I almost left it at just this, a picture. Because really, what else needs to be said? But the point I’m trying to make here, is not that I buy myself single servings of ice cream, because why not just buy the entire half gallon? If I’m going to buy a bunch of single serving ice cream cups, you KNOW I’m going to just eat a bunch of single serving ice cream cups in one sitting.
Not a cost effective way to binge.
No, I buy these to assuage the guilt I feel for not stocking my house with chips and ice cream for the kids. I have no self control. If I buy a bag of chips, I will eat a bag of chips and the kids will ask me where the chips are. So? I don’t buy chips. Same with ice cream.
Why feel guilty? Because I believe in the beauty of moderation. If I could eat chips and ice cream in moderation, we would not be having this conversation. I would like my kids to learn the beauty of moderation, but since I never keep this stuff around they tend to horde snack foods in their cheeks and jacket pockets whenever we go somewhere that has snack foods.
Definitely not a sign they are grasping moderation.
The other day I spotted these cute little ice cream cups on sale at the grocery store for a dollar each, and I couldn’t resist. I bought two – one for each kid. If I eat one, I’ll have to deal with a major melt down (HA! Get it?!). So I can’t eat one. I have to leave them for the kids to have one evening after dinner. They get their special treat, I pretend to still be on a diet, and that, my friends, works for me.
One mild evening this summer I sat on the front steps with a friend, enjoying the warm evening air while drinking a glass of chilled white wine. There was a party at the rental hall next door, and we enjoyed the backdrop of festive mariachi music coming from the open doors.
The rental hall is dark and windowless, which usually drives party-goers and their children out into the parking lot adjacent to my yard where it is cool. As I tossed a ball for Scout to catch, a group of children – boys – wandered over and pressed their noses through our front gate to watch.
The boys chattered with each other in spanish, which I don’t understand, and they continued to point and smile at my dog. Since I didn’t know what they were saying, I simply smiled back at them.
Soon a parent came by to shoo them away, but my friend and I both smiled and waved him off, saying “No, no, it’s fine, we don’t mind.†The parent went off and left the kids with us, and I continued tossing the ball for Scout.
Eventually the boys wandered back to their party, and my friend and I went back to our conversation.
A little while later, I saw the boys creeping along our chain link fence, hiding behind a bush that protruded out into the sidewalk. Suddenly one of the boys ran up to the gate, threw a plastic fork at it, then ran back to his friends as it landed on the sidewalk.
“Hey!†I called after him, coming through the gate and onto the sidewalk. The boys were running away, but stopped and stared at me wild eyed when they heard me call.
Softening my tone, I said “It’s okay.†I waved them back and pointed to the fork. “It’s okay,†I said again. “Don’t throw this at me,†I said, pointing at the fork and shaking my head. I didn’t know if they understood English. “Take it to the trash,†I said, pointing to the fork and waving it away with my hand. “Don’t leave this here, por favor.â€
One of the boys walked over with droopy shoulders and got the fork, and I smiled at him so he knew I wasn’t mad. “Gracias,†I said. He and his friends walked away, and I waved cheerfully.
As I sat down next to my friend again, I silently congratulated myself for being gracious to the boy even though he was throwing his trash at me. Wasn’t I wonderfully hospitable to my neighbor even though he was acting rudely? We have, after all, endured beer cans tossed into our yard, broken glass on our sidewalk, and young boys pee’ing through our fence during many of these parties. I even found an abandoned pair of pants in our bushes once.
But as I sat down to write this essay, intending to go in a different direction with it, I’m suddenly struck with a thought – I realize it’s possible the boy was trying to throw a fork for my dog to catch, the way he saw me throwing a ball. And like the detective at the end of The Usual Suspects, I flash back through the montage of clues in my mind with this new realization, reinterpreting the entire scene —
The boys who are mesmerized with a dog who catches balls, the boys who run away suddenly and return sheepishly, the daring boy who is chosen to bear the risk, the unsuccessful toss that was intended to go through the fence, the signs of defeat that I didn’t embrace their efforts.
I am deflated by my tunnel vision, and I want to cry. How arrogant of me! Adorable boys were making friends with my dog, and I shoo’d them off! How confused they must have been with my contradicting actions – first smiling and welcoming them to participate, then scolding them when they tried. I wish I could go back in time and invite them in to play with my dog.
I feel foolish for not realizing their intentions in the moment. Obviously I was dealing with a language barrier, but I still kick myself for not being more observant. I allowed myself to define the moment by my assumptions.
And then I realize, this is Other-ism – racism, classism, cool kids against the nerds, whatever. This is how it starts – judging a person based on what you think you know about them. I made an assumption, and it was the wrong one.
I’d be curious to know about your experience with Other-ism. When have you felt judged? When have you caught yourself judging others?
I’m having the time of my life this year with a three and five year old. We go on adventures and treasure hunts, we have conversations, we joke around, we act silly and make things together. I’m sure some of this relative peace is because I’m not so crazy in the head as I used to be, but I also just think kids this age are my thing.
Take tonight, for instance.
Bryan is out with a friend, this evening, so I’m on kid duty all night. As is customary in the Zug Haus, Thomas and Ruthie eventually start fighting while I’m cleaning up in the kitchen. This is a sample of what I often hear:
“I WANT IT!”
“I HAD IT FIRST!”
“BUT IT’S MINE!”
“YOU’RE SO STUPID! I’M NOT GONNA EVER BE YOUR FRIEND!”
[screaming ensues when Thomas pulls Ruthie’s hair].
Feeling tired, I let this go on for awhile, hoping it will resolve itself. But it never does. Kids don’t fight fair, and therefor kids will never resolve arguments on their own. They need direction. They need to practice reconciliation. They need a road map to get them through the conflict.
I come into the living room where they are and sit them both on my lap in my favorite chair. And then I do something quite unexpected… to all of us. I ask Ruthie how she is being unloving to her brother.
Of course she starts shouting at me about Thomas pulling her hair, but I interrupt. I didn’t ask what Thomas did to you, I say. I asked you how you were being unloving to him.
Again she starts complaining about him trying to take away her game, but I interrupt and keep her on track. I say it’s easy to point out everything Thomas is doing wrong, but this time I want her to think about it differently. I ask her again, how are you being unloving to Thomas?
I shouted at him, she says.
Yeah? What else?
I wouldn’t let him play with me.
Hmmm. Thomas, how are you being unloving to Ruthie?
She wasn’t sharing her toy with me!
I know that, but how were you unloving to her?
I pulled her hair and I shouted at her.
Hmmm. Sounds like neither of you are loving each other.
I’m sorry Thomas.
Sorry Rufie.
Thomas, do you want to play the game together?
YEAH!
—
I kid you not, this is how it went down – word for word. Ruthie stood up, was completely sincere in her apology, and offered to share the game. Turns out I’m not fucking them up so bad after all, and that all our rote conversations about apologizing and reconciling and being kind are actually sinking in.
It took me a long time to get here, to this place of patience and selflessness where I can stop what I’m doing and walk them through a situation. It’s much easier (and much more convenient to my own agenda) to yell at them and send them to their corners, or to perhaps to redirect their focus by turning on the tv.
But at my core I’m a discipler, a mentor. I draw from real life experiences to help others see things in a different way. When Bryan and I fight, I’m always quick to point out his faults and the way he makes me angry. But Jesus calls us to a love of a different kind – a love that extends to even our enemies (real or perceived) – because that kind of love is unexpected to a foe and much more persuasive than a fight.
My kids are not too young to learn these lessons, and it’s only through real life conflict I will have the opportunity to teach them. If I ignore the conflict, I’m ignoring a teachable moment. It took a radical shift in my thinking and priorities and parenting style to embrace these lessons for myself, but as it turns out, this agenda is way more engaging and rewarding than the self-serving one I was creating on my own.
I got up at 5am this morning to get a few bookkeeping things done before leaving for the day. Bryan and I chatted while I worked, I sipped my coffee, and I was fully in a good mood by the time Ruthie woke up at 7am. And now as I get ready to leave, not only are my bookkeeping tasks done, but the kitchen is clean, the dishwasher is running, and meat is thawing for dinner tonight.
This is the most productive I’ve been in weeks, accomplishing more tasks in two hours than I have any other day. I usually try to get these things done while Thomas naps in the afternoon, but by then I’ve completely lost focus. I’m tired, my brain is fried, and I have too many thoughts milling about in my head to focus on spreadsheets.
I can see why some people go into the office early to get things done before anyone else arrives – the mind is fresh, there’s less chatter to distract, and there’s just something about the dark quiet of the early morning that allows for hunkering down.
I’ve been thinking through my productivity level lately, dissatisfied with what I’m able to accomplish. Ruthie’s school schedule has provided the good bones I need for a schedule, but I still feel lost and distracted during certain times of the day.
I think it’s time to iterate.
The gals who run the daycare at my gym work a split shift, first in the morning, and then in the evening. This got me thinking of trying the same thing – that maybe on the days I have computer tasks to accomplish, I wake up at an insane hour that only God and Bryan love. Errands and laundry and household projects can be done later in the morning, and planning and organizing can be done later in the evening when I get my second wind.
This leaves the afternoon lull for writing, or reading, or napping, or some other activity that refreshes me for the rest of the day. Because really, I need to be on my game when Ruthie comes home. She’s a chatterbox and full of energy and needs to interact with me. If I push myself through the entire day without taking a break to recharge my Introvert Battery, the last thing I want to do at 3:30 is see my own children.
How sad is that?
Also, I think this embraces and accommodates What Is instead of trying to change myself to fit into a particular box, only to continually feel like a failure – referring again to this article about working with known behavior rather than trying to change it.
Am I the only person who obsesses about Getting Things Done? Am I the only one who struggles with productivity? I feel like I teeter constantly on the fence between total obsession and compete laziness, usually falling to one side or the other, but rarely walking the middle line successfully.
I hope this new plan allows for greater productivity while giving me opportunities to rest and recharge without guilt.
I am writing this from the parking lot of Thomas’ preschool, sitting in the passenger seat of the car (The driver’s seat does not slide back far enough for me to sit with my laptop. Or perhaps my belly is too big).
Despite the fact Thomas is STILL not potty trained, he started preschool two mornings a week last month. The school is pretty lax regarding their three year olds starting the year potty trained, but state law will not allow teachers to change his pull-up. This means if he poops they call me to come take care of it.
So far I’ve been called in the middle of a run on the treadmill, in the middle of a meeting at the Target Starbucks (which is the consumer’s equivalent of chocolate and peanut butter), and while paying bills at my dining room table.
Do you know how frustrating it is to THINK you have two hours to yourself, only to have a third of that time eaten up by a double round trip commute and diaper duty time? Have you ever stopped running without a cool down, then started up again half an hour later without a warm up? I don’t recommend it – your muscles will coil up like a tightened spring.
I’ve tried sticker charts, I’ve tried candy bribes, I’ve tried fifteen minute timers, I’ve tried going cold turkey – the kid is just. not. interested. in using the toilet. I mean, he uses it sometimes, of course, but most of the time the mere suggestion of sitting on the potty induces a fit of whining and floor flopping of grand proportions.
As I said on twitter one day, I wish I could send him off like a Labrador to be trained by a professional.
The inconvenience of this arrangement nearly caused me to pull him out of preschool. It just didn’t seem worth all the hassle, and he would still have preschool next year anyway.
Until I had a brilliant idea.
Ever since school started and my summer babysitting swap ended with a friend, I haven’t found a decent chunk of time to write. So I decided to kill two birds with one stone and sit in the car with my laptop, writing. If I get the call for a diaper change, I’m merely steps from his classroom, and I’m only interrupted for a few minutes.
Admit it. You are jealous of my ability to adapt.
So here I am, feeling a bit eccentric, yet very pleased with myself for creating a win/win situation (also, brainstorming ways to keep warm). Though as I’m sure you can imagine, Thomas has not pooped once during class any of the times I sat out here freezing my arse off.
What do you think the odds are he would poop as soon as I drive off to get a latte at the Target Starbucks?
I really don’t like what politics and religion bring out in people. We are mean to each other – perhaps, at times, without even realizing it.
Please, have an opinion. Please feel free to express that opinion articulately and with conviction. Please engage in strong debate with someone of an opposing opinion. But please, please, please refrain from trashing a person’s intelligence, or looks, or race, or name, or religion, or family, or personality.
Please stop trying to tear a person down and make them feel low. Please stop demonizing a person as if they are a one dimensional character. Please stop lumping everyone who disagrees with you into the category of “idiot.” Please don’t assume people who prefer the other guy are racist… or terrorists.
Please stop creating an environment where others are afraid to express their views for fear of mocking or judgment. If it’s hard for you to imagine how someone could believe what they believe, then ask them why they believe it. You might be surprised they actually have thoughtful, educated, and informed reasons – even if you still disagree.
I listened to an interview with Josh Brolin on Fresh Air yesterday. Brolin is playing George W. Bush in a movie bio about his life. When Brolin was first approached with the project, he bristled, not wanting to be associated with a president he disagrees with so strongly. But as he read the script, and researched Bush’s life, and learned about the man behind the rhetoric, Brolin had a change of heart regarding his attitude. Here are a few quotes from the interview:
“There’s some things, to my surprise, that I respected. I’m glad I’m more educated now.”
“[I had a] cosmetic reaction. I’d written [George Bush] off by the time Oliver [Stone] had come to me, and I’ve since then learned and feel that it’s incredibly irresponsible to do that.”
“And then you start to do your research and there’s things I felt were very positive and very interesting about his life and his milestones.”
I really appreciate Brolin’s ability to step back from the tribal mentality and find something he appreciates about the man. I don’t imagine it’s as easy for him to disrespectfully mock the Bush administration, or republicans, or evangelicals, now that he feels a sense of sameness with them on a more human level.
Making the movie didn’t change Brolin’s political views, but it did seem to awaken him to his own arrogance.
For living in a society and a city that boasts of it’s incredible “tolerance,” what I see in practice is “tolerance” toward those whom we like and who agree with us. What I see, is that we’re ignorant, and we’re arrogant.
Wow. It’s Thursday, and my last post was the Friday Link Love. I guess that makes it pretty obvious I haven’t blogged in awhile.
My blog locked me out again over the weekend, not accepting my login and password. That’s always frustrating. It left me hanging in mid air with a digital photo of mozzarella medallions on garden tomatoes with fresh basil – our afternoon snack on Saturday – which you may not hear about now because the magic of the moment is gone.
Bryan fixed the lock-out issue for me on his way into work Monday which officially makes him Way Cool.
But then on Monday night I fell down the back steps, the slippery ones leading down to the trash cans. I set one foot down on the first step and before I knew it my pile of newspapers was flying through the air, and I landed with my right leg bent under my ass.
I thought I’d broken my ankle, given that my chubby ass smashed it against the step. Of course, this didn’t stop me from instantly jumping up and shouting “FUCK!” about 25 times while punching the trash cans.
I am the poster child for the Fight Response.
At any rate, this was a disappointing set back to my week because I was feeling pretty motivated to get some projects done around the house, and had already tackled one on Monday morning. Instead, I spent the day Tuesday laying on an ice pack and keeping myself filled with over the counter pain meds.
I love twitter, because it serves as the town crier. After I posted this, I had three In Real Life friends call or email to see if I needed a ride anywhere, or to take the kids, or to pick up Ruthie from school. The internet does not replace real communication with real friends, but it does come in handy when you need to send out a desperate 911 without dialing fourteen phone numbers to find out who is home.
Wednesday was more of the same. I felt much better, and was able to get to the gym for an easy run and lots of stretching, but my lower back still felts better when snuggling with an ice pack. So Wednesday unfolded in fifteen minute increments, like this:
Running.
Lay on ice pack, reading a magazine.
Make lunch.
Lay on ice pack, reading a magazine.
Sit at computer and pay bills.
Lay on ice pack, reading a magazine.
Pick up Ruthie at the bus.
Lay on ice pack, reading a magazine.
Make dinner.
Lay on ice pack, reading a magazine.
You get the idea.
(Ruthie would call this an A/B pattern. God bless kindergarten)
Yesterday when I finally sat down to write for a couple hours during Thomas’ nap, I was planning to bring down the home stretch a meaty essay I’ve been working on for a couple weeks. But I discovered none of Bryan’s editing notes saved, and of course I didn’t make a point of remembering what we talked about since I assumed I’d be able to refer to his notes.
At this point I lost all of my will to live.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. I just didn’t feel like writing.
The good news is, as frustrating as it is to not have time to write, I’m feeling very Zen about it. This week was a total bust, but you know what? There’s always next week.
I know. I KNOW! Where’s all the writer’s angst and depression and inner turmoil over not having enough Time To Myself?! Well, folks, I guess that’s what you call progress.
In the weeks leading up to the start of Kindergarten, I worried, I fretted, I questioned whether Ruthie would make it through the day without a nap. Without one she’d always slogged in the afternoon, and freaked out at bedtime from being over tired.
But after the first week of school it became clear: turns out all these years Ruthie wasn’t tired – she was an extrovert trapped in a family of introverts.
School freaking energizes her.
Despite a long day which starts with waking up at 6:30 every morning, she is ON FIRE when we pick her up at the bus at 3:30.
CAN WE GO TO THE PARK?
CAN WE GO TO THE CUPCAKE SHOP?
WHO’S COMING OVER?
CAN WE GO TO [INSERT FRIEND]’S HOUSE?
Whatever the request, if I say we’re going home to our boring house with nothing to do there is screaming, crying, and rending of garments – right there at the bus stop in the middle of my community’s main street.
So now at the point of my day in which I’m the sloggiest (made-up word), I need to make sure I’m rested and properly charged (read: have been alone) so we can go to the park, or the cupcake shop, or to a friend’s house. Which is fine. I can do it.
I’ve been pondering over the issues of education and the inner city at great length since last Spring when I registered Ruthie for kindergarten. We are a white, middle class family living in a diverse community with lower class and working poor families. On more than one occasion I’ve heard my neighborhood referred to as “the inner city.”
75% of the kids at Ruthie’s elementary school qualify for free or reduced lunch. As a white girl, she is in the minority 17% of the population. There is a sign on all the doors leading into her school that reads, “This Is a Weapons Free Zone.” I shudder to think why this is even necessary to mention to kids under the age of ten.
I will admit there are times I considered transferring Ruthie to a different school – one with higher test scores and fewer kids on assistance – and even filled out the necessary paperwork. I wrestled with my ideals, because I never wanted to be that “white flight” family who sequestered itself from people who are different, who fled the “evils” of the inner city simply because I had the means to. My ideals told me I could be part of the solution, that if I stayed I could make a difference in my community. But at the same time, I wasn’t sure I was willing to gamble my child’s education to follow those ideals.
As a friend put it, “It’s kind of like the difference between reading the communist manifesto as a naive college freshman, versus actually living in the Soviet Union.”
In the end, we decided to stay in the school. For now. Someday I’ll write a post about the reasons why we decided to stay, but for now I just want to share three things that have influenced me the most over the last few months: a sermon, a podcast, and a television show.
It Takes a City to Raise a Child – Pastor & Author Tim Keller.
The community I live in doesn’t even come close to the dense urban environment of New York City, and neither does Seattle, for that matter. But I still found this lecture compelling since so many white, middle class families are fleeing urban areas in general for the seclusion and “safety” of the suburbs.
Keller gives three cons and eight pros to raising your kids in the city, and begins with the thesis that living in the city enhances factors related to kids embracing the Christian faith of their parents. As a teaser, I’ll list those positive factors here, but you really must listen to the 1+ hour podcast.
If you raise kids in the city, they will believe they are living in the real world, and will have realistic expectations of life. (i.e. “Friends” who work at coffee houses can NOT afford apartments that big)
It undercuts their self righteousness toward you and your faith. Kids want to believe their parents don’t understand the real world, but when they see you interacting with city life, they will have respect for you.
Your children will become more confident and self reliant, living in the city.
Your kids will be better at handling diversity, and will have more diverse friendships. The essence of suburbia is zoning – racially, economically, etc. There’s fewer people unlike you.
The city pushes the family together and creates more coherence between home, work, and school. Relationally it’s much more intense. Suburbia pushes everybody apart.
In the city, your teenagers will more easily see a Christianity they can envision and respect because the churches are filled with young people they can identify with (does your sunday school teacher have glorious tatts?).
You can help your kids start to process the real world by living in the city.
In general, kids raised in cities do not have same pressure brought on them to conform because it is so diverse.
Keller mentions several times that we all think the suburbs is the best place to raise our kids, but in reality it may be more polarizing to families.
Think about it: we all get into our cars and go in different directions each day; our commutes take hours away from our family life; when our teenagers have friends, they drive around recklessly in a car together; we live in communities with people who are just like us in every way; our children aren’t exposed to poverty unless they go on a mission trip; kids face an immense amount of pressure to conform.
I loved loved loved this lecture, and I especially loved that Bryan whipped out his computer for us to listen to it on a drive up to Bellingham on Labor Day.
Whatever it takes to teach kids – Geoffrey Canada & Paul Tough
This is an interesting discussion regarding some charter schools Geoffrey Canada began in Harlem, serving the needs of 8,000 kids in all areas of educational and socio-economical need. He talks about the failure of preschool and kindergarten programs because an at-risk child needs that kind of support throughout their entire education, not just in the early years.
He also discusses the lack of support available in the inner cities. In upper middle class schools, when there is an act of violence – a shooting, a murder, a suicide, etc – the school provides mental health professionals the next day to help support kids who are dealing with the trauma. In poor communities, kids often see and experience violence on a regular basis – in their homes, on the streets among their friends – but there is no regular mental health support for them in the schools.
He also discusses the need for school leadership who are firm but loving, who set clear boundaries and stick to them. His staff lives in the community, and interacts with the kids even outside of school. If a teacher catches a kid fighting, even if it’s outside of school that teacher will take action. Canada believes it takes a lot of adults acting in a consistent way and going the extra mile.
It’s a fascinating program, and I plan to read Paul Tough’s book on the project, titled, Whatever It Takes.
This is the best show on television, topping even The Sopranos for me. Season 4 in particular was breathtaking – both as an amazingly written drama and as an eye opener to the issues inner city schools are facing.
One of the things Geoffrey Canada said in the above interview on Fresh Air, is kids in inner city students can’t learn algebra if they’re worried about their safety on a daily basis. This is precisely the issue The Wire takes on through the storyline of a local middle school that is filled with kids whose parents use their welfare money to buy drugs instead of groceries, who sell all the clothes donated for their children to buy drugs, and whose neighborhoods are run by drug lords that “drop bodies” on a regular basis.
Through a specially funded program, ten of the school’s most poorly behaved kids are pulled out of their classroom into a special track of learning that becomes very controversial within the school district. The program’s success becomes tangled up in a web of political fire storms and bureaucratic red tape, and it’s heartbreaking to watch kids with great potential teetering on the edge of a very distinct precipice in their lives.
In summary
These are all the things swirling around in my head lately. I’m intrigued by it all as a mother, as a neighbor, as sociology major, and as a Christ follower. What is my role? What is the government’s? What is the Church’s? How do I keep my kids grounded while raising them in an urban setting? How do I give back to my community without acting like I’m swooping in to rescue the poor black families?
Again, I don’t exactly live in The Big City, but many of these issues apply to my community, and I found these resources very educational.
Here I thought I’d be seeing more of you once school started, but as it turns out I’m actually more productive and busy when forced into a schedule.
(shut up, bryan)
(I SAID, SHUT UP!)
(okay, Bryan, you can stop laughing, now)
(*sighing*)
Also, I’ve been dealing with some health issues that leave me tired. The Fabulous Doctor is trying to figure out what’s going on. In fact, when she reads this post she’s going to pick up her phone, dial my number, and yell in my ear about how I need to get over to her office to pick up little sterile cups.
(I’ll be there this morning! I promise!)
Anyway, I had four vials of blood drawn and tested for everything imaginable. And so far? It’s a bit of a puzzle – some answers, some lingering questions. So we’ll see.
So in the end, I really can’t imagine why I took the time to write this post. And even more puzzling, I have a hard time believing any of you made it all the way down to this period right here >>>.
Thomas spent the night at a friend’s house this weekend, and I sent Bryan out to read peacefully in a quiet place far away from All That Is Undone here at the Zug Haus – which of course left Ruthie and I to ourselves for a GIRLS NIGHT IN.
I rented High School Musical from Netflix, and I think you know how that went.
Here’s what we watched on the big screen:
And here is what it did to inspire Ruthie:
I mean, I knew she would love it, but 24 hours later she has watched it – oh, I don’t know – a dozen times? And of course she has a crush on Zac Ephron, whom she affectionately refers to as The Boy.
I can’t say that I blame her. I may or may not have obsessed over his IMDB page for about 20 minutes until I realized I was a Mary Kay Letourneau After School Special waiting to happen.
Despite the fact Target has High School Musical paraphernalia throughout the store, it never occurred to me someone Ruthie’s age would be able to follow it. I just assumed it was for high schoolers. I was surprised when a friend mentioned she’d watched it with her five year old, so I thought I’d give it a try.
If you have little ones at home with Very Dramatic Tendencies, I highly recommend High School Musical.
Personally, my favorite character is Ryan, the brother from the brother/sister duo who have starred in all the school musicals since kindergarten. He’s the Niles Crane, the Kramer, the hilarious side kick who steals the show with – in Ryan’s case – very coordinated hat/shirt combinations.
I was reading through I Corinthians 13 a couple years ago, berating myself for being the Meanest Mom on the Planet, and having a hard time feeling the love Paul was intending to get across. Being that I am a list girl, I broke it down and re-wrote the passage on a piece of paper like this:
Love is… Patient
Kind
Truthful
Protecting
Trusting
Hopeful
Persevering
unfailing
Love is NOT… Envious
Boastful
Self-important
Rude
Self-seeking
Easily angered
Holder of grudges
Delighter in evil
The passage was so familiar to me it became meaningless, but when I looked at it from a different perspective, I had an ah-ha moment: I was clearly not loving my family. I can’t say this has been the magic pill to make me a better person, but it is a succinct reminder in the face of Everyday Craziness, so I taped it to the cabinet doors in my kitchen.
I shared this with a friend, who then showed me a similar list she had posted in her kitchen. I was instantly in love with the practical spin put on it, and I reworked it a little to suit my own shortcomings. It is now on the front of my refrigerator:
For more than a week I’ve been a blithering mess of tears, a knotted fist of anger, an empty bucket of failure. During this time I drafted one or two essays describing just how far beneath the dust of the earth my worth is – the kind of stuff that prompts emails from strangers begging me to go back on anti-depressants.
But I refrained from posting these essays, feeling a hunch that my plunge was either due to processing through spiritual rebellion or my out of control premenstrual hormones.
And? I this morning I started my period (sorry, guys, for the lack of warning on that one). It’s always a relief to know you are not crazy, at least not THAT kind of crazy, or at least not as MUCH of crazy as you originally thought.
I’m so not in the mood to blog anything, and I haven’t been doing much writing either. But I thought I would just mention that I am NOT a 75 year old man with gout. I saw a podiatrist on Monday and it turns out I have tendinitis, which likely developed as I overcompensated for pain due to plantar faciitis.
Wait a minute, maybe I am a 75 year old man…?
Ruthie starts full day kindergarten September 2nd and I’m simultaneously partying hard and dying inside a little. While I can’t imagine what my life will be like again with just one kid at home who sleeps for two hours every afternoon, I’m also realizing I’m setting her on a conveyor belt that will continue to eke her away from me little by little, year by year, day by day.
I’m not sure my heart can take it.
So we’ve been spending our last free days together, loving each other as we usually do – by yelling and screaming and slamming doors. Okay, you got me. There’s other stuff, too, happier stuff. Usually.
