The Gate, she did not hold.
The child, she did not sleep.
the mama, she did so weep.
Ruthie, I am SO not your biggest fan right now. In fact, I’m hardly a fan at all. Currently you are the Angelina Jolie of this family. When you decide to stay in your bed all night, I will stop slandering you on the internet.
Average mom seeking Toddler Translator to interpret for household two-year-old. Must love dogs. If you have any clue what the following means, apply within.
“Y home in na-na tar?”
Variations include: “Y home in na-na-na-na tar?” and “Y home na-na-na tar?”
This will likely be an endless and rambling post since Bryan ‘accidentally’ forgot to order my evening latte decaffeinated. He claims my drink was too complicated, and he forgot.
What, like it isn’t NORMAL to get an iced nonfat mint chocolate decaf latte?
Fortunately for me, it’s Complete Bond month on AMC, so I have Roger Moore to keep me company. Not that he’s my favorite James Bond. No, I would have to be cliché here and claim Sean Connery to be my favorite. There’s just something so Cary Grant about Connery as Bond. Last night I watched Thunderball and it was fabulous – every scene started with Sean seducing a blond nurse, and ended with him leaving her to go kill someone. I can’t figure out why Bryan isn’t into my Bond obsession.
Tonight I tried on a pair of pants at Old Navy, and it was a little disappointing. Why do clothing makers automatically assume that fat people are tall? Is there anywhere I can buy a pair of plus petite jeans?
So I have to interject here and testify that I just saw Roger Moore kissing a woman’s abdomen in order to investigate something that was in her belly button. Sean Connery kissing a woman’s belly button… SEXY. Roger Moore kissing a woman’s belly button… NOT SEXY! In fact, he reminds me too much of my father, and that’s just… wrong.
So as I was saying, I’m 5’2†and have an extra twenty pounds I attribute to each of my two children, a gift which I thank them for on a daily basis. Since I have yet to find a Plus Petite section at any clothing store, I usually end up buying Capri length pants because they hit me at the ankles.
[I just saw quite a lengthy commercial for an innovative kitty litter box called “Shake ‘n’ Fresh.” That’s late-night t.v. at its finest.]
Here’s a little known fact the internet told me: did you know that Ian Fleming, the creator of the James Bond legacy, was also the author of the book, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which later became a movie starring Dick Van Dyke?
Well I just yawned and my eyelids are feeling heavy, so I will not prolong your agony any longer. There is really no point to this post, and you will never get back the five minutes you just wasted reading it.
If you’ve ever owned a cat, or spent any time around one, you already know how they love to curl up on the newspaper you have spread out in front of you.
If you’re reading it on the floor, they’ll sidle up under your chin, make a few passes to get your attention, then lie down on the newspaper and begin to purr. If you’re reading at the table, they still jump up and flaunt their same dance in front of you.
Much like a toddler, they believe they are the center of your world, that the sun rises and sets for your adoration of their existence, that nothing could possibly be more interesting or more beautiful than they are. It’s as if they are proclaiming the newspaper has no significance apart from their connection with it.
When I am working in the garden, Ruthie is like a cat.
Today as I sat on the ground pulling weeds around me, Ruthie plopped into my lap, right under my chin. She felt she was helping me weed, when in actuality I couldn’t see what I was doing because her cute blond head was in my way.
Surprisingly, I was rather good natured about it. I’ve been trying to overcome my impatience and perfectionism for the sake of raising a daughter who still speaks to me when she’s old enough to realize she doesn’t really have to anymore. In this attempt, what I’ve realized is that Ruthie will jump in to “help†me accomplish my task, but quickly lose interest and move on to something else.
She has learned, along with the rest of us, that chores can be rather boring and monotonous.
As for her other catlike qualities, Ruthie is an excellent snuggler.
I love it when I read or hear someone say something funny or thoughtful, but I hate it when I have no one to share it with. For this reason I have added a Quote Pile to the sidebar, and will link it to this post where I will collect them all. I can’t think of a better quote to kick it off with than one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite movies. Enjoy!
8/19/05
“I assure you that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair!”
— Annelle, in Steel Magnolias
8/21/05
“I don’t want to marry anyone who’s really wicked, but I wouldn’t mind marrying someone who could be wicked.”
– Anne Shirley, from Anne of Green Gables
8/22/05
“God calls us to a life involving frequent risks and many dangers. Why else would we need him to be our ezer [lifesaver]? You don’t need a lifesaver if your mission is to be a couch potato.”
– from Captivating: Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman’s Soul, by John and Stasi Eldredge
8/24/05
“…I opened the door to my houseboat, and I stood there a minute, and then I hung my head and said, ‘Fuck it, I quit.’ I took a long deep breath and said out loud, ‘Alright, you can come in.’ So this was my beautiful moment of conversion.”
– Annie Lammott, on the moment she became a Believer, as told in Traveling Mercies.
9/5/05
“Hey, you’re not allowed to do that when my mop is broken!”
– Jen, to Ruthie when she tossed her cereal bowl on the floor.
I have a bug.
A cleaning bug.
I have had so much energy and motivation to Get Things Done that I think it’s driving everyone a little crazy.
There must be some sort of threshold when our babies turn four or five months old where we women suddenly change our hairstyle, go back to the gym, empty out the scary closet, and cook an actual meal for dinner.
I showed up to a birthday dinner with girlfriends a couple years ago when Ruthie was only three months old. These were gals I hadn’t seen for awhile, and they ooh-ed and aaahh-ed over my new haircut. One of them asked how old Ruthie was, and when I told her she said, “Yup. That explains it.â€
I think it has to do with routine. Or sleep. Or both.
By three to five months my babies are napping a little more regularly, and sleeping through most of the night. I wake up in the morning recharged, ready to sort through a box of old baby clothes. I can predict with general accuracy when the next nap will occur so I can plan my day accordingly.
I fear that I’m a little over-ambitious these days. I have painting projects on my list, and sewing projects. I need to clean out our storage area, clean out my old office area, and figure out how to make my kitchen pretty until we can afford to remodel it.
I love to purge. I’ve made five trips to the local Salvation Army this month. I even brushed the dog because her fur was cluttering up her body too much. I think she weighs five pounds less, now.
The next time I have a baby (IF I have another baby), I need to be reminded of this threshold. Bryan needs to be reminded of this threshold. We need to just throw Order to the wind and embrace the chaos so we don’t drive each other crazy again.
I feel like my old self again, and I’m remembering how much fun my life is.
When I was a kid, whenever we drove through a tunnel it would get dark and I would roll down the windows of the car and scream until we hit daylight again.
I’ve come back into that daylight.
I liked this book by John and Stasi Eldredge, let me just state that from the beginning. So if you hated this book please don’t read any further, and PLEASE don’t send me any emails about how John Eldredge is the antichrist. If you were pleased with the book, or remain undecided, or if you haven’t even read it yet, then please, be my guest. Read on.
I begin with that disclaimer because so many reviewers of Eldredge’s latest book are appalled – ABHORRED, I tell ya – that Eldredge would dare to use quotes from movies, music, and secular authors to illustrate his various ideas. So offended are they, that they have ACTUALLY COUNTED the number of secular references Eldredge makes (which, by the way, they can’t even agree on. Some have it at 32 references, some have it at 35).
If you also feel this threatened by “secular†illustrations, then by all means, buy yourself some white gloves, blinders, and a set of headphones so as to not contaminate your sanctified soul with all the heathen cooties that are out there.
That being said, here we go….
According to the Eldredges, a woman’s heart longs to be romanced, to unveil beauty, and to be part of the Great Adventure. But instead we wind up buried under laundry, tired, living a dull life amidst the gossip and pressures within today’s churches.
“We’re all living in the shadow of that infamous icon, ‘The Proverbs 31 Woman,’ whose life is so busy I wonder, when does she have time for friendships, for taking walks, or reading good books? Her light never goes out at night? When does she have sex?†(page 6).
Through the early chapters we are reminded of God’s formation of Woman, of her beauty, of her personality, and how it gives us insight into God’s character. Through his creation of Woman we learn that God is relational, he is compassionate, he is fiercely devoted, he is our sustainer, and he desires beauty.
They go a little overboard with their emphasis on the importance of Woman in the order of creation (okay, we get it, Eve was the crown of his creation, the zenith, it was not good for Adam to be alone, I GET IT ALREADY). It bordered a little on self-indulging importance. A mere mention would do, with a few verses to back it up, and maybe a small halo on Eve’s head, but not much more than that is necessary.
They talk of beauty, and how beauty matters to God. And yes, the world cheapens beauty by making it unattainable, but the church equally minimizes beauty, making it all about “character†(page 36). Beauty is seen and felt. Both are important to God. A woman who embraces her beauty and femininity says to the world, “All shall be well.â€
“And this is what it’s like to be with a woman at rest, a woman comfortable in her feminine beauty. She is enjoyable to be with. She is lovely. In her presence your heart stops holding its breath. You relax and believe once again that all will be well. And this is also why a woman who is striving is so disturbing, for a woman who is not at rest in her heart says to the world, ‘All is not well. Things are not going to turn out all right’ (page 38).â€
They talk of the wounded woman, and how she views God and her own femininity. It will be easy to see yourself in these descriptions. I saw myself. I said, Hey, there you are, written in ink! I saw so much of myself that I began to feel a bit justified, a little indignant toward my husband as they described a woman’s wants and needs.
That is, until they pulled the rug out from under my feet.
Oh sure, use the old look-to-Christ-as-the-captivator-of-your-heart mentality. I’d rather blame my own personal Adam for all my problems, thank you very much.
But seriously, women are urged to “turn off the message of our wounds,†to seek Christ for healing, and to forgive our transgressors. We cannot wait for a man to unleash the beauty within us, “God longs to bring this into your life himself†(page 113). How often have I heard or read this message and rolled my eyes: don’t you think I KNOW I’m supposed to ‘let go and let God’? Yet somehow they manage to break through the cheeseball barrier.
Single? Don’t own your own personal Adam? Not to worry, you are not left out. The book discusses the relationships of women – all kinds. Friendship is important. We must “listen between the lines†(page 181). How do I relate to my sister experiencing depression? To a friend who lost her mother to cancer? To the woman in the parking lot whose car sprung a radiator leak? Do I feel lonely in the midst of a community of people? How are we, as Woman, revealing the character of God to the people he puts in front of us?
“All women are not mothers, but all women are called to mother. To mother is to nurture, to train, to educate, to rear. As daughters of Eve, all women are uniquely gifted to help others in their lives become more of who they truly are….In doing this, women partner with Christ in the vital mission of bringing forth life†(page 177).
Overall I would recommend this book – and NOT just because it quotes Rebecca Wells and Strictly Ballroom. Its themes are universal. It points us to Christ as the ultimate healer. If you can get past some of the holy-roller I-cried-out-to-God-and-he-smote-my-affliction Pentecostalism, then you can find something meaningful in this book for you.
My friend relayed a story to me last night about one of her childhood friends whose husband just checked into a 90-day program for drug addiction. Together they have three children.
Their youngest is only three weeks old.
As the friend who is closest to all the tension that lies between Bryan and I, who has been my sounding board and, at times, our mediator, she told me this story as a loving reminder of all we have to be thankful for in the midst of our complicated lives.
I love my friend for this reason.
She is able to empathize, to listen, to offer encouragement, to validate. Then she’ll turn me around, bend me over, and give me a solid kick in the ass for good measure, just to keep me from wallowing and feeling indignant.
I love that.
“Hey, Target has washcloths on sale in colors that you like.”
I love it that Bryan can look through a Target ad and know what I like.
…html.
Seriously.
When I asked Bryan if he could show me how to add book cover images to the sidebar of this website you would have thought I just handed him four backstage passes to a U2 concert.
He loves me dearly, but I think he wants to pull my hair out when he tries to show me geeky computer stuff and I whine, “I don’t have room in my head for all this, just do it for me.†So when I asked him to show me html code for customizing my blog, he gazed at me with stars in his eyes.
…spontaneity.
Yesterday afternoon when Bryan said, “What do you think about going to the pool?†I thought about jumping him right there on the spot, I was so turned on.
It’s not easy being spontaneous and adventurous with two small children, a dog, a mortgage, and a husband who likes routine, but I bloody my fingernails clinging to the Free Spirit within me who is hungry for some attention. I feed her a few random trips to the mall or the occasional night out with the girls, but those usually just involve me, or me and the kids. Nothing satisfies her cravings more than when Bryan is excited about being a Free Spirit, too.
The second orgasm came when he suggested we grab some pizza for dinner before heading home. Whoa. This is a man on the South Beach diet offering to buy me a pizza even though he gets a salad. No man can touch me the way a pizza can. Yet, I felt loved and cared for, not by the pizza, but by the scrumptious man who bought it for me.
I guess after four years we’re finally learning to speak each other’s language!
Last night as I shut down my computer at 1am, the stupid Windows shut-down chime woke Bryan up (because, hallelujah, my FANTASTIC husband bought me a laptop so I can feed my writing addiction while laying in bed watching Carlos Mencia on Comedy Central).
He rolled over, concerned, and said, “Have you been up this whole time?”
“Pretty much,” I said.
“Dork.”
“Totally.”
Then we both dropped off to sleep.
I do not give compliments well, that’s all there is to it.
Bryan told me that should be the first line of my very next post because I keep neglecting to mention all the fantastic, thoughtful things he has done for me this week. Not to mention all the fun we’ve had.
He has a point.
I tend to use my writing as a voice for the angst within, and there’s nothing very interesting about resolution: no suspense, no climax, no tension, nothin’.
So this post is dedicated to the one I love.
Tonight we saw The Violent Femmes play at Zoo Tunes, which is a great outdoor venue on a green lawn with blankets and picnic baskets and wine smuggled in tinted water bottles. Kids are running around everywhere, because kids under age twelve get in for free.
FREE, I tell ya.
In the words of Bob the Tomato, What more do you need to be happy?
There I was, sitting on my blanket, leaning against my picnic basket, listening to great music, reading the book Bryan bought me last week – the book he gave me as a sweet, unprompted gift; the book which he found while browsing Barnes and Noble because I was late picking him up for LAST week’s Zoo Tunes concert (Patty Griffin – talk about musical diversity!); the book which I LOVE and can’t put down – so I was sitting on my blanket enjoying the evening with my husband who was so gracious to me after I forgot the tickets and we had to drive all the way home after I had picked him up from work so we could theoretically get to the zoo early for a good spot, and we actually didn’t get there until ten minutes before it started and had to sit way in the back… and I was content.
The evening could have gone very very bad.
Jokingly, Bryan said, “You have the tickets, right?
Dramatically, I slammed the steering wheel and growled, “FUCK!â€
I guess he thought I was kidding, you know, like “Oh no, I thought you had the tickets, ha-ha-ha,†but no, I really meant FUCK!
For the next hour as we made the round trip-and-a-half through evening rush hour traffic to get the tickets I said “I’m so sorry,†with, I believe, twenty-six different inflections and nuances because ONCE could never be enough in Zug Land when you’re an hour late for a show.
But darn it if that Bryan didn’t just blow my Keens off when he says to me, “Don’t worry about it, babe. I’m just enjoying the time I get to spend with you.”
And here’s the best part: HE DIDN’T SOUND LIKE A COMPLETE CHEESEBALL WHEN HE SAID IT! He really meant it. He wasn’t saying it through clenched teeth as he really thought to himself, “I need to set up a color coded charted and timed system to ensure this doesn’t happen NEXT week….â€
He was very sweet, and I finally relaxed, and we had some of our best conversation of the evening during that drive.
It was pretty surreal to see Gordon standing there right in front of me as he sang (well, not RIGHT in front of me, more like at the other end of a football field, but still, it was surreal). He just has one of those distinct voices that you think is make-believe – kind of like Elmo or Grover – and to see that a real person makes that sound was, well, surreal.
I had the same experience the first time I saw Stevie Nicks sing.
The climax of the evening came during ‘Add It Up,’ the song that was The Femmes’ greatest – their paramount, if you will – which of course they saved for the last song of the evening, at which point all bodies leaped (leapt?) up from their picnic blankets to dance.
Tattooed bodies, magenta hair, average thirty-somethings with kids: they all danced. Children danced hand in hand with their parents, doing the jitterbug, or the twist, or some such dance.
Have you ever heard the words to ‘Add It Up?’
Watching the children dance with their parents, Bryan says, “I think I’m scarred.”
The other night a friend of mine told me a story about a “terrifying yet amazing thing†that happened to her toddler. After not hearing from him for awhile (we all know what happens when a toddler is too quiet) she stuck her head out the back door to see what he was up to. He was standing in their fenced-in back yard pointing at the gap between the fence and the house.
“No, Isaac,†she said. “Come away from there.â€
The gap was big enough for him to fit through, and my friend’s husband had been meaning to close it off.
Just then her doorbell rang. It was a neighbor inquiring whether there was a little boy who lived in this house. The man had seen a young toddler walking down the shoulder of the road in front of the house next door, and wanted to be sure he was safe.
Just then, my friend’s son, Isaac, came trotting around the corner.
“Yup, that’s him,†said the man.
Horrified, my friend realized she had stuck her head in the yard just as her son had returned from his streetside adventure.
I think all parents have near-miss stories like this one.
The potential for this incident to end in tragedy was not lost on my friend, but she expressed how faithful God is to watch over our children even when we can’t or don’t. She would not allow herself to dwell on the possibilities, nor would she allow her husband to beat himself up over not having fixed the gap sooner.
God had shown them grace, and they did not take it for granted: the gap was fixed immediately.
I was impressed by this take on things. She had started the story off by saying, “I need to tell you something really scary that happened to Isaac, but it was also really cool.â€
I was intrigued.
As it turned out, the Really Cool part was the ability to recognize the presence of Grace in a preventable circumstance.
It made me think about me and Bryan, and all the bickering we’ve been doing lately. I played out the scene in my mind as it would have happened had the same thing happened to us. I dare say neither of us would be so gracious.
Bryan would have blamed me for not having some sort of system in place to make sure Things Get Done around the house.
I would have blamed Bryan for not having time to Get Things Done around the house.
Neither of us, I believe, would have been able to let go of the fact that the gap SHOULD HAVE BEEN FIXED a long time ago.
Neither of us, I’m certain, would have been gushing on about how amazing it is that God protects our children when we should be perfectly capable to do it ourselves.
This is how we struggle. How do we show each other grace – how do we recognize God’s grace? – without sacrificing the need to be good stewards of the things God has given us?
Bryan and I are pretty hard on each other. I know I feel the heavy hand of high expectations, and I dish out a pretty good dose of justification. Just the other day after reporting the nail polish incident to him at work, his first question was, “Where did she get the nail polish?â€
Because of our struggles lately, this was a loaded question. In my mind it implied so many things: Why was the nail polish on the dining room table anyway? Why did you let so much time go by without checking on Ruthie? Why weren’t you able to make the salad during the kids’ nap time? Don’t you think you’re taking on too much by babysitting someone else’s toddler?
Bryan may have thought these things, and he may not have. But history begged the possibility of both the questioning and the track record prompting the questions.
In the end, what I long for is graciousness: the ability to give it freely, and the ability to see it when it’s given freely to me.
Just when I thought I was running out of things to write about and my blog would shrivel up and die, my two year old once again provided plenty of material for me.
To preface this story I would just like to say that in addition to my 4 month old and two-and-a-half-year-old, I’m also watching my friend’s 18-month-old for a week. Plus, it’s ninety degrees today which makes everyone whiney.
That is my defense.
For a brief hour today I had all three kids simultaneously taking naps, during which I read a book without guilt. One by one they each began to wake up, so I began the snack rotation while putting dinner together. It was only 1:30 in the afternoon, but I was making a chicken curry salad that needed to be chilled.
Toward the end of all this mayhem, one kid was crying, one kid was wandering happily about with toys in hand, and one particular EEEVIL blond girl was much too quiet.
The Voice told me to check on her.
I ignored The Voice.
“But I just want to mix this dressing,†I told The Voice. “I’ve been trying to make this salad all morning and I’m almost done.â€
She’s up to no good, said The Voice. CHECK ON HER NOW!
Quietly and patiently I scooped the salad into a tupperware and put it in the fridge, washed my hands, put a few dishes in the dish washer, then walked into the living room to check on Ruthie.
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!
[Now, let me just take this moment to assure everyone that I later apologized to Ruthie for what you are about to read because, while she grossly misbehaved, there is no excuse for the temper I unleashed on her in my anger. I am far from perfect as a mother, but I always make a point to tell Ruthie I’m sorry when I am wrong.]
The pink I painted on her toenails apparently was not enough for Ruthie, because she confiscated the bottle of nail polish and painted her legs, her arms, and poured the rest of the bottle out onto my BRAND NEW COUCH.
This is the couch I saw in the store window, fell in love with, waited six months until we had the money to buy it, waited five weeks for it to be delivered, and now have the privilege of napping on daily. It’s red. It’s soft. If I were Dooce I would lick my couch.
I’ve only had it for three months.
I believe what came out of my mouth was something like, “YOU ARE IN SUCH BIG FUCKING TROUBLE YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO TAKE THINGS OFF THE TABLE DO YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH I HAD TO FUCKING BEG FOR THIS COUCH I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS…†etc. etc. etc. You get the idea: all caps, no punctuation, lots of swearing.
Poor thing. Poor, unsuspecting cute blond girl who just wanted to look pretty.
I think the most important thing that I am currently learning as a mother is how easy it is to crush the spirit of my children and embitter them against me. Countless times I have, in mid-sentence, flash forwarded in my mind to Ruthie at age thirteen: bitter, rebellious, and hating me because we’ve spent our entire relationship butting heads.
She is a creative, smart, observant, verbal, independent girl, and I think most of the time I fail to recognize all of these (and more!) amazing qualities about her because I’m so fixated on her stubborn will and propensity to be curious.
I pray on a daily basis that I will let go of this and learn to choose my battles more carefully with her so the next time I go ape over [insert tragic circumstance here], my voice is not just the white noise she hears from me all day long.
I made good with Ruthie. As I cleaned her up I spoke quietly to her, apologizing for losing my temper, and I asked her to forgive me. We kissed, we hugged, then we had some snuggle time while the other kids napped again. I cherish my time alone with her, and I wish I could will myself into being more tender with her when she’s out of line.
She is a beauty — a one-of-a-kind — and I love her dearly.
The other night as I sat eating a bowl of vanilla ice cream with fresh peaches on top from the local farmer’s market, I was reminiscing of Gordy. He loved summer fruit, and he loved peaches with ice cream. I think blueberries were his favorite cereal topping, but for some reason as I sat there eating peaches with my ice cream, it had GORDY written all over it.
He had a way of getting excited over simple pleasures, like summer fruit and corn on the cob. I have memories of him marching into the kitchen with frisky determination, rubbing his hands together as he planned his attack on the fruit of the day.
Some days it was strawberry-rhubarb. He would cook batches of it on the stove: fresh rhubarb from the garden, strawberries, a little sugar to mellow it out. I couldn’t WAIT for strawberry-rhubarb season. I would spread it on my Wheaties, we’d have it on pancakes, and it was just the right amount of tart to put on vanilla ice cream.
Gordy knew how to savor.
