps, in those moments, you might want to pick up a pen and fill these blank pages with memories and stories of a beautiful life so richly blessed by God.
Merry Christmas, Grandma, and always know how much we truly love you.
Your loving granddaughter, Sue
The tears came again that day, now three years later. I guess I'll always get emotional when I think of her. But maybe this time I'll be able to read the journal. I think I will. I miss talking to her. I wonder what I'll find in these pages; I wonder what she might say to me.
My grandmother died three years ago this past April 1 at the age of 91. One of the first things I found amongst her belongings was this journal, almost every paged filled with her old-fashioned, neatly slanted handwriting. I read the "prologue," what I had written on the first few pages, a letter to her when I gave her this journal for Christmas four years earlier. I saw her first entry, dated February 2001, beginning with the sentences, "When we were growing up I remember a very happy life. I remember Toronto, Canada where it was so cold and our bedrooms were upstairs. We always had a hot drink (hot water, milk, and anise flavor) before coming downstairs in the morning." I could not stop crying, mourning this beautiful woman who filled such an incredible place in my life, and who I believe I will miss for the rest of my days. I closed the journal, unable to read it.
A short while ago I went to my aunt's house to pick up some clothes for Grace, borrowed from my cousin Sharon. On the kitchen table was my grandmother's journal. My aunt had finished reading it, although she admitted she was unable to do so until two years had passed. "Guard it with your life," she said. Oh, I will -- there's no doubt about that. But when I saw that journal, I felt a twinge in my heart. Oh, how I miss her! It's even harder now, being home, driving past their home frequently on my errands or on the way to church. She prayed for me daily with a fervency that I have never seen before. She was a rock, a tremendous support, someone I relied upon and could easily talk to. Will I even be able to read this journal, now three years after her death?
I just opened it up and saw first the opening page where my grandmother wrote, "This Journal belongs to: Alberdiena V. Dyer, given by dear Susan Lee Sehulster, 2000 Christmas." I turned the page and once again read my "prologue:"
Dear Grandma,
You once said to me, "You know, I've had such a wonderful, blessed life. I could really write a book." Well, here is your chance! I have come to realize how truly priceless your memories and stories are, and it would be such a joy to have some of them written down so we will be able to enjoy them for all time.
Let me tell you the story about this journal. I was browsing through a few journals, but none were appropriate, for I wanted one with Scripture verses on the pages. A woman overheard me saying this to Don, and she came up to me and said, "I took the last one with Scripture verses. Why do you want it?" So I explained to her that Grandpa passed away recently and that my Grandma was very lonely. I told her about our visit over Thanksgiving and all the wonderful stories that you told. When I told her of my wish to give you a journal for Christmas, she said, "Here. You take this and give it to your grandmother with a hug from me. She needs this." With that, she left.
Soon after I told Mom this story, and that the verse on the cover was "God is our refuge and strength" (Psalm 46:1). Suddenly, Mom got very quiet and said, "Do you know about this verse?" I said no, not realizing its importance. She then told me something that brought tears to my eyes -- how for the last few years of Grandpa's life, as he was struggling with his physical limitations and the frustration it would often bring, you would always pray with him, that the joy of the Lord would be his strength, an ever-present help in trouble. I was amazed. God's ways are indeed mysterious and perfect -- my desire to give you a journal, running into a kind stranger who just "happened" to pass along this journal with a verse that had for so long been your prayer for Grandpa. So, my dear Grandma, you have indeed had a truly wonderful life. Perhaps one evening, when it's quiet and you're in your room, you might suddenly think of a story, of a tale from your childhood or a fond memory of Grandpa, or your parents, or your daughters. Perhaps, in those moments, you might want to pick up a pen and fill these blank pages with memories and stories of a beautiful life so richly blessed by God.
Merry Christmas, Grandma, and always know how much we truly love you.
Your loving granddaughter, Sue
The tears came again that day, now three years later. I guess I'll always get emotional when I think of her. But maybe this time I'll be able to read the journal. I think I will. I miss talking to her. I wonder what I'll find in these pages; I wonder what she might say to me.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Shopping Spree Gone Crazy
I had the craziest day yesterday in regard to items that I purchased recently. It started out with a good bang but ended up with the proverbial wimper. First, I received my anniversary gift to myself in the mail: a terry robe/wrap thing from The Company Store in a really fun dark orange shade. My son is getting older so I really have to curtail my stroll au natural from the bathroom to the bedroom post-shower. I love my new wrap.
Also in the mail arrived another fun purchase, this time from eBay: 4 rechargeable outdoor lanterns for our yard. I followed the directions and charged them up for hours on end ... only to find that none of them worked! I couldn't believe it! I've been getting so fed up with eBay lately, for various reasons, and this latest experience didn't help the matter. (The good news, though, is that I charged them up again, all day and then through the night, and now this morning 3 of the 4 work after all. Don's going to open up that fourth one and see if he can tweak some things on the inside).
Then came the winner of all bizarre experiences. For Mother's Day, Don gave me a $50 gift card to Old Navy, so my sister-in-law Michelle and I went shopping yesterday afternoon. We had a lot of fun enjoying our girls' afternoon out. I was in the market for some comfy dresses or skirts for the summer (my new summer clothing of choice, rather than shorts). My first realization is that my gift card wasn't going to go very far -- this wasn't WalMart in the price tag department (remember, I might be Irish but I have a frugal Dutch soul). Then I ran into trouble in another department: just what kind of woman do they make clothes for??!! A woman who has no hips, no chest, no thighs of substance, no curves of any kind. In other words, clothes that are not for me. I don't want to sound like I'm transforming into some kind of frigid, conservative old woman -- rather, I really did like the styles that I saw. But when I tried them on ... they just looked ridiculous on a "normal" -shaped woman. I am a 35-year old mother of two who can't lose all of the baby weight -- I simply cannot wear a dress that won't cover my butt. I tried on dress after dress after dress -- it was getting rather depressing. Finally -- thankfully -- I settled on two items: an aqua colored (Michelle's recommendation) tank top dress (meant to be worn bra-less, I'm sure, but that ain't happening -- it looks cute with a tank top under it), and a really pretty chocolate brown knit dress -- very flowy, extremely comfortable, a soft knit fabric, some nice brown-on-brown detailing, perfect for the summer. Those two items blew my gift card but I was happy with the results.
My family wanted to see a fashion show (I also bought some stretchy "pants" -- gauchos? Silly word -- at Target earlier in the day), so I tried on the items and won approval. But here's the ringer: I hung the brown dress on a hanger and hooked it on the light on my bedroom wall, with the label hanging at my eye level. It said "Old Navy ... MATERNITY." What the heck??!! My mouth dropped open and I thought I was going to fall on the floor. Maternity? Maternity??!! I started laughing out loud, but my emotions were whirling between hilarity and humiliation. Is this where I've come? Going back to wearing maternity dresses?! I still am in shock about it.
But you know what? I'm keeping the dress. I love it. I had absolutely no idea it was maternity when I tried it on in the store -- it had an empire waist, but so did many of the other dresses there. I still could not tell when I tried it on at home, nor could Don -- in fact, he thought it looked slimming. And I'm all for slimming! It doesn't have a lot of extra fabric hanging in the front (which makes me wonder how a pregnant woman could even wear it -- I sure couldn't!). Do I wish I was blissfully ignorant of this newly discovered fact? Perhaps -- I can't go back and un-see that label (although I could cut it out). And no, this isn't some Freudian trip, considering another baby ... I just love the dress. So! There it is! I did tell Don, though, not to buy me any more gift cards to Old Navy. I just can't shop there anymore.
Today we're hanging a ceiling fan that we purchased yesterday. I sure hope there are no tricks in store for us today with this one. A nice, straight-forward, simple installation would be just the ticket.
Also in the mail arrived another fun purchase, this time from eBay: 4 rechargeable outdoor lanterns for our yard. I followed the directions and charged them up for hours on end ... only to find that none of them worked! I couldn't believe it! I've been getting so fed up with eBay lately, for various reasons, and this latest experience didn't help the matter. (The good news, though, is that I charged them up again, all day and then through the night, and now this morning 3 of the 4 work after all. Don's going to open up that fourth one and see if he can tweak some things on the inside).
Then came the winner of all bizarre experiences. For Mother's Day, Don gave me a $50 gift card to Old Navy, so my sister-in-law Michelle and I went shopping yesterday afternoon. We had a lot of fun enjoying our girls' afternoon out. I was in the market for some comfy dresses or skirts for the summer (my new summer clothing of choice, rather than shorts). My first realization is that my gift card wasn't going to go very far -- this wasn't WalMart in the price tag department (remember, I might be Irish but I have a frugal Dutch soul). Then I ran into trouble in another department: just what kind of woman do they make clothes for??!! A woman who has no hips, no chest, no thighs of substance, no curves of any kind. In other words, clothes that are not for me. I don't want to sound like I'm transforming into some kind of frigid, conservative old woman -- rather, I really did like the styles that I saw. But when I tried them on ... they just looked ridiculous on a "normal" -shaped woman. I am a 35-year old mother of two who can't lose all of the baby weight -- I simply cannot wear a dress that won't cover my butt. I tried on dress after dress after dress -- it was getting rather depressing. Finally -- thankfully -- I settled on two items: an aqua colored (Michelle's recommendation) tank top dress (meant to be worn bra-less, I'm sure, but that ain't happening -- it looks cute with a tank top under it), and a really pretty chocolate brown knit dress -- very flowy, extremely comfortable, a soft knit fabric, some nice brown-on-brown detailing, perfect for the summer. Those two items blew my gift card but I was happy with the results.
My family wanted to see a fashion show (I also bought some stretchy "pants" -- gauchos? Silly word -- at Target earlier in the day), so I tried on the items and won approval. But here's the ringer: I hung the brown dress on a hanger and hooked it on the light on my bedroom wall, with the label hanging at my eye level. It said "Old Navy ... MATERNITY." What the heck??!! My mouth dropped open and I thought I was going to fall on the floor. Maternity? Maternity??!! I started laughing out loud, but my emotions were whirling between hilarity and humiliation. Is this where I've come? Going back to wearing maternity dresses?! I still am in shock about it.
But you know what? I'm keeping the dress. I love it. I had absolutely no idea it was maternity when I tried it on in the store -- it had an empire waist, but so did many of the other dresses there. I still could not tell when I tried it on at home, nor could Don -- in fact, he thought it looked slimming. And I'm all for slimming! It doesn't have a lot of extra fabric hanging in the front (which makes me wonder how a pregnant woman could even wear it -- I sure couldn't!). Do I wish I was blissfully ignorant of this newly discovered fact? Perhaps -- I can't go back and un-see that label (although I could cut it out). And no, this isn't some Freudian trip, considering another baby ... I just love the dress. So! There it is! I did tell Don, though, not to buy me any more gift cards to Old Navy. I just can't shop there anymore.
Today we're hanging a ceiling fan that we purchased yesterday. I sure hope there are no tricks in store for us today with this one. A nice, straight-forward, simple installation would be just the ticket.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Laugh Lines for the Week 3
- Aidan's interpretation of how he came into the world: "A long, long time ago I lived in a very far away place." (In Hilltown? I asked, By the little church?) "No, no, no -- very very far away, in a little village. Then God wanted me to go into your tummy, so I lived in your tummy for a little while." (Did you like living in there? I asked). "No. I did not. Then God pushed you with his thumbs, and I came out of your mouth. I was a teeny tiny baby. And Mommy, I was sooooo cute!" Reincarnation? God has thumbs? What a fabulous way to start my day!
- At our church's newcomers' class Monday night, Pastor Andy was talking about the beginnings of the Orthodox church. He looked at Don and said, "What was it, around the 800's? 900's?" And Don replied in a very spaced-out sort of way, "Yeeaaahh, the ten-hundreds ..." The woman next to me, who is from Peru and not very fluent in English, sure understood that and how funny it sounded, and she burst out laughing -- so did I. The two of us were cracking up and unable to stop. Something about "the ten-hundreds" just sounded so very funny ...
- My parents watched Grace yesterday while I brought Aidan to school, and when I returned I went upstairs to get my girl and bring her back downstairs. We talked a bit, and my mom asked if I thought her hair was getting too long. My dad suggested she get a path cut right down the middle. "Oh, like a reverse Mohican!" she said. I started cracking up -- a Mohican? Try Mohawk! :)
- My mom's Mohican reference reminded me of this hilarious news clip we saw in Virginia. There was a huge storm that hit the area and a great deal of power outages and other damage. One reported went to the apartment of a very old woman who lived alone. She was sitting in her La-Z-Boy with an obnoxiously-colored crocheted afghan up to her chin. The reporter asked her how she was faring, with no electricity or heat. The old woman responded in her high-pitched old woman voice, "Oh, I'm doing all right. I stay warm with this here African." I think I laughed for a week.
- At our church's newcomers' class Monday night, Pastor Andy was talking about the beginnings of the Orthodox church. He looked at Don and said, "What was it, around the 800's? 900's?" And Don replied in a very spaced-out sort of way, "Yeeaaahh, the ten-hundreds ..." The woman next to me, who is from Peru and not very fluent in English, sure understood that and how funny it sounded, and she burst out laughing -- so did I. The two of us were cracking up and unable to stop. Something about "the ten-hundreds" just sounded so very funny ...
- My parents watched Grace yesterday while I brought Aidan to school, and when I returned I went upstairs to get my girl and bring her back downstairs. We talked a bit, and my mom asked if I thought her hair was getting too long. My dad suggested she get a path cut right down the middle. "Oh, like a reverse Mohican!" she said. I started cracking up -- a Mohican? Try Mohawk! :)
- My mom's Mohican reference reminded me of this hilarious news clip we saw in Virginia. There was a huge storm that hit the area and a great deal of power outages and other damage. One reported went to the apartment of a very old woman who lived alone. She was sitting in her La-Z-Boy with an obnoxiously-colored crocheted afghan up to her chin. The reporter asked her how she was faring, with no electricity or heat. The old woman responded in her high-pitched old woman voice, "Oh, I'm doing all right. I stay warm with this here African." I think I laughed for a week.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
In Response ...
I just told Don of my lengthy ordeal with our gadgets and my frustration with the lack of music.
His response? " Speakers 1."
What?
"I was listening to head phones last night so I turned off the speakers. All you needed to do was push the button on the amp that said 'Speakers 1.'"
And his next response to me? "It doesn't get any simpler than that, Sue!"
Ooooooh. Silly, silly me. That's all I needed to do ...
His response? " Speakers 1."
What?
"I was listening to head phones last night so I turned off the speakers. All you needed to do was push the button on the amp that said 'Speakers 1.'"
And his next response to me? "It doesn't get any simpler than that, Sue!"
Ooooooh. Silly, silly me. That's all I needed to do ...
Just that kind of day ...
I'm ready to put a complete and absolute ban on the technology in our house. In fact, I'm ready to get rid of what we have and buy a boom box (if they still sell them) -- something simple and straight-forward. Now, I am not an idiot -- not by a long shot. I am also not technologically-challenged, as many of these audiophile/techno-geek husbands think their wives are (Holy Stereotype, Batman!). While I admittedly cannot maneuver my way around inside a tube amp (nor would I ever want to), I have nevertheless fixed my fair share of technological instruments. However ... bigger is not necessarily better, nor is there any value in possessing way too many "toys" in the entertainment cabinet if you can't achieve your purpose.
This has been a weird day. I'm tired. My kids are "off" -- not necessarily cranky, but not the cheerful cute cherubs they've been all week. Aidan and I got into a tiff on the way home from school -- he was just so stinking ornery in the car I couldn't take it. I despise attitude coming from a little child!! Grace is in a not-eating phase -- and for Grace, this is new territory (for her and for us). She just doesn't eat and it drives me crazy. We always start the day OK -- a large sippy cup filled with a yogurt drink, followed by a mid-morning gulp of fruit juice and a very small snack. No lunch to speak of, turning her head away in disdain. I'm tired.
After school, the kids and I spent some time in the yard -- I wanted to finish up some planting, but my kids refused to cooperate. For the last few days they have played miraculously well with some fun toys (a castle with pirates and other medieval equipment; a Wild West town with cowboys and horses; a tree house with Robin Hood characters), but today it wasn't working. I guess it was bound to happen, this 180-degree turn; as Geoffrey Chaucer said in The Canterbury Tales (The Monk's Tale),"And thus does Fortune's wheel turn treacherously / And out of happiness bring men to sorrow." While I'm not quite sorrowing, Fortune is definitely fiddling with the wheel. Grace was wandering aimlessly around the yard, with a horse in one hand and a pirate in the other, while Aidan whined about ... whatever. Storm clouds were whipping up so I hustled everyone indoors, taking the town and castle with me. Thankfully Aidan started playing well and Grace was enjoying herself just watching him play, giggling at his antics. "Phew," I thought, "this afternoon might be salvaged after all."
Here's where my beef with my technologically-overloaded household comes in. Aidan made a simple request: Can I watch TV? No, I said -- you watched way too much already. I admit -- my kids do watch too much. Usually in the morning, because frankly that's the only way I can get anything done. It's not hours on end (thank goodness) and it is completely monitored (PBS or selected videos and DVD's from the library), but still ... it is what it is. I try to keep the afternoons TV free, at least until it's time for me to make dinner and I get a half hour respite in the kitchen (sometimes). Anyway, I was grateful that Aidan didn't whine about the TV rebuff, but instead asked politely, "May I please listen to some music?" Sure! He requested his Veggie Tales "Bob and Larry's Campfire Songs" (it's actually really funny) and I was happy about how the afternoon was really shaping up. That is, until I got the CD into the first of two players. Now what? I have two amps. I turn on the solid state gadget (knowing that Don prefers to save the vintage tube amp for "his" music -- lately, vinyl). Now what? It was on phono, due to his vinyl playing last night, so I turned the dial to auxiliary. Now what? No sound. There's another little box there with NINE little cables attached to the back, each with a different colored connector (yellow, orange, white, red, etc.) and one random shiny gold one. I recalled pulling that gold one out for some occasion, but I couldn't remember why. I tried it, replacing it with a yellow one -- still no sound. I took the CD out of the first player and put it in the DVD player (which also plays CD's) -- still no sound. I turned on the tube amp, willing to risk a scolding, but still no sound. "I'm so sorry, Aidan -- I have no idea how to make this work."
15 minutes!! 15 minutes spent fiddling with stupid knobs and buttons and dials and randomly plugging things in and out of random holes. My poor kids -- they can't even listen to Veggie Tales, for pete's sake! I'm really, really tired. I'm tired of wondering why my daughter isn't eating (oh, I know it's completely normal -- I just don't like it). I'm tired of a tired little boy who's giving me attitude with an extra heaping of whine. I'm tired of trying to think of creative things to do, only to be met with "noooooo!" And I have to leave in 20 minutes to pick Don up from work. So what are they doing now? They're watching a Baby Einstein DVD, "Meet the Orchestra." Sheesh.
This has been a weird day. I'm tired. My kids are "off" -- not necessarily cranky, but not the cheerful cute cherubs they've been all week. Aidan and I got into a tiff on the way home from school -- he was just so stinking ornery in the car I couldn't take it. I despise attitude coming from a little child!! Grace is in a not-eating phase -- and for Grace, this is new territory (for her and for us). She just doesn't eat and it drives me crazy. We always start the day OK -- a large sippy cup filled with a yogurt drink, followed by a mid-morning gulp of fruit juice and a very small snack. No lunch to speak of, turning her head away in disdain. I'm tired.
After school, the kids and I spent some time in the yard -- I wanted to finish up some planting, but my kids refused to cooperate. For the last few days they have played miraculously well with some fun toys (a castle with pirates and other medieval equipment; a Wild West town with cowboys and horses; a tree house with Robin Hood characters), but today it wasn't working. I guess it was bound to happen, this 180-degree turn; as Geoffrey Chaucer said in The Canterbury Tales (The Monk's Tale),"And thus does Fortune's wheel turn treacherously / And out of happiness bring men to sorrow." While I'm not quite sorrowing, Fortune is definitely fiddling with the wheel. Grace was wandering aimlessly around the yard, with a horse in one hand and a pirate in the other, while Aidan whined about ... whatever. Storm clouds were whipping up so I hustled everyone indoors, taking the town and castle with me. Thankfully Aidan started playing well and Grace was enjoying herself just watching him play, giggling at his antics. "Phew," I thought, "this afternoon might be salvaged after all."
Here's where my beef with my technologically-overloaded household comes in. Aidan made a simple request: Can I watch TV? No, I said -- you watched way too much already. I admit -- my kids do watch too much. Usually in the morning, because frankly that's the only way I can get anything done. It's not hours on end (thank goodness) and it is completely monitored (PBS or selected videos and DVD's from the library), but still ... it is what it is. I try to keep the afternoons TV free, at least until it's time for me to make dinner and I get a half hour respite in the kitchen (sometimes). Anyway, I was grateful that Aidan didn't whine about the TV rebuff, but instead asked politely, "May I please listen to some music?" Sure! He requested his Veggie Tales "Bob and Larry's Campfire Songs" (it's actually really funny) and I was happy about how the afternoon was really shaping up. That is, until I got the CD into the first of two players. Now what? I have two amps. I turn on the solid state gadget (knowing that Don prefers to save the vintage tube amp for "his" music -- lately, vinyl). Now what? It was on phono, due to his vinyl playing last night, so I turned the dial to auxiliary. Now what? No sound. There's another little box there with NINE little cables attached to the back, each with a different colored connector (yellow, orange, white, red, etc.) and one random shiny gold one. I recalled pulling that gold one out for some occasion, but I couldn't remember why. I tried it, replacing it with a yellow one -- still no sound. I took the CD out of the first player and put it in the DVD player (which also plays CD's) -- still no sound. I turned on the tube amp, willing to risk a scolding, but still no sound. "I'm so sorry, Aidan -- I have no idea how to make this work."
15 minutes!! 15 minutes spent fiddling with stupid knobs and buttons and dials and randomly plugging things in and out of random holes. My poor kids -- they can't even listen to Veggie Tales, for pete's sake! I'm really, really tired. I'm tired of wondering why my daughter isn't eating (oh, I know it's completely normal -- I just don't like it). I'm tired of a tired little boy who's giving me attitude with an extra heaping of whine. I'm tired of trying to think of creative things to do, only to be met with "noooooo!" And I have to leave in 20 minutes to pick Don up from work. So what are they doing now? They're watching a Baby Einstein DVD, "Meet the Orchestra." Sheesh.
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