Adelaide and the Old Testament

We go to one of those churches where the kids go into age-appropriate classes where they play and have a snack and learn a lesson while the adults go into the sanctuary for the regular service.  This has generally worked well for our family, but I've been looking forward to having our kids in the service with us as they get older, which Adelaide now does, being in third grade.

Adelaide can sit still and focus for long periods of time.  I've seen her lounge, unmoving on the couch for hours at a time, reading a book.  Because of this, I assumed she would have no trouble paying attention in church, where we're standing during the music at the beginning, sit for thirty minutes or so to listen to the sermon, then stand again for a couple songs at the end.

But Adelaide hasn't been sitting still.  She's been wiggly and wriggly and restless while the pastor teaches, and when I ask her afterward what she thought of the message, I get some variation or other of a shrug and a monosyllable.  "Fine."  "Good."  "Grunt."

Well, as of a couple weeks ago, I'd had about enough.  If she was going to sit in the service, then I wanted her to get something out of it, and besides, I know she's capable of listening and understanding most of what's taught in there.

I'd seen these printable papers on Pinterest where kids could take notes during the sermon.  "Brilliant," I thought, "maybe if her hands are busy it'll help her brain focus and her body be still."

The first one I found required a subscription and a fee paid to the website in order to print it off, so Adelaide and I consulted the almighty google to find another, free, version, because for the record, she was completely on board with this.  We ended up finding that one up there, which I know is fuzzy, but that's about as clear as I'm able to make it on here.  It's a free, printable PDF, and you can find it right here.

Honestly, of all the Sundays for me to be on the ball, this was not the one.  Because this little piece of paper worked, all right.  Adelaide was scribbling all kinds of fun vocabulary words in that "Words I don't know" section, words like "prostitute," and "explicit" and "seman [sic]".  In the general "Notes" section she wrote "I don't understand what this story is really about but it seems really weird," among other things.  Yes, indeed, Adelaide focused extra hard on the Sunday featuring the sweet, sparkling story of a girl who pretends to be a prostitute and sleeps with her father-in-law, only after she's slept with one of her brothers-in-law, all in an effort to merely survive in the patriarchal society that existed in early Old Testament times.

After the service, of course, Adelaide wanted to have an in-depth discussion about what all those words meant, but I had had enough.  I had once again dipped my toe in the pool of over-achievement, and look where it had landed me: in a boat with a dirty old man named Judah and phrases like "spilled his seed on the ground" that I now had to explain to my 8-year-old.  I told her we'd go over the whole thing tomorrow or pretty much anytime that wasn't today, because I was done for today.

I should note that the pastor warned everyone about the subject matter before he began teaching, and said that he realized there were kids in the service.  He also said he had no problem with them being taught this lesson, because don't kid yourself, children are hearing about sex elsewhere; shouldn't they be taught correctly within the context of the family and the church?

Our daughter handled it fine when we went over her notes a couple days later, and we talked about how all the people- save one- in the Bible were all just, well, people, human beings who were flawed and sinful and about the subsequent need for a perfect Messiah, so it all worked out fine in the end, as it generally does, but still.  I don't think I'll ever be able to hear the words "Please open to Genesis, chapters 38 and 39" again without flinching.

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.  

Tuesday, Tuesday in St. Paul

Tuesday was more productive.  I began the day with a bracing run, "bracing" being code for cold with a light sprinkle designed to chill that soon morphs into a driving rain.  I decided to treat this as a high adventure spectated by fellow rueful runners and the errant homeless who surely wondered at the fact that society views them as crazy.

Later that morning I embarked on a 3 1/2-hour walk that began with the Cathedral of St. Paul.

Magnificent.  Breath-taking.  A welcome sanctuary when you could do with a break from the hubbub of the city.

This is just one little piece of one wall.  It's not even one of the focal points of the cathedral; I just like beautiful stained glass.

I noted that there were free tours every afternoon, and determined I would return on a different day.  This means you will be subjected to far more photos and adjectives of the cathedral in a couple days.

After I wrestled my way out of the giant church (huge, heavy wooden doors vs me), I finally finally found my first bookstore.  It was charming and twisty and in the basement of a building that houses a cafe that sent down a steady stream of bewitching scents that has to be torturous for those working in the bookstore.  If I were running the place, I'd offer free books to anyone willing to bring me a treat from above any time they wandered down the stairs.  I'd also have to change the name of the shop from "Subtext" to "Lair of the 700-lb Broke Woman."  I'd get a AAA Diamond Rating in no time.

Next I hoofed it, and hoofed it, and hoofed some more, trying to reach Garrison Keillor's bookstore Common Goods.  On the way I stumbled upon an absolutely delightful bookstore by the name of Sixth Chamber Used Books.  It was stuffed to the ceiling with- spoiler alert- books, plus book-scented candles and t-shirts for an upcoming event titled Potterfest.  On a related note, I am moving to St. Paul for the sole purpose of attending this extravaganza.  Our children will understand.

After buying one lonely book (my restraint will go down through the ages) from the friendly and extremely knowledgeable staff (I may or may not enjoy subtly quizzing bookstore employees to see if they are worthy of their calling), I looked at the map and decided Keillor's bookstore just wasn't going to happen.  Woe!  My life is so hard!

That evening Derek and I dined at Cosetta's (thanks for the rec, Cheryl!), but whilst we were venturing back to our hotel, Derek noticed a steady stream of people heading toward a large performance hall- and not just any people; old people.  He insisted on investigating, because Derek knows that where there are large amounts of older people, there is often music or theater that young people are too stupid to appreciate.  My spousal bloodhound was rewarded when we discovered that the operatic baritone Nathan Gunn would be performing, accompanied by his likewise impressively accomplished wife, pianist Julie Jordan Gunn.  It was a lovely cap to a lovely day.  (Except for that lady two rows in front of us who spent the first 15 minutes of the second half flipping through photos on her iPhone.  It was incredibly distracting, and believe me, she was old enough to know better.  I promise, lady, 9 out of 10 doctors state that it is possible to go an hour and a half without looking at your phone with little to no side effects, aside from engaging in the world around you and not making your companions hate you.  YOU CAN DO IT.  I BELIEVE IN YOU.)



Don't worry, I didn't forget about the sassy sign- I mean, really, what's not to like about a city whose No Parking signs look like this:

Tomorrow:  Books and Getting Lost Again and a Hotel Room Tour, Oh My!

The Book That Both Took Over and Explained My Brain All At The Same Time

I just finished the book Quiet:  The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking, by Susan Cain.

This book is fascinating.  This book is insightful.

This book is messing with my head.


I'm seeing everything and everyone in terms of extroverted or introverted tendencies.  I hear Atticus breathe a relieved, "GOOD," after I tell him that no, we're not going anywhere today and think, Hmm.  I don't know that I would previously have classified him as an introvert, but now, I'm not sure...

I tell Caedmon the same thing on Thursday- that we're not going anywhere that day- and he begs and begs and finally places my phone in my hand, begging me to call Paige so he can see the Other Atticus or get ahold of Cheryl so Mason can come over.  We've been out of the house every other day that week, but apparently even one day at home with just Mom is not enough stimulation for our possibly-extroverted Cade.

It's like being a psych major all over again, mentally diagnosing someone at the grocery store with a personality disorder because of the way they picked out their bananas.

If an extrovert is someone who is stimulated or draws energy from being around people and new experiences and an introvert is someone who is exhausted by the same, I've long placed myself deep into Introvert Territory on the introvert-extrovert spectrum.  This is not news to me.

What was new in the book were all the little things about me that are apparently strongly associated with introversion.  "I don't enjoy multitasking," "I often prefer to express myself in writing," "I prefer not to show or discuss my work with others until it's finished," and "In classroom situations, I prefer lectures to seminars"- just four of the twenty statements in an informal assessment within the book.  It reads, "The more often you answered 'true,' the more introverted you probably are.'  I answered "True" to 19 of them.

So many different sections were incredibly, helpfully enlightening:  Adelaide's complaint about how she's seated at school, in a group of five other kids, desks all facing each other.  The way she won't tell me much about school as soon as she gets home in the afternoon, but will instead begin to offer up nuggets during bathtime or at supper, after she's had time to decompress and read alone for awhile.  Her extreme, emotional, and very negative reaction to the possibility of being advanced a grade.  You'd think that I, an introverted mother to an introverted young girl would have been able to read all these signs for what they were, but nope.  I gained so much insight just into our daughter's behaviors and school day struggles to make this book worthwhile.

It also had a small section entitled "Does God Love Introverts?  An Evangelical's Dilemma."  It featured a meeting Cain had with introverted evangelical pastor Adam McHugh, author of Introverts in the Church:  Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture.  Common Household Mom praised this book in the past on her blog, and it was one of those that I wrote down (somewhere, on some scrap of paper that I could have sworn I left right there), fully intending to read, but it got lost in the mire that is my To Read list.

After reading just that small section in Quiet, McHugh's book has shot straight to the top of that same list (especially after reading this article).  Our family goes to a large, boisterous, loud, wonderful and overwhelming church, and I leave every Sunday exhausted and depleted.  Now, I love a lot of things about our church:  their vision, their mission, their teachings, their children's program, their transparency.  But the format of the service and the culture within the church provides constant stimulation from a hundred different sources for close to two hours, turning me into a quiet, seemingly reticent and somewhat wild-eyed woman who can barely form a coherent sentence because she's being asked to attend to too many things at once.  My one goal every Sunday morning, from the time I enter the massive parking lot and take a deep, bolstering breath, whispering an encouraging, "Here we go," to myself, is to make it to the sermon, because then I can deeply concentrate on one thing, which is where my strength lies.  I'm hoping this other book provides as much wisdom and advice as Quiet did.

There was so much neurological research and so many stories and so many different psychological outlooks contained within this book that I know I'm going to need to read it again at some point; just paging through it right now I'm going, "Oh, yeah, and that part," "And THIS part," and "HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS?"  I highly, highly recommend this book for both introverts and extroverts who are struggling to understand their introverted counterparts (such as Newly Married To Me Derek, who could not understand why our early marriage arguments took the format of- Derek:  Makes a point/ Kristy:  Stands silently for 90 seconds before making her point/ Derek:  Volleys his counter-argument back immediately/ Kristy:  Stands silently for 90 seconds before making her point/ Derek:  Quickly states another point/ Kristy:  Yet again stands silently for 90 seconds before speaking, while Derek seethes in frustration because he does not understand that Kristy has to think and think and think about every possible angle before she will utter a single word.  This is difficult for quick-thinking, rapid-fire response, extremely extroverted Derek).

via

via dilbert.com

via Hyperbole and a Half

via 61musings.com

via Cyanide and Happiness

I meant to just include one Introversion cartoon, but I found so many funny ones.  Just like I meant to post a short, glowing review of the book.  How did you even make it this far?  This was the longest post ever.  Take the rest of the day off.  You're done.

Smooth Operator

Hello, all!  I hope you had a pleasant, joyous, and stress-free Easter weekend.

Let's see, how did ours go?

Saturday I cursed the person who invented the entire concept of the Easter bunny.  Then I cursed myself for deciding to ever take part in all that nonsense.  Don't get me wrong; I am most certainly not one of those parents who seems to treat Easter like Second Christmas.  Our kids got some prunes and some banana chips and some yogurt-covered raisins, and yes, even some candy.  But I was just so irritated, stuffing their baskets Saturday night, mostly because it's nearly impossible to try and get a 4-year-old to focus on Jesus when there's candy in the running.

Then I did a mental face-slap and told myself to lighten up.  Which helped, and made for a much happier Easter day for the rest of my family.

Easter morning there were special Easter outfits to don (Adelaide's outfit:  Easter dress from last year, cardigan from three Easters past, shoes we already owned; Atticus's outfit: already owned khaki pants and shoes, $1 garage sale Ralph Lauren button down shirt; Caedmon's outfit: already owned khaki pants and shoes, hand-me-down shirt from Atticus; total Easter outfit cost:  $1.  BOOM BABY.), Easter candy to snarf when Mom's not looking, and pictures to take.  Our children once again must have conspired to ensure that in no shot would all three of them be smiling.  They were more or less successful.

Then we went to church, where I got to hold a gigantic 1-year-old as he cried himself to sleep while I was helping in the children's area.  I also learned that it is very difficult to maintain any pride or modesty while sitting in a chair with said sleeping toddler (seriously, that kid was bigger than Caedmon, who's no delicate flower) sprawled over you while wearing a white sundress and four-inch wedges (me, not the boy- but that would have been kind of hilarious).  

After that, we went to our friends' house for Easter dinner (remember Hannah*? It was her family).  We all ate delicious food, Atticus was about as subtle as a Mack truck around Hannah, and the kids enjoyed an Easter egg hunt.

Caedmon managed to latch on to one of Hannah's younger sisters, Hallie*.  Hallie's a couple years younger than Hannah, and took it upon herself to help take care of Cade while we were there.  Caedmon, for his part, loved the attention and its associated perks.

For instance:  Cade and Hallie were both seated at the children's table (you know what's awesome?  Getting to the point where your kids are all old enough to sit at the children's table BY THEMSELVES), and she helped him with various food-related tasks, such as buttering his bread.  I had noticed, by occasionally glancing at the kids' table, that she had given him three or four pieces of buttered bread, but I wasn't about to quibble when I was getting to eat all by myself.  If bread and butter is what it takes to get me un-interrupted ham-eating time, then bread and butter he shall have.  What Derek eventually pointed out was that Caedmon wasn't actually eating the bread, he was merely licking the butter off, handing the piece of bread back to Hallie, who would then slather another layer of butter on, and the whole process would repeat itself.  Again, I would have put a stop to it, but I had ham and mashed potatoes in front of me.  I will not apologize for my personal hierarchy of priorities.

A short time later, Caedmon asked Derek and I for dessert.  He got a red-velvet cupcake, and a few minutes later we cleaned off his red velvet-laden face, hands, neck, chest, and shirt.  

At that point he was expected to scamper off so that I could eat my own cupcake.  Maybe halfway through that cupcake, however, Derek motioned to the kids' table, where lo and behold, Caedmon is again seated, now with a slab of four-layer cake in front of him.  It didn't take long to deduce that Cade, in his two-year-old boy wisdom, had skipped the part where he asks his parents for more dessert (knowing what the answer would be), and gone straight to sweet, soft-hearted Hallie, who of course gave him some.  

She then helped him hunt for Easter eggs, putting off her own search until his basket was full.  

After all that, he wouldn't hug her good-bye.  He did ask about her (twice) after we returned home, but I explained that he had had his chance to bid her a fond farewell, and had missed it.  I also may have wandered down a confusing path that included a lecture on the dangers of playing hard to get and how girls that go for that kind of thing generally aren't worth getting.  Fortunately for me, he was struggling to peel an orange and generally ignoring me and my drivel by the time I came to and remembered to whom I was speaking.

There you go.  Our Easter in a nutshell.

*Names changed to protect the innocent.

Survival of the Fittest

It's inevitable that parents are going to screw up their kids.  We just are.  We're human.  It can still come as a bit of a shock, however, when we're faced with the specifics of that passed-down disfunction.

After Sandy Hook, Derek and I both talked to Adelaide about what had happened.  We knew she was going to find out about it at school (it was interesting to talk to parents who decided not to talk to their children about it- a decision I have absolutely no problem with and understand completely- who were then astonished to find that their kid had then heard a garbled version of the truth on the playground).  Obviously, the story as we related it to our daughter was heavily filtered, but still: she knew what had happened.  I then went on to talk about what I expected her to do if, God forbid, an armed gunman were ever to enter her elementary school or our church.  We talked about available building exits, which windows open and which don't, and the relative merits of hiding vs fighting vs fleeing.

We've continued in the vein of this conversation several times over the past few months; just the odd discussion here and there.  Every once in a while, though, something she does will take me by surprise.

At church a couple weeks ago, I was hanging up our coats and the boys were changing out of snow boots and into shoes when I noticed something strange around Adelaide's neck.

"Adelaide- isn't that the strap to one of your purses?"

"Yes."

"Why are you wearing... you know what?  Never mind.  Just take it off and put it in my bag.  You can put it back on after church."

"But Mom!  I need to wear this in my class!"

"Why would you need to wear a purse strap around your neck in class?"

"Because if a bad guy comes into my class this is my weapon!  See, I'd use this little hook thing to scratch his eyes out and then I'd loop the whole strap around his feet so he couldn't escape!"



Then yesterday she and I were making cookies when the conversation underwent a rapid shift from M&M's to home invasions.

"Hey, Mom, do you know what I'd do if a bad guy broke into our house and wanted to rob us?"

"Um, no."

"I'd tell him that there was a pearl necklace up in my room, and it would take him a few minutes to get up there and realize that the pearls aren't real, and while he's doing that we could escape."

"Uh, yeah, I don't really-"

"Or if there's ever bad guys that come in the house and we hear them coming before they see us, I have our escape routes all planned out.  (Goes on to detail a complex but well-thought-out plan.)  Then, Daddy could lift me over the back fence first, because I'm a really good climber and could help him, then I would be on the other side to help catch the boys."

I wasn't really sure how to respond at first.  I was torn between wanting to praise her for her forethought, the need to correct and point out the flaws in each plan so that she could correct them just in case the need ever does arrive to employ these plans, and subtly inquiring after her mental health.

I went with mental health.

"Adelaide, do you think about bad guys coming to get you a lot?"

"Of course I do!  Don't you?"

Oh, tricksy, tricksy.  Because the answer to that question is a resounding "Yes."  But I'm also not really comfortable with the idea of saddling a six year old with my personal brand of paranoia.  Alas, honesty won out.

"Yes, I do."  Now how to tell her that not everyone thinks this way and not make her feel like the freak she is?  "But you know, not everyone does.  In fact, I think the majority of people don't think about this kind of thing nearly as often as we do."

"Well, that just means that if something terrible happens to a whole bunch of people, we're going to be the ones to survive, and they're going to wish they'd made all kinds of great plans like I do every day."


Hard to argue with that.

I May Owe Some of You an Apology

Today is Sunday.

Just to let you know.

Sunday mornings generally find us in church.  We love our church.

Over the past year or so, though, I've been approached by a few people in our church I don't know.  Through friends, they have discovered our little blog.  Fortunately for me, they generally have nice things to say about it.

Therein lies the problem.

Not that I mind the nice things they're saying.  I love those!  Really, I do.

But you see, I... I struggle with something.

(Now you're thinking this is going to be a serious post.  The word "struggle" usually evokes thoughts of hardship and perhaps melancholy.  Not to worry.  While I do struggle with this certain something, it's not like a prayer-request-type struggle.  More of a personality quirk.  Anyway.)

Here's the thing:  I have trouble accepting compliments.

It's an interesting paradox, actually.  While I like the warm, squishy feelings they bring about, I also get an uncomfortable, squirmy feeling when someone says something nice to me.

See, if church is the primary location in which we interact, you're already not really seeing me at my best.  If you catch me walking into or out of church, I'm likely trying to keep our kids from getting creamed by cars.  If I'm dropping off or picking them up from their classrooms, I'm trying to make it look like we're a nice, normal family.  You have about a four minute window to catch me in the sanctuary (alright, alright, the auditorium- I have trouble giving up certain churchy things from my youth) when we can actually interact.  Plus, we go to a really big church, and really big churches generally have lots of people there, and lots of people make me twitchy and anxious and sometimes irrationally cranky.

I'm not saying you shouldn't talk to me at church.  But hey:  forewarned is forearmed, right?

So Sunday mornings, I'm already doing my level best to seem as not-strange as possible.  Add a compliment?  Yes, I'll be grateful and smile, but please realize that you should pretty much disregard anything that comes out of my mouth.

You saying, "I love your blog!" causes my brain to short-circuit, you see.  All those nice feelings are washing over me, but they also distract me from my "Keep it together, Kristy, there are other humans here!"  Add in the niggling discomfort compliments give me, and the result is rarely good.

My reply may be as relatively innocuous but semi-insulting as "I often forget people might actually read that thing.  They just let anyone on the internet, don't they?"

Or it could be as random as "Mexican food's my favorite!" or "These shoes make me look really tall."

More likely it's something like, "Have you seen my kid?  I'm pretty sure I'm missing one."



All that to say:  I'm sorry, person at church I probably insulted this morning.  I'm really glad you're reading, and I think it was so nice (not to mention semi-gutsy) of you to approach a perfect stranger and compliment her.  I mean me.  Her is me.

Do you see what I mean?  All I do is think about a compliment and I'm writing "Her is me."

So sorry.


See you next Sunday!

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.

In Our Defense, That Reptile Is Pretty Realistic-Looking

Lately Adelaide and I have been talking about our plans for this summer.  She has a few upcoming activities, and we've been discussing those, but her main concern right now involves her friends from school.  She's afraid she won't get to see them once school lets out for summer.

It's easy for me to dismiss her concerns; as a matter of fact, that's pretty much what I've been doing.  She'll have plenty to do this summer, and I'm sure she'll see all kinds of people.

Yesterday, however, I started to think about what to post on the blog.  My last post was on Monday, and believe it or not, I try not to let too much time pass between posts.

I've been turning over a specific post in my head for the past few months.  I've been planning on writing something about a friend of mine, and wasn't exactly sure how I wanted it to go.

As I was going over different ideas, a thought struck me about this friend:  We met in preschool or Kindergarten, I can't remember which.  We were just about the same age Adelaide is now when we became friends, and I can't imagine my mom trying to keep us away from each other for an entire summer.

Several of my favorite memories of Megan involve summertime events.

I'm pretty sure it was during the summer when she had a slumber party that included a friend of ours who didn't happen to attend our little parochial school with us.  When we learned she hadn't been baptized, our little Lutheran souls cried out in panic, and we baptized her right there in Megan's basement.  Now I'm wondering if we even asked Molly if she wanted to be baptized before dumping cups of cold water over her head.  Poor Molly.

I'm thinking it was also summertime when I was again over at Megan's house one night, and we were watching an episode of Days of Our Lives she had taped during the afternoon.  (Wait, you mean all young girls don't watch daytime soap operas?  Weird.)  We were pretty enthralled with the episode, featuring a demon-possessed Marlena.  We watched right up until there was a close-up of Marlena's face- her yellow demonic eyes were the size the baseballs on Megan's parents' big-screen TV.  We decided to do something else- like make our own soap opera and video tape it- and turned it off.

I know it was during some summer or another when we were at my house, and decided to walk down the hill to the creek.  We had just reached its banks when Megan suddenly began screaming, wheeled around, and ran as fast as she could toward my house.  I looked and began screaming and running, too, until my brain caught up with my body, and I began laughing hysterically, hands braced on my knees, struggling to breathe because I was laughing so hard.  To be fair, if you saw an alligator sunning itself mere feet away from you, you'd probably freak, too.  I somehow managed to communicate to Megan that the alligator was a statue that belonged to the neighbor whose land runs parallel to the creek.  It's the only gator I've ever seen in Kansas.  We still laugh about it today.

Living two states away, I don't get to see my friend as often as I'd like, but since returning to the Midwest, we do get to see each other a couple times a year.  We laugh and catch up and she does things like paint Adelaide's toenails.  It's the kind of friend she is.

(Pardon Molly-the-doll.  In addition to being a bloodthirsty nightmare in our home, she's kind of an attention hog.)

What kind of mother would I be if I kept Adelaide from friends like that?

Random Thoughts

As we knew it would be, it was an extremely busy weekend.  As a result, my mental processes are all discombobulated and my thoughts are scattered.  I feel like if I could just catch hold of one, I'd be able to pin it down and work it into something coherent.

Since that doesn't seem likely, how about a fun list to help me make some sense of what's going on in my head?  And you lucky dogs can come along for the ride.

• We (and by "we," I mean Derek and his dad) ripped the cabinets out of our kitchen.  We discovered a couple layers of awesome wallpaper, awesome linoleum, plaster, scary holes, and wood paneling.  I'd love to see what this kitchen looked like in the 60's; if the wallpaper and flooring are any indication, I'd say pretty darn amazing.  And by amazing I mean incredibly ugly.

• When Derek's parents generously offered to give us the cabinets out of their rental property that had burned down (well, except for the kitchen, of course), I said, "Yes, please!"  Do you know how much kitchen cabinets cost?  Well, neither do I, but I do hear they're really freaking expensive.  

• Although the cabinets made it through the fire, they are coated in a thin layer of soot, which is not so surprisingly difficult to get off.  After watching my old standby of vinegar and water fail miserably, I was contemplating using an actual manufactured cleaner (gasp!), when I decided to try give my magic eraser a try.  Let me tell you what, the person that named that product was no marketing genius; those things seriously have some kind of magical properties- I wouldn't be surprised to find that J.K. Rowling herself had written them into existence.  

• After Derek's parents stayed way later than they intended, re-hooking up our dishwasher, sink, etc, they finally headed back to Kansas.  Ten minutes after they left, Caedmon found a container of screws and created two large piles of them- one on the floor in front of the back door, the other by the front door.  I can't help but feel that this was no accident, and that the poor child may have inherited some of his mother's paranoia.  His sharp screw-booby trap reminded me rather forcefully of my sister's- only hers involved upside-down shoes, sharp high heels pointing upward to ward off any intruders.  While I won't say precisely which parent we inherited this tendency from, I will say it's not my mom that sleeps with a gun under her pillow.

• I was again reminded of just how useless I am when it comes to home improvement.  I'm terrible with power tools and have a tendency to break things.  My major contributions to the weekend involved sweeping the floor every ten minutes in an effort to appear useful and whimpering every time Derek asked me to go down to the basement for something.

• What does the expression, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth" mean?  What's a gift horse?  Is it like the Easter bunny, breaking into your house to leave you unhealthy gifts, or more like the tooth fairy, giving you money in exchange for body parts?  Can anyone enlighten me?

• Shortly after midnight last night, Adelaide woke Derek and me up by knocking on our bedroom door, crying softly.  She said her ear hurt and she couldn't sleep due to the pain.  I gave her some Tylenol, water, and sympathy, and tucked her back into bed.  After eventually falling back asleep, I had a nightmare, in which I took Adelaide to the doctor the next morning, and when he inspected her ear, instead of an infection, he found a cancerous tumor.  After a drawn-out illness, Adelaide died.  I woke to a sopping wet pillowcase; I had been crying in my sleep.  When we actually went to the doc this morning, there was no tumor in her ear.  Nor was there any infection.

• Derek's folks also took our children home after the first church service Sunday morning, which allowed me to sit with Derek in the video room during second service while he directed the video broadcast of our church's Easter service.  It was the closest thing we've had to a date since last November.  

• Garage sale season has once again begun.  I've already found some really cool- and really cheap, which only adds to its cool factor- stuff.  I won't bore you with the details.  Not today, anyway.  I'll save that for another post that you can already plan on skipping now.

Wisdom Is In The Eye Of The Beholder. Or Something.

I think my kids are funny.  They say and do funny things.

I am perfectly aware, however, that they are not alone in this.  Most kids are pretty funny (unless they're really, really annoying- you know the ones I'm talking about).

I recently started teaching Adelaide's Kindergarten class at church.  Another lady and I switch off, so I only teach every other Sunday.  25 5- and 6-year olds for an hour and a half.  That's a lot of funny.

Two weeks ago, we were talking about Solomon.  I told them that when Solomon was young, he got to ask God for anything he wanted-anything at all.  Then, of course, I asked the class, "If you could ask God for anything, what would it be?"

Hands flew into the air.

"A horse!"

"A unicorn!"

"The movie 'Rio'!"

"A video game!"

"ONE MILLION RICE CRISPY TREATS!"

That last one was from a kid that I'm pretty sure is going to be one of my secret favorites.  I know, I know, teachers aren't supposed to have favorites, but hey, I'm not a real teacher, and I'm pretty careful to treat all the kids exactly the same.

But, c'mon, if rice crispy treats had been around back in Solomon's days, who knows?  Maybe he would have passed up wisdom for a delicious, crispy, buttery, marshmallowy treat.

Or maybe there's a lost Proverb somewhere concerning rice crispy treats that was waaaay ahead of it's time.

You don't know.

What I bet you do know is that maybe I shouldn't be teaching this class.

Oh, well, only two more days until I get to see those comical kids again!

My Favorite Things

You know what I'm not crazy about?  Those "Favorite Things" lists that celebrities make that consist of a bunch of ridiculously expensive goods like "simple" white t-shirts that cost $50 apiece, or when they list things like "making sugar cookies with my daughter," because you know what?  You probably weigh about 90 pounds, and the closest you'll get to baked goods is a food-scented Yankee candle.  Oh, and don't try to pretend you spend time with your daughter.  If you did, we wouldn't see her all coked-out on the cover of some rag here in about ten years.

I'm not much of a celebrity person.  I feel no need to know what some actor eats for breakfast on Saturday mornings or their parenting "advice."

And this is so not what I meant to write about today.  Let's see if I can get back on track.

Where was I?  Right.  Favorite things.

Well, in addition to not being able to identify with some no-talent hack's favorite things (there I go again), I have a little trouble with the items listed in the song.  You know, from The Sound of Music?  One verse talks about "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens."  While I certainly don't see anything wrong with those things, I couldn't call them my "favorites."  Raindrops on roses are pretty, but I'm allergic to cats, don't believe I've ever actually seen a copper kettle, and wool gives me hives.

I'm just a little ray of sunshine today, aren't I?

Still, I've been hearing that song a lot lately on the Christmas music stations, and it's gotten me to thinking about my favorite things at this time of year.  Here are five of my personal favorites.

5.  Decorating for Christmas.  I love, love, love decorating our house for Christmas.  My mom always went all-out decorating our house right after Thanksgiving, and it always felt so warm and inviting.  I now do the same thing, and being surrounded by the garlands and bells makes our home feel cozy.

4.  Christmas Music.  Fortunately, Derek's pretty tolerant of my need for 24/7 Christmas music, but he does look pretty pained when I put on Amy Grant, and absolutely puts his foot down at the mere mention of The Carpenters.
   
      4a.  Christmas caroling.  Is there anything better than standing in front of people's homes, singing Christmas carols?  Unless it's looking out your front window and seeing people standing on your front lawn, serenading your family.

     4b.  All the live Christmas music.    There are always a plethora of choir, band, and orchestra concerts to choose from, and when we lived in Pittsburg, there was a man who stood outside the entrance to Wal-Mart every morning and played his trumpet while manning the red Salvation Army bucket.

3.  Going to the Nutcracker.  This was a tradition my family had growing up; we would drive the hour north to Wichita to see the ballet performed, and while this is not something we do every year, Derek did take me to see it in New York City one year, and this weekend Adelaide and I will be driving down to Kansas City to see it there (Yaaaaaay!).

2.  Candlelight services.  I don't really think there's anything better than standing in a darkened church lit only by candles, singing Christmas hymns.  I really wish our church did this.

1. This one isn't really Christmas-related, but right now it's my very favorite:  The lurching, halting, unsteady gait of a baby learning to walk.  Caedmon has been walking for several weeks now, but it's only in the past week or two that he's really started using it as his primary means of locomotion.  When I catch sight of that high-stepping stride unique to toddlers that he uses, I find myself stopping whatever I'm doing just to watch him waddle around.  It is so ridiculously cute.  I love to watch him stop at the threshold to a room, where the flooring changes, and ready himself to pass the imaginary precipice.  I love to watch the sheer joy on his face  from something as simple as walking.  He loves it, I love it.  My favorite thing.

This also means he no longer stands still long enough for me to get a good picture.

Hypocrite

"I don't think that's right, Mommy."

"Trust me, it's right."

"No, you're actually wrong."

"I'm actually right, Adelaide."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken.  I KNOW that you are wrong."

"Adelaide.  You have been on this earth for all of five years.  I've been here for nearly three decades.  I think I know what I'm talking about."

(sing-songy) "No, you don't."

At this point in our daily conversation/argument I start grinding my teeth and remind myself that I am the adult here.  I do not need to allow myself to get sucked into these pointless debates over where Laura Ingalls Wilder was born, the best way to sew a simple skirt, or if the carton contains butter or margarine.

This works for close to five seconds, then I get frustrated because I have yet again allowed myself to become distracted from our original plan of reading a book together or cooking supper.  I then remind Adelaide that it does not do well to focus on the minutiae of our lives; we should be concentrating on a much bigger goal.  Oh, and by the way, I'm still right.


At some point after these interactions, my words turn inward and I mentally wince for scolding Adelaide because she sometimes does what I do all the time:  Get hung up on the little things, to the point that I miss the big picture.  In my case, the catalyst is grammar.

First, let me say that I'm not bad about this in everyday conversation with other people.  If they misuse/mispronounce/make up a nonsensical word, my brain might stutter momentarily, but I am able to move on almost immediately.

The problem is more when I am listening to a teacher.  This was a problem at times in school (depending on the teacher), but as I am no longer a student, I now generally find it happening at church.

So here's where I get hung up.: The pastor (and we are blessed with three terrific ones at our church) is talking, teaching, things are going swimmingly, but then something happens.  Yesterday, he said the word, "Fictitional."  My mind didn't so much stumble as come to an abrupt and screeching halt.  It's no wonder, what with all the screaming going on in my head:  Fictitional?  FICTITIONAL?  That's not a word!  He must have meant 'fictitious.'  Right?  He did mean 'fictitious,' didn't he?  I mean, that's the only word that could appropriately fit the context here.  He must have meant 'fictitious.'


Now, while my head is reverberating with all these thoughts, the sermon has gone on.  I surface some ten seconds later, concentration broken, lost.

I can't tell you how many times this has happened to me.


Did he just say "crisises"? The plural of 'crisis' is 'crises'!      


 Um, no.  Did he just pronounce that name "DOO-muss"?  Is he seriously talking about Alexandre Dumas, author of one of my very favorite books ever, and he pronounces it "DOO-muss"?  Say it with me people:  'Doo-MAH'!   It's freaking French!


Then I have the audacity to lecture Adelaide on the same transgression of which I am guilty:  hyper-focusing on things that honestly, don't really matter.  Who cares if the pastor can't pronounce the name of some long-dead French author (except for me, obviously).  Who cares if he can't convert singular nouns to plural?  Who cares if he completely makes up new words?  If anything, he should be getting points for creativity!

This is what I've started telling myself when my mind starts sprinting off on those unproductive grammar-Nazi tangents.

I almost believe it.

Button Pusher

Yesterday morning, our family attended church, as we do every other Sunday.  The service was so good- great worship time, a thoughtful, moving message, friendly people.  When it was over, I caught up to a friend of mine as we made our way to the children's area.  We chatted, walking to the Kindergarten room where both our girls awaited.  Upon arriving at their classroom, her daughter exited the room first, and immediately displayed a small stone with the name "Isaiah" written on it.  Isaiah is her younger brother's name, and she explained that on the stones they had written the name of a person that really "pushes our buttons and bothers us."  Seems logical enough; that's what little brothers are for, right?

Adelaide came out a few seconds later, saying that today in class they had talked about self control.  She also used the phrase "pushes our buttons," and showed me her stone.

Guess what it said?

That's right.  She wrote my name, her own Mommy Dearest.  Apparently I'm quite the button pusher.

Derek and I shared a good laugh when I related to him what had happened.  I think he laughed a little harder than I did, though.  After all, it wasn't his name written on a rock.