Yesterday I was doing a little “research” and discovered that according to experts, “moving is one of the greatest stresses we face in our lives.,” (duh!) and that “in its capacity to cause psychological distress it comes only after losing a close relative in terms of severity, and ahead of illness, loss of employment and divorce,” which, after thinking about it explains a lot. It explains the crying (mine; not my children); the behaviours (my childrens’; not mine) and the overwhelming feeling that I’ve fallen into a well and can’t seem to find my way out. I’m hoping that it also explains why for the past two weeks all I seem able to do is observe and judge.
I’m not normally a judgmental person. I suppose my husband might argue this point because he can’t seem to let go of the fact that I criticized Tara Lipinski’s make-up the night that she was given (excuse me, “won”) the gold medal, but come on, she was like 12 and her make-up looked ridiculous. For some reason he thinks I was being too hard and that perhaps I should have given her a little credit for her skating ability. Whatever.
O.K., so where was I? Oh yes, I’m a tolerant person. My “life verse” (or the verse I strive to make my life verse) is Micah 6:8 “…and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” That doesn’t really scream “judge others!” and yet, well…
Yesterday, parked on a side street waiting for school to be dismissed I became entranced watching another mom smoke a cigarette. In the car pool lane. At school. Obviously there were smokers at Coulter’s previous school but it is completely inconceivable to me that they would have lit up on the playground waiting for their Kindergartners to emerge. Even as I write this, I think about all the smokers in my life (some have quit; others have not) and how much love and tolerance I have for them. But they’re older. They started smoking at a time when cigarettes were like gum. Of course I also know and love smokers who knew it wasn't gum and yet I know in my heart they would never smoke during car pool. Anyway, this woman throws her cigarette out the window and emerges from her car. (And while I used the term car pool lane before, what I meant to say was a street full of parked cars. There is no lane. There is no cross walk. There is no car pool.) She is wearing leopard print flannel pajamas. She walks to the back of her jeep, pulls out a black leather jacket with fringe and lights up another cigarette on her way to the Kindergarten door. It was like watching a movie. I was stunned---especially when she was joined by yet another smoking mother. Now, I’m not at all proud of what I’m about to say especially given the aforementioned smoking loved ones, but in that moment; in that hazy, smoke filled, leopard print moment, I wondered if we had chosen the wrong school for Coulter.
BAM! Here comes the guilt. How could I teach tolerance and social justice to my children if I’m ready to bolt at the first sign of, oh how should I say, diversity? How could I claim humility in my life verse if I’m not even humble enough to consider that these are good people? I could write a year’s worth of blogs on how wrong this is and how sorry I am, but I thought it, I felt it, I’m sharing it and now I’m moving on because as it so happens, I must confess to yet still more judging.
Kindergartners soon start piling out of the building and while I was hugging Coulter I couldn’t help but notice pajama lady’s son. His head was shaved bald save for a mohawk (that’s mo; not faux) and again I cringed at what I was feeling and thinking. For 10 years I’ve lived in a neighborhood where the houses look similar and the parents look similar and no-one smokes on the playground and children don't have mohawks. When had I become so snooty?
As we made the drive home, I asked Coulter what was special about his day. “We watched a movie in music!”
“Oh,” I judged, “A movie in music? How interesting. Was it Peter and the Wolf?”
“No.” He replied. “We watched Peter Pan. We also got to watch a movie during quiet time.”
2 movies. At school. How interesting.
But it doesn’t stop there. I’ve judged the Food4Less because they don’t sack your groceries (Seriously? It’s not like I’m expecting a full-service gas station here, just a few bags.) I’ve judged the pot smoking neighbors across the street and, as I posted on Facebook last week, I judged an exercise instructor for using a Jane Fonda tape during class. Of course the joke’s on me because almost a week later I’m still sore from all of Jane’s “squeezing and lifting.”
My therapist friends would tell me that all of this judgment comes from fear; that I’m just scared and they’d probably be right. As moms, we’re always scared of making decisions that hurt our children and I’m scared that moving Coulter in the middle of the year was the wrong choice (even though I know it was the right choice.) I’m scared that Clarmar school is the wrong choice (even though I know it’s the right choice.) I’m scared that I’m always going to have to wash the dishes in the bath tub (even though I know….oh, never mind.) I’m scared of being 16 again when all the smokers in High School hated me. I'm scared that Coulter's going to ask for a mohawk. Mostly though, I’m scared that if I don’t get out of this funk, I’m going to wish a way an incredibly special time in which I have the opportunity to be at home sharing in the lives of my children.
And so that’s it. I’m finished.Tomorrow is a new day. A day to rejoice and be glad. A day to be grateful and filled with joy. A day to show mercy and love kindness and walk humbly. And who knows, I may even do it while rockin’ my own pair of flannels!
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Mama Bear
Two weeks from today, my children, husband and I will wake up together in our new home. (And by together, I mean that my husband will probably be on a couch and Coulter will probably be at the foot of our double bed and Emma Claire will probably be sleeping on my shoulder.) O.K., so together is relative, and for that matter, “new home” is also relative because we will actually be waking up in a campus house that has been serving as an office for two coaches. Bottom line: we will be waking up under the same roof and I am thankful for it! Come to think of it, my parents and their new dog, CoCo will also be there helping to welcome us into our new home.
This is exciting. This is what I’ve prayed for. This is scary.
A couple of nights ago, my children and I were cuddled up in bed reading “The New Bear at School” by Carrie Weston and Tim Warnes. At first, I encouraged Coulter to try reading even though I knew it was above his level. He was making his way pretty well though---sounding out and trying his best, when Emma Claire blurted out, “MOM! I don’t want Coulter to read. He doesn’t even know the words.” Discouraged by a precocious (which we all know is just a nice word for bossy) 2 year old, Coulter stopped reading and asked me to finish. I didn’t want to read either though, because by that time I had started crying. In case you’ve never tried, I will tell you it’s a little hard to cry and read at the same time. I know this, because I also cry whenever we read “The Night Before Kindergarten” even though that was over 100 school days ago (and I know this because we just had a 100 days party!) Anyway, I’m not exactly sure why ‘ol Boris the bear moved me to tears. I think in part it was out of complete astonishment at how Coulter is learning to read (despite what his sister may think) and partly, too, out of the pure exhaustion of parenting, but mostly it was Boris.
Boris is new in school and as you can imagine, there are some challenges that come with being the new kid. The other children were expecting a teddy bear, or a “bear in Wellingtons and a blue coat.” They were not expecting Boris, “an enormous, hairy, scary grizzly bear.” Boris had to eat alone. He had to sit alone. He had to play alone. It all hit a little too close to home. I quickly composed myself, finished the book and moved on to Coulter’s library book about maggots and other “GROSS” creatures of the universe. (For once, could he please just pick out a nice book about butterflies?) And note to self: you can no longer spell in front of Coulter, especially if you are saying that something is G-R-O-S-S and you don’t want him to know, because as he turns out he knows that spells gross. You also shouldn’t say things like, “I didn’t know the garage door was down and I almost K-I-L-L-E-D our children.” Coulter asked me what I was talking about and I said, “Oh, I was just telling your Dad how we forgot to put up the garage door,” to which he replied, “Oh, I thought you said you “almost killed us.”
Later in the night, still in a funk from that silly bear book, I called my Mother. “Coulter’s going to be fine. He’s going to make lots of new friends and the children are going to love him. This is exciting. This is what you’ve prayed for.” This is scary.
I know Coulter is not Boris. Coulter is not hairy and Emma Claire is not sca….well, actually, she does scare me a little bit. She’s a second born who acts like a first born. She is strong-willed; opinionated and, is like her brother (and ughm, her dad) in that she is, oh how shall I say this, a very effective delegator. “Mom, you will not brush my teeth. You do not need a turn. I will have a turn and then I am done. O.K? O.K. Yes, that is a good idea. I am two and I CAN do it. I NEED do it.” Yes, sometimes scary but not in a grizzly bear way.
In the end of course, I am Boris. A little bit hairy; a little bit scary, or more to the point, a little bit scared. But I’m also very excited about the move and excited to be Boris, because for next several months I get be nothing more than a Momma Bear; not a teaching bear, not a singing bear, just a Momma Bear taking care of her cubs and helping to create a new home for her family. (A new home that I really, really hope has a Jacuzzi tub….yes; a Jacuzzi tub just might this whole experience much less scary for dear Boris!!)
This is exciting. This is what I’ve prayed for. This is scary.
A couple of nights ago, my children and I were cuddled up in bed reading “The New Bear at School” by Carrie Weston and Tim Warnes. At first, I encouraged Coulter to try reading even though I knew it was above his level. He was making his way pretty well though---sounding out and trying his best, when Emma Claire blurted out, “MOM! I don’t want Coulter to read. He doesn’t even know the words.” Discouraged by a precocious (which we all know is just a nice word for bossy) 2 year old, Coulter stopped reading and asked me to finish. I didn’t want to read either though, because by that time I had started crying. In case you’ve never tried, I will tell you it’s a little hard to cry and read at the same time. I know this, because I also cry whenever we read “The Night Before Kindergarten” even though that was over 100 school days ago (and I know this because we just had a 100 days party!) Anyway, I’m not exactly sure why ‘ol Boris the bear moved me to tears. I think in part it was out of complete astonishment at how Coulter is learning to read (despite what his sister may think) and partly, too, out of the pure exhaustion of parenting, but mostly it was Boris.
Boris is new in school and as you can imagine, there are some challenges that come with being the new kid. The other children were expecting a teddy bear, or a “bear in Wellingtons and a blue coat.” They were not expecting Boris, “an enormous, hairy, scary grizzly bear.” Boris had to eat alone. He had to sit alone. He had to play alone. It all hit a little too close to home. I quickly composed myself, finished the book and moved on to Coulter’s library book about maggots and other “GROSS” creatures of the universe. (For once, could he please just pick out a nice book about butterflies?) And note to self: you can no longer spell in front of Coulter, especially if you are saying that something is G-R-O-S-S and you don’t want him to know, because as he turns out he knows that spells gross. You also shouldn’t say things like, “I didn’t know the garage door was down and I almost K-I-L-L-E-D our children.” Coulter asked me what I was talking about and I said, “Oh, I was just telling your Dad how we forgot to put up the garage door,” to which he replied, “Oh, I thought you said you “almost killed us.”
Later in the night, still in a funk from that silly bear book, I called my Mother. “Coulter’s going to be fine. He’s going to make lots of new friends and the children are going to love him. This is exciting. This is what you’ve prayed for.” This is scary.
I know Coulter is not Boris. Coulter is not hairy and Emma Claire is not sca….well, actually, she does scare me a little bit. She’s a second born who acts like a first born. She is strong-willed; opinionated and, is like her brother (and ughm, her dad) in that she is, oh how shall I say this, a very effective delegator. “Mom, you will not brush my teeth. You do not need a turn. I will have a turn and then I am done. O.K? O.K. Yes, that is a good idea. I am two and I CAN do it. I NEED do it.” Yes, sometimes scary but not in a grizzly bear way.
In the end of course, I am Boris. A little bit hairy; a little bit scary, or more to the point, a little bit scared. But I’m also very excited about the move and excited to be Boris, because for next several months I get be nothing more than a Momma Bear; not a teaching bear, not a singing bear, just a Momma Bear taking care of her cubs and helping to create a new home for her family. (A new home that I really, really hope has a Jacuzzi tub….yes; a Jacuzzi tub just might this whole experience much less scary for dear Boris!!)
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
"The Taco Incident" (Or why I no longer force-feed my children.)
This past week I read an article about ways to help your children develop a healthy body image. It basically comes down to this: Lying on the bed, trying to squeeze into our jeans and complaining about changing metabolism is bad. Promoting healthy food choices is good. Talking about diets or food restrictions and using the “f-word” (as in fat) is bad. Promoting lots of activity and movement is good. The writers made it clear that we, the parents, are responsible for setting a good (and healthy) example. Well, two points for me then because I exercise on a fairly consistent basis. They should know, however, that you are doing this as a way to be healthy and strong and not as a way to fit into the aforementioned jeans. (Darn,make that minus two points for me.) I find the whole healthy eating, positive body image, don’t want them to be part of the obesity epidemic, but don’t want them to struggle with anorexia dilemma completely overwhelming.
And if this article wasn’t enough, it seems as if every time I turn around, some headline reads: “Supper tonight: No fail recipes that even the pickiest eater will eat." Really? Every child? ‘Cause I am here to tell you that my children will Prove. You. Wrong. I started out with the best of intentions. In the beginning, I bordered on judgmental; failing to understand how children became picky eaters. I had listened to Dr. Phil about bringing supper out for breakfast the following morning and Super Nanny with her, “Eat this in the next 5 seconds or you will be in timeout.” I listened to Rachel Ray and how children are picky because we are picky and I say to all of them, “You were wrong!” Somewhere along the way, I know that I failed. I went soft. But the truth is I don’t want the dinner table to become a battle field. I’m tired of forcing vegetables down only to see them come right back up. I will never forget pressuring my then 3 year old son into eating a soft-shell taco. He gagged and threw it all back up. His older cousin who happens to have a very real fear of sick people was sitting next to him and more than two years later he still refers to it as “The Taco Incident.” I don’t think he’ll ever get over it.
I understand that my children need nutrients and fuel for their growing bodies. I nursed them both for a full year because the research said that would give them the healthiest start (well that, and because it burns calories like crazy!)We have egg sandwiches and milk for breakfast. We have turkey and cheese for lunch. We eat yogurt and healthy cereal. We eat 7 grain bread (which, I know isn’t the same as whole wheat, but don’t push me on this.)I get it. I really do, but I’m not willing to sacrifice the very precious hour that is dinner, with whining and vomiting and sitting for hours on end until we eat that last carrot. (And please don’t tell me to serve it with ranch, because I did that and my 2 year old daughter just licks it off, and now, we have a love affair with ranch but still “no likey” the veggies.)
So yesterday we were on our way to school when my son, Coulter, declared that he didn’t want to go. He loves school, so I knew he was just being silly, but I explained to him how there are children in other countries who can’t afford uniforms and so they don’t get to go school and we should just be grateful everyday for the opportunity to learn. During the conversation, I remembered something else from the body image article: we are supposed to be grateful for our bodies. So I continued with Coulter (trying to earn my 2 points back,) “And we should be thankful for our minds that help us learn and our strong legs that can run and our strong arms for throwing balls.” “Uhm, yeah, o.k. Mom. Can I get out now?”
And you know, maybe I’m setting an o.k. example after all because the more I thought about it, the more I realized just how truly grateful I am for my strong body. As a “pageant girl,” I’ve had my fair share of body image issues (and trust me when I say that I'm not a picky eater and at one time I had an extra 15 lbs. to prove it!) and yet I walked the runway in Atlantic City in a swimsuit with this body and almost ten years later, these strong legs ran a marathon. Yes, I am thankful each day for my health and for the health of my children. I’m not perfect, but I will do my best to set a good example. I will hide the chocolate and eat the donuts in secret. I will exercise purely for the endorphins; with no mention of jeans or buttons. And who knows, maybe one day that no-fail recipe will truly be no-fail. Until then, we’ll just keep poppin’ our Flintstones and banking on all that great nutrition they got in that first year of life!
And if this article wasn’t enough, it seems as if every time I turn around, some headline reads: “Supper tonight: No fail recipes that even the pickiest eater will eat." Really? Every child? ‘Cause I am here to tell you that my children will Prove. You. Wrong. I started out with the best of intentions. In the beginning, I bordered on judgmental; failing to understand how children became picky eaters. I had listened to Dr. Phil about bringing supper out for breakfast the following morning and Super Nanny with her, “Eat this in the next 5 seconds or you will be in timeout.” I listened to Rachel Ray and how children are picky because we are picky and I say to all of them, “You were wrong!” Somewhere along the way, I know that I failed. I went soft. But the truth is I don’t want the dinner table to become a battle field. I’m tired of forcing vegetables down only to see them come right back up. I will never forget pressuring my then 3 year old son into eating a soft-shell taco. He gagged and threw it all back up. His older cousin who happens to have a very real fear of sick people was sitting next to him and more than two years later he still refers to it as “The Taco Incident.” I don’t think he’ll ever get over it.
I understand that my children need nutrients and fuel for their growing bodies. I nursed them both for a full year because the research said that would give them the healthiest start (well that, and because it burns calories like crazy!)We have egg sandwiches and milk for breakfast. We have turkey and cheese for lunch. We eat yogurt and healthy cereal. We eat 7 grain bread (which, I know isn’t the same as whole wheat, but don’t push me on this.)I get it. I really do, but I’m not willing to sacrifice the very precious hour that is dinner, with whining and vomiting and sitting for hours on end until we eat that last carrot. (And please don’t tell me to serve it with ranch, because I did that and my 2 year old daughter just licks it off, and now, we have a love affair with ranch but still “no likey” the veggies.)
So yesterday we were on our way to school when my son, Coulter, declared that he didn’t want to go. He loves school, so I knew he was just being silly, but I explained to him how there are children in other countries who can’t afford uniforms and so they don’t get to go school and we should just be grateful everyday for the opportunity to learn. During the conversation, I remembered something else from the body image article: we are supposed to be grateful for our bodies. So I continued with Coulter (trying to earn my 2 points back,) “And we should be thankful for our minds that help us learn and our strong legs that can run and our strong arms for throwing balls.” “Uhm, yeah, o.k. Mom. Can I get out now?”
And you know, maybe I’m setting an o.k. example after all because the more I thought about it, the more I realized just how truly grateful I am for my strong body. As a “pageant girl,” I’ve had my fair share of body image issues (and trust me when I say that I'm not a picky eater and at one time I had an extra 15 lbs. to prove it!) and yet I walked the runway in Atlantic City in a swimsuit with this body and almost ten years later, these strong legs ran a marathon. Yes, I am thankful each day for my health and for the health of my children. I’m not perfect, but I will do my best to set a good example. I will hide the chocolate and eat the donuts in secret. I will exercise purely for the endorphins; with no mention of jeans or buttons. And who knows, maybe one day that no-fail recipe will truly be no-fail. Until then, we’ll just keep poppin’ our Flintstones and banking on all that great nutrition they got in that first year of life!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
"You've got to move it! Move it!"
It is cold today in South Dakota. Actually, I don’t think cold even begins to cover it, because I talked to my cousin in Austin this afternoon and she says it’s cold there. Uhm, yeah, it’s 40 degrees in Austin. With the wind chill factored in, we are somewhere in the vicinity of 60 degrees colder than that. At this point, 40 would feel like beach weather. So, like I said, cold doesn’t even cover it. We need a new word. Saying it’s cold is like saying you’re tired when you’re pregnant. There’s tired and then there’s T-I-R-E-D and today, in South Dakota it is C-O-L-D. It is lose the feelings in your fingers and toes cold. It is “Praise Jesus I don’t have to work outside,” cold. It is, for the life of me I will never understand why anyone ever, ever, ever chose to settle here, cold.
And because it’s cold, our little neighborhood school of mostly walkers has been overtaken by car-pooling moms. Now, as a newbie to the whole car-pool thing, I will say that it took me a couple of weeks to get the hang of it. There are places you can park and places you can most certainly NOT park. There are places where your children can walk, and again, places where they most certainly cannot walk. And don’t even get me started on bicycles. There are rules. There are procedures. There is a certain car-pool etiquette to follow and social norms that are expected and while there are a lot of them, they aren’t too hard to learn. In fact, most of us get along quite well. But with the influx of cold-weather poolers this week, I think there are a few Moms (and I’m sure Dads) who need a review. This morning, a mom actually cut through the parking lot, in order to bypass all the car-pool traffic which goes around to the side, then cut in front of the line, drove through a cross walk and firmly planted herself next to the curb. Are you kidding me? Who does that? It looked like an episode of Law and Order when there just happens to be one parallel parking spot available and the cops swoop in and take it. Only she wasn’t a cop and it wasn’t a parking spot. I sooo wanted to honk at her, but we live in South Dakota. They don’t really do horns in South Dakota. Other women are talking on their phones, parking in the drop-off lane and going in with their children, and even creating their own car-pool lines, blocking the rest of us in. I know you must be thinking, boy she really needs some sleep because who gets this worked up over car-pool lines, but I think I’m worked up because as I looked around this morning, in addition to wanting to honk, I wanted to yell, “Our children are watching us!” This morning, my son learned that if he’s late and cold and wanting to get into school, all he has to do is cut in line. Kids aren’t born knowing how to push and shove their way into this world. We teach them.
So, it begs the question, what else do we teach them? Just random brainstorming here….we teach them to lie (even if it is little and white,) when they hear us do it. We teach them to break the rules when we’re too busy to respect them. We teach them to eat in front of the t.v. (What? Is that just me? I’m sorry, but my son quit napping at 2 ½. I was pregnant; sick and miserable. A couple of packages of fruit chews and an episode of Barney meant Momma got a nap!) We are teaching them to be impatient when we sing “You’ve got to move it, move it!” while waiting in line at McDonalds. (What? Is that just me too?) We teach them to be racist when we act suspicious around people of a different race or color. We teach them to say, “In a minute,” when we constantly answer them with, “In a minute!” Make no mistake, we are always teaching them. They are always watching; always listening. They are always learning.
It’s going to be cold again tomorrow, which I guess makes sense since it’s January. The car-pool invaders will be back and there will be someone who thinks she’s above the rules and no doubt, she’ll shove and push until her darling baby is safe and warm inside the school halls. I’ll be there wanting to yell sarcastic comments and wanting to honk, but I won’t. After all, there will be two students in my car who are watching and learning (and perhaps singing along with a few famous animals from Madigascar.)
And because it’s cold, our little neighborhood school of mostly walkers has been overtaken by car-pooling moms. Now, as a newbie to the whole car-pool thing, I will say that it took me a couple of weeks to get the hang of it. There are places you can park and places you can most certainly NOT park. There are places where your children can walk, and again, places where they most certainly cannot walk. And don’t even get me started on bicycles. There are rules. There are procedures. There is a certain car-pool etiquette to follow and social norms that are expected and while there are a lot of them, they aren’t too hard to learn. In fact, most of us get along quite well. But with the influx of cold-weather poolers this week, I think there are a few Moms (and I’m sure Dads) who need a review. This morning, a mom actually cut through the parking lot, in order to bypass all the car-pool traffic which goes around to the side, then cut in front of the line, drove through a cross walk and firmly planted herself next to the curb. Are you kidding me? Who does that? It looked like an episode of Law and Order when there just happens to be one parallel parking spot available and the cops swoop in and take it. Only she wasn’t a cop and it wasn’t a parking spot. I sooo wanted to honk at her, but we live in South Dakota. They don’t really do horns in South Dakota. Other women are talking on their phones, parking in the drop-off lane and going in with their children, and even creating their own car-pool lines, blocking the rest of us in. I know you must be thinking, boy she really needs some sleep because who gets this worked up over car-pool lines, but I think I’m worked up because as I looked around this morning, in addition to wanting to honk, I wanted to yell, “Our children are watching us!” This morning, my son learned that if he’s late and cold and wanting to get into school, all he has to do is cut in line. Kids aren’t born knowing how to push and shove their way into this world. We teach them.
So, it begs the question, what else do we teach them? Just random brainstorming here….we teach them to lie (even if it is little and white,) when they hear us do it. We teach them to break the rules when we’re too busy to respect them. We teach them to eat in front of the t.v. (What? Is that just me? I’m sorry, but my son quit napping at 2 ½. I was pregnant; sick and miserable. A couple of packages of fruit chews and an episode of Barney meant Momma got a nap!) We are teaching them to be impatient when we sing “You’ve got to move it, move it!” while waiting in line at McDonalds. (What? Is that just me too?) We teach them to be racist when we act suspicious around people of a different race or color. We teach them to say, “In a minute,” when we constantly answer them with, “In a minute!” Make no mistake, we are always teaching them. They are always watching; always listening. They are always learning.
It’s going to be cold again tomorrow, which I guess makes sense since it’s January. The car-pool invaders will be back and there will be someone who thinks she’s above the rules and no doubt, she’ll shove and push until her darling baby is safe and warm inside the school halls. I’ll be there wanting to yell sarcastic comments and wanting to honk, but I won’t. After all, there will be two students in my car who are watching and learning (and perhaps singing along with a few famous animals from Madigascar.)
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
"No Buts (or Butts) About it!"
Last week, while visiting with my sister over a 1000 piece puzzle that we had (and have) no hope of ever finishing, she mentioned that her pastor was starting a new series called, “I’m a Christian, but….” It’s based off a book that I’ve since forgotten, but the idea is that we as Christians do things and make choices everyday that fall into the “but” category. “I’m a Christian, but I think it’s o.k. to cheat on my taxes,” or, “I’m a Christian, but I’m in love with my best friend’s husband.” And while those may be extreme examples, I couldn’t help but to think of all the ways that I too, am a “Christian, but….”
“I’m a Christian, but I worry about when our house will sell.”Or, “I’m a Christian, but I lose my patience with my children over the dumbest things (namely my 5 year olds stubborn refusal to wear anything that has a collar, buttons, tags, or stripes, and don’t even get me started on turtle necks and sweaters!) Yes, I’m a Christian but it’s hard to accept that fact that your son is going to live in ratty old t-shirts for the next umpteen years and that his teachers most surely think that his parents can only afford a 3 day rotation of clothes (and only 2 if we’re talking about jeans!)
Anyway, somewhere during the “I’m a Christian, but” conversation and the “No, you may not wear your short-sleeved, red, #12, t-ball jersey to Christmas dinner,” I remembered that once upon a time we had instituted our very own “no buts” policy. My son Coulter was about 3 when he started with the “but Moms.”
“But Mom, I’m not tired!” “But Mom, I don’t like milk.” “But Mom, I brushed my teeth yesterday!”
But, but, but! Until one day, I snapped. “NO BUTS!” I said, “I don’t care how you need to make your point, but you may not use the word but! NO BUTS!” (Looking back, it’s perhaps a lot to expect a 3 year old to come up with something like, “Mommy, I know you are very tired and you would like me to go to bed, however, it’s only 5:30 and I’m actually not feeling very sleepy.”) And yet, that’s exactly what I expected and it worked. At some point, he got the message. And I know he got the message because one day after I arrived home from work, our long-time babysitter pulled me aside and said, “Do you not let Coulter say ‘but’?”
“No,” I said, “Why? Was he saying it?”
“No, actually, he corrected me for saying it. Why don’t you use that word? Is it grammatically incorrect?”
“Well, I don’t really know about that, but I would just prefer he not use it.”
“O.K.,” she said, “but I say it all the time. I mean, what’s wrong with it?”
“Well,” (and I’ll break in here to say I know I use the word ‘well’ a lot, and if you knew our babysitter, you would understand why. Usually it’s followed by a long pause and deep breath) “Well,” I said, “some people think it’s o.k. but I just think it’s kind of ugly and I don’t want him going around saying it in front of his pre-school teachers.”
“So what do you say then?”
“Well, I use words like bottom and tushy (and my personal favorite) bumpa.” (With an oo as in zoo.)
“What are you talking about? Bottom???”Tushy???
“Oh, well, what are YOU talking about?”
And that’s when it hit me. We had just had a 15 minute conversation about two different words. Coulter had corrected her for saying 'but' and I had just given her a dissertation on why we don’t use the word 'butt.'
I burst out laughing, but having yet to see the humor (or even understand what had just happened,) she just stared at me in total confusion. “Oh never mind,” I said, “It doesn’t really matter. The bottom line is you are welcome to say both and he is not allowed to say either!”
So back at the puzzle (and my sister and our unsuccessful search for the puzzle edges,) and long into the night that followed, I continued to ponder the idea of “no buts.” Somewhere in the 30 minutes of sleep between dozing off around 5:00 a.m. and Emma Claire waking up at 5:30, I had an illuminating moment. I remembered, in fact, that last year instead of choosing a resolution, I had chosen a word. One seemingly random word to define my year: Illumination. And in that moment of illumination, just days before the end of 2010, I found my next word, or in this case, words. 2011 is the year of “No Buts!”
I am a loving, patient mother….no buts. I am a faithful Christian and know that God’s timing is perfect….no buts. I am a loyal daughter and a ‘my door’s always open’ friend…no buts. I am a supportive sister and aunt…no buts. I am a dreamer; I am a teacher; I am a writer.
There are many words that I could have chosen. 2011 will be a year of change; a journey; a time of transition; missing old friends and making new ones; finding new schools and new jobs and, in short, a new village. There are days that I don’t quite feel up for it and there are days that I can hardly wait to get started. But even with all the words left out there, I'm confident I chose the right one. 2011 is going to be an amazing, joy-filled year and I know that God has my family in the palm of His hand...no buts (or butts!) about it!
“I’m a Christian, but I worry about when our house will sell.”Or, “I’m a Christian, but I lose my patience with my children over the dumbest things (namely my 5 year olds stubborn refusal to wear anything that has a collar, buttons, tags, or stripes, and don’t even get me started on turtle necks and sweaters!) Yes, I’m a Christian but it’s hard to accept that fact that your son is going to live in ratty old t-shirts for the next umpteen years and that his teachers most surely think that his parents can only afford a 3 day rotation of clothes (and only 2 if we’re talking about jeans!)
Anyway, somewhere during the “I’m a Christian, but” conversation and the “No, you may not wear your short-sleeved, red, #12, t-ball jersey to Christmas dinner,” I remembered that once upon a time we had instituted our very own “no buts” policy. My son Coulter was about 3 when he started with the “but Moms.”
“But Mom, I’m not tired!” “But Mom, I don’t like milk.” “But Mom, I brushed my teeth yesterday!”
But, but, but! Until one day, I snapped. “NO BUTS!” I said, “I don’t care how you need to make your point, but you may not use the word but! NO BUTS!” (Looking back, it’s perhaps a lot to expect a 3 year old to come up with something like, “Mommy, I know you are very tired and you would like me to go to bed, however, it’s only 5:30 and I’m actually not feeling very sleepy.”) And yet, that’s exactly what I expected and it worked. At some point, he got the message. And I know he got the message because one day after I arrived home from work, our long-time babysitter pulled me aside and said, “Do you not let Coulter say ‘but’?”
“No,” I said, “Why? Was he saying it?”
“No, actually, he corrected me for saying it. Why don’t you use that word? Is it grammatically incorrect?”
“Well, I don’t really know about that, but I would just prefer he not use it.”
“O.K.,” she said, “but I say it all the time. I mean, what’s wrong with it?”
“Well,” (and I’ll break in here to say I know I use the word ‘well’ a lot, and if you knew our babysitter, you would understand why. Usually it’s followed by a long pause and deep breath) “Well,” I said, “some people think it’s o.k. but I just think it’s kind of ugly and I don’t want him going around saying it in front of his pre-school teachers.”
“So what do you say then?”
“Well, I use words like bottom and tushy (and my personal favorite) bumpa.” (With an oo as in zoo.)
“What are you talking about? Bottom???”Tushy???
“Oh, well, what are YOU talking about?”
And that’s when it hit me. We had just had a 15 minute conversation about two different words. Coulter had corrected her for saying 'but' and I had just given her a dissertation on why we don’t use the word 'butt.'
I burst out laughing, but having yet to see the humor (or even understand what had just happened,) she just stared at me in total confusion. “Oh never mind,” I said, “It doesn’t really matter. The bottom line is you are welcome to say both and he is not allowed to say either!”
So back at the puzzle (and my sister and our unsuccessful search for the puzzle edges,) and long into the night that followed, I continued to ponder the idea of “no buts.” Somewhere in the 30 minutes of sleep between dozing off around 5:00 a.m. and Emma Claire waking up at 5:30, I had an illuminating moment. I remembered, in fact, that last year instead of choosing a resolution, I had chosen a word. One seemingly random word to define my year: Illumination. And in that moment of illumination, just days before the end of 2010, I found my next word, or in this case, words. 2011 is the year of “No Buts!”
I am a loving, patient mother….no buts. I am a faithful Christian and know that God’s timing is perfect….no buts. I am a loyal daughter and a ‘my door’s always open’ friend…no buts. I am a supportive sister and aunt…no buts. I am a dreamer; I am a teacher; I am a writer.
There are many words that I could have chosen. 2011 will be a year of change; a journey; a time of transition; missing old friends and making new ones; finding new schools and new jobs and, in short, a new village. There are days that I don’t quite feel up for it and there are days that I can hardly wait to get started. But even with all the words left out there, I'm confident I chose the right one. 2011 is going to be an amazing, joy-filled year and I know that God has my family in the palm of His hand...no buts (or butts!) about it!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
"Oh, Jesus!"
Somewhere buried deep in a small, jam- packed, albeit hyper-organized storage unit is about 90% of my Christmas decorations, including a painted wooden door hanger with a picture of good ‘ol St. Nick that reads: “I believe.” I wanted to clear this up, because if you came to my house today (not that you would, because no-one is invited to my house right now; no offense but people are messy and you never know when a realtor is going to call and a realtor, Lord willing, IS going to call) but, if you did come to my house, you would find very little evidence of Santa; just a single elf, Jolly Sparkle, (who makes nightly trips to the North Pole to update Santa on behaviors---genius!) and a few assorted drawings from school.
Of course, we do have a few Christmas decorations. We have a beautiful tree (humbly speaking, of course) and some greens; we have a plastic Little People nativity and a library of Christmas books that would rival a bookstore. But, I have to be honest in saying that I miss all my little Santas, because in this house, “we believe.” We believe in Jesus. We believe in Santa.
Since becoming a parent, I must admit, I’ve started questioning my Santa traditions because I have a handful of friends and family that don’t “do” Santa. Mostly it’s in an effort keep the focus of Christmas on the birth of our Savior, while some don’t like the idea of lying to their children. But as a child who believed in Santa and now as a Mother who believes, I can say assuredly that my eyes are always on Jesus and the celebration of His birth.
And as for the lying, well, I do that all the time. I tell them it’s bedtime when it’s not even close. I tell them the cookies are all gone when there’s just one left for me. I tell them their drawing looks nice when, well….ya know. And for the record, I don’t really consider believing in Santa lying, because after reading the Christmas story from the book of Luke and ‘Twas the Night before Christmas, my children will go to bed leaving the living room empty and lonely, save for a few cookies on a platter and a large glass of sour milk, and during the night it will be transformed, as if by magic, into a room full of toys; full of laughter; full of joy. Santa will come to those who believe.
Now, at the risk of offending yet even more of you, I will go a little further and say that just as I don’t understand the campaign against Santa, I also don’t understand the “donation gift.” I used to have one student that every year would make a donation in my name. That’s not a gift; it’s a tax write-off. If you want to make a donation, great; just don’t try to convince me that it’s a gift. Maybe this is politically incorrect, but I like receiving gifts and I like giving gifts. I’m not going to draw names; I’m not going to pool all our money and try to save the rain forest. I’m going to buy you a gift and we can focus on the planet in January. I love the abundance of Christmas. I love going overboard. I love that we have a chance to stop and honor each other with our gifts just as the wise men sought to honor the baby Jesus (although, now I’m not really sure he was still a baby by the time the wise men came. I don’t want to squash all your traditions and beliefs but I’m fairly certain I heard a sermon on this and he was probably around two and just to further mess with your head, he wasn’t born in December and it probably wasn’t all that cold.) All I’m saying is that Santa isn’t the only pagan part of our traditions and celebrations.
Yesterday I was cleaning the kitchen (not completely sure how it got dirty considering my no visitors and no cooking policy) when out of the blue I heard Emma Claire yell, “Oh JESUS!” I spun around so fast, ready to completely freak out and accuse someone of teaching my precious baby such terrible language.When I looked closer I saw her holding and playing with Mary and the baby Jesus from that little plastic nativity. Emma Claire was playing the role of Mary who was comforting a crying baby, “Oh Jesus.”
My children know why Santa comes. They know that this is about Jesus’ birthday. They know that the wise men brought gifts and that’s why we buy for one another. They don’t understand the true miracle of Christmas; I mean how can a child truly grasp the concept of a virgin birth. Quite frankly, I don’t want them to understand, because I sure as heck don’t want them to understand the opposite of a virgin birth. Conceived by the Holy Spirit. That’s a miracle; that’s the majesty of God; that’s what we are called to believe with a child-like faith. For us, Santa Clause is about nurturing and celebrating God’s gift of a child-like faith. Do we over-do Christmas? Probably, but I can’t think of a more deserving reason than the birth of a Savior.
Now, if somebody could just find me a nativity with a toddler Jesus, I’d feel a whole lot better!
Of course, we do have a few Christmas decorations. We have a beautiful tree (humbly speaking, of course) and some greens; we have a plastic Little People nativity and a library of Christmas books that would rival a bookstore. But, I have to be honest in saying that I miss all my little Santas, because in this house, “we believe.” We believe in Jesus. We believe in Santa.
Since becoming a parent, I must admit, I’ve started questioning my Santa traditions because I have a handful of friends and family that don’t “do” Santa. Mostly it’s in an effort keep the focus of Christmas on the birth of our Savior, while some don’t like the idea of lying to their children. But as a child who believed in Santa and now as a Mother who believes, I can say assuredly that my eyes are always on Jesus and the celebration of His birth.
And as for the lying, well, I do that all the time. I tell them it’s bedtime when it’s not even close. I tell them the cookies are all gone when there’s just one left for me. I tell them their drawing looks nice when, well….ya know. And for the record, I don’t really consider believing in Santa lying, because after reading the Christmas story from the book of Luke and ‘Twas the Night before Christmas, my children will go to bed leaving the living room empty and lonely, save for a few cookies on a platter and a large glass of sour milk, and during the night it will be transformed, as if by magic, into a room full of toys; full of laughter; full of joy. Santa will come to those who believe.
Now, at the risk of offending yet even more of you, I will go a little further and say that just as I don’t understand the campaign against Santa, I also don’t understand the “donation gift.” I used to have one student that every year would make a donation in my name. That’s not a gift; it’s a tax write-off. If you want to make a donation, great; just don’t try to convince me that it’s a gift. Maybe this is politically incorrect, but I like receiving gifts and I like giving gifts. I’m not going to draw names; I’m not going to pool all our money and try to save the rain forest. I’m going to buy you a gift and we can focus on the planet in January. I love the abundance of Christmas. I love going overboard. I love that we have a chance to stop and honor each other with our gifts just as the wise men sought to honor the baby Jesus (although, now I’m not really sure he was still a baby by the time the wise men came. I don’t want to squash all your traditions and beliefs but I’m fairly certain I heard a sermon on this and he was probably around two and just to further mess with your head, he wasn’t born in December and it probably wasn’t all that cold.) All I’m saying is that Santa isn’t the only pagan part of our traditions and celebrations.
Yesterday I was cleaning the kitchen (not completely sure how it got dirty considering my no visitors and no cooking policy) when out of the blue I heard Emma Claire yell, “Oh JESUS!” I spun around so fast, ready to completely freak out and accuse someone of teaching my precious baby such terrible language.When I looked closer I saw her holding and playing with Mary and the baby Jesus from that little plastic nativity. Emma Claire was playing the role of Mary who was comforting a crying baby, “Oh Jesus.”
My children know why Santa comes. They know that this is about Jesus’ birthday. They know that the wise men brought gifts and that’s why we buy for one another. They don’t understand the true miracle of Christmas; I mean how can a child truly grasp the concept of a virgin birth. Quite frankly, I don’t want them to understand, because I sure as heck don’t want them to understand the opposite of a virgin birth. Conceived by the Holy Spirit. That’s a miracle; that’s the majesty of God; that’s what we are called to believe with a child-like faith. For us, Santa Clause is about nurturing and celebrating God’s gift of a child-like faith. Do we over-do Christmas? Probably, but I can’t think of a more deserving reason than the birth of a Savior.
Now, if somebody could just find me a nativity with a toddler Jesus, I’d feel a whole lot better!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
"Darn that Myra Katherine and her Christmas Program Cr*p!"
This morning, I rushed into work, frazzled and out of breath. My husband started a new job, (a new and out of town job) and my babysitter was late. I forgot Coulter’s lunch and we couldn’t find his library book. With no book his car would have to move from green to yellow (the horrors!) so his frustration level was understandable; also understandable was the subtle hint that this was somehow my fault since I had obviously stashed it somewhere in preparation for the realtor’s first visit. I mean heaven forbid that potential buyers know that Coulter likes reading about snakes. They might think we’re part of some weird religious cult that worships with snakes. Anyway, late from the book; late from the lunch; late from the fact that our sitter was late; oh, and I had to vote. So, very uncharacteristically I rushed into work, frazzled and out of breath.
I only mention all of the above to give you an idea of my frame of mind when I finally settled in at the computer. Sitting down and trying to quickly catch up on emails before we began rehearsals, I couldn’t help but overhear one of the therapists next door complaining about something. Oh wait, she was complaining about me. I listened closer. (Of course, it’s not that hard to hear since both of our doors are wide open and she’s just across the hall.) First I heard mumblings of re-scheduling students and then a little louder and most clearly, I heard, “Ugh. I just hate this time of year with all this Christmas CRAP! Myra Katherine…..yada yada….more crap….yada yada…..Myra Katherine……” I could go on, but I suspect you get the picture. She’s not too excited about the Christmas program. Now, let me take a little detour and remind you that when I started this blog I told you that instead of making resolutions for the year, I had chosen a word. My word for the year was illumination. So please accept my sincerest of apologies for having to read icky, crude language such as Christmas crap (which just happens to be one of my least favorite words, like, ever) in a blog about little lights and illumination!
Continuing on…..I listened to the entire conversation and then I marched (well, marched may be too harsh; let's just say I walked quickly and with attitude) across the hall and made my presence known. Busted! Now, this is so not a mid-western thing to do. Mid-westerners are generally uber polite and avoid conflict. Most of my Midwestern friends would have just pretended not to hear. But I’m not a Midwesterner. I’m a Southerner and I come from a long line of tell-it-like-it-is, “Steel Magnolias” and I was not about to turn the other cheek (I mean technically, I think that’s what were supposed to do, but whatever, we’re also supposed to correct in love, and I'm sure I was very loving.) I didn’t say much, but I said enough to make her uncomfortable; I said enough to make her office-mate uncomfortable; in fact, I made her office-mate so uncomfortable that she later wrote me a note thanking me for all the work I do with children and how much she appreciates music. Uh, yeah. Uncomfortable.
In her defense, she is not alone in her opinions regarding Christmas programs; specifically Christmas programs at Children’s Home Society. For 2 months out of the year we disrupt a very protected schedule and we shove children (and their teachers) out (as in W-A-Y out) of their comfort zones. New schedules, less supervision, less class time, etc. Furthermore on the day of the event, everyone is completely and totally stressed out. The teachers are worried that their kids will melt-down; kids are worried they’ll be embarrassed or worse, that no-one will show up to watch them be embarrassed; therapist are stressed that we are causing children to be stressed and well, it’s safe to say that I’m the only one, or at least one of a very few, who gathers any enjoyment out of this day at all, and certainly out of the days and weeks leading up to said event.
But sitting high up on my pedestal, judging with contempt and being all righteous and horrified was pretty short lived. Later in the morning thoughts of how many times I too have complained, or talked and gossiped about my friends or colleagues came pouring into my head (darn that Holy Spirit getting into my head!) The only difference is that I’m usually smart enough to close the door. But am I smart enough to talk out of ear shot of my children? Am I thoughtful enough to consider letting it go and not saying it at all. Am I able to change the subject or steer it in another direction when necessary? Am I brave enough? Am I kind enough? As Emma Claire would say, “praaahbleee not!”
The therapist came to see me later in the day and apologized. As we talked about the extra stress of the holidays and the emotions that hang on like baggage for some, I was reminded of my friend Julie. Julie is a student at CHS whose father is also her grandfather. She drives her teachers crazy; she screams; she cries; she doesn’t do her work and yet I love Julie. She sings for me and I know that she’s in there somewhere trying so desperately to be heard. One day we were listening to The Four Seasons by Vivaldi. "Winter" was playing. I turned to one of the teacher assistants and complained, “you know the time of year when it’s freezing cold and everyone’s miserable.” Julie overheard me (as children always do) and she said, “Oh no! I love winter. That’s when we get presents!” One of her classmates corrected her, “Julie. We get presents two times a year. At Christmas and on our birthday.” We get presents two times a year. Gulp.
That day in class, listening to Mr. Vivaldi, I was a lot like my therapist friend; absorbed in and concerned only about myself and how winter and or the Christmas schedule affects me. The truth is that winter comes from God and it comes for a reason. Regardless of the cold and the snow and the wind, winter is a time for rejoicing; it is a time for celebrating the birth of a Savior. It is a time of remembering the greatest Gift of all and it is a time to celebrate with singing and playing and dancing and throwing schedules and comfort zones out the window and into that cold, blustery wind.
With the work day behind me, I rushed out of the office, frazzled and out of breath; much in the same way that I had arrived. I was anxious to hold my children and thankful for the reminder that our words matter. My hope for this Christmas season and time of Thanksgiving is that I can remain focused on what matters for my children, my students and my family; that I will be thankful and filled with joy overflowing; that I will be gracious in recognizing when someone is having a bad day and be quick to forgive instead of quick to judge; that I will remember my hope is in Him whom we celebrate; that I will remember the promise of Christmas and forget (and I quote) all the other cr*p!
I only mention all of the above to give you an idea of my frame of mind when I finally settled in at the computer. Sitting down and trying to quickly catch up on emails before we began rehearsals, I couldn’t help but overhear one of the therapists next door complaining about something. Oh wait, she was complaining about me. I listened closer. (Of course, it’s not that hard to hear since both of our doors are wide open and she’s just across the hall.) First I heard mumblings of re-scheduling students and then a little louder and most clearly, I heard, “Ugh. I just hate this time of year with all this Christmas CRAP! Myra Katherine…..yada yada….more crap….yada yada…..Myra Katherine……” I could go on, but I suspect you get the picture. She’s not too excited about the Christmas program. Now, let me take a little detour and remind you that when I started this blog I told you that instead of making resolutions for the year, I had chosen a word. My word for the year was illumination. So please accept my sincerest of apologies for having to read icky, crude language such as Christmas crap (which just happens to be one of my least favorite words, like, ever) in a blog about little lights and illumination!
Continuing on…..I listened to the entire conversation and then I marched (well, marched may be too harsh; let's just say I walked quickly and with attitude) across the hall and made my presence known. Busted! Now, this is so not a mid-western thing to do. Mid-westerners are generally uber polite and avoid conflict. Most of my Midwestern friends would have just pretended not to hear. But I’m not a Midwesterner. I’m a Southerner and I come from a long line of tell-it-like-it-is, “Steel Magnolias” and I was not about to turn the other cheek (I mean technically, I think that’s what were supposed to do, but whatever, we’re also supposed to correct in love, and I'm sure I was very loving.) I didn’t say much, but I said enough to make her uncomfortable; I said enough to make her office-mate uncomfortable; in fact, I made her office-mate so uncomfortable that she later wrote me a note thanking me for all the work I do with children and how much she appreciates music. Uh, yeah. Uncomfortable.
In her defense, she is not alone in her opinions regarding Christmas programs; specifically Christmas programs at Children’s Home Society. For 2 months out of the year we disrupt a very protected schedule and we shove children (and their teachers) out (as in W-A-Y out) of their comfort zones. New schedules, less supervision, less class time, etc. Furthermore on the day of the event, everyone is completely and totally stressed out. The teachers are worried that their kids will melt-down; kids are worried they’ll be embarrassed or worse, that no-one will show up to watch them be embarrassed; therapist are stressed that we are causing children to be stressed and well, it’s safe to say that I’m the only one, or at least one of a very few, who gathers any enjoyment out of this day at all, and certainly out of the days and weeks leading up to said event.
But sitting high up on my pedestal, judging with contempt and being all righteous and horrified was pretty short lived. Later in the morning thoughts of how many times I too have complained, or talked and gossiped about my friends or colleagues came pouring into my head (darn that Holy Spirit getting into my head!) The only difference is that I’m usually smart enough to close the door. But am I smart enough to talk out of ear shot of my children? Am I thoughtful enough to consider letting it go and not saying it at all. Am I able to change the subject or steer it in another direction when necessary? Am I brave enough? Am I kind enough? As Emma Claire would say, “praaahbleee not!”
The therapist came to see me later in the day and apologized. As we talked about the extra stress of the holidays and the emotions that hang on like baggage for some, I was reminded of my friend Julie. Julie is a student at CHS whose father is also her grandfather. She drives her teachers crazy; she screams; she cries; she doesn’t do her work and yet I love Julie. She sings for me and I know that she’s in there somewhere trying so desperately to be heard. One day we were listening to The Four Seasons by Vivaldi. "Winter" was playing. I turned to one of the teacher assistants and complained, “you know the time of year when it’s freezing cold and everyone’s miserable.” Julie overheard me (as children always do) and she said, “Oh no! I love winter. That’s when we get presents!” One of her classmates corrected her, “Julie. We get presents two times a year. At Christmas and on our birthday.” We get presents two times a year. Gulp.
That day in class, listening to Mr. Vivaldi, I was a lot like my therapist friend; absorbed in and concerned only about myself and how winter and or the Christmas schedule affects me. The truth is that winter comes from God and it comes for a reason. Regardless of the cold and the snow and the wind, winter is a time for rejoicing; it is a time for celebrating the birth of a Savior. It is a time of remembering the greatest Gift of all and it is a time to celebrate with singing and playing and dancing and throwing schedules and comfort zones out the window and into that cold, blustery wind.
With the work day behind me, I rushed out of the office, frazzled and out of breath; much in the same way that I had arrived. I was anxious to hold my children and thankful for the reminder that our words matter. My hope for this Christmas season and time of Thanksgiving is that I can remain focused on what matters for my children, my students and my family; that I will be thankful and filled with joy overflowing; that I will be gracious in recognizing when someone is having a bad day and be quick to forgive instead of quick to judge; that I will remember my hope is in Him whom we celebrate; that I will remember the promise of Christmas and forget (and I quote) all the other cr*p!
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