Eyeballs, Games, and Friends of an Avian Persuasion

Well!  What a week.  It's November, which means my thoughts have turned pie-ward, one of my very favorite -wards.  Adelaide and I have already begun our pie-plotting, strategizing which of us will make which pies, and trying to figure out how many pies is too many pies.  (The limit does not exist.)

Speaking of Adelaide, she had her first appointment with the pediatric ophthalmologist.  Everyone in the office was very kind, which we appreciated, even if getting her eyes dilated is not Daughter's favorite thing.

The woman who put the drops in warned us that it often takes 8-10 hours for pupils to return to normal after dilation, but because Adelaide has lighter-colored eyes, it would most likely take longer.  Adelaide and I both wondered why the heck this was, and naturally, Dr. Google had an answer:  The darker your eye color, the more melanin is present in your eye (which I knew), and that melanin acts a kind of filter (which I did not know!), so people with less melanin in their eyes- those with lighter-colored irises- are usually affected more quickly and for longer periods of time than those with more melanin.  Fascinating!  

Other than learning about melanin and its effects on dilation, the doc gave us a course of action for Adelaide's eyes.  We have cheapo glasses on the way (cheapo because we don't know how long she'll be in these before possibly changing to a different kind-- zenni.com, friends who want cheap glasses), and an MRI scheduled for next week to slap down the troubling red flags raised by her combination of symptoms.  I was still a little freaked out after the appointment, but God put my own personal Florence Nightingale (except she goes by Jessie) in my path who told me exactly what to do and where to make the appointment and where to get the cheapo glasses.  I swear to you nurses could achieve world domination if they weren't so busy saving the rest of us rubes.

Two of the kids had parent teacher conferences.  We found this on Atticus's locker and it was all I could do to maintain my composure.  Thankfully I had our son's face staring up at me; seven-year-old boys don't exactly appreciate their mothers embarrassing them at school with tears.

I kept it together.  Barely.

We've maintained our wild lifestyle with this week's game de rigueur, Mancala.

I really thought the boys were too young to grasp how the game is played, but Derek taught them and I was proven wrong, which really is nice sometimes.  They even managed to sneak a game in this morning before school.  You know you love something when you ask to play it at 7 a.m.

We've been entertaining a distinguished visitor to our hydrangea bush.  

I am alerted to his presence not by anything as bourgeois as a doorbell; no, only a Caedmon will do, who cries out in delight anytime his new friend is near.

Caedmon never misses an opportunity to educate the ignorant on the way of the Calvin and the Hobbes.  The cardinal seems to be a willing student.

I hope you all had a wonderful, wonderful week, full of your own versions of Mancala and cardinals, but hopefully noticeably devoid of pupil dilation.

Hu-mi-di-ty

Thankfully for you guys, Derek's dad came over yesterday and fixed our dishwasher, which wouldn't drain, took out our old kitchen faucet whose hot water handle broke off about a year ago and swapped it with a new one, and fixed our broken garbage disposal- it had a corn cob skewer jammed in its innards (hashtag Iowa probs).  Because of this, I'm beginning to think my father-in-law is a wizard, making our kids only around 75% muggle, yay!

All of this means that instead of two things to complain to you about today, I only have one.  That thing is, of course, humidity.

Some things you may not know about humidity:

• It makes you want to die.
• It is worse than craving a BLT but finding there is no bacon in the house.  WHO ATE ALL THE BACON?
• It is actually a higher-level demon, beloved great-uncle to Wormwood.
• Its favorite haunt is along paths that enjoy heavy foot traffic, where its wet fingers reach up from the ground and pull pedestrians to the ground.  This is why you feel the insatiable urge to stop completely and stretch flat-out on the ground when it is humid.  Scientific fact.  (Hey, this is the internet, where apparently I can say any crazy thing I want, and the following will happen:  People will believe it---They will experience absurd outrage---They will lose their minds---They will open their pie holes to vent their spleen, not realizing how embarrassed they should be.  I know this because I have seen it 4,921 times this week.)

I blame humidity for my last ten runs, all of which felt way harder than they should have.  I've tried running well before the sun came up, I've tried running with a full water bottle, I've tried running hills in the morning well after the sun came up.  (Almost died.  Good times.)  I'm still not entirely sure why God didn't grant me autonomy over the humidity thermostat (humidistat?)- a simple oversight on His part, I'm sure- because running in 99% humidity is less like running and more like stumbling around while a wet blanket smothers you.  This weather is fit only for mold and maybe cigars, I keep telling God, not humans, but He just unplugs my extension when I start up that old line again.

Related:  Does anyone else sometimes picture God as one of those old-timey telephone operators sitting in front of a bank of cords, plugging and unplugging people's prayers?  I think this anytime I've been asking for the same thing for awhile- like He sees my extension light up, sighs and plugs it in, wincing to hear my voice, tinny and wheedling, "So, was that a 'no,' then?  'Cause it's starting to feel like a 'no,' and I just don't think..."

"Yes, you've reached God, this is God speaking."

One last question:  Do you think "humidity" is a valid excuse to have ice cream for supper?  Asking for a friend.

The Mystery in the Cathedral

(Despite the sound of that title, I saw zero Nancy Drews in the Cathedral of St. Paul.)



Let me begin by saying this:  I am not Catholic.  I was not raised Catholic.  Yes, the pope and I are best one-sided friends, but there are many things I don't understand about Catholicism.

Like this:

Now.  Have there been times when, all other disciplinary measures having failed, I have sprayed water our on children, chanting, "THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!"?  But of course!  Sometimes the only thing that will do is a good old-fashioned exorcism.  I'm pretty sure I read that in The Happiest Baby on the Block.  

Seriously, though, sisters of mine, what on earth is this for?  Is this one of those things I didn't even knew I needed until I had it, like my bendable cutting mats or good, warm socks?  Is this for cooking the best, most pasta-y pasta this side of heaven?  Am I going to hell for joking about this?  

Fortunately I wasn't quite so befuddled by all the wonders contained within the Cathedral.  I may not go to the kind of church that houses massive statues of the doctor, but I still understand this one.  I think.

Not The Doctor, of course- Dr. Luke.  OH, OH, OH, UNLESS... no.  I have tip-toed uncomfortably close to blasphemy already in this post.  I will restrain myself from suggesting that the gospel writer Luke and Doctor Who are one and the same person.

It's true- we don't have any of this fun statuary in my church.  Or, hang on, whaddayoucall'em- shrines, I think.  Is that right, my Catholic brethren?  Shrines, correct?

Whatever they are, I enjoyed the heck out of them.  Partially because they were so beautiful, so impressive, but also because most contained elements I wouldn't have expected.  

Take the above photo- is that a pegasus there on the bottom right, next to Luke?  I don't really remember reading about a pegasus in the book of Luke, or in any of the gospels, to be perfectly honest, which is really a shame.  Was this a strange whim of the sculptor ("You know what this disciple needs?  More pegasi.")?  Or is this yet another mystifying Catholic thing?  Do you unlock the mystery of the pegasus when you're going through Catholic confirmation classes?  Because in the Lutheran ones the most mysterious thing ever discussed was the Office of the Keys, which, after nine years of Lutheran school and two years of Lutheran catechism classes, I still can't tell you exactly what that dang thing is.  It just sounds cool. 

My questions about this one were answered by the tour guide:

I took these photos before the guided tour, and I may or may not have discovered the unfortunately impressive acoustics in the Cathedral when I snorted aloud at this picture of Catholic story time:

"Goodnight light, and the red balloon."

I was taught during the tour that these are Saints Cyril and Methodias (don't ask me which one's which, they're like those identical twins you went to school with, where you could never quite remember if Mandy or Mindy was the one with long hair, except with beards here, I guess), as in the Cyrillic alphabet.  I've decided that until they name an entire alphabet and its associated language after me, I should probably forfeit the right to make fun of them.  This notion was followed by some pretty intense guilt, which they apparently pump right into the air in these places.

Unlike the rest of the shrines, however, I knew this guy the moment we made crazy-eyed contact:

Oh, John the Baptist, with your hair toga-thing and your steady diet of locusts.  

"AAAAUGH!"

It's a little frustrating to look at these photos now, because they really don't give you any sense of the scale of this place.  It's massive, that dome up there soaring some 186 feet above the ground.  

It's the same with the stained glass.  The Cathedral's just dripping with it, but you're not experiencing the incredible play of light and color through them unless you're there.  

And while I may not be Catholic, I'm Lutheran enough to know that you don't just sashay up to the altar to walk your dirty little sinner's fingers all over everything, something a lady in our small tour group started to do, prompting two other women and I to audibly gasp and the kind elderly gentleman who was our tour guide to do a kind of, "UBUGUHGGG-D-D-DON'T GO UP THERE!  *Ahem* Excuse me, you are permitted to walk behind the screens to view the shrines, but please don't approach the altar."  It was a moment.

I just loved the whole thing- the beauty, the incredibly knowledgeable tour guide, the insane amount of detail, the shrines, all of it.  Makes me want to put stained glass in one of our windows, and maybe one of those bathtub shrines you bury in the dirt in our backyard.  Probably exactly what the architects of the Cathedral had in mind.  

Five Things Friday

• It's been one of those weeks, hasn't it?  Everywhere you turn, terrible, terrible things are happening, and then, when you're still reeling from the news, people start saying the most moronic, the most utterly hateful things and then have the gall to call it capital-T Truth, because apparently you get to do that when you're a Christian blogger and there is no end to your finger-pointing and your ugly, disturbing pride.  I see this man's blog shared and liked by well-meaning Christian acquaintances all over social media, and even though I know it's going to make me so angry stars bust across my vision, I do it.  I click through and I read.  Then I go on and on and on about it to Derek who eventually asks, "Why were you reading this guy's blog again?" and I have to say "I DON'T KNOW."  

I ended up spending waaaay too much mental energy on the whole thing, but thankfully I had the two Ann's to pull me out of the fury twister I was riding; both wrote beautiful pieces on mental illness and Christ and suicide and compassion.  (Actually it's Anne and Ann- I think I've made it clear how important spelling is to me.)  I encourage you to click on their correctly spelled names and read what they had to say.

• I have seen one, I repeat, ONE, Japanese beetle this year.  According to the Iowa Gardener, this is because of our last brutally cold winter; it killed most of the larvae happily sleeping in our soil (now millions of tiny corpses, MUAHAHAHA), and the large amounts of rain we got in the spring drowned out the rest.  Hal-lay-loo-yer and pass the basil that hasn't been eaten alive by beetles this year.

• This was our last full week of summer vacation.  School begins next Wednesday.  Adelaide is mostly ready.  Atticus is pensive.  I am saying what I say every summer:  "Hmm.  Homeschooling is suddenly very, very attractive."  Caedmon still believes he will soon be attending preschool, because he's three and when he says, "I am Batman," in his mind he is Batman, so why shouldn't "Adelaide's going to third grade, Atticus is going to Kindergarten, and I'm going to preschool!" likewise work?  Never mind that I've spent the last four months telling him he has a whole 'nother year before preschool- I'm just the Mother, what do I know?

• This week has been a good running week.  Not too hot, not too humid, and my various injuries have finally shut themselves up enough for me to run, run, run. 

I appreciate this all the more because this summer was the summer that I realized I'm not 21 anymore, and when my old lower back injury flares or my shin splints make themselves known I don't just get to elevate a foot or apply a heating pad for an evening; nooo, I have to rest and ice and coddle these high maintenance body parts for days on end before they'll give me so much as a couple miles.  Let's not forget about the asthma attacks, either, one that started to hit me when I was four miles from home and turned legitimately scary- and honestly, I don't scare easy when it comes to these two divas that I call lungs- I imagine the home that they have made in my rib cage to be some sort of Liberace-meets- the creator of the Bedazzler monstrosity, and they have one whole wall with different velvet knotted ropes hanging, each with each own placard:  "the gut," "the throat," "the skin," and on and on, and when they pull on each they make its subsequent organ break out in hives or swell or do a peristaltic boogie and Dance, Monkey, Dance.  I realize that it's my immune system that's really the problem, here; it's just that I've long thought of my lungs as my own personal mental whipping boy.  They're not to be trusted, and I'm sure they feel the same way about me.
I do try to keep in mind that even when All The Parts are hurting All at The Same Time, I still don't feel as bad as I did in my third trimester of my pregnancy with Caedmon, when my body said, "You want another pregnancy?  Okay, lady, I'm going to pregnancy symptom you TO DEATH."  This is why I laughed so hard when I first saw this on Pinterest a couple weeks ago:

I feel like that cat's face is the mental face I'm making half my waking hours.  Somehow Derek didn't find this photo as funny as I did (I roar every time I see it)- but then, he's never been pregnant.

• I couldn't think of a fifth thing in the three minutes I have to finish this post, so I called upon Adelaide in my hour of need, and here's what she's happy about right this second:

"Back To School Night is only three days from today, and school is only five days from today."  It's almost like she wants to leave me.  

"Mom?" "What?" "Mom?" "What?" "Mom?" "WHAT?"

We were all gone for the past week, Derek and I to South Carolina and the kids to their grandparents' house.  I have lots and lots of stories and photos to share, several days' worth, unless I get tired of talking about it and abruptly stop posting.  Actually, that sounds more like me, so just in case, I have to tell you this:  I had Nutella-flavored gelato in Charleston.  I am a changed woman.  Swoon.

Rather than starting at the beginning, I'll begin at the end and tell you what it's been like since we got back.  No, it hasn't been the re-entry hell that so often accompanies a return to home and routine, but it has given me fresh ears to hear the incessant, I'm talking NON-STOP questions our children ask.  One day, while we were away, Derek and I called his parents to talk to the children.  The first thing his mom said to me was, "How many times a day do you say, 'What?'?"

It's true.  Our three children could teach graduate level courses on interrogation (verbal interrogation; the state of Iowa frowns on juvenile waterboarding), and sadly, I have only myself to blame.  When Adelaide was little and I was still a naive, fresh-faced mother I decided I would encourage inquisitiveness, and answer every question I could to the absolute best of my ability.  Then we had Atticus and I was still adorably quixotic and encouraged still more questions- "How else will they learn?" I chirped.

Two years later we had Caedmon, I arrived at my current state of chronic befuddlement, and the questions kept coming, times a million, because answering a child's question is like blowing on a seeding dandelion- a hundred more are spawned from a single breath.  I am eager and enthusiastic for right about one hour every morning, then I become like that horse I rode at 4-H camp: old and sway-backed, sleep-walking my way through the trail, relentlessly chased by my children's need to know how absolutely everything ever created works and why.

We were reunited with our darling children Saturday morning.  By Saturday evening, I was spent.  I had answered more questions than Google.  I readied the little'uns for bed, jammies, teeth-brushing, the works.  I read them a bible story, one about Jesus healing a blind man.  I attempted to frame intelligent answers to thoughtful questions:  "What's a Pharisee?"  "Where's Judea?"  "Can blind people open their eyes?"  "So even Jesus's spit was holy?  What about his snot?  Could his snot heal the owie on my knee?"  "Was Jesus's human body divine, too?  Or was it God dwelling in it that made it holy?"

And so it was that I found myself saying "NO MORE JESUS QUESTIONS," and not feeling even a tiny bit guilty about it, because I have since found that saying, "I don't know- you should ask God when you get to heaven," defers a full quarter of their questions.  I do feel a tiny bit guilty about that, because they have a lot of questions saved up already.  God's not going to know what hit him when these children of ours show up.  He'll have to create a new heavenly department, headed up by an angel incapable of developing headaches.

Maybe Five Things Fridays?

A while back I stumbled across a blog who regularly has posts entitled "5 Things"- if I remember right, five things she currently loves.  I did not bookmark or otherwise write the name of this site down in any way, assuring myself that I would remember, because it would appear that I will never learn.  I loved the idea of this "5 Things," because it's in a list format (lists!) and encourages gratitude, something I can always use to combat my inner cranky old woman.  Because I can't find this blog now, if anyone has any idea what blog originally had this idea, I would like to know so I can give credit where it's due.

So!  Onward!

Five Things For Which I'm Currently Grateful:

• T-shirt Capes!  I found this idea on Pinterest, and I loooove it because it was cheap (Goodwill t-shirts) and took right about a minute per shirt.  Our boys are currently in the grip of an all-consuming passion for superheroes, which means I'm asked to tie their beach towels around their necks as makeshift capes approximately four dozen times a day.  But no more- these slip on and off easily without my help, praise the good Lord.  

Adelaide also got to pick a shirt out at Goodwill, and she chose the red cardigan, which is 1000x sparklier than the above photo lets on.  Once we were home, she instructed me to cut off the sleeves (which you also can't see in the photo), so that the cardigan became a vest with detachable sleeves, which naturally allowed her to become Firegirl, who appears to shoot fire at any and all ne'er-do-wells.  

• Mild summer weather.  We're enjoying 70-degree days, which makes it criminal to spend any time indoors at all- matter of fact, I'm typing this on the front porch.  The Japanese beetles have yet to appear, the humidity has finally gone down, and it is gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.  This is the type of weather and time of year I try to keep in mind when I spend day after frozen, snowy day trapped in the house and staring forlornly out my kitchen window throughout our long Iowa winters.  

No, Adelaide is not engaged in an impressive-looking yoga pose; she's coloring with chalk while I type on the porch and Viktor watches over us all (see him there, in the background on the left?  Our ever-vigilant viking Viktor).  

Speaking of Adelaide, she just found out her name means "noble, kind," and she is pissed, not to mention royally jealous of Derek and Atticus's shared middle name, simply because it means "dark warrior."  I'm grateful for her, too, so I can include it in this list.

• This book:

One Thousand Gifts:  A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are by Ann Voskamp.  I've spoken to a number of women who couldn't really get into it because of claims like "it's too flowery" and "just not really my style."  While I can certainly see what they're saying, I am loving this book, possibly because I'm treating it like a devotional, so I only read two to three pages per day.  I'm finding more meaning and connection to God in the smallest moments of my day because of this book, and where some have called Voskamp's style of writing "flowery," I think it's poetic and beautiful.  I'm only about halfway through because I've been taking it soooo slooooowly, which is really hard for me- I've had to bank several urges to race ahead- but I think it's definitely the way to read this book, at least one time through- maybe after you speed-read it the first time, if you just can't help yourself.

• Flowers.  (OF COURSE.)  The peonies are just about done, but the blue delphinium and various colors of poppies I just planted are blooming already (every time I see the poppies I have no choice but to croon, "Poppies.  Poppies will put them sleep," a la everyone's favorite wicked witch) and the yarrow is just starting to show its colors.  I also had one of the iris my grandma dug up for me last summer finally bloom:

She described them as "bronze-colored," which pegs their color just about perfectly, although they look a little more peachy in this photo.

• We finally got rid of the ants that have been plaguing our house for weeks now.  They do their level best to invade our living space every spring, but this year they just wouldn't go away.  I finally found this recipe for homemade ant-killer via a google search (ten spoonfuls of jelly plus half a spoonful of borax- which we already had; it's one of our laundry soap ingredients- mix well, spoon into bottle caps and set around your house wherever you've seen ants), and it was one of those things that, while I was doing it, I was just sure that it was a mindless prank that some idiot with too much time on his hands put on the internet just to see who'd fall for it and put blobs of jelly all over their house to drive away sugar-loving insects.  But it worked!  I did it two days ago, and have only seen one ant in that time, as opposed to the entire ant families who were not-so-subtly trying to claim some kind of squatter's rights.  I'm super grateful for this one.

Fee Fi Fo Fum

Last week when I went to put in my garden, I discovered something peculiar.

I decided that these were not the Commander Hybrid Zucchini seeds their package advertised; no, surely seeds as blue and sparkly as these would grow into, if not a beanstalk reaching into the heavens, at least a glittery shrub or a tree that only produces bedazzled fruit.  So far the seedlings that are coming up look suspiciously ordinary, not a gem in sight.  (Note:  Do yourself a favor and DO NOT do a google image search for "bedazzled zucchini."  The internet is a strange place, y'all.)  Raise your hand if you suspect these are the kind of seeds God used to plant the Garden of Eden.  And yes, I realize he spoke it all into existence, but the image of God hoeing rows in a divinely tidy garden, pausing every so often to glance down in annoyance at the hem of his soiled robe- well, it really tickles me.  No worries, though, he'd just say "CLEAN" or something and the stains would evaporate.  They didn't have Oxiclean back then, you know.

What has happened to this post?  Hijacked yet again by God and gardens.

Does anyone have any legitimate knowledge about why these seeds look this way?  Not that my theories are completely implausible or anything.  You were so helpful yesterday- that mystery white flower is columbine!  (Thanks, Common Household Mom and Cassi Renee!)  I confirmed it today by going by the flower stand I bought them from, and sure enough, there they were.  I celebrated by picking up some Clementine Dark Purple and Clementine Blue varieties of columbine, because I thought the white looked awfully lonely, didn't you?

In other, scarcely related gardening news:  Hyacinth-wise, I had a terrible year.  The Midnight hyacinths came back for their third or maybe it's fourth year, but they looked as if they were doing so under protest.  Scraggly and wilted-looking from the first day they bloomed, I do believe it's time to yank them out.  I had five promising-looking shoots whose photo I'm pretty sure I optimistically posted about a month ago, but as it turns out, I didn't plant them in a sunny enough location; the iris and hostas around them grew up and over them enough to block their much-needed sunlight.  They never did flower, nor did all but one of the hyacinths I planted next to the steps of the front porch.  Again, not enough sunlight.  I might try to dig those up and put them somewhere else, see if they'll do anything next spring.

My lone flowering hyacinth of the year.  I did love its peach color.

The tulips and hyacinths by our front porch were so underwhelming this year I was anxious to get some color out there, so I got the big container done as soon as I was sure we were done with the evil flower-killer that is frost:

I was a little surprised at myself, adding those yellow Gerbera daisies; I generally find Gerberas to be fickle and high maintenance, and since I don't truck with divas, even the flowering variety, I usually avoid them except for maybe a sneer thrown their way when I'm in the nursery picking out my easy-going petunias and lantana (which I have yet to find this year).

Now I'm off to go plant the new columbine.  I'll be sure to talk to them about making new friends and not leaving anyone out, and warn them against those awkward ice breaker games everyone's forced to play when forming a new group.  (Hey, have I ever told you guys about the time I went to a Mom's group at my church in Connecticut, somehow got seated at a table with Rich Connecticut Women, but somehow couldn't find anything in common with them during the get-to-know-you game that consisted of the instructions "Find something everyone at your table has in common, and no cheating with things like blue eyes and nose jobs!"  I have no idea why we couldn't find any common ground, what with their suggestions consisting of things like, "Okay, who has at least four fireplaces in their house?  Well, what about just three?" and "We all went to Tuscany within the last year, right?"  Meanwhile I'm there like, "I live in a 600-square-foot condo and I know I'm in a church but I'm pretty sure even Jesus would have a hard time loving on all of you."  Good times.)  

Perspective

I didn't post yesterday.  Sue me.  I didn't feel well.

Actually, this cold that has zapped all my energy got me to thinking.  Maybe it's just me, but when I'm not feeling so great or am just having a less than stellar day, it's pretty easy to go down a woe is me, it's my pity party and I'll cry if I want to-kind of path.

Then I remember that I can't stand whiny people, which means I can't be whiny, because I also can't stand hypocrites, so I play a little game with myself.


Generally before bedtime, Derek or I will read Atticus and Adelaide a little snippet from their VeggieTales devotional.  Every once in a while, however, I like to mix things up a bit, and I'll read from Little Visits With God, a book I remember well from my childhood.  In addition to having a slightly different tone from VeggieTales, it was first published in the 1950's, so it has a different perspective, as well.

A while back, I opened Little Visits at random, found an illustration of a smiling boy in a wheel chair, was intrigued, and decided that would be our devotional for the evening.  An excerpt:

"A woman was coming down the sidewalk, pushing a wheel chair.  In it sat a little boy who couldn't walk.  He couldn't even move his hands very much.  He had had polio.  But he was smiling all the time.
     'Look at that boy; he's always smiling,' said Allan.
     'I'd cry if I couldn't walk,' said his sister Margie.
    "But he's doing right by smiling,' said Allan.  'Don't you remember what our minister said about being happy all the time? 'Be glad in the Lord always.' That's a Bible verse.'"

The story continues a bit about remembering Jesus' sacrifice and what it means to be glad in the Lord.  It reminds me a bit of that children's song and game "Count Your Blessings," where basically you name ways you're fortunate and blessed to get your mind off your own petty troubles.

That's the game I play with myself:  "Count Your Blessings."  Although I usually call it "Shut Up, You Big Sissy."

Sometimes you have to be firm.




 

Make Lists, Not Anorexia

Are you trying to figure out what that title means?  Me, too.

I was going to post a random list today- because, you know, I love lists- and it occurred to me that I especially love to make lists when the rest of my life is somewhat disorderly.  It's like my way of creating a small amount of order in my life.

Then it occurred to me that eating disorders often start the same way: as a way of establishing control in one's life- "Hey, I may not be able to control much of anything in my life right, but at least I can still control my body!"

So what I think I'm saying is that you should make a list if you need to assert your control.  Lists good, eating disorders bad.


Jeez, someone get me a muzzle.  Or, you know... something that locks my fingers together to keep me from typing.  SAVE ME FROM MYSELF.


Let's just start the list, shall we?

• Adelaide hates the 1st grade.  I'm not sure what to do about it.  She seems to be performing just fine on an academic level, but every day she comes home unhappy.  And cranky.  And takes it out on her brothers, which seems to make them feel like we could do with one less female in the family.  I'll probably write a longer post about this topic soon, but right now, I'm pretty much at a complete loss as to what to do for her.  Ideas, anyone?

• I recently read a statistic that the average American checks out 7 items per year from their local public library.  Really?  Only seven?  And apparently the month of September is "Get a library card" month.  People need to be told to get a library card?  That whole article made me feel depressed, and defeated, and a little disbelieving.  Seven?  That can't be right.  I feel like if people would just walk in and see everything their local library had to offer, they'd be there a lot more often.  Things like Books! DVD's!  Free internet access!  Book clubs!  Story time!  Newspapers!  Smart people!

• Speaking of which, it's Banned Books Week!  While I understand the need to censor certain books for certain people (there are books that we don't allow in our house, so our family does, in effect, ban books), it's hard for me to read the vast lists of books that have both been banned in the past and are currently being banned, because some of them are such great books, and some of the reasons for doing so are so stupid.  To Kill a Mockingbird is one of the most banned books of all time, and it's one of my very favorites.  And while I'm not surprised to see Harry Potter on the list I can't help but think, Really?  REALLY?

• For some reason I've been reading more nonfiction than usual lately.  I recently read Strength In What Remains, about a young man who witnessed the start of the civil war and subsequent genocide in his native country of Burundi, and somehow managed to escape to the US, where he began the difficult climb from the very bottom of the socioeconomic ladder in New York City all the way up to medical school.  Before that, I read a book about the American ambassador who lived in Berlin in the years just before WWII.  Both books had very difficult scenes to read and described some truly heinous atrocities.  It was in the middle of one part of Strength In What Remains where the fleeing young man witnesses a rebel soldier throwing a baby into a pyre with one hand and eating a corn cob with the other that my stomach rolled and I began thinking about all the horrible sins perpetrated in WWII and in other genocides, and it occurred to me that the terrible weight of all those and every single sin in history combined is what Jesus had to knowingly bear when he went to the cross for us.  It makes me feel disgusted with the human race and simultaneously uplifted to know that He loves us that much.

• We got a postcard in the mail letting Derek know that "It's time to get your vision checked!"  Oh, and it's from the eye doctor he saw one time IN CONNECTICUT.  They've somehow managed to track us through four moves across three states, because we're still getting regular postcards from them.  They should give tips to the CIA.  Because, you know, I'm sure the CIA has trouble with that kind of thing.

• I got a text from my sister yesterday saying that her daughter (my sweet niece Charlotte) is thisclose to crawling, except for one pesky leg that just won't cooperate- so all she can do right now is crawl in circles.  Which gave Derek and I a good laugh.

• And here's my other niece, Vada, the blondest and rolliest baby ever.  (Maybe not ever.  But definitely in this post.)

And I haven't seen either one of them in MONTHS.  (Well, it's been about a month.  But that's a long time in baby land!)

The end.

A Letter To The Birthday Boy

Dear Caedmon,

Today you are two.

It's incredible for me to think back to a time, just a little over two years ago, when I was a little bit scared of you.  Well, maybe not of you, but of what you were going to do to our family.

Close to three years ago, we were a family of four.  We had one little girl, we had one little boy.  We already had one of each- what more could we possibly need?

Then I found out I was pregnant with you.  As the months passed, I got more and more freaked out.  Not by any of the labor and delivery stuff, or even the baby stuff- I had already had two babies; I was a seasoned pro.  No, what scared me was the thought of having three small children.  Atticus would still be one when you were born, Adelaide had recently turned four.  I felt like I was barely keeping it all together as it was- how on earth could I handle all that plus another baby?  I was a little bit torn:  happy because, hey- a baby!  I love babies!  But also a tiny bit resentful at how much I knew you were going to mess up my carefully balanced world.

Then, on September 21, 2010, you were born.  It was a blessedly uneventful labor and a blessedly uneventful delivery.  You were healthy and perfect, and we were thrilled.  You nursed like a champ, and we loved you instantly.

You also started crying.  And didn't stop for three months.

Oh, Caedmon.  Those first few months were rough.  Atticus turned two soon after you were born, and really began testing us- normal, two-year-old developmental stuff, but still draining for your Daddy and me.  Adelaide was a pre-schooler and a pretty easy little girl, but still young enough to need help with most everything.  And there you were, our colicky baby, screaming to be heard over all that.

Going from one to two kids had been a pretty smooth transition for us.  Adelaide was two and a half when Atticus was born, but was relatively mature, and a pretty docile little kid.  Having two kids turned out to be pretty easy.  Having three was not.

I remember having to swallow my anger when, time after time, people would well-meaningly say to me, "The baby weight just falls off of you, doesn't it?  You're so lucky."  And I'd think, Yes, it's amazing how easily it falls off when you spend every evening running around and around the house, doing hundreds of squats a day, just to keep your colicky baby from crying all the time.  How fortunate for me.

Because you, my son, were not an infant who liked to be stationary.  I couldn't just bounce you around, I had to do what amounted to squats and plies to pacify you.   And walking around the house?  Forget about it.  You required me to lope around the circle that makes up the first floor of our house, somewhere between a jog and a run in order for you to stop crying.

To be fair, you weren't the worst colicky infant I'd ever been around.  You had your quiet, peaceful moments.  They were just hard to remember when you wouldn't stop crying every evening.


Sometime around the three to four month marker, however, something changed.  You changed.  You went from this fussy, high-maintenance infant to a sweet, gurgling, engaging baby boy.  And you haven't looked back.

Because you, my boy, are a joy.  You are pure, unfiltered joy to this family.  I miss you when you're upstairs taking a nap.  I feel sorry for people who haven't met you.  I could spend all day with you in my lap, just breathing you in.

You love your Daddy.  We can't go up or down the stairs without you insisting we stop so that you can kiss the image of Daddy in our wedding portrait.  You love Atticus and Adelaide.  Atticus is the second person you ask for in the morning (after Daddy), and when you get hurt, you first ask me to kiss the place where it hurts, then you go to Adelaide for another kiss and some extra love.

You're a ham.  I've seen you walk in front of groups of people, face them, clasp your hands behind your back, and sing the ABC's at the top of your voice.  You often seem to know just how to make yourself as cute as possible so you get extra attention from the pretty girls who help in your Sunday school class.  You love to give eskimo kisses.


More than anything, you've taught me that I shouldn't worry so much.  God knows what he's doing 100% of the time.  I just knew that you were going to be this extra person that we would have to try and fit into our lives, when what you are was the piece of our family we didn't even know was missing.  And I love you in a way that is about as perfect as it can get this side of heaven.


Love,

Mom

You're So Sly, God

You know what God's really, really good at?

Aside from pretty much everything, I mean?


Keeping me humble.


All I have to do is even consider getting on some kind of high horse, and He knocks me right down.


A few weeks ago I was at church.  As I was walking our children to their classes, another mother crossed my path, her own children in tow.  Her shirt was of a style that gave me an eyeful of a certain part of her anatomy that should really never see the light of day.  Really, lady? I thought.  Did you wake up this morning and think, "Hmmm, what should I wear to church today?  I know!  The kind of clothing worn by insecure adolescent girls who's misplaced sense of worth is completely tied up in their appearance and new-found pieces of anatomy!"  Hmph.

A few hours later, when our family had all returned home from church, Derek informed me that when I stood in front of the huge bank of windows in the children's area at church, you could see right through my skirt.

Ma'am, I see you one cleavage shirt, and raise you one transparent skirt.


Then a few days ago, as the kiddos and I were driving south to attend another niece's baptism, we were listening to the radio.  A local station was playing an hour's worth of 90's throwback music, and I soon found myself listening to a 15-year-old interview with a man who's album was on the charts at the time.  The subject of the interview was the title of this album, Schizophrenic.  The artist was talking about how he often feels like he has so many different personalities and so Schizophrenic was just the perfect title, and I find myself saying, "Really?  I'm pretty sure what you're referring to is DID, but I guess Dissociative Identity Disorder just isn't as whimsical as schizophrenia, even though schizophrenia has nothing to do with multiple personalities. Idiot."

A few minutes after that, a popular 90's song played, and she was singing about love and specifically a kiss and all kind of other mushy things.  Then she made reference to "centrifugal motion."  And I couldn't help but tell her that given the context of her song, I was pretty sure she was under the misapprehension that centrifugal force brings people together, when really the opposite is true- it would drive her and her lover apart.  Was that really what she meant to say?  I think not.


But before I could really start despairing about our culture and its relative intelligence, I talked to my brother-in-law.  He started talking about nearby highways and roads and directions and how to get different places, and I was reminded that I am severely directionally handicapped.  If the sun isn't rising or setting, I have no way which way is east or south or wherever, and more often than not, if I'm the one driving the car, we are lost.

Then my sister asked me what a gerund was, and I, a grammar freak, could not for the life of me remember.

And just to top off all that imperfection, I accidentally immersed my cell phone in water twice over the weekend, bringing the number of times my phone has been baptized up to three.  I have no idea how it still works.

So you see, God does not quibble to let me know that I have no place judging other people or looking down on anyone at all.  And God isn't really sly at all; the Bible is blatantly clear that we are not to judge each other, and no one is above or below the other.

And if I sometimes feel that God is having a pretty good laugh over smacking me around, I console myself with the fact that at least he's generally pretty gentle with me.  He gives me little love taps to keep me in line when what I deserve is a full-out punch in the mouth.