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.)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
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!
Sunday, September 19, 2010
"Running on cushy shoes or feeding a child for a year......hmmmm"
I love our church, or perhaps I should say, as part of One Body; One Church; I love the group of people that assemble together on east 26th street each Sunday. In the 5or so years that we’ve attended, I’ve been challenged, inspired, convicted, nurtured and ministered to. I’m also deeply grateful for the children’s ministry which does the same. On the days that I manage to apply even a smidgen of that week’s teaching, I am a better mother and teacher. This morning was no exception. Today our leaders presented us with an opportunity to partner with the food bank of South Dakota and be a “Backpack Buddy.” For $135 you can buy a backpack that will be filled with food each week for an under-privildged child to take home on the weekends, giving them much needed nourshiment on the days in which little or no food may be available. And, because the food is tucked privately away in a regular ol’ backpack, no-one is the wiser that this child needs food. Each week in Sioux Falls alone, there are over 3000 backpacks filled and 1000 more are needed. (fyi, The Backpack Buddy program was started by a nurse in Arkansas….a humble little state full of lots of great leaders and great ideas….I’m just sayin’)
While presenting this opportunity for giving, our pastor made the point that our children inherit things they don’t derserve; they didn’t earn. No 1st grader deserves to be hungry. No 3rd grader should have to choose between eating himself or feeding his younger siblings. We talk a lot about starving nations and certainly people around the world need our help, but the truth is we have hungry people right in our own communities; in fact, in our own backyard.
When I was growing up in that humble state of Arkansas, I didn’t really know any poor people; well I knew poor people, but not 'going without food' poor (I also didn’t know any republicans until I got to college but that’s a story for another blog!) We didn’t have food kitchens or food banks or anything of that sort. Neighbors took care of each other; church families stood in the gap for their brothers and sisters. I wish someone smarter than I would tell me if the need for food assistance programs comes from a greater need and more poverty in the last 20 years or is it because we lost our sense of village and started looking out for ourselves instead of taking care of others?
Anyway, as our pastor spoke, my mind began to wander (much like it did just now as I remembered random childhood memories full of democrats and wealthy people) and I recalled an Oprah show that highlighted her work in Africa (please don’t mention this to my family because we “technically” boycotted her after she endorsed then Senator Obama over then Senator Clinton for President,) but anyway, she was speaking to critics as to why she chose to build a school in Africa instead of say, Chicago, and she made the point that poverty there is different than poverty here. We at least have a chance. She continued with, “Say what you will about the American educational system — it does work. ... If you are a child in the United States, you can get an education. ... I became so frustrated with visiting inner-city schools that I just stopped going. The sense that you need to learn just isn't there. ... If you ask the kids what they want or need, they will say an iPod, sneakers, or some money. In South Africa, they don't ask for money or toys. They ask for uniforms so they can go to school.”
I understand (well sorta) what she was saying and yet it’s a dangerous attitude that gives people the idea that’s o.k. to quit; that’s it’s o.k. to stop advocating for change in America; and that just because a child being educated in the inner-city of Chicago, who having sown from the seeds planted by their parents, wants an iPod instead of a uniform, that we should give up and move on to a more appreciative nation. I’m sorry, but should we really expect children who have nothing to be grateful for their nothingness?
This past week on facebook, several friends were posting a letter supposedly written to President Obama by a doctor whose patient was, (gasp) abusing “the system.” He went on about how health care reform isn’t needed, rather patient reform, and I apologize to him and my readers because while it was all over my news feed the past couple of days, I can’t find it right now so my version may be a little off, but you get idea; we shouldn’t really help the poor because they aren’t helping themselves; furthermore we shouldn’t help the poor because they are abusing the system. I get it. I know people who drive brand new cars; cars that I will never own or even think about owning and they’re on government assistance programs. I know people whose monthly income more than doubles our own and yet somehow have hospital bills waived and electricity bills erased. I understand the frustration, but God has called us to be the “hands and feet” of Christ not the judgement keepers. It doesn’t matter if you or I consider them “deserving,” it only matters that their children are inheriting poverty and ignorance that they didn’t earn. It only matters that their children are reaping a harvest they didn’t plant.
And of all people, we as Christians should understand this concept. Do some of these people probably not deserve the help? Sure, but then again, I didn’t do anything to deserve my family either. I didn’t deserve educated, Christian parents who sacrificed on all levels to see me succeed. I didn’t earn; I inherited. And it’s the same with our Heavenly Father. Do I deserve His grace; his forgivness; his mercy? Nope and yet he freely gives. Again and again and again.
When I started this blog, I committed to myself to tell the truth or at least my truth, so please hear me when I say I see the irony….judging others for judging others and yet that’s not my intention. My intention is to judge myself. I didn’t really want to write that check this morning, but I did. And yet what’s worse is that I spent almost the same amount, $125, just last night on a pair of running shoes. So, while I can totally justify my need for good running shoes and will continue to buy them until someone converts me to the new barefoot running method (not!), the truth is if I had waited a couple of months or even a couple of weeks, I could have been a backpack buddy for 2 children. Hmmm, running on cushy soles or feeding a child; a child, as I was reminded this morning, who has been stamped with the image of Christ.
"Change my heart, O God
Make it ever true.
Change my heart, O God
May I be like You."
(Eddie Espanosa, I think!)
While presenting this opportunity for giving, our pastor made the point that our children inherit things they don’t derserve; they didn’t earn. No 1st grader deserves to be hungry. No 3rd grader should have to choose between eating himself or feeding his younger siblings. We talk a lot about starving nations and certainly people around the world need our help, but the truth is we have hungry people right in our own communities; in fact, in our own backyard.
When I was growing up in that humble state of Arkansas, I didn’t really know any poor people; well I knew poor people, but not 'going without food' poor (I also didn’t know any republicans until I got to college but that’s a story for another blog!) We didn’t have food kitchens or food banks or anything of that sort. Neighbors took care of each other; church families stood in the gap for their brothers and sisters. I wish someone smarter than I would tell me if the need for food assistance programs comes from a greater need and more poverty in the last 20 years or is it because we lost our sense of village and started looking out for ourselves instead of taking care of others?
Anyway, as our pastor spoke, my mind began to wander (much like it did just now as I remembered random childhood memories full of democrats and wealthy people) and I recalled an Oprah show that highlighted her work in Africa (please don’t mention this to my family because we “technically” boycotted her after she endorsed then Senator Obama over then Senator Clinton for President,) but anyway, she was speaking to critics as to why she chose to build a school in Africa instead of say, Chicago, and she made the point that poverty there is different than poverty here. We at least have a chance. She continued with, “Say what you will about the American educational system — it does work. ... If you are a child in the United States, you can get an education. ... I became so frustrated with visiting inner-city schools that I just stopped going. The sense that you need to learn just isn't there. ... If you ask the kids what they want or need, they will say an iPod, sneakers, or some money. In South Africa, they don't ask for money or toys. They ask for uniforms so they can go to school.”
I understand (well sorta) what she was saying and yet it’s a dangerous attitude that gives people the idea that’s o.k. to quit; that’s it’s o.k. to stop advocating for change in America; and that just because a child being educated in the inner-city of Chicago, who having sown from the seeds planted by their parents, wants an iPod instead of a uniform, that we should give up and move on to a more appreciative nation. I’m sorry, but should we really expect children who have nothing to be grateful for their nothingness?
This past week on facebook, several friends were posting a letter supposedly written to President Obama by a doctor whose patient was, (gasp) abusing “the system.” He went on about how health care reform isn’t needed, rather patient reform, and I apologize to him and my readers because while it was all over my news feed the past couple of days, I can’t find it right now so my version may be a little off, but you get idea; we shouldn’t really help the poor because they aren’t helping themselves; furthermore we shouldn’t help the poor because they are abusing the system. I get it. I know people who drive brand new cars; cars that I will never own or even think about owning and they’re on government assistance programs. I know people whose monthly income more than doubles our own and yet somehow have hospital bills waived and electricity bills erased. I understand the frustration, but God has called us to be the “hands and feet” of Christ not the judgement keepers. It doesn’t matter if you or I consider them “deserving,” it only matters that their children are inheriting poverty and ignorance that they didn’t earn. It only matters that their children are reaping a harvest they didn’t plant.
And of all people, we as Christians should understand this concept. Do some of these people probably not deserve the help? Sure, but then again, I didn’t do anything to deserve my family either. I didn’t deserve educated, Christian parents who sacrificed on all levels to see me succeed. I didn’t earn; I inherited. And it’s the same with our Heavenly Father. Do I deserve His grace; his forgivness; his mercy? Nope and yet he freely gives. Again and again and again.
When I started this blog, I committed to myself to tell the truth or at least my truth, so please hear me when I say I see the irony….judging others for judging others and yet that’s not my intention. My intention is to judge myself. I didn’t really want to write that check this morning, but I did. And yet what’s worse is that I spent almost the same amount, $125, just last night on a pair of running shoes. So, while I can totally justify my need for good running shoes and will continue to buy them until someone converts me to the new barefoot running method (not!), the truth is if I had waited a couple of months or even a couple of weeks, I could have been a backpack buddy for 2 children. Hmmm, running on cushy soles or feeding a child; a child, as I was reminded this morning, who has been stamped with the image of Christ.
"Change my heart, O God
Make it ever true.
Change my heart, O God
May I be like You."
(Eddie Espanosa, I think!)
Friday, September 10, 2010
"Love God. Love Others." Pastor Doug
This past Monday was our quarterly “G’pa Ed and G’ma Mary home visit.” I’m ashamed to admit that we go visit these precious friends only a few times a year, but right now I don’t have to wallow in that guilt because this week we went. We took supper; we took groceries; we took precious children who bring joy, yada yada. We went. We loved God; we loved on others.
It always starts with the “front lawn.”Coulter, Emma Claire and I make our way through lawn; gated and adorned with old washers full of flowers faded and dying from the summer heat or the early fall, I’m not sure which, a picnic table which Coulter tells me wasn’t there last time, and various other “yard art” and we let ourselves in. Ed and Mary are in their familiar spots and I find the only chair that couldn’t also be used as a motor vehicle. They are mostly home-bound so the tiny house is filled with hanging creations made from communion cups, beads, coffee cans and glitter. Coulter and Emma Claire are fascinated but are most interested in the candy jar. “God please bless that food, for I have no idea how long it’s been there. Amen.”
After we’ve had our chocolate, Coulter finds a big bag of toys and starts playing with what appears to be old (and I’m talking vintage here) Mc Donald’s toys and Emma Claire chases around their 14 year old dog trying to “pet you.” And then it begins:
“Well, you know my cancer’s back. But I’m not worried and I told Ed not to worry and I don’t want you to worry. God is not making up a bed for me just yet. Now, where have you been? We haven’t seen you in months. I tell Ed you’re a mom and you’re just too busy.”
“Yes ma’am. We are pretty busy. Coulter has started school and well, it’s a whole new world.”
“Well, I guess you’ve heard they’re demolishing the house next door.”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
“My goodness. It was all over the news. See, Ed and I were still asleep because we don’t sleep too good and, well long story short (only it wasn’t short at all!) those Indians next door got drunk again and he took off in his car and started driving into the house. Three times he backed up and rammed it again. Drunker than a skunk and his girlfriend and her son were in the house, too. Anyway, they’re holding him down at lock-up and Jerry next door bought that house and he’s gonna turn it into a parking lot for Irene. And that’s a good thing, too, ‘cause she hasn’t had anywhere to park and now, maybe we’ll get some peace and quiet from those damn Indians.”
Now, as you can imagine, I’m at a loss for words. I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Oh, well, sounds like your Native American neighbors enjoy the occasional party drink?” I mean come on! My 5 and 2 year old are hearing all of this and all I need is for Coulter to share this story during center time at Kindergarten.
“Coulter,” I say, trying desparately to change the subject “tell G’pa Ed and G’ma Mary about school.” “Uhm, yeah. I go to kindergarten now.” That’s it. That’s all the contribution that he could come up with.
Now I could go on. I could tell you about Mary’s son who got drunk on her whiskey at age 12. I could tell you about her son who still likes to get drunk. I could tell you about “that damn tree,” that fell over at her sisters’s house; I could go on and on, but all you really need to know about Ed and Mary is that almost 10 years ago, just days away from entering hospice Mary received a successful bone-marrow transplant . They are faith-filled people and they love the Lord with all of their heart. They love me and my children and it goes without saying that Mary is a walking, breathing, living miracle of God.
After what I thought was a respectable amount of time and after I was sure we’d be discussing what it means to be drunk for the next several days, I politely explained that we needed to be going.Later that day, I was visiting with my mom and she shared with me a devotion which spoke to how we as parents spend so much of our time teaching our children how to be self-sufficient and how to take care of themselves, when, in fact, we should be teaching them to care for others. She encouraged me that our visits to Ed and Mary were being faithful to God’s call to love others, and I’m just gonna go with that because that’s a much nicer lesson than the one about what happens when you drink too much and decide to drive your car into your girlfriend’s home.
A few days later Coulter was practicing his memory verse for sunday school and, remembering one from a few weeks back, Emma Claire chimed in with “Trust in Lorrrrrd, aaaaall your heart.” After savoring the sweetness of the moment, I couldn’t help but think again of Ed and Mary. They’ve had 10 years worth of cancer news to lose faith; to get angry; to give up and yet they don’t. Of all the stories that I hope my children will forget (racial slurs, questionable language, etc.) it’s the story of faith that I hope will stick with them.
You could be like Mary, hearing cancer for the umpteenth time this week, or like my buddy, Marr, in the prime of his life, hearing it for the first time, along with other words like transplant patient. You could be looking for the blessing of a job; a spouse; a baby. Or, you could just be like Coulter trying to understand why someone would call you a “stupid face,” after all, “I’m not a stupid face, am I mom?” Regardless, the lesson of Ed and Mary, the lesson that sweet Emma Claire has already put to memory, is to “Trust in the Lord with all your heart.” (Proverbs 3:5) At the end of the day, that’s the only lesson that really matters.
It always starts with the “front lawn.”Coulter, Emma Claire and I make our way through lawn; gated and adorned with old washers full of flowers faded and dying from the summer heat or the early fall, I’m not sure which, a picnic table which Coulter tells me wasn’t there last time, and various other “yard art” and we let ourselves in. Ed and Mary are in their familiar spots and I find the only chair that couldn’t also be used as a motor vehicle. They are mostly home-bound so the tiny house is filled with hanging creations made from communion cups, beads, coffee cans and glitter. Coulter and Emma Claire are fascinated but are most interested in the candy jar. “God please bless that food, for I have no idea how long it’s been there. Amen.”
After we’ve had our chocolate, Coulter finds a big bag of toys and starts playing with what appears to be old (and I’m talking vintage here) Mc Donald’s toys and Emma Claire chases around their 14 year old dog trying to “pet you.” And then it begins:
“Well, you know my cancer’s back. But I’m not worried and I told Ed not to worry and I don’t want you to worry. God is not making up a bed for me just yet. Now, where have you been? We haven’t seen you in months. I tell Ed you’re a mom and you’re just too busy.”
“Yes ma’am. We are pretty busy. Coulter has started school and well, it’s a whole new world.”
“Well, I guess you’ve heard they’re demolishing the house next door.”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
“My goodness. It was all over the news. See, Ed and I were still asleep because we don’t sleep too good and, well long story short (only it wasn’t short at all!) those Indians next door got drunk again and he took off in his car and started driving into the house. Three times he backed up and rammed it again. Drunker than a skunk and his girlfriend and her son were in the house, too. Anyway, they’re holding him down at lock-up and Jerry next door bought that house and he’s gonna turn it into a parking lot for Irene. And that’s a good thing, too, ‘cause she hasn’t had anywhere to park and now, maybe we’ll get some peace and quiet from those damn Indians.”
Now, as you can imagine, I’m at a loss for words. I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Oh, well, sounds like your Native American neighbors enjoy the occasional party drink?” I mean come on! My 5 and 2 year old are hearing all of this and all I need is for Coulter to share this story during center time at Kindergarten.
“Coulter,” I say, trying desparately to change the subject “tell G’pa Ed and G’ma Mary about school.” “Uhm, yeah. I go to kindergarten now.” That’s it. That’s all the contribution that he could come up with.
Now I could go on. I could tell you about Mary’s son who got drunk on her whiskey at age 12. I could tell you about her son who still likes to get drunk. I could tell you about “that damn tree,” that fell over at her sisters’s house; I could go on and on, but all you really need to know about Ed and Mary is that almost 10 years ago, just days away from entering hospice Mary received a successful bone-marrow transplant . They are faith-filled people and they love the Lord with all of their heart. They love me and my children and it goes without saying that Mary is a walking, breathing, living miracle of God.
After what I thought was a respectable amount of time and after I was sure we’d be discussing what it means to be drunk for the next several days, I politely explained that we needed to be going.Later that day, I was visiting with my mom and she shared with me a devotion which spoke to how we as parents spend so much of our time teaching our children how to be self-sufficient and how to take care of themselves, when, in fact, we should be teaching them to care for others. She encouraged me that our visits to Ed and Mary were being faithful to God’s call to love others, and I’m just gonna go with that because that’s a much nicer lesson than the one about what happens when you drink too much and decide to drive your car into your girlfriend’s home.
A few days later Coulter was practicing his memory verse for sunday school and, remembering one from a few weeks back, Emma Claire chimed in with “Trust in Lorrrrrd, aaaaall your heart.” After savoring the sweetness of the moment, I couldn’t help but think again of Ed and Mary. They’ve had 10 years worth of cancer news to lose faith; to get angry; to give up and yet they don’t. Of all the stories that I hope my children will forget (racial slurs, questionable language, etc.) it’s the story of faith that I hope will stick with them.
You could be like Mary, hearing cancer for the umpteenth time this week, or like my buddy, Marr, in the prime of his life, hearing it for the first time, along with other words like transplant patient. You could be looking for the blessing of a job; a spouse; a baby. Or, you could just be like Coulter trying to understand why someone would call you a “stupid face,” after all, “I’m not a stupid face, am I mom?” Regardless, the lesson of Ed and Mary, the lesson that sweet Emma Claire has already put to memory, is to “Trust in the Lord with all your heart.” (Proverbs 3:5) At the end of the day, that’s the only lesson that really matters.
Friday, August 20, 2010
"Lord Jesus,Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Help me! Help me! Help me!" Anne Lamott
One of my very favorite authors, Anne Lamott, says in her book “Traveling Mercies” that she has two simple prayers that she prays most of the time. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” and “Help me! Help me! Help me!” I read that book about ten years ago and by read, I mean listened to in the car on tape on my way to Kansas City. I remember driving into the outskirts of Kansas City and realizing that I had absolutely no memory of Omaha. And while that may cause you concern about my driving, it should give you an idea of what a great book it really is.
Sometimes in the craziness that is ordinary life, it’s hard to verbalize and articulate just what we want to tell our great God, so I have, on many occasions, plagiarized Ms. Lamott with my own heartfelt Thank you/Help me prayer. This week has been such a time.
As you all know, as everyone knows by now, my son Coulter started Kindergarten this past Monday. My husband and I were determined to keep it upbeat. We drove into the parking lot without much fanfare, except for a photography session fit for a star, and I really felt fine. A little nervous like I could have gotten sick at any moment, but not teary. Hooray for me! Then, as we turned the corner to find his line, I saw approximately 400 other children all ready to pounce and I just burst into tears. “Help me! Help me! Help me!” I realize it seems selfish to be praying for myself at a time like this, but trust me when I tell you, he was fine. And for the record, I did pray for him, just not at that particular moment.
I’m not completely sure why this is so hard. I do know that throughout the day and week, very well meaning friends and family have encouraged me with different variations of the same chorus. (I wanted to say different verses; same chorus, but that doesn’t make sense…I’m going for a “2nd verse; same as the 1st” kind of idea.)
“At least you still have your baby at home.”
“At least you only had to take one.”
“At least you’re getting to send him to Kindergarten; my baby is going to High School.”
“He’ll be fine. This is what you’ve prepared him for.”
And yet some days you don’t want to be cheered up and told how blessed you are and how great and wonderful this all is. Some days you just want to cry!
For 10 years I have been completely absorbed in the world of early childhood. I know little ones. I know what they should be doing; what they’ll probably be doing and what they should never be doing. I know what’s “normal.” I know what’s expected. I spend my days trying to encourage other mothers who are new at the whole baby/toddler thing and try to equip them with tools that make parenting easier. I know how to be the parent of a little one, but now that we’re in school, I feel completely lost and know that we’ve moved firmly out of my comfort zone and into a whole new world; an alien world.
This week alone, we’ve received PTA volunteer information, classroom party/homeroom mother information, star of the week dates, a book order and a request for a classroom supply donation (actually the donation is to help our teacher buy sanitizing spray which I am, of course, ever so happy to do!) I learned (the embarrassing way) that you can’t actually ride your bike on school property and that it’s cooler to get a hot lunch than to bring your own. Really? My son who basically has a three-meal rotation for lunch all of a sudden thinks he’s going to eat hot lunch? On Wednesday the menu was tacos with lettuce and cheese, green beans, a banana and milk. If, and that’s a strong assumption, if Coulter were able to delicately remove all of the lettuce then he might eat the meat. That’s it. I’m not proud of this, but I am certain of this and I’m worried that he’s going to be hungry all afternoon. But, you know, “everyone” else gets a hot lunch so there you go.
I received a note from Mrs. Hilbrands yesterday. Evidently there was a blue form that needed to be turned in two days ago. Furthermore, I learned that water for lunch has to be different than the water they keep on their desk. There are snacks buckets and email lists and oh my gosh, Help me! Help me! Help me! On a more positive note, Mrs. Hilbrands also said in her message that Coulter was doing well and that we would be so proud of him. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
In addition to starting Kindergarten, the school where I work moved into a new building and we are starting a new Kindermusik semester. I’m so tired that I can barely formulate a sentence. So, I’ll just wrap this up with a few prayers:
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for Coulter’s kind, patient and loving teacher.
Help me! Help me! Help me be a kind, patient and loving Mother to Coulter’s alien brother who arrives on the scene every afternoon about 4:00 p.m.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for a safe, warm and stimulating educational environment for Coulter.
Help! Help me! Help me be a kind, patient and loving Mother to Coulter’s alien brother who arrives on the scene every afternoon about 4:00 p.m.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you that Coulter is a bright, energetic, kind-hearted young boy.
Help me! Help me! Help me to remember that when his alien brother arrives….well you know….
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you to all my friends who have listened to my month long pity-party, but especially to our precious friend Nicole who never tried to talk me out of my sadness.
Help me! Help me! Help me to refrain from strangling the next person who talks to me about eagle’s wings and soaring and letting them fly. Seriously, I will do you bodily harm.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you that he is ready. Help me! Help me! Help me to become so myself.
Sometimes in the craziness that is ordinary life, it’s hard to verbalize and articulate just what we want to tell our great God, so I have, on many occasions, plagiarized Ms. Lamott with my own heartfelt Thank you/Help me prayer. This week has been such a time.
As you all know, as everyone knows by now, my son Coulter started Kindergarten this past Monday. My husband and I were determined to keep it upbeat. We drove into the parking lot without much fanfare, except for a photography session fit for a star, and I really felt fine. A little nervous like I could have gotten sick at any moment, but not teary. Hooray for me! Then, as we turned the corner to find his line, I saw approximately 400 other children all ready to pounce and I just burst into tears. “Help me! Help me! Help me!” I realize it seems selfish to be praying for myself at a time like this, but trust me when I tell you, he was fine. And for the record, I did pray for him, just not at that particular moment.
I’m not completely sure why this is so hard. I do know that throughout the day and week, very well meaning friends and family have encouraged me with different variations of the same chorus. (I wanted to say different verses; same chorus, but that doesn’t make sense…I’m going for a “2nd verse; same as the 1st” kind of idea.)
“At least you still have your baby at home.”
“At least you only had to take one.”
“At least you’re getting to send him to Kindergarten; my baby is going to High School.”
“He’ll be fine. This is what you’ve prepared him for.”
And yet some days you don’t want to be cheered up and told how blessed you are and how great and wonderful this all is. Some days you just want to cry!
For 10 years I have been completely absorbed in the world of early childhood. I know little ones. I know what they should be doing; what they’ll probably be doing and what they should never be doing. I know what’s “normal.” I know what’s expected. I spend my days trying to encourage other mothers who are new at the whole baby/toddler thing and try to equip them with tools that make parenting easier. I know how to be the parent of a little one, but now that we’re in school, I feel completely lost and know that we’ve moved firmly out of my comfort zone and into a whole new world; an alien world.
This week alone, we’ve received PTA volunteer information, classroom party/homeroom mother information, star of the week dates, a book order and a request for a classroom supply donation (actually the donation is to help our teacher buy sanitizing spray which I am, of course, ever so happy to do!) I learned (the embarrassing way) that you can’t actually ride your bike on school property and that it’s cooler to get a hot lunch than to bring your own. Really? My son who basically has a three-meal rotation for lunch all of a sudden thinks he’s going to eat hot lunch? On Wednesday the menu was tacos with lettuce and cheese, green beans, a banana and milk. If, and that’s a strong assumption, if Coulter were able to delicately remove all of the lettuce then he might eat the meat. That’s it. I’m not proud of this, but I am certain of this and I’m worried that he’s going to be hungry all afternoon. But, you know, “everyone” else gets a hot lunch so there you go.
I received a note from Mrs. Hilbrands yesterday. Evidently there was a blue form that needed to be turned in two days ago. Furthermore, I learned that water for lunch has to be different than the water they keep on their desk. There are snacks buckets and email lists and oh my gosh, Help me! Help me! Help me! On a more positive note, Mrs. Hilbrands also said in her message that Coulter was doing well and that we would be so proud of him. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
In addition to starting Kindergarten, the school where I work moved into a new building and we are starting a new Kindermusik semester. I’m so tired that I can barely formulate a sentence. So, I’ll just wrap this up with a few prayers:
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for Coulter’s kind, patient and loving teacher.
Help me! Help me! Help me be a kind, patient and loving Mother to Coulter’s alien brother who arrives on the scene every afternoon about 4:00 p.m.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for a safe, warm and stimulating educational environment for Coulter.
Help! Help me! Help me be a kind, patient and loving Mother to Coulter’s alien brother who arrives on the scene every afternoon about 4:00 p.m.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you that Coulter is a bright, energetic, kind-hearted young boy.
Help me! Help me! Help me to remember that when his alien brother arrives….well you know….
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you to all my friends who have listened to my month long pity-party, but especially to our precious friend Nicole who never tried to talk me out of my sadness.
Help me! Help me! Help me to refrain from strangling the next person who talks to me about eagle’s wings and soaring and letting them fly. Seriously, I will do you bodily harm.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you that he is ready. Help me! Help me! Help me to become so myself.
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