11 years ago today, Matt and I got married. We planned a staycation (I can say that because I'm hip) this weekend. We dropped the kids off with my parents (tires squealing, gravel flying) yesterday and began our weekend of eating out, lounging by the pool and eating ice cream in the morning. Last night we went out to dinner and then went for a dip in the pool at 10 pm. 10 pm - we're just plain crazy! The moon and stars were out, which was lovely. The bug zapper was also on so we floated around to the melodious sounds of insect death. Also, we spotted a frog frantically swimming around the edge and I'd like to think he was that frantic before he noticed us stepping in sans suits. Otherwise I'd take it personally. Matt scooped out the frog and shooed him toward the grass. That's right. Skinny-dipping saves lives. I should make a plaque.
If I was a sweeter, more romantic person, I would wax eloquently about marriage and love and dedicate whole stanzas of Jay-Z/Backstreet Boys/Celine Dion songs to him and surround my words with those little black hearts, to let people know how much in love we are. But I'm not.
We drove separately last night, as Matt met me after work.
(Side note: I got my hair cut and highlighted yesterday, which I hardly ever do. I know what you're thinking - 'I'm shocked. She looks like she spends so much money and time on herself.' But I don't. The lady (well, girl really) who cut my hair combed through my 3 in roots and asked as politely as she could "Who did your hair last time?" Well, that would be me. Matt said "You should have told her some woman in Macclenny who doesn't know what she's doing.". It was a very modern place, with hair dryers that came down from a bar on the ceiling and my stylist used to be a Parisian model. After a while of talking and laughing, she said "You're so funny and nice. You're the best client because you don't care and just trust me. And you make me laugh." Aside from sounding like a dating service, I really didn't believe her because I am deeply suspicious of people who compliment me right before I tip them. And of course you would say my hair looks great - you did it.)
Anyway, after dinner I followed Matt back to our house. Only instead of getting on 95 N, he got on 95S. So, I figured he had some sort of plan or else he was disoriented after being in a shopping center for so long. I follow him onto the ramp and then notice something. Oh...shoot. I've been following a white Ford Focus instead of a white Hyaundai...whatever it is. So I drove to the next exit and turned around. I was hoping that I wasn't so late that Matt would notice but of course he had. When I got home he said "What happened? I drove slow, waiting for you to catch up. I thought about pulling over and waiting for you. I tried to call you but you left your purse in my car. I just assumed you went the wrong way or hit something." Then I was all indignant that he would assume that even though that is, in fact, what happened.
When we got up this morning (7:30 is sleeping in now. I usually wake up to Katie next to my bed saying "Noah's awake. Can I go talk to him?") I asked Matt what we were planning on doing this morning. He said "Well, I need to go to Ace and get a new breaker for the breaker box. I also need to go to the bank and the dump."
Swoon.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Paperwork and Grace
Today I spoke with a friend about the adoption. Their family is adopting from China as well, for the second time. As she listed the upcoming frustrations - the notarized papers, the exams, the fingerprints, the immigration stuff, the nickel and diming from both governments, I found myself getting discouraged. We knew this was a tough process when we began but we're pretty ignorant, so there is some happiness in that.
The fees are growing and so is the stress.
I hung up the phone and cried for a bit. I had been in the middle of reading The Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh when I got the call so the kids were asking why I was upset. I shared my frustration with them (we made a policy to bring them along, age-appropriately, on all our journeys - the adoption, youth work, spiritual battles and victories, etc). We prayed together for God to lead the way, to make the road straight before us. We prayed for the little girl who is to be our daughter and sister, we prayed for finances and for patience, for the wisdom to make decisions and for a spirit of sacrifice. Both the older kids had tears in their eyes and laid their heads on me to comfort me. Noah tried to eat a bouncy ball.
As I prayed and thought about this stress that threatens to overwhelm me, I thought about adoption. Matt and I feel like this is a mission, much like going to another country, just in our own home. And for life. Paying for adoption is paying a ransom for a child's life. A child who is born into a debt she cannot pay. She cannot pay the debt for a family, for healthcare, for food and warmth, for safety, for hope, for salvation - for love. It is an endless debt, an all-consuming debt.
Who am I to say this cost is so great when it is so ridiculously small compared to what has already been paid by Christ? My absurdity astounds me sometimes. Through this exciting time in our lives, filled with happiness and fraught with uncertainties, God is showing me good things. Things that are honest and real and deep and true and lasting. I'm so grateful for this journey He is leading us on, knowing that He continues a work He has promised to finish. Knowing that our children will see the grace being woven into their parents' lives.
I finished reading about heffalumps and woozles and stored up the sound of the kids' laughter, knowing that there are children out there who are fighting to survive and will never know the circling warmth of family, let alone enjoy the joyful adventures of Pooh and Piglet. If God uses the least of these for the greatest of things, I will count my life full of worth.
I will pay the ransom for her because Someone once paid the ransom for me. I was born with a debt. A debt of sin, a debt of death - it covered me and filled me and marked me for destruction and it is only by the grace of God am I free. Onward and upward.
The fees are growing and so is the stress.
I hung up the phone and cried for a bit. I had been in the middle of reading The Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh when I got the call so the kids were asking why I was upset. I shared my frustration with them (we made a policy to bring them along, age-appropriately, on all our journeys - the adoption, youth work, spiritual battles and victories, etc). We prayed together for God to lead the way, to make the road straight before us. We prayed for the little girl who is to be our daughter and sister, we prayed for finances and for patience, for the wisdom to make decisions and for a spirit of sacrifice. Both the older kids had tears in their eyes and laid their heads on me to comfort me. Noah tried to eat a bouncy ball.
As I prayed and thought about this stress that threatens to overwhelm me, I thought about adoption. Matt and I feel like this is a mission, much like going to another country, just in our own home. And for life. Paying for adoption is paying a ransom for a child's life. A child who is born into a debt she cannot pay. She cannot pay the debt for a family, for healthcare, for food and warmth, for safety, for hope, for salvation - for love. It is an endless debt, an all-consuming debt.
Who am I to say this cost is so great when it is so ridiculously small compared to what has already been paid by Christ? My absurdity astounds me sometimes. Through this exciting time in our lives, filled with happiness and fraught with uncertainties, God is showing me good things. Things that are honest and real and deep and true and lasting. I'm so grateful for this journey He is leading us on, knowing that He continues a work He has promised to finish. Knowing that our children will see the grace being woven into their parents' lives.
I finished reading about heffalumps and woozles and stored up the sound of the kids' laughter, knowing that there are children out there who are fighting to survive and will never know the circling warmth of family, let alone enjoy the joyful adventures of Pooh and Piglet. If God uses the least of these for the greatest of things, I will count my life full of worth.
I will pay the ransom for her because Someone once paid the ransom for me. I was born with a debt. A debt of sin, a debt of death - it covered me and filled me and marked me for destruction and it is only by the grace of God am I free. Onward and upward.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Saturday Morning Runs
Being a nurse and the mom of young children, that title could go a couple different directions.
I went for a run this morning. 3 miles, around the neighborhood. There are several reasons to run. I get time by myself, which is in short supply these days. I like anything that goes with running, the cute brightly colored shoes, the running skirts, the pictures of people running with inspirational quotes on Pinterest. And I'm improving my probably already stellar cardiovascular health. But really, the most important reason to run is that I like to say things like "Alright, I'm heading out for a run" and "Boy, my calves sure are sore from my run this morning." I make sure to say the word 'run' extra loud so that they can be sure to know that I am indeed an athletic and fit person.
When I actually run, it's not as glamorous. I run in constant fear that my shorts will burst into flames from all the friction. I have to carry my generic mp3 player since the belt clip broke off years ago (probably more from cheap material than my enthusiastic running). This is Florida in July so it's basically like running in a swimming pool of humidity.
Since this is my neighborhood, occasionally I'll see people that I know. If I happen to be walking or taking a break when I see someone, my plan is to quickly put my hands on my knees and bend over slightly, giving the impression that I've just sprinted a grueling 17 miles and must rest or my heart will explode. Sometimes I even raise one finger, to let them know I need a minute before talking. This plan hardly ever works, as I'm too busy choosing songs, pulling down my compression shorts (compression shorts riding up can not be a good sign for my legs) or staring blankly. It's hard to pretend to wheeze in an athletic way when really I'm just walking, exerting no more energy than when I try to figure out why the Justin Beiber haircut is so popular.
A friend of mine lives on the other side of the neighborhood. She runs. Like actually runs, not like what I do. She mentioned some time ago that she put 1000 miles on her shoes before they broke down and that was with all humility and simply because we were talking about running shoes. Unlike my conversations about running which sound like this:
Me: "I went running today."
Person who may be practically a stranger: "Oh, okay. Boy, it's hot today, isn't it?"
Me: "Sure is, especially when you are a runner, like me."
Person (getting visibly uncomfortable): "Yes, I'm sure. Well, see you later."
Me: "3 miles, I ran 3 miles today. I ran them. All of them."
And then I sometimes wait just in case that person decides that my accomplishment is so momentous that she decides to applaud me. Maybe even clapping for 3 minutes, one for each mile I ran.
I'm so popular.
Anyway, this morning as I was huffing along, I silently thanked my lucky stars that it's later in the morning and my friend K usually runs early, as serious runners do. Most often if I meet her around the neighborhood, I time it so that I'm taking a walking break and it looks like I'm not running at all (it's a gift). I ran around the corner to the back stretch of the neighborhood and check my mp3 player, scrolling through my songs. I probably have enough to run 5 marathons back-to-back and never hear the same song. As it is, it will take me all year to hear those songs. So I'm checking my music when I spot her, flying toward me with her perfectly trained dog. Of course, I'm walking now, of course. Then we make small talk while she gets in step beside me to jog. Not only does she run faster, so I have to, I'm also babbling away, causing me to run out of breath. Now my cheeks are all flushed with exertion and I can barely finish the inane anecdote I was telling. She looks like a Nike commercial, all fit and cute. Her ponytail evens bounces athletically behind her. When I run, I have to put my hair in Princess Lea type knots, which isn't as cute as it sounds. If I wear a ponytail, the moisture makes it look like I've strapped a pomeranian to my head.
After a few minutes I sacrifice my pride and tell her I can't run with her. So we walk for a few minutes but she's still bouncing a bit next to me, like a sports car revving idly. I imagine it's similar to Pooh Bear and Tigger going for a walk. She turns around after a bit to finish her run in the opposite direction. All right, now I can finish mine in the manner to which I've become accustomed. Down the side street, onto the long stretch that leads to my house. I stop for a moment to decide if I want to listen to J Train or Gimme Three Steps, make my selection and look up - oh, c'mon! For pity's sake, really? As she runs by, she encouragingly calls out "I think we did the same distance!"
Yes, we're exactly the same, the running goddess and me.
I went for a run this morning. 3 miles, around the neighborhood. There are several reasons to run. I get time by myself, which is in short supply these days. I like anything that goes with running, the cute brightly colored shoes, the running skirts, the pictures of people running with inspirational quotes on Pinterest. And I'm improving my probably already stellar cardiovascular health. But really, the most important reason to run is that I like to say things like "Alright, I'm heading out for a run" and "Boy, my calves sure are sore from my run this morning." I make sure to say the word 'run' extra loud so that they can be sure to know that I am indeed an athletic and fit person.
When I actually run, it's not as glamorous. I run in constant fear that my shorts will burst into flames from all the friction. I have to carry my generic mp3 player since the belt clip broke off years ago (probably more from cheap material than my enthusiastic running). This is Florida in July so it's basically like running in a swimming pool of humidity.
Since this is my neighborhood, occasionally I'll see people that I know. If I happen to be walking or taking a break when I see someone, my plan is to quickly put my hands on my knees and bend over slightly, giving the impression that I've just sprinted a grueling 17 miles and must rest or my heart will explode. Sometimes I even raise one finger, to let them know I need a minute before talking. This plan hardly ever works, as I'm too busy choosing songs, pulling down my compression shorts (compression shorts riding up can not be a good sign for my legs) or staring blankly. It's hard to pretend to wheeze in an athletic way when really I'm just walking, exerting no more energy than when I try to figure out why the Justin Beiber haircut is so popular.
A friend of mine lives on the other side of the neighborhood. She runs. Like actually runs, not like what I do. She mentioned some time ago that she put 1000 miles on her shoes before they broke down and that was with all humility and simply because we were talking about running shoes. Unlike my conversations about running which sound like this:
Me: "I went running today."
Person who may be practically a stranger: "Oh, okay. Boy, it's hot today, isn't it?"
Me: "Sure is, especially when you are a runner, like me."
Person (getting visibly uncomfortable): "Yes, I'm sure. Well, see you later."
Me: "3 miles, I ran 3 miles today. I ran them. All of them."
And then I sometimes wait just in case that person decides that my accomplishment is so momentous that she decides to applaud me. Maybe even clapping for 3 minutes, one for each mile I ran.
I'm so popular.
Anyway, this morning as I was huffing along, I silently thanked my lucky stars that it's later in the morning and my friend K usually runs early, as serious runners do. Most often if I meet her around the neighborhood, I time it so that I'm taking a walking break and it looks like I'm not running at all (it's a gift). I ran around the corner to the back stretch of the neighborhood and check my mp3 player, scrolling through my songs. I probably have enough to run 5 marathons back-to-back and never hear the same song. As it is, it will take me all year to hear those songs. So I'm checking my music when I spot her, flying toward me with her perfectly trained dog. Of course, I'm walking now, of course. Then we make small talk while she gets in step beside me to jog. Not only does she run faster, so I have to, I'm also babbling away, causing me to run out of breath. Now my cheeks are all flushed with exertion and I can barely finish the inane anecdote I was telling. She looks like a Nike commercial, all fit and cute. Her ponytail evens bounces athletically behind her. When I run, I have to put my hair in Princess Lea type knots, which isn't as cute as it sounds. If I wear a ponytail, the moisture makes it look like I've strapped a pomeranian to my head.
After a few minutes I sacrifice my pride and tell her I can't run with her. So we walk for a few minutes but she's still bouncing a bit next to me, like a sports car revving idly. I imagine it's similar to Pooh Bear and Tigger going for a walk. She turns around after a bit to finish her run in the opposite direction. All right, now I can finish mine in the manner to which I've become accustomed. Down the side street, onto the long stretch that leads to my house. I stop for a moment to decide if I want to listen to J Train or Gimme Three Steps, make my selection and look up - oh, c'mon! For pity's sake, really? As she runs by, she encouragingly calls out "I think we did the same distance!"
Yes, we're exactly the same, the running goddess and me.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
On Science and Faith
My son loves science. Specifically human anatomy (the heart especially gets him all twitterpated), astronomy and physics. Jack is analytical, focused and smart - basically the polar opposite of me (see previous post).
Much of what we read about the universe (or is that capitalized? I suppose there is only one) and physics refers to the Big Bang and evolution. I tread carefully when talking about these things with my six year old. Do I only read and share things that support my beliefs - things that are Christian? Or do I read everything and let the photons fall where they will?
When I was growing up, it was Creation at home and church, Big Bang at school. There rarely seemed a time when faith and science intersected. I remember having a question about evolution in my high school biology class and was told not to question, it was fact - not theory (well, I can't remember the exact wording. High school was a blur of acne and curled bangs). Thinking about this makes me realize I want more for my children. I want freedom to discuss, to ponder, to question, to argue. Let's read Genesis and then Origin of Species and then Darwin's Black Box and figure it out together. I have to believe that God is big enough to handle our questions, strong enough to handle our crises of faith. When Jack really became interested in these things, I bought several books. In reading The Universe, I came across the pages describing the Big Bang. I made the decision to read it aloud and not add any commentary. When I was done, Jack asked "So all this (gesturing with his arms to the backyard beyond us) came from an explosion?" I said "Yes, basically, but it began as an explosion in space and over billions of years developed into the planets, sun, and all life on Earth." He furrowed his brow and said "But that doesn't make sense. How can all this come from nothing? What caused the explosion?" So we got to discuss what we believe and why we believe it. I want to give my kids the freedom to discover things, to know that what they believe is truly what they believe and not just what I told them to believe.
One of the quite interesting subjects is particle colliders, specifically the Large Hadron Collider under the Franco-Swiss border (read about it here). Jack and I have been following the news on this since the story broke last October about neutrinos being faster than the speed of light (they're not). Recently there was quite a splash concerning the possible finding of the "God Particle" or the Higgs Boson ( Still Looking for It). It was supposed to confirm the Big Bang by providing mass to other particles. I've read a lot and am still not sure I got it (nobody's too surprised about that, right?). To me it just raises more questions. Where did the Higgs Boson come from? How did it get its mass? This growing confusion is a common theme in science. For every answer found, it creates 10 more questions. Now that I'm not reading government madated textbooks, things seem a bit more truthful. To be honest, no one really knows how exactly the Earth and life in it came to be. There are numerous theories. The carbon dating I read about in high school has quite a few problems, so does the young Earth theory, and the special theory of relativity.
What strikes me most in my reading of non-Christian science material (and not anti-Christian) is a very real sense of desperation. A true scientist is fueled by curiosity, by the pursuit of discovering the as yet unknowable. We want to know who we are, where we came from, and our place in this Universe. There is something in us that searches and hopes for something...anything, that gives us meaning and purpose. We want to know that we matter.
And the more I read the more I see that science and faith intersect quite a bit. And yet there are reasonable things that can't be explained with faith and things of the faith that are beyond reason. Believing in Creation requires faith, believing in the Big Bang requires faith. Believing in God or Allah or Zeus or nothing at all requires faith. Life itself requires faith.
For me, the sheer intricacy of creation speaks to something more. It's all so wonderfully complicated - from our bodies - to cellular design - to photosynthesis - to the laws that govern atoms - to the laws that govern space and time - to our place in the Solar System. Reading about electrons and liver function fills me with wonder. Watching my babies grow taller and speak and reason fills me with wonder. Everywhere I look the glory of the Most High seeps through and in and around.
Science can be summed up as such: Everything is fascinating and none of us, from the least to the greatest, know hardly anything.
There is a God and He knows my name.
And that is enough for me.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Poultry is Just One of My Problems
Intriguing title, no?
The other night I decided to roast a chicken. I dutifully washed and patted it dry (which always strikes me as such a tender and sweet thing to do to a dead chicken). Whenever I roast poultry, I always have a dilemma. Which side goes up? In my conversations with people, I seem to be the only person with this issue. But I stand there, patted dry chicken in my hands, contemplating how the legs look in cookbook pictures of Thanksgiving turkey. Usually in these situations, I imagine myself in the object's situation. As in, if I were my shoes - where would I be? If I were a chicken - what position would I be roasted in? But imagining myself as a dead chicken just takes me down a weird road. So I make my best guess and put the chicken in the oven. I sigh in relief as it goes in. Being a naked chicken getting ready for cooking strikes me as a very undignified thing to be. It seems so humiliating. I'm happy when the chicken is in the more respectable position of being roasted.
Soon the aroma of rosemary and lemon filled the air. It looked good, too. All nice and brown and crispy on top. I cut in and see the meat is...dark. Gosh darn it - I did it again! Roasted a bird upside down. The embarrassing thing is, I've never gotten it right. Quite a few chickens and once a 17lb turkey have ended up this way. The bottom is nice and cooked, the top (which is on the bottom) is all pale and slippery, having sat in its own juices for an hour and a half. If I were a better blogger, I would've taken a picture of my idiocy.
So I pulled the perfectly cooked drumsticks off and fed them to the kids and turned the bird upside down (you'd think I'd have a system for it by now but it's always a rushed job of potholders and salad tongs, often taking a few tries) and finished cooking it, right side up. The kids were all "We want some more chicken!" and I have to pretend that this is just part of the process. Chickens are always flipped over halfway through. Culinary masterpieces are quirky like that.
Not long after the chicken fiasco, I notice a box outside the door. It's Amazon - hooray! I'm not sure I'll ever be able to convey my joy at seeing one of those boxes. I eagerly rip it open and stare at the contents, blinking vacantly. For a good few seconds, I can't remember ordering these books.
The worst part is - it's Prime shipping! Which means I ordered these books just two days ago - two days!
Just a few minutes ago, I joined Matt and the kids outside to witness the very exciting ceremony of filling up our pond. It's not really a pond, just a cement lined hole in the ground. But it has an attractive stone waterfall thing around it. Matt had the hose filling it up. Jack was explaining that the hose wasn't quite long enough so Matt rigged up a system of rocks and angles and the hose was filling the pond up at a nice steady arc. I told Matt I wouldn't have thought of that. He said "No, you'd be filling this up one cup at a time."
Water in the trunk, chicken in the oven, books in the mail. Matt's just racking 'em up these days.
These are just the sorts of things that are red flags for patients at work. We ask orientation questions such as "What's today's date? Who's the president?" and so on. If someone asked me what side goes up when roasting a turkey or what the sound of water sloshing in a car means, I'd be in trouble. The nurse would raise her eyebrows at a co-worker over my head and they would start speaking in low, calming tones so as not to alarm me while injecting a sedative.
The chicken? The books? Whatever this means for my brain, it's not good.
Not good at all.
The other night I decided to roast a chicken. I dutifully washed and patted it dry (which always strikes me as such a tender and sweet thing to do to a dead chicken). Whenever I roast poultry, I always have a dilemma. Which side goes up? In my conversations with people, I seem to be the only person with this issue. But I stand there, patted dry chicken in my hands, contemplating how the legs look in cookbook pictures of Thanksgiving turkey. Usually in these situations, I imagine myself in the object's situation. As in, if I were my shoes - where would I be? If I were a chicken - what position would I be roasted in? But imagining myself as a dead chicken just takes me down a weird road. So I make my best guess and put the chicken in the oven. I sigh in relief as it goes in. Being a naked chicken getting ready for cooking strikes me as a very undignified thing to be. It seems so humiliating. I'm happy when the chicken is in the more respectable position of being roasted.
Soon the aroma of rosemary and lemon filled the air. It looked good, too. All nice and brown and crispy on top. I cut in and see the meat is...dark. Gosh darn it - I did it again! Roasted a bird upside down. The embarrassing thing is, I've never gotten it right. Quite a few chickens and once a 17lb turkey have ended up this way. The bottom is nice and cooked, the top (which is on the bottom) is all pale and slippery, having sat in its own juices for an hour and a half. If I were a better blogger, I would've taken a picture of my idiocy.
So I pulled the perfectly cooked drumsticks off and fed them to the kids and turned the bird upside down (you'd think I'd have a system for it by now but it's always a rushed job of potholders and salad tongs, often taking a few tries) and finished cooking it, right side up. The kids were all "We want some more chicken!" and I have to pretend that this is just part of the process. Chickens are always flipped over halfway through. Culinary masterpieces are quirky like that.
Not long after the chicken fiasco, I notice a box outside the door. It's Amazon - hooray! I'm not sure I'll ever be able to convey my joy at seeing one of those boxes. I eagerly rip it open and stare at the contents, blinking vacantly. For a good few seconds, I can't remember ordering these books.
The worst part is - it's Prime shipping! Which means I ordered these books just two days ago - two days!
Just a few minutes ago, I joined Matt and the kids outside to witness the very exciting ceremony of filling up our pond. It's not really a pond, just a cement lined hole in the ground. But it has an attractive stone waterfall thing around it. Matt had the hose filling it up. Jack was explaining that the hose wasn't quite long enough so Matt rigged up a system of rocks and angles and the hose was filling the pond up at a nice steady arc. I told Matt I wouldn't have thought of that. He said "No, you'd be filling this up one cup at a time."
Water in the trunk, chicken in the oven, books in the mail. Matt's just racking 'em up these days.
These are just the sorts of things that are red flags for patients at work. We ask orientation questions such as "What's today's date? Who's the president?" and so on. If someone asked me what side goes up when roasting a turkey or what the sound of water sloshing in a car means, I'd be in trouble. The nurse would raise her eyebrows at a co-worker over my head and they would start speaking in low, calming tones so as not to alarm me while injecting a sedative.
The chicken? The books? Whatever this means for my brain, it's not good.
Not good at all.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Plumbing Woes
Plumbing is one of those things you just don't think about much unless something is wrong. Kind of like obscure muscles that you didn't realize you even had until they're pulled and suddenly sitting down makes you scrunch up your face and make little squeaking noises. Like that.
As you know, our septic system had a major problem with that tropical storm a couple weeks ago. My dutiful and loving husband spent his nights here at the house, armed with a shop vac. I rode out the storm at my parents' house, where I battled my mom for Scrabble champion of the world and read novels. It was a very difficult time but we got through it.
Sigh of relief, followed by scream.
Last week Jack came out of the kids bathroom and calmly announced there was water on the floor. I mentally rehearsed a speech about too much toilet paper while walking over to the bathroom. I'm pretty sharp and quickly realized that it was more that a clogged toilet. Water is all over, up to the wood thing that separates the wood floor from the tile. So what does a sensible person do? Again, you're dealing with a pretty sharp crayon over here so I flushed the toilet again. You know, just to see where the water was coming from. (Yeah, I know the toilet. Quit snickering). Lo and behold, more water. Gushing out. But not from the bowl. From the tank. There is a huge crack from the bottom of the tank all the way up the corner to the top and water is pouring out. So I do what anyone of average intelligence would do and I turned off the water - I'm incredibly proud that I thought to do that. Then I pretty much sat (well, stood) there and watched the entire tank drain onto the floor.
- Side note: Later that evening, as I was recounting the saga with great emphasis on my street smarts, Matt laughingly asked why I didn't let the water fill up the bowl first and then turn off the water, thus saving myself a tank full of water to clean up. Of course, it's easy to say that after the fact. But reality is, you can't turn genius on and off, you simply wait for it to strike. It's sheer luck I remembered to do that at all and I might've been cleaning up a continuous flow of water all day.
- Side note (again): When we lived in Alaska, Matt went to Police Academy (or camp, as some youth group kids liked to call it - officers roasting marshmallows with their tasers, trading scary stories) for a few months. One day, not soon after he left, I heard some sloshing while I was driving. I thought "Huh, sounds like water" and went about my day. I'm sure I just turned up the radio to drown out the sound - problem solved! When he got home, he noticed it right away (trained observer that he is) and opened the trunk. I had been driving around for months with water in the trunk, a good bit actually. So now every argument ends with Matt throwing out "Water in the trunk" as if to say "You're so foolish, I can't continue speaking with you." He's gleefully adding this episode to his arsenal of disagreement repartees.
So Matt spent the morning of the fourth of July replacing the toilet. Right before we leave that afternoon for a calming holiday celebration, another plumbing tragedy occurred. While Matt was in our bathroom getting ready, Noah silently crept behind him, walked over to the toilet, opened the lid, threw Matt's cell phone in, and calmly closed the lid and sped out of the room. Thankfully it's a cheapo pay-as-you-go phone, what my co-workers call a 'drug dealer phone' since it can't be traced. This thing has been in its share of pools and lakes and always comes out fine. Apparently, urine is a bit of a different issue. It still works fine, after being taken apart and dried out. But there's an unsettling cloudiness ringed around the screen.
Yup, it's a pee phone.
It's like someone made a voodoo toilet and is gleefully sticking pins in it.
If it's you, please stop.
That's right. We made a house for our toddler out of
the toilet box. We're flush with class.
As you know, our septic system had a major problem with that tropical storm a couple weeks ago. My dutiful and loving husband spent his nights here at the house, armed with a shop vac. I rode out the storm at my parents' house, where I battled my mom for Scrabble champion of the world and read novels. It was a very difficult time but we got through it.
Sigh of relief, followed by scream.
Last week Jack came out of the kids bathroom and calmly announced there was water on the floor. I mentally rehearsed a speech about too much toilet paper while walking over to the bathroom. I'm pretty sharp and quickly realized that it was more that a clogged toilet. Water is all over, up to the wood thing that separates the wood floor from the tile. So what does a sensible person do? Again, you're dealing with a pretty sharp crayon over here so I flushed the toilet again. You know, just to see where the water was coming from. (Yeah, I know the toilet. Quit snickering). Lo and behold, more water. Gushing out. But not from the bowl. From the tank. There is a huge crack from the bottom of the tank all the way up the corner to the top and water is pouring out. So I do what anyone of average intelligence would do and I turned off the water - I'm incredibly proud that I thought to do that. Then I pretty much sat (well, stood) there and watched the entire tank drain onto the floor.
- Side note: Later that evening, as I was recounting the saga with great emphasis on my street smarts, Matt laughingly asked why I didn't let the water fill up the bowl first and then turn off the water, thus saving myself a tank full of water to clean up. Of course, it's easy to say that after the fact. But reality is, you can't turn genius on and off, you simply wait for it to strike. It's sheer luck I remembered to do that at all and I might've been cleaning up a continuous flow of water all day.
- Side note (again): When we lived in Alaska, Matt went to Police Academy (or camp, as some youth group kids liked to call it - officers roasting marshmallows with their tasers, trading scary stories) for a few months. One day, not soon after he left, I heard some sloshing while I was driving. I thought "Huh, sounds like water" and went about my day. I'm sure I just turned up the radio to drown out the sound - problem solved! When he got home, he noticed it right away (trained observer that he is) and opened the trunk. I had been driving around for months with water in the trunk, a good bit actually. So now every argument ends with Matt throwing out "Water in the trunk" as if to say "You're so foolish, I can't continue speaking with you." He's gleefully adding this episode to his arsenal of disagreement repartees.
So Matt spent the morning of the fourth of July replacing the toilet. Right before we leave that afternoon for a calming holiday celebration, another plumbing tragedy occurred. While Matt was in our bathroom getting ready, Noah silently crept behind him, walked over to the toilet, opened the lid, threw Matt's cell phone in, and calmly closed the lid and sped out of the room. Thankfully it's a cheapo pay-as-you-go phone, what my co-workers call a 'drug dealer phone' since it can't be traced. This thing has been in its share of pools and lakes and always comes out fine. Apparently, urine is a bit of a different issue. It still works fine, after being taken apart and dried out. But there's an unsettling cloudiness ringed around the screen.
Yup, it's a pee phone.
It's like someone made a voodoo toilet and is gleefully sticking pins in it.
If it's you, please stop.
the toilet box. We're flush with class.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
30 is the New...30, Actually.
Today is my birthday.
I've wanted to be 30 since I was about 16. Even as a teenage, I found most other teenagers silly and immature. The irony that I now work with teenagers is not lost on me.
As I approached this milestone of a birthday, I've heard that 30 is the new 20 a few times. I suppose it's meant to be a consolation. Don't worry - 30 is actually young now! As if I've cried into my pillow every night, rendering my night cream ineffective.
I had read somewhere (I'm a diligent researcher) that the most common cause of death at 30 is accident. This makes me assume that before 30 it's on purpose and after 30 it's some sort of disease, arteries clogged with grease, or a diabetic coma, or both in the case of Burger King's hot fudge sundae with bacon.
I would be most likely to get my hand caught in the washing machine or slip on a newly mopped floor. Life on the edge. (I don't mop often. Safety first.)
As it were, today is also Noah's first birthday. People smile and gush "How wonderful to share your birthday!" Someone even informed me it's better this way, as birthdays don't mean much as you get older.
Um, he stole my thunder.
I still like cake and presents.
He's just sitting here, laughing his baby laugh and hogging all the birthday glory. When he's sixteen, the tables will be turned and I will enjoy sharing my birthday (as I've heard grace comes with age) and he was be all bitter, having heard every year that I spent my 29th birthday having contractions and wiping meconium from his hair.
It's the supposed loss of our youth that makes turning 30 so grim for many people. Society would have you believe that the 20's are filled with happy drunkenness and sunning our thin bodies on tropical beaches - carcinogens be darned! The 30's are a slow march towards nursing homes, and the health of our 401k is paramount, when we're not calculating how much fiber we're consuming.
I'm pretty happy to be 30 and am almost certain this next decade will be pretty good. I didn't rush to the mirror this morning to see if any new wrinkles appeared - as a matter of fact, I rarely rush and never to the mirror. There was no crying into my vodka-gin-tonic last night, I was too busy living.
Perhaps panic will set in at some point in my life - 40? 50? Perhaps not though. If I do it right, I'll live my life with purpose, with conviction. And at the end I won't pine for the loss of mini skirts and smoky nights at loud, awkward clubs but that I don't have more days to give to the Giver of all days.
This birthday I am thinking about sacrifice. Not on the altar of youth but for those around me. To love when it costs me something. To walk beside my children when they need me, not when it's convenient. To adopt a child when it's so difficult and so costly. To befriend people when the risk of rejection is so great. To notice a hurting teen instead of my highlights growing out. To love my husband fully and deeply when everything in me screams "Me first!"
Inhale, hold, let it out in a rush. And my wish goes up with the smoke.
I've wanted to be 30 since I was about 16. Even as a teenage, I found most other teenagers silly and immature. The irony that I now work with teenagers is not lost on me.
As I approached this milestone of a birthday, I've heard that 30 is the new 20 a few times. I suppose it's meant to be a consolation. Don't worry - 30 is actually young now! As if I've cried into my pillow every night, rendering my night cream ineffective.
I had read somewhere (I'm a diligent researcher) that the most common cause of death at 30 is accident. This makes me assume that before 30 it's on purpose and after 30 it's some sort of disease, arteries clogged with grease, or a diabetic coma, or both in the case of Burger King's hot fudge sundae with bacon.
I would be most likely to get my hand caught in the washing machine or slip on a newly mopped floor. Life on the edge. (I don't mop often. Safety first.)
As it were, today is also Noah's first birthday. People smile and gush "How wonderful to share your birthday!" Someone even informed me it's better this way, as birthdays don't mean much as you get older.
Um, he stole my thunder.
I still like cake and presents.
He's just sitting here, laughing his baby laugh and hogging all the birthday glory. When he's sixteen, the tables will be turned and I will enjoy sharing my birthday (as I've heard grace comes with age) and he was be all bitter, having heard every year that I spent my 29th birthday having contractions and wiping meconium from his hair.
It's the supposed loss of our youth that makes turning 30 so grim for many people. Society would have you believe that the 20's are filled with happy drunkenness and sunning our thin bodies on tropical beaches - carcinogens be darned! The 30's are a slow march towards nursing homes, and the health of our 401k is paramount, when we're not calculating how much fiber we're consuming.
I'm pretty happy to be 30 and am almost certain this next decade will be pretty good. I didn't rush to the mirror this morning to see if any new wrinkles appeared - as a matter of fact, I rarely rush and never to the mirror. There was no crying into my vodka-gin-tonic last night, I was too busy living.
Perhaps panic will set in at some point in my life - 40? 50? Perhaps not though. If I do it right, I'll live my life with purpose, with conviction. And at the end I won't pine for the loss of mini skirts and smoky nights at loud, awkward clubs but that I don't have more days to give to the Giver of all days.
This birthday I am thinking about sacrifice. Not on the altar of youth but for those around me. To love when it costs me something. To walk beside my children when they need me, not when it's convenient. To adopt a child when it's so difficult and so costly. To befriend people when the risk of rejection is so great. To notice a hurting teen instead of my highlights growing out. To love my husband fully and deeply when everything in me screams "Me first!"
Inhale, hold, let it out in a rush. And my wish goes up with the smoke.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The Pursuit of Happiness
Imagining my kids as adults (which I do more and more as they get older) makes me think about my parenting. What's my goal? What am I doing today that pays into that goal? So, so many parents in my generation say the same thing "Whatever they do, I just want my kids to be happy." This strikes me as a kind, benevolent thought but incredibly shallow and unrealistic. There are a few things out there in this direction but at least Google has a ton of books and articles and forums all directed at raising happy kids. We want them to enjoy what they do all the time and to graduate from an Ivy League and not have to struggle for one minute of one day. I don't know about you, but if I did what made me happy all the time, my life would be, well, crap. I wouldn't have a marriage, at least not a good one. Having kids? Forget about it. My idea of a good time doesn't involve stretch marks and multiple babies blessed with the enormous Putney head.
This won't shock my kids in the least, but I don't really want them to be happy. Happiness is fleeting, along with beauty and a bladder that stays clamped when you laugh. People do all kinds of selfish things in the name of happiness and they end up sad and bitter.
What do I want for my kids?
For my little sprite of a daughter:
I wish you joy. I wish you contentment. In whatever life God leads you into. Whether you walk the runways of Paris or mop the bathrooms at Shell. If marriage is in your lineup, I wish you a strong one. One with laughter that makes you breathless and tears that make you closer to each other. One that is built on something more lasting than passion and lust. I wish you a husband who enjoys you and kisses you on the nose and cries with a deep, unspeakable joy when your children are born. I wish you the patience to mop the same floor day after day (Fine! week after week) and to fold the same clothes. I wish I could take away all the insecurities about your body that will you one day face. But I can't. And maybe it's for the best anyway. You will realize it's the pursuit of God in you that makes you beautiful. And I hope you realize it before you chase down your youth in the form of overpriced jeans and collagen lip treatments.
For my sons, one quite serious about life and one who wakes up laughing:
I wish you joy. I wish you contentment. In whatever life God leads you into. Jack, if you do become a cardiologist, I wish you steady hands and a healthy dose of humility. If life turns out differently, I wish you the foresight to change direction and listen to His voice, not your own. For you both, I wish you the maturity to be men when it's easier to stay boys. If you get married, I wish you kind wives. Wives that support you and find you adorable, even after 30 years of marriage. Wives that think their mother in law is the best person they've ever met. I wish you a servant heart, one that empties the trash without being asked and slows its steps to match a toddler's. I wish you integrity and courage, to pay your taxes and love your families, even if you're not happy with either.
Happiness? Eh. That feeling scampers off after the last present is unwrapped or your favorite restaurant is closed unexpectedly. Doing the will of God? Ah, that's something completely different. And that feeling? It puts its roots down deep, in a place where weather and parties and mirrors cannot reach.
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