The A's have it... Arthur :) & Alvin :(

The boys and I have seen 2 movies in actual movie theaters since Thanksgiving. This streak is unprecedented for us. We generally see a movie in the theater about once every eight months or so, but, somehow, we snuck in 2 within a single month.  I shudder to consider what these events say about our individual, developmental phases, but, as you knew I would, I digress…

As a result of this recent cinema insanity, I feel compelled to comment on these 2 films – to somehow justify the ridiculous financial investment that these 2 movies reflect.

First, we saw Arthur Christmas in San Antonio while we waited on Metro Man who tended to important business about feeding hungry people. No, seriously. That’s what he was doing.

Anyway, I found Arthur and his Christmas to be entirely charming. Arthur on the big screen was sweet and touching – and entirely entertaining. The elves and their 007-like ways were captivating, especially to the 2 boys who accompanied me. In truth - and in spite of the odd face moles/blemishes on Arthur’s face – Arthur had a heart; he displayed what the very spirit of Christmas is about – sacrifice and sharing, putting others before self.

I did cringe at the depiction of Mr. and Mrs. Clause, who were, of course, Arthur’s parents. Mrs. Clause was perfectly savvy and saved the day more than once in the movie, but Mr. (a.k.a. Santa) Claus was a doofus – awkward, unthinking, and entirely unaware.

He reminded me of so many other cartoon dads who know nothing and are, at best, unimpressive parents. It entirely irritates me that dads get such a bad rap in the animated realm. Moms are super women who work, take care of everyone, and solve the cartoon problems, but dads are barely human – barely able to manage their own ineptitude, much less address and control the incompetence of their offspring. I won’t even consider the old art-imitating-life/life-imitating-art question. I won’t.

I will add that perhaps the Santa in Arthur’s movie was merely a bad link on the Clause’s genetic chain; his father and his younger son were heart-felt, caring souls who saved Christmas for children, adults, reindeer, and elves alike and presented a perfectly charming flick for all ages.

The second film that we saw was Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked. The chipmunks are cute, especially the Chippettes and Theodore. They dance, they sing, and they harmonize unimaginably well. They are fun; I do find myself distracted by their eye color for some reason, but they are enchanting nonetheless. Jason Lee who plays Dave, their dad/owner, is also charming, though I have trouble with him as a middle-class dad after watching him for years as Earl on NBC. He’ll always be the karma-loving ex-con to me.

Regardless, Chipwrecked is cute and includes some delightful parody scenes related to other Hollywood classics, like Tom Hanks’ Shipwrecked and Indiana Jones.

However, I am troubled by the example that this movie sets. Alvin is a petulant, mean, unthinking, selfish character who is not parented at all effectively in the movie. The audience is led to believe that the events of the movie change his character by movie’s end, but, the final vignette proves he is back to his old ways – back to Dave yelling ineffectually at him. In truth, Alvin and his friends are just not cute enough to reinforce the idea that this sort of behavior is okay – that parents don’t really need to intervene to teach children (or chipmunks, as the case may be) that certain behaviors are not appropriate.

Maybe I am overthinking both of these movies. Maybe I have one too many lit crit credits on my transcripts. Maybe, but maybe I can’t afford to be über-passé about the influences that my boys are exposed to.

Maybe.

Definitely.

Merry Christmas!!

Pinterested

When Facebook began, I was enamored. Entirely. Now, it seems that a new networking website has captured and indeed captivated my attention. Pinterest. I have my niece to thank for this new infatuation, though, to her credit, I must admit that the number of teacher ideas I have seen on said website does expunge her from any real guilt. If she has the hutzpah to put these ideas into action, children everywhere – and me by extension – shall be blessed and grateful.

I digress…

The number of ideas I have entirely plagiarized from Pinterest is reaching logarithmic proportions, so, to assuage my guilt, here I am going to list my recent creations and thefts:

• Canned biscuits in the waffle maker. Who knew? Turned out great.
• Chocolate cake mix in the waffle maker. Boys ate it with ice cream. Froze the extra. Just like baked in the oven but faster!
• Next time, canned cinnamon rolls in the waffle maker. Supposed to be just as good. (Clearly, I have been underestimating my waffle maker all these years.)
• Thanksgiving centerpiece made from a truffle bowl, un-popped popcorn, tiny pumpkins and walnuts. No shopping required. Love it!
• Homemade, liquid hand soap. Amazingly inexpensive to make, fun for the boys, and entirely practical.
• Homemade, antibacterial, multi-purpose cleaning spray. Again, very friendly on the pocket book.
• Tips on better Modge Podge usage. No more wrinkles for this decoupager.
• A glitter jar. Fill a Mason jar with glitter glue, food coloring, and water. Use it as a time-out tool. Child is not released from time-out until all the glitter has settled. Plus, watching the glitter calms the child down.

Things I have been intrigued by on Pinterest but have not yet tried:

• Make-it-yourself play dough kits/party favors. Fascinating.
• Frozen fruit popsicles.
• Bleach pen t-shirt. Use colored t-shirt and draw designs with a bleach pen. An alternative is a white t-shirt and a Sharpie; then use alcohol to smear the ink for effect.
• Best method for personalizing/letter-painting wood crafts.
• Hot dog wieners with spaghetti spiked through them. Then, after boiled, the noodles and wieners make hot dog spaghetti. Resulting image gives me the creeps, but I imagine the boys would like it.
• Decoupaged, tile coasters.

In the end, I am not sure that Pinterest has changed my life; in truth, it has likely wasted a good bit of my ever-illusive free time, considering the number of wedding ideas and decorating insanity I had to wade through to get to the gems I was interested in.

In the end, though, I do find this website more interesting and infinitely more practical than OTHER networking sites, riddled with tedious status updates, odd location check-ins, and a host of odd applications that my younger friends seem so taken with.

One caveat… You do have to be officially invited to join Pinterest. If you want me to put in a good word for you, please just email!

PS No worries. I have no plans to make this blog one of those craftier-than-thou creations. Clearly, those who would follow the wanderings of my mind are not ready for that transition. :)

"i before e except after c." Weird.

This month, Son #2 has begun a real struggle with spelling. He began the school year with great 100+ scores, but he quickly lost interest. For a kid of his particular, um, let’s say “demeanor,” losing interest is a death knell. In fact, one particular spelling test prompted a Sunday afternoon phone call from his teacher to let us know that he had made a zero on the spelling test the week before because he made up letters and words for the entire test. She did let him retest, though we did wonder at the wisdom of that. Then again, we reasoned, grades don’t mean much to him anyway, so what difference did it make?

Anywho, since that fateful phone call, we have traveled the precarious and challenging road of making second-grade spelling fun. If you have a kid like son #2, you totally know that getting him or her to do anything he or she is not totally in love with is a painful, tear-jerking, exhausting, and downright awful experience.

I won’t even bring up the notion that, in my personal, yet-to-be-officially-in-print parenting and teaching handbook, spelling is a skill intimately akin to coloring and scissor usage. They are all very nice skills to have, but will they really make a difference in a person’s life to the extent that they deserve grand attention and hoopla? I think not. I didn’t think it in preschool when the boys got low marks in coloring, and I don’t think it now as we face this new spelling melee.

In an age of electronic devices and populating text boxes, spelling is an archaic skill. I would much prefer a child have critical thinking skills – an ability to analyze and figure that would benefit him as he approached a world full of problems to decipher, rather than a keen ability at rote memorization.

I can also see clearly now how our educational system takes such a one-size-fits-all approach when, in reality, one size does not fit all. We, girls, know this from shopping, and we also know that no one can really sell us something that doesn’t fit, unless we let them.

I digress…

Back to the spelling issue… I also struggle with the whole respecting-authority concern that arises here as well. I know spelling is stupid, and I know my son will figure it all out some day. However, I also know that he has to have an innate respect for teachers and other adults in authority. And so how do I teach my boys do to what is right if what seems right is really illogical and wrong?

Ugh.

As I continue to wrestle with these baffling questions of parenthood, I will leave you with a list of ideas to help your kids become better spellers – even though, as I list these, I cringe a bit at the extent to which I have gone for a topic I believe so little in:

First of all, there are some really good ideas at this teacher website: http://www.ilovethatteachingidea.com/ideas/subj_spelling.htm

www.spellingcity.com. Most schools use this website, and it does well to create games and other ways to teach the words to kids.

Son #2’s kindergarten teacher, whom I still see regularly and totally adore, suggested jigsaw puzzles. She said there was a connection between being able to do the mental tasks of puzzle connecting and being able to remember things like spelling words better.

Scrabble Cheez-Its. Use the crackers to spell the words. If a few get eaten, no harm, though Son #2 does like to eat the letters he doesn’t need on any given word. Just saying you may want to count this one as snack time. (We also use hard macaroni in math when we need something to count. The eating principle is the same though, so be sure to have extra on hand!)

Bath Tub Markers. I’m not convinced these markers are a great artistic medium, but they are a novelty. Again, you get a “two-fer” – a bath and a spelling practice in one. The “ink” does come right off, and they are easy to find in the bubble bath section of the store.

Magnetic letters and a cookie sheet. I found these letters at our local teacher store when Son #1 was having troubles with phonics in 1^st grade. These letters are flat and much smaller than the preschool fridge magnets everyone has, though I suppose those would work too. These fancy ones come with oodles of options so that you’ll never run out of e’s. Son #2 seems to really enjoy them, and this is a great activity for the car because they stay on the cookie sheet wherever you put them. Again, another “two-fer!”

Drawing pad app. You can get these on phones, e-readers, or anything with a touch screen. Son #2 loves to spell his words on the screen, using his finger as the pencil. Warning: This is a great tool, but it does come with a healthy distraction possibility. Son #2 often gets into drawing a picture and forgets entirely about the words.

Start on Friday. I’ve also started asking for the next week’s words on Friday afternoon so that we can study the words over the weekend.

The pièce de résistance… Drum roll please… The Dollar Store. Ta da… This week, I have promised Son #2 that, if his spelling test goes well, he can have anything he wants at the dollar store. (Note that this is a real dollar store, not one of those stores where they say they are a dollar store, but everything is $3 plus; everything in this store is a dollar.) He is totally stoked about this shopping trip, and, though I know the dollar store will also lose its luster for Son #2, I am happy to have a single week where he is excited about – or at least willing to endure – spelling.

Now, if I could just explain to him that extortion is perfectly okay sometimes, I'd have another parenting hurdle checked off...

Fashion Democracy

Since it appears that cooler weather may actually one day occur in West Texas, I spent part of Friday – my day off – shopping for jeans and longer capris. In truth, I began searching for super-casual t-shirts, but ended up in the jeans section. I know it was a bit masochistic of me, but there it is.  As Robert Frost wrote, “As way leads onto way….”

Anyway, I digress.

Eventually, as I searched the sand-blasted, acid-washed aisles of our local mall, it dawned on me that I am not emotionally or psychologically equipped to shop for jeans anymore – if ever I was.

I simply don’t like stretch, and that’s all jeans of the new millennia are; they are leggings with pockets. There I’ve said it. It is entirely antithetical to what the jean is all about to make it primarily of spandex. If your jean tags say anything besides “100% cotton,” you are deluding yourself with the label, “jeans.” You are really a fraction of a fashion skip away from Pajama-jeans, and, in truth, we really all know that it’s wrong to go there. Really. On so many levels.

But I will go here: I imagine that Levi Strauss would spend the rest of eternity whirling in his grave if he could see what modern man – and woman – has done to his opus, making his masterpiece stretchy, ripped, and abbreviated in such ways that only Barbie could really drive that zipper.

What happened to waist-high cotton denim? You all remember it – the legendary crop grown in the South that was eventually turned into Wranglers with a pre-starch stiffness that would allow them to stand on their own. I am not suggesting that I enjoy these brand-new, Wrangler-type jeans; in fact, I always hated new jeans as a kid because they did chafe a bit. At the same time, I LOVE what comes after that newness wears off – jeans that are worn, soft, and comfy after years of wear and laundering. Old jeans seem to totally fulfill that kinesiological theory of muscle memory; they have it, and they remember exactly where to give and where to hold in.

And this type of jean is authentic. Utterly genuine. The rips and tears and wear marks on them are earned, not engineered by some tiny woman in Romania. Like so many other things, man – and woman – is trying to emulate a process best left to nature.

I write all this only to ask, Do you know where I ended up on Friday as I shopped and philosophized? The men’s department.

Apparently, men are not as in love with spandex, legging jeans as a large portion of American women. They also don’t seem to love the tiny, elf-sized zippers, so, over there, I found 100% cotton, waist-high jeans.

I also found 38-inch waists and inseams that were a bit intimidating for a girl who’s had a clear 29-incher since junior high. Again, the essence of my being was not prepared for the beating it took that fateful Friday morning.

So, regardless of how you expected this story might end, know that I did not come home empty-handed. I am now the proud owner of two, brand-new pairs of shorts. Winter will just have to wait.

Celebrating 9/11!

Son #1 was born on 9/11. Here he is the next day:

Very soon after most people learn his birthday, they say, “The 9/11?” and I have to explain that, yes, he was born on the most infamous 9/11 in history.

September 11, 2001, began like a regular day for most of the world. My husband and I, on the other hand, spent this day – and the night before – in a labor and delivery room waiting for our son to arrive.  He was born around 10 p.m., so we spent the day watching the news; we even saw live footage of the second (north or south?) tower fall. It was an amazing, historical day for us and for the rest of the world. The nurses would come in and would stand amazed, watching our TV for a few minutes.

Here's Son #1 when he was a Scout in first grade. He's standing next to the 9/11 Memorial in our hometown. It was hard to explain why his birthday was written on the monument.

Many mothers have told me that they would have hated for their children to have had my son’s birthday, but I am so grateful for it. On a day when the rest of the world was mourning – a day the rest of the world still mourns – my husband and I found an amazing reason to be proud and happy – and hopeful. The rest of our country was horror-stricken, and we were facing the beginning of the most amazing ride of our lives.  As my doctor said months later, “[Son #1] was the only good thing that happened that day.”

This week, Son #1 completed his fourth week of the fourth grade. Since those thousands of people died, he has learned to walk, to talk, to read, to write, and to run and play like any adventurous boy. He has played little league, caught his first fish, mastered many a Wii game, and survived his first TAKS test. He has grown so much since that day – his first day – in September.

More than these things, though, Son #1 has been an astonishing reminder of God’s most valuable promise – a promise that does not guarantee only good times, but a promise that does ensure that there will always be reason to hope in the midst of any tragedy.

So, tomorrow, unlike the rest of the world, we will celebrate. We will eat cake, open presents, and sing, and we will rejoice in the first 10 years of Son #1’s life. More importantly, though, we will remember to never lose hope.

         

With a Y please...

So, we went to a family reunion last weekend. Here's what we looked like...

We're the cute quartet on the far left. The rest of the folks are branches on the same family tree. Only some -- maybe half? -- still share the same surname, but, regardless of their names, the sense of and loyalty to family is something that runs deep with this group.

I should mention that my cousin and his family aren't in this picture. They were totally present for the weekend's activities, but they had taken their girls back to the motel for a nap. (Secretly, I am a little glad they missed the shot; those 2 girls of his are so stinkin' cute... I doubt anyone would have noticed the other 65 people at all!!)

The old guy on the front row with the cap on his knee. See him? That's Uncle Tooter. So named because he was always such a "toot." Metaphorically, of course. Not literally. At least I don't think so...

Anyway, I enjoyed a time last weekend listening to him tell stories about my granddad and him as boys. He told about how they handled an unruly chicken one time; it was the equivalent of spy games boys today play -- you know... involved plans were hatched and traps were set. I think the story ended with yard bird for supper instead of huge explosions, but it's the same still. Really.

He also mentioned that Granddad didn't really like horses -- something I never knew. Funny how relationships keep developing and changing, even after people die. Weird.

Although maybe not. See, here's what this group used to look like when they got together...

Okay, not that exact group, but the people who beget the people in the first picture. Anyway, see the cutie patootie in the checkered dress and the really handsome guy on the back row, far left? Those are my grandparents. Can you believe it?

I have trouble with it -- with remembering them as young, vibrant people. I know they were more active when I was a kid, but the last few times I saw them, they were, well, old. Pictures like these and stories like the ones Uncle Tooter told... Those things make me remember that my grandparents were real vibrant people, not just always my grandparents.

Look at this one:

That's my sister, Dad, Granddad, and my Granddad's parents. I'm the chubby one in pink. Big surprise there; I could still be described that way.

Also, it was the early '70s, so excuse the eye wear.

Everyone has a hint of a smile. I like that. It's how families should be when they are together.

Jesus -- & other things -- in my heart!

In the last week, I have had about 439 ideas for blog posts, but, somewhere between the conception of the ideas and actually sitting down to type them, the ideas evaporate. Poof. My mind becomes a vacuum – a void of anything entertaining or witty. Instead, I am filled with the minutia of the first week of school: Which days do the boys need lunches made? Who is picking up whom and where? What should a kid wear to school when it’s 105 degrees outside but freezing in his classroom? Have we even picked up the mail this week?

I could go on, but you likely get the point.

I did type my self-evaluation today for my job at church. It was a new and wonderful experience – and a bit odd to include prayer and intense personal growth an important issue to review. Here’s one paragraph I included:

My ability to accept people as God has made them or grown them has become far healthier. Perhaps this skill improves when a person spends time with children: Kids have an amazing ability to accept everyone at face value, and children are not effective at hiding their own flaws. Such transparency grows acceptance and blessing, and it has done that for me.  At times, we all have to struggle to find an extra bit of Jesus in our hearts to love certain people, and, today, I know that this particular struggle for me is less demanding than ever before.  I know that we all are flawed, but still intensely and innately loveable.

In truth, the vernacular here was totally stolen. I have a friend who says of certain people, “I just don’t have enough Jesus in me for him/her.” It usually cracks me up, but somehow I missed that tone here. Maybe a good thing considering the audience. Maybe. Maybe not.

Without clear segue or transition, here are a few things I’m in love with today, in no particular order…

·        My Nook Color J. Total love and abandon here. Total.

·        Cool Brew Tea by Celestial Seasons + Liquid Stevia = a low-carb, fairly healthy version of paradise.

·        RSVP RT, ball-point pens. It’s the little things really.

·        My elder son who literally charts – Yes, on paper! – the contestants on reality TV shows.

·        My younger son who rarely agrees to write even his own name.

·        Pink. Enough said.

Next week will be the second week of school and the first days of September. Perhaps the promise of fall will inspire my blogging juices to flow.

Limpin' Along

Our pastor said, during his sermon today, that you should "never trust a person who doesn't walk with a limp." He went on to explain that times of crisis and struggle can lead people to closely examine themselves and their God in ways that times of ease and plenty cannot. The result of this weakness and suffering is a limp, perhaps not a physical one, but a limp of the spirit -- an obvious sign of suffering and persevering.

It's the whole theory of breaking bones... Where the bone breaks is often the place where it heals even stronger than the rest of the bone. This theory is true for us as well; we are often driven to our knees before we are able to rise stronger, wiser, and better for having suffered and struggled.

As thoughts will do, this thought tumbled into a mass of other thoughts, one of which reminded me of so many parents I know. On any given day, I will deal with all kinds of parents... Parents who cannot stand to be separated from their kids, even for just a 7-hour school day; parents who forget to pick up their kids on Wednesday nights; moms who worry about abuse and neglect to the point of distraction, dragging the rest of us along into their paranoia; and parents who don't even seem to take notice of their kids.

Parents come in all shapes and sizes, and, yet, for the most part, it seems that parents -- good and bad, but maybe all moms especially -- don't want their kids to suffer, to struggle. They hope that their children never get their hearts broken, their dreams dashed, or their beliefs challenged. They pray that life, for their kids, is easy.

I have to admit that I've been that mom, too. I've made teacher requests; visited classrooms; presented myself to teachers, principals and counselors on a regular basis; and talked to other moms about what are really the situations -- and symptoms -- of childhood. I have worked tirelessly to eliminate struggle and heartbreak from my boys' lives. I have. I have totally been THAT mom.

But today I got to thinking that the very things I -- and so many other parents -- are working infinitely hard to eliminate from our children's lives -- the suffering and the struggle -- those are the exact things that will make them the men and women whom we want them to be when they grow up.

I see all the time kids filled to their hairlines with entitlement. They believe they should be handed things on that proverbial silver platter -- things as easy as snacks and parts in a church musical to things as hard as popularity and eternal life. Kids, for the most part, believe that these things are as rightful to them as air.

It seems that parents like me -- THOSE parents -- may have created this sense of "It's mine!" in our kids. We have taken away their struggle, letting them believe that everything is theirs for the asking: All teachers are always great; childhood challenges don't exist; and problems with the principal are easily fixed. And then these kids grow up... They become adults. And they keep that idea of "It's mine!" They face troubles in the workforce, in relationships, and in the world at large.

So today, I began wondering if it's time for my boys to begin experiencing struggle and suffering of their own -- not front-row neglect or lack, but enough of a taste of what makes our world turn to prepare them for the rest of their lives. The good news is that I can do this now and be a safe, supportive place for them to fall when the world does indeed prove to be unfair. I can do that now so that they can face adulthood as men who are multi-dimensional, caring, delightful, empathetic, trustworthy, and just nice to be around.

Before today, I already had this notion in mind; I know I did, but I also know that, somehow today, explaining it became obvious. It became clear because I want my boys to be, well, interesting because of what they have suffered and struggled through. I want them to know deep in their bones that they can expect life to be unfair but that, above all else, they will be okay anyway.

So, this week, my mom prayer will be, "Dear God, please help my sweet boys learn to limp. Amen." 

Things I like now...

... that I unconditionally did not like as a kid, in no particular order:

V8. Two servings of vegetables per day in a pop-top can is somehow a delightful proposition at my current phase of life. I've also discovered that I genuinely like the taste -- Grey Goose and Tobasco notwithstanding.

Nap time. Enough said. Really.

Jalepeños. I especially find delight in pepper jack cheese, anything chipotle, and -- as a very recent discovery -- jalepeño bologna. As is likely obvious, my palate is not refined or picky, and, apparently, neither is my digestive track.

Brown. Since my truly formative years were basically the 1970s, I must admit that I used to be quite bitter and a bit nauseous about the color brown. As I was growing up, the world was bathed in brown and/or harvest gold -- from cars, polyester pant suits, and wood paneling to kitchen appliances, shag carpeting, and couches with brown and gold floral patterns. Bleee-eck. These memories conjur up horrible notions -- the likes of which jalepeño bologna never could.

So relieved was I to leave the oppressive darkness of '70s that I entirely embraced the cooler teals and peaches of the '80s; the southwestern trend of my pubescent years was a refreshing shift. Today, of course, 1980s design is about as appealing as cheap, motel art, and our current decade's design authorities  -- aka HGTV -- are morphing the old chocolate brown into warm, cozy cappuccino colors. They are matching brown with hot pink and even torquoise, and, suddenly, I'm loving brown. Loving. It.

Just, please... No harvest gold. Please.

A Mom's Thoughts

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary of Magdala. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, “Dear woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home. (John 19:25-27)

During the two years Son #2 was in preschool, his front lip and teeth took regular beatings; concrete floors, playscapes, and other kids’ heads were quite regularly bashed against the lower front of his face. We wondered for a long time if his top baby teeth would be allowed to survive their natural life expectancy.

Eventually, the teeth did survive, and the “busted” lips all healed well. But, when I think about that time, one specific example of his poor face’s trials stands out. It was a beautiful, spring afternoon, and the boys and I were in the parking lot at Sam’s Club. We were getting out of the car when Son #2 fell out of the backseat onto the asphalt; he landed on his face. His front teeth badly cut his inner lip, his outer lip was also cut, his knees were abraded, and I wasn’t so sure about the future of one particular front tooth. Blood was everywhere. We cut short our trip and hurried home to ice packs, the comfort of cartoons, and his beloved friend, Bear-Bear.

Hours later, after all was calmer and Son #2 was munching ice like a trooper, I noticed my big toe. It had a huge blob of dried blood on it. I hadn’t even noticed it. Much later, when I knew Son #2 would be okay and when we had decided that stitches were not required, did I slow down enough to notice this reminder of the afternoon’s events. The first thought that came to me when I saw that dried blood was of Mary – THE Mary. Our trauma had been a small one, and I suddenly wondered what Mary had looked like at the end of that horrible day so many springs ago. I wondered how many dried blood spots she had on her body that she did not even notice because she was more concerned about the suffering of HER son. I thought of those agonizing hours along the Via Dolorosa as she followed her son as he carried his cross – as he carried the cross for all of us – and I could not imagine the terror in her heart that day. In the end, she stayed with her son, and she followed him and his pain until its final end as he hung on that cross. She stayed because, as his mother, she had no choice but to stay; she knew that the human son in him needed her to.

Ultimately and perhaps ironically, Mary teaches what parenthood is about: being selfless, giving to the needy, and seeing “it” through. As a result, she not only teaches about being a parent, but about being a Christian as well. As with her, we all are given the wonderful grace of knowing that, regardless of what we suffer along the way, we, too, will ultimately be taken care of – just as Jesus, even in his final moments, took care of her.

Dear Lord, help me today in bearing this huge responsibility of parenthood, and help me to walk with my children through their pains and trials. Give me the grace you gave Mary, as I work to put the focus where it belongs. Thank you for caring for me while I care for others. In your Son’s name I pray, Amen.

Proverbs 31

Thinking about my grandma today. No reason. Just am. Read what follows here at her funeral in February, 2008. Had totally forgotten some of these things. Good to remember.

Every comedy team has two roles: First, there is the comic who tells all the jokes and makes everyone laugh. This first comic is often the one that the audience remembers, the one who seems funnier and more entertaining. The other half of comedy team is made up of the one who is responsible for laughing at all the funny guy’s jokes. Much like George Burns had Gracie Allen and Lucy had Ricky, every comedy duo strikes a careful balance; these acts desperately need both players since one without the other entirely weakens the comedy.

Initially, it would seem that my grandmother had little to do with comedy teams. Initially, it really does seem that way, but, in truth, most of us had relationships with Grandma that were very much like the relationships of these comedy teams. Grandma rarely told a joke herself, but she always laughed at the jokes the rest of us told. And, when she laughed, she had a great laugh – a big laugh, a laugh that made her nose crinkle and her eyes all but disappear as her faced stretched into a smile. She was the very essence of the word “jolly.” Her entire self shook when she laughed, and you couldn’t help but like her when she was so jolly – and when she was, after all, laughing at your joke.

One of my most vivid childhood memories involves Grandma and Grandpa. It is likely such a vivid memory because it very probably happened more than once. In this memory, we were at Grandma’s table in her condominium in Fort Stockton – a table that had been largely extended with leaves and card tables; it was a table filled with wonderful things to eat and surrounded by family. It was a holiday meal, though I don’t remember which one, and Grandma was bustling around making sure that everyone had everything that they wanted or needed. Grandpa was seated at the head of the table watching the entire proceedings. At one point, he said something in German very clearly and loudly to Grandma. None of us had a clue what he said, but Grandma looked at him with a mischievous smile, and said to him, “Oh, Herbie.”  As usual, with this simple endearment and a big grin, she showed her jolly disposition and did only what she knew to do: She appreciated the humor in whatever Grandpa had said.

Another time, our entire family had traveled to Ruidoso. The first afternoon that we were there, Grandma decided that my cousin, Holly, and I needed to rest, so she made us lie down with her. We, however, were not excited about a nap; we were too thrilled about the winter wonderland outside. As soon as we thought Grandma was asleep, we snuck out of the bedroom; Holly even had to gingerly remove Grandma’s hand to get away. We thought we had really fooled her as she napped… that is, until later when Grandma told us she had been awake the entire time. She didn’t laugh at us out loud, but the amusement she found in our trying to sneak out was totally apparent.

 

Last August, when Grandma was in the hospital, I had the blessing of spending some time with her – just she and I. Ironically, she felt really good during this time, and she didn’t really understand why she was in the hospital. She was also totally coherent; she knew me, and she remembered things I imagine she hadn’t remembered in years. She and I talked a lot, which is something we hadn’t done in a good while. She talked of her years in Otis, Kansas, when her girls were about the ages that my boys are now and how they had lived in the garage of their new house while the house itself was being finished. We talked about her years in McCamey, and she shared some memories from living in Fort Stockton. But the thing that sticks out more during this period isn’t her memories, though I did enjoy them immensely. What does seem so evident now as I think about our time together then is that she laughed; she laughed that big, jolly laugh she had when she knew she could do nothing but appreciate the humor. This time was really the last time I remember her laughing such a genuine laugh.

I don’t mean to suggest that all my grandmother did was smile and laugh. In truth, she was so much more: She was the hardest worker I have ever known; she was a devoted mother and grandmother; she was an attentive wife and a loving sister; she was a good friend; and she was a faithful servant to her church and the Lord. At different times, she was also a small business owner and a Sunday school teacher. She was indeed the very essence of the noble woman.

Out of all of these roles that Grandma had, though, her part in having relationships with each of us and being the one whose job it was to laugh was obvious. She laughed with us when she didn’t know what else to say, and she laughed for us when we needed someone to validate us, to support us. Her nearly 92 years comprised a life filled with genuine care for other people; her laughter was only one of the amazing ways that she showed that care. 

During the last few months, Grandma seemed so happy. As any of you who saw her knew, her smile was constant, and she was so contented. She had no worries, no cares; she seemed glad to just BE. In truth, such a state seems an entirely fitting way for her to spend her final months, and, as we gather today to say, “good-bye,” to Grandma, more than anything else, I imagine her exactly that way…smiling and laughing.

Would it -- Could it -- be as sweet?

We call him all sorts of things... Dix. Deedles. Fred. Dee Dee. Dixer. One very sweet man at church even calls him, "Dick."

When he was four, I started calling him, "Fred," because he refused to let me call him by any endearment. I tried them all, from "honey" to "sweetie" to "baby cakes" to so many others. He flatly refused each one, so, when I jokingly suggested, "Fred," I never thought he would be okay with it. But he was. So I still call him, "Fred." He still seems to like it. Or at least he answers.

As for the rest of the names, I don't know for sure where they came from, except that, when he was very small, he couldn't say his given name, so he said, "Dee Dee," instead. We learned that one from him.

I also know that, when babies are tiny and when mommies stay home and have no other interaction but with these tiny babies, strange names and conversations can result. I'm sure that's how "Deedles" came about; I must have been making up names for him out of sheer silliness and a lack of intellectual stimulation. The rest is family history.

This is Dix at 7 months old. See those two bottom teeth? They are long gone now. The Tooth Fairy doesn't have them; Metro has them in a baggy in his junk drawer. Dee didn't want to part with his teeth -- didn't like the idea of someone in his room while he was sleeping -- so we're keeping 'em instead.

Now back to the names... The one name for him that makes me smile the most these days is when his brother calls him. The name is usually several syllables long and jam-packed with frustration: "Diiiiii-ix!" I never considered when we were shopping for baby names how each of those names might sound screeched, growled, or otherwise blasphemed from a sibling's mouth.

When baby booties and all things soft and cuddly are dancing in a parent's head, he or she never considers -- not totally anyway -- how that name will morph into the person that the child is. Now -- seven years later with all my baby-naming behind me -- it is so clear that the name never really owns the child, regardless of a parent's grand plans and hopes; it is the child who owns the name, tweaking and editing to make the monniker his own.

That's what our Dixer has done; he has grown the name we lovingly chose for him into something varied and diverse, something that is just as unique and amazing as he is. And something that doesn't sound half bad when his brother screams it.

Here's one more shot of Dix; this one is on the last day of 1st grade with a stuffed wolf a friend gave him.

The Last Three Weeks

Life is always crazy, but, well, it's been more so lately.

Here's how...

• hosting 225 kids at our church's four-day VBS
• putting the Church back to rights after VBS
• writing thank you notes to the 137 volunteers
• hauling thirty 4th, 5th and 6th graders to read to young kids at a local summer school and then taking them for pizza. (I have a not-so-secret and intense distaste for kids' pizza places, so this was a big step for me. Yuck.)
• spending four days at a Christian educators' retreat
• laughing hysterically and learning lots at said retreat
• coming home to another case of strep for son #2
• scheduling a last-minute trip to see our beloved Dr. Mike
• facing a week without my summer intern who had the nerve to look forward to going to camp with 5th graders (Some people are really sick!)

I'm not really complaining. Really. I loved every minute of it -- minus the strep part. I love the VBS kids, the ladies at my retreat, Dr. Mike, and even the 5th graders. I just wish these big events were spaced out a bit more for better recovery time.

Then, again, who else has questioned -- and requested improvement on -- God's timing? Oh, yeah, you, too? I thought so.

As you ponder the deep and confusing theology surrounding our need to accept God's timing, please enjoy this picture of son #1 enjoying summer break, playing the Wii and getting a Shiatsu back massage. It's a great set-up, one he came up with all by himself.

And forgive me if I am quiet for a few days while I recuperate.

Five-fingered Biographies

I wrote this article in 2007 for the San Angelo Standard Times. I still love these ideas -- love hands, in general.

            Recently, I received an email from my father-in-law.  He often forwards emails that have been well circulated around the Internet, but this email struck me very differently than the other hundreds of weekly forwards I get in my inbox.  In this email, someone was telling the story of meeting an old man who was considering his hands.  The old man told the stranger of all the amazing and mundane things those hands had done in his life – everything from combing hair to fighting a war.  The old man claimed his hands were “the mark of where [he had] been and the ruggedness of [his] life.”  It was an amazing story he told through the life of his hands, and it began a series of thoughts for me that I had never contemplated in quite the same way before.

I began to consider that hands are much like biographies.  My dad's hands, especially, reminded me of this:  Every scar, callus, wrinkle, age spot, and black fingernail tell the story of his life.    For nearly 40 years, he has used those hands to build and maintain natural gas pipelines and the mammoth engines that move the gas.   As a result, those hands show vividly how he has spent a life working to support his family – how he worked to buy me things like prom dresses and tennis gear, as well as the larger part of a college education.  They do, indeed, show "the ruggedness of [his] life."  I only wish that somehow they also showed the gratitude that I have for all that they have done.

Similarly, this email also reminded me of my grandfather's hands -- large working hands that were always somehow very kind.  In the last months of his life, when he was so overtaken by Alzheimer's that he did not know his own wife and children, his hands remembered how to thread pipe, something he did often as a young man working in the petroleum industry in West Texas.    His hands remembered, and they threaded that pipe as he slept.  During a time when he could remember virtually nothing of his own biography, his hands remembered for him.

Hands, too, seem to reflect our legacies.  In my three-year-old son’s hands, I see so many others'.  Sometimes, I see my husband’s 12-year-old cousin’s hands, thin and boyish.  Sometimes, I see my mother-in-law's hands; something about the first knuckle of his first finger is so similar to hers.  Of course, my husband's hands are also often reflected in the movements of those tiny, sweet fingers, especially the pinkie.

Beyond my son and his hands, there are times when I look down and see my sister’s hands doing what I am doing; my own hands oddly morph into her hands as the fingers move.  A little older with a few tiny scars in different places, her hands do what my brain tells them. Then, without warning, the illusion vanishes, and my hands are my own again.

At times, I remember being jealous of other women’s hands, hands that seem so cool and smooth while being also elegant and purposeful.  I have often wished that my hands were more like these women’s.  In recent years, however, I have come to realize what my hands represent.  They are large hands, hands that have been bequeathed to me by a family tree filled with farmers, with folks who worked and worked hard.  These were people who valued hands that could work a long day without tiring.  I am learning to appreciate this legacy in myself, in my own hands.

I realize now that my hands do all they need to: They hold my babies, and they show the world the ring of promise between my husband and me.  They fill sippy cups and throw baseballs to a preschooler, and they turn the pages of my Bible.  They are not perfect, but they are my life – my biography. My hands, like everyone else’s, exist as far more than digits, palms, and nails; they tell the stories of my life truthfully with every mark and line.  They serve not only as tools, but also as tangible, visible memories of where my life has been and as an inheritance, tying me to those who came before. 

Merry Adventures

As I write this, my sister, my mom, and my nephew are gazing up at the Statue of Liberty. No, seriously. Right this second. THE Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. It's ironic somehow that they are there and I am here writing about this...

We had a great Memorial Day! One particular creek about 20 miles from our house still has a respectable amount of water in it, and there is our favorite place to put our kayaks in the water.

Here are my boys ready to drive their boats a few miles. Aren't they cute? Like little warriors ready to do battle. They do have to be reminded that their oars are not light sabers. They are decidedly adept at maneuvering and took to kayaking like, well, like ducks to water.

Down the county road from this low-water crossing where we put the 'yaks in is a small, country cemetery -- a cemetery I never had occassion to visit until Monday when, after rowing for a few hours, I asked Metro Jethro if we could see where the road went.

It went here...

Metro and I have always liked cemeteries. We've checked out lots of them in our 15 years together, some with family members in them and some without. Somehow cemeteries are reminders of what could have been -- and motivation to seize that same possibility and cherish it.

The boys, Metro, and I stomped through the whole place -- a quiet place situated on a peaceful hill. It was also a heartbreaking place; the number of children buried here is roughly equal to the number of adults.

This stone was the oldest marker we found. It belongs to Ellar Stonehouse who lived 8 days in 1882. At the bottom, it read, "Budded on Earth, to Bloom in Heaven." Poetic. Crushing. Hope and optimism in the midst of amazing pain. The headstone of the parents who chose these words were to the right of Ellar's, as was the stone of her brother who died at age 12.

We also took time to take special notice of the veterans buried at Sherwood.

Note the close-up. Grass in May in our drough-stricken land isn't pretty.

Then, Metro found the markers for the grandparents and uncle of a friend I have known my entire life. West Texas is indeed a very small place sometimes. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

After paying our respects, we followed the road past the Cemetery to the very small burg of Sherwood, pop. 72.

Several towns in our area are named after a few of the classics... Tennyson, Bronte, and even Eden. So, when the town of Sherwood was ever mentioned, I always assumed that Robin Hood, Maid Marian, and a band of merry men were involved. In truth, it was just named after some guy named Sherwood.

My boys pose on the porch of the old Sherwood Courthouse, built in 1901 when the locals were sure Sherwood would become the central locale for all things Irion County. The railroad, however, thought differently, and the county seat was moved in 1939. Since then, this building has been used for community events.

Check out the rocks the building is made of. They are local to the area. If there is one thing in West Texas you can depend on having, it's good rocks.

The clock at the top of the building is false. It perpetually reads 8:17. Legend has it that Lincoln died at exactly that time.

In truth, he died at 7:22 a.m. Maybe someone converted Eastern to Central time incorrectly, or maybe they just had the wrong time. Regardless, I like the legend. I hope it's true.

I like it the same way I like the story that Lincoln, at the first formal affair after Robert E. Lee surrendered, asked the band to play the song, "Dixie." I like that. True or not, I like it.

So our tour of Sherwood was quick and complete. We headed home hot and dusty -- and with a tiny but fascinating piece of local history stuffed in our family pocket.

You, Too, Can Have More Cabinet Space...

Okay, so I'm a practical person. I simply don't do fancy; I do not own a pair of heels -- or a pair of pantyhose; I never wear any more make-up than mascara and Carmex; and I never do an outfit more hoity-toity than Sunday best.

I've always been like this, so, fifteen years ago, when I recieved an inordinate number of crystal vases and bowls as wedding gifts, I was suprised. (I do apologize deeply if you were one of the givers of such a gift. Please, keep reading; maybe you'll like how this ends. Maybe.) It's true that I adore shiny things; at times, I am like a puppy just mesmerized by light reflecting from the bling, but, after an admiring "ooh" and a suprising "aah," I was at a loss for what to do with all this Czech -- or was it Yugoslavian? -- crystal.

For over a decade, these fine pieces lived in the cabinet beneath our kitchen bar. Every so often, I would take them out and hand wash them, but a single crystal would only get used occassionally for fruit salad at Christmas. I tried working some of the Mikasa pitchers and vases into shelves and end tables. Such attempts at interior design never worked; the Gorham always looked out of place with the handprinted-by-a-preschooler rocks and empty whiskey jugs. (Think the kind they used to blow across on Hee Haw!)

About a year ago, I finally discovered what to do with all these fine, but seemingly useless pieces: I just started being practical. I started using them. My first attempt was keeping my chap stick and pony-tail holders in a truffle bowl on the bathroom counter. It worked great, so I moved on to drinking straws in the pineapple-design vase:

Then, I moved on to snacks in the larger bowls, plastic flatware in the pitchers, and soda can tabs in the small bowls. In truth, I just started using what I had, realizing finally that the special occassion I was saving them for might never come.

I wonder now if all the Fostoria crystal my grandmother loved so much really got used and seen as much as she had hoped it would...

These days, I see my shiny, blingy crystal pieces everyday, and maybe they aren't filled with fancy flowers or decadent dishes. But, they are filled with bits and pieces of this life -- of my life, the life I have that is chocked full of practicality and utilitarianism. It's a life that works... and makes me smile because, now, it shines a bit more.