Have you ever had one of those days where you were just off? You know, nothing is going right, and everything you touch turns into the worse version of what it was before? I had one of those days today, and I just wanted an escape. Phone a friend, mobile shout out, easy button? Yes, I will take two of each. It wasn't anything particular making me feel all scrambled up (as Taryn says). Just...everything. Kids whining and fighting too much over silly things, puppy peeing in the house right AFTER she came in from going outside, full sink AND full dishwasher, getting to the phone right after the caller hangs up on what they think will be an answering machine...bleck. Off day.
I can't always put my finger on the worst part when I have these less then stellar days. Usually one thing after the next falls short of "good enough", and I keep plugging along until I can't take it and get snappy with the closest living being. Today was a bit different. Today I know exactly when I hit rock bottom. It was the moment when I got mad at the chicken. Literally. I could feel myself getting angry...at Jayme's dinner. I don't care much for chicken, but I make it for me betrothed none the less. He is always happy to be fed, but tonight he was having to eat AFTER the kids went to bed...so it was pretty late for dinner and he was borderline starving. I wanted to make him something different than the usual chicken on the grill, and I wanted it to be gooooooood! I followed the "recipe" on the bisquick box for chicken tenders, but first I coated them in Texas Pete hot sauce to spice things up. I thought I would get lovely, crisp, chicken pieces with a hint of spiciness.
What came out of the oven thirty minutes later (15 minutes past the box's indicated cooking time) was a mess. The crispiness never...crispified...and what coating was on it just stayed stuck to the perfectly cooking-sprayed and correctly placed aluminum foil. I found myself looking at a bare naked chicken breast, and it did not look good.
That's when I felt myself get angry at the chicken. I did EVERYTHING right this time. I foiled, sprayed, coated, preheated, and timed this mess. Seriously? Ridiculous. I could have done better if I had slapped a little of my own spice concoction together and tossed those babies on the grill. I heard myself think, "Stupid chicken! I did all the work, you just had to turn out right. Don't think for a second that you held up your end of this deal".
I cut up the chicken hoping to try and throw some of the coating in with it and to hide the absolutely ugliness of the whole piece of meat sitting on the plate. You can rest assured I cut that chicken up with some extra muscle behind each slice. I had a little bit of a point that I still needed to make to that foul bird. And then, I took a deep breath and gave to Jayme with a quiet disclaimer that it did not turn out as I intended.
Then, unexpectedly, I felt better. I had gotten mad at the chicken and what did I take that anger out on? Said chicken. That was pretty enlightened of me. Usually when I get angry at situations I just snap at my kids or my dogs, or Jayme. This time, I got angry at the thing I was upset with. Granted, it was an inanimate object, and as such had done nothing wrong. But my sanity is not the point here. The point is, I think I did good. In this particular situation, getting mad at the chicken goes in my "win" column. I feel so proud. ;)
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
So Help Me God
Roe V. Wade did more than just give a woman the "right to choose". It was the beginning of the public acceptance of the mistreatment of children. Children had long been mistreated quietly, but the public acceptance is what changed the undercurrents of the culture. Since 1973, when the case was decided, something like 50 million babies have been aborted in America. Millions of lives ended because the life of an adult has been deemed more valuable than the life of a child.
My sister in law is a federal prosecutor. She works strictly in child crimes and child exploitation. She has dedicated her career to being the voice of children who need one. A LOUD, SCREAMING, DEFIANT voice against the men and women who have treated them in detestable and deplorable ways. Previously, as an FBI agent, she worked to catch these same types of individuals, those preying on children. Now she works to get them the maximum sentences for their crimes. She has been scolded before, by a federal judge, for asking for jail time for a man who had been convicted of selling children into sexual abuse. "Do you know what jail time will do to a man?" the judge asked. She stared at him, unbelieving, as he said, "How dare you ask for that?" But she knows how he dares. She knows that he is a part of an Amerian culture that believes that an adult life is more valuable than a child's. We may not say it, but our actions show it.
Consider Caylee Anthony. A beautiful little baby girl, born to a nineteen year old, immature mother from a dysfunctional family. I remember when she was reported missing. I remember because Taryn was her age, and from the photo the family released to the media, they had the same pink Playtex sippy cup. I remember praying with Taryn that the family would find their lost little girl. We have followed the case closely in our house, maybe too closely. The remains of the little girl were found just ten minutes from our house, a few blocks away from little Caylee's home. The apartments where her mother claimed to have taken her to for the nanny to watch her are apartments that I drive past almost daily, on my way to work. This happened here. In our city. We watched almost every moment of the trial, even recording portions that we wouldn't be home to see. Wanting to see the case. See the evidence. Judge for ourselves what had happened, and see justice for Caylee. And yesterday, despite an excellent prosecution and over three hundred exhibits of evidence, the jury decided that Caylee's mother was guilty only of lying to the police. Nothing else. Why? There are a few reasons they will give when they start contacting the media, but so far they have chosen to hide behind anonymity. I am glad. I don't want to see the faces of the people who let down Caylee Anthony. It is more fitting that they are just anonymous Americans, representing the multitude for whom the life of a child is less valuable than the life of an adult. And whatever reasons they give, they will not say that it was because Caylee's life was less valuable than Casey's. They would never say that. They may not even know that they believe it. But that is our culture, and that contributed to their decision on the side of injustice.
So, today I am hugging my kids a lot. I am telling them that they are precious, and loved, and special. I am playing cars with them, and giant bowling on the patio, and letting them give me "shots" from their doctor kit. I am teaching them what God has said about their value. And I am telling people in my world what I believe, which is that the smallest and most vulnerable lives are the ones that we have the greatest duty to protect. Jose Baez said if anything comes out of this case it should be that the death penalty is wrong. I believe that if anything comes out of this case it should be that children are easy targets, and that it is up to us to take the bulls-eye off their forehead. That when someone takes advantage of their smallness and their innocence, that we stand up for those little lives and hold those wicked adults responsible for every act, and every failure to act, that caused that child harm. I intend to make whatever difference that I can. To this I swear or affirm. So help me God.
My sister in law is a federal prosecutor. She works strictly in child crimes and child exploitation. She has dedicated her career to being the voice of children who need one. A LOUD, SCREAMING, DEFIANT voice against the men and women who have treated them in detestable and deplorable ways. Previously, as an FBI agent, she worked to catch these same types of individuals, those preying on children. Now she works to get them the maximum sentences for their crimes. She has been scolded before, by a federal judge, for asking for jail time for a man who had been convicted of selling children into sexual abuse. "Do you know what jail time will do to a man?" the judge asked. She stared at him, unbelieving, as he said, "How dare you ask for that?" But she knows how he dares. She knows that he is a part of an Amerian culture that believes that an adult life is more valuable than a child's. We may not say it, but our actions show it.
Consider Caylee Anthony. A beautiful little baby girl, born to a nineteen year old, immature mother from a dysfunctional family. I remember when she was reported missing. I remember because Taryn was her age, and from the photo the family released to the media, they had the same pink Playtex sippy cup. I remember praying with Taryn that the family would find their lost little girl. We have followed the case closely in our house, maybe too closely. The remains of the little girl were found just ten minutes from our house, a few blocks away from little Caylee's home. The apartments where her mother claimed to have taken her to for the nanny to watch her are apartments that I drive past almost daily, on my way to work. This happened here. In our city. We watched almost every moment of the trial, even recording portions that we wouldn't be home to see. Wanting to see the case. See the evidence. Judge for ourselves what had happened, and see justice for Caylee. And yesterday, despite an excellent prosecution and over three hundred exhibits of evidence, the jury decided that Caylee's mother was guilty only of lying to the police. Nothing else. Why? There are a few reasons they will give when they start contacting the media, but so far they have chosen to hide behind anonymity. I am glad. I don't want to see the faces of the people who let down Caylee Anthony. It is more fitting that they are just anonymous Americans, representing the multitude for whom the life of a child is less valuable than the life of an adult. And whatever reasons they give, they will not say that it was because Caylee's life was less valuable than Casey's. They would never say that. They may not even know that they believe it. But that is our culture, and that contributed to their decision on the side of injustice.
So, today I am hugging my kids a lot. I am telling them that they are precious, and loved, and special. I am playing cars with them, and giant bowling on the patio, and letting them give me "shots" from their doctor kit. I am teaching them what God has said about their value. And I am telling people in my world what I believe, which is that the smallest and most vulnerable lives are the ones that we have the greatest duty to protect. Jose Baez said if anything comes out of this case it should be that the death penalty is wrong. I believe that if anything comes out of this case it should be that children are easy targets, and that it is up to us to take the bulls-eye off their forehead. That when someone takes advantage of their smallness and their innocence, that we stand up for those little lives and hold those wicked adults responsible for every act, and every failure to act, that caused that child harm. I intend to make whatever difference that I can. To this I swear or affirm. So help me God.
Monday, July 4, 2011
July 5
Today is the Fourth of July, the birthday of America. I consider myself patriotic and, as I announced in church yesterday, I am "USA to the core". (Long story, don't ask.) I am celebrating today, along with so many of my fellow Americans, the day that this country, the greatest democracy in the history of the world, was formed. It is worth celebrating, and worth remembering.
But today, I am also thinking of July 5, 1776.
In my innocence, ignorance, and poor mastery of US History, I think I always imagined the 4th of July as the end of the struggle. The end of the War with Britain. It makes sense really, all of the celebrating, and the fire works, one would naturally conclude the celebrating was for the end of the fight. But it didn't happen like that. America declared it's independence from Britain on July 4, 1776, but the war didn't end. Britain didn't read the Declaration of Independence, and say, "Turn all of the boats around boys, they say they are independent now. They even wrote it down". Quite the contrary. They came at the petulant Americans with renewed fight, and vigor. They would show this pompous little "nation" what a real army was like, or so they intended.
The battles raged on, the casualties climbed. In fact, the famous words spoken by Nathan Hale when he was executed (without trial), "I regret that I have but one life to give for my country," were spoken after July 4.
It sits heavy on my chest when I read about life for those first Americans. The times themselves were brutal. Felling trees to clear land and build houses, log by log. Sleeping on hay pallets, and eating what you killed, or grew yourself. No plumbing, no electricity, limited healthcare (people died of diarrhea for Pete's sake) and an utter lack of anything the least bit convenient. But these people, with homes to build, land to cultivate, and families to feed were so convicted in their beliefs that they found the time to fight the fight. They didn't say, "Gee, I would love to help you Thomas, but my seven kids need me to plant the crops, and hunt the bears." They needed to be free from British control, and they needed to follow the call they knew was given to them by God. So, they did it.
I am painfully aware how lucky the pioneers of this great country are that I wasn't among them. If they were counting on me to fight the Brits, we would all still be saying, "bloody hell, and jolly good" because I am a victim of my own busyness- both real, and imaginary. I can't even stop and play CandyLand with Taryn sometimes because "I have to mop the floor". And I have a steam mop that I plug in and mop with! I don't even have to make soap and haul water up from the river. My goodness!
And it's not just the sacrifice that they were so good at, but their bravery too. The brutality of a war with musket balls and bayonets is frightening. A war where you didn't shoot until you saw the whites of their eyes. For the record, I do not ever want to be close enough to see the whites of the eyes of a person with a weapon who has orders to kill me. And on top of that, they had limited medical treatment, antibiotics, and pain relievers. You either died from your wounds, or died of infection. Not good odds! Despite that,they fought. Oh that I could be so convicted! Oh that I would have such a stirring in my heart for what I believe in that I would be selfless, and brave simply because I must.
Sure, I am patriotic. In fairness though, that's easy to say from my couch watching the Olympics, from my picnic blanket under the stars watching the fire works, or even in my seat near the dugout at the major league baseball game with my hand on my heart as I sing every inspirational word of the National Anthem.
I am grateful for true American patriots. Not just nostalgic Americans, like me, but people, throughout history and today who felt conviction for this nation, honored that conviction, and that gave their time, money, loyalty, and lives for this country. One of my former students just started his career at the United States Air Force Academy. He also happens to be the eldest son of my very best friend. I am proud of him. I am proud of him for what he knows that he has signed up for, and for what his seventeen or eighteen year old mind couldn't even conceive. I am proud that he is a patriot in the making. That he is giving the next decades of his life to this country. Giving back. Paying a debt that he knows, only to some extent, that he has. I hope the Air Force Academy, and military academies across our nation, are full of "Jamies" because it makes me feel better about the future of this country. That's the part he doesn't know that he signed up for. The part where his choice gives me hope.
Thank you patriots-young, old, and those alive only in history books and stories told around dining room tables. I am sorry if I have diminished the reality of your sacrifices and your bravery by calling myself a patriot. I guess I should call myself a theoretical patriot; that seems more accurate. Thank you for being actual patriots, and know that I do not go to sleep at night without thinking of my debt to you- without thinking of July 5.
But today, I am also thinking of July 5, 1776.
In my innocence, ignorance, and poor mastery of US History, I think I always imagined the 4th of July as the end of the struggle. The end of the War with Britain. It makes sense really, all of the celebrating, and the fire works, one would naturally conclude the celebrating was for the end of the fight. But it didn't happen like that. America declared it's independence from Britain on July 4, 1776, but the war didn't end. Britain didn't read the Declaration of Independence, and say, "Turn all of the boats around boys, they say they are independent now. They even wrote it down". Quite the contrary. They came at the petulant Americans with renewed fight, and vigor. They would show this pompous little "nation" what a real army was like, or so they intended.
The battles raged on, the casualties climbed. In fact, the famous words spoken by Nathan Hale when he was executed (without trial), "I regret that I have but one life to give for my country," were spoken after July 4.
It sits heavy on my chest when I read about life for those first Americans. The times themselves were brutal. Felling trees to clear land and build houses, log by log. Sleeping on hay pallets, and eating what you killed, or grew yourself. No plumbing, no electricity, limited healthcare (people died of diarrhea for Pete's sake) and an utter lack of anything the least bit convenient. But these people, with homes to build, land to cultivate, and families to feed were so convicted in their beliefs that they found the time to fight the fight. They didn't say, "Gee, I would love to help you Thomas, but my seven kids need me to plant the crops, and hunt the bears." They needed to be free from British control, and they needed to follow the call they knew was given to them by God. So, they did it.
I am painfully aware how lucky the pioneers of this great country are that I wasn't among them. If they were counting on me to fight the Brits, we would all still be saying, "bloody hell, and jolly good" because I am a victim of my own busyness- both real, and imaginary. I can't even stop and play CandyLand with Taryn sometimes because "I have to mop the floor". And I have a steam mop that I plug in and mop with! I don't even have to make soap and haul water up from the river. My goodness!
And it's not just the sacrifice that they were so good at, but their bravery too. The brutality of a war with musket balls and bayonets is frightening. A war where you didn't shoot until you saw the whites of their eyes. For the record, I do not ever want to be close enough to see the whites of the eyes of a person with a weapon who has orders to kill me. And on top of that, they had limited medical treatment, antibiotics, and pain relievers. You either died from your wounds, or died of infection. Not good odds! Despite that,they fought. Oh that I could be so convicted! Oh that I would have such a stirring in my heart for what I believe in that I would be selfless, and brave simply because I must.
Sure, I am patriotic. In fairness though, that's easy to say from my couch watching the Olympics, from my picnic blanket under the stars watching the fire works, or even in my seat near the dugout at the major league baseball game with my hand on my heart as I sing every inspirational word of the National Anthem.
I am grateful for true American patriots. Not just nostalgic Americans, like me, but people, throughout history and today who felt conviction for this nation, honored that conviction, and that gave their time, money, loyalty, and lives for this country. One of my former students just started his career at the United States Air Force Academy. He also happens to be the eldest son of my very best friend. I am proud of him. I am proud of him for what he knows that he has signed up for, and for what his seventeen or eighteen year old mind couldn't even conceive. I am proud that he is a patriot in the making. That he is giving the next decades of his life to this country. Giving back. Paying a debt that he knows, only to some extent, that he has. I hope the Air Force Academy, and military academies across our nation, are full of "Jamies" because it makes me feel better about the future of this country. That's the part he doesn't know that he signed up for. The part where his choice gives me hope.
Thank you patriots-young, old, and those alive only in history books and stories told around dining room tables. I am sorry if I have diminished the reality of your sacrifices and your bravery by calling myself a patriot. I guess I should call myself a theoretical patriot; that seems more accurate. Thank you for being actual patriots, and know that I do not go to sleep at night without thinking of my debt to you- without thinking of July 5.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
I Am Who I Am
I admire women who are quiet. I don't mean silent, or keeping their thoughts to themselves. I mean quiet, in a way that is full of grace and dignity. Who, when they speak, you listen. You listen because you know that they are not an endless fountain of words, but rather wait to speak when when something is worth saying. I am not one of those women. (Just ask Jayme.) I dislike that about myself. I always have something to say. Some sarcastic remark, or witty little quip. Something to make myself laugh, if nothing else. I am sure that my friends could find this exhausting because I do too sometimes. Not usually. Usually I am giving myself mental high fives for how funny I am. But always, I am striving to spend more time being still, and gracious, and speaking less, but more profoundly. Telling myself to learn to wait to speak until I have a little gem of wisdom to share.
I also admire women who are uninhibited. Not crazy wild, mind you, because that is just embarrassing. More like brave. Willing to try new things. All of my life I have had this issue with trying new things. Basically, I don't. I don't try things that I could quite possibly fail. I try new variations of old things. For example, I am good at basketball, so I will play on a new team. I can sing, decently, so I will sing in a new choir, because I have sung in choirs before. However, trying something completely unknown is not at all exciting for me. Jayme went to this boot camp class at his gym and came home telling me it was the best workout of his life, and I should try it. Quite frankly, I should. But going to a new gym to join a public exercise class absolutely terrifies me. I have never done that before. Not even anything like it. I have no frame of reference, but my imagination immediately goes to the worst case scenario. One in which I can't do any of the moves, and I hurt myself. It's awful to admit, but quite frankly the thought of trying the class makes me struggle to breathe. I am in a constant battle to live outside of my comfort zone because I admire women who do, and I want to be more like what I admire. Those women who don't even bat an eye before they run out to try yoga or join a zumba class, or sky dive. I have to think they are living life to the fullest, while I am living life safely in my mind.
I admire people who are organized. I am SO not. I have multiple junk drawers in the house, and I hate them. I organize them regularly, but an organized junk drawer is sort of an oxymoron. I mean, wasn't the junk drawer born out of a need for a place to throw everything that doesn't have a rightful place? I say yes. But still, having three is too many, and surely most of that stuff could be made to have a rightful place, or could be thrown out. I know it. And I fail to fix it. That makes me so disappointed in myself. I know, this is a bit dramatic, but that's my way. Disappointed in myself over my multitude of junk drawers, when there are so much bigger things for me to focus on. The junk drawers are just symbolic though. Symbolic of the unkempt areas of my life that I want to be better at keeping control over. So even as I reorganize my junk drawers for the twentieth time, I admire those people that I know exist, for whom junk drawers are just myths. They have a place for everything, and everything in its place. They are what I long to be.
I could go on for years, I admire women who are good cooks, and mothers who hide zucchini in the brownies to make sure their kids get enough veggies. I admire people who run in the rain just because if they didn't they would miss their work out for the day and that would drive them crazy. I admire people who can have a face to face confrontation without getting emotional, or who can express themselves verbally. I generally find myself wanting to say, "hold on, I would like to continue this disagreement but could we do it in writing, please?" In real life, that doesn't generally fit into the plan.
So what to do? Well, all that I can come up with is to keep appreciating and recognizing things in others that I admire. And honor them for those qualities, rather than silently appreciating them. I need to strive to add some of those qualities to my life, all the while realizing that I am me. I can watch Julia Childs on TV, but can never be Julia Childs. I could go skydiving, but I would hate every minute of it until it was over (at which point I would brag excessively about my bravery). I am who I am. I can be better. I can organize the junk drawers, and I can try new things when they aren't unreasonably risky, but I can't ignore the "Jen Blueprint" that God designed me with. Continue growing, reading, learning, and keep challenging myself to be the best version of me that I can be, and learn to be satisfied with that.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
A Hero is Born
Yesterday, I needed a hero.
I was in the midst of a personal crisis involving a Palmetto bug loose in my bedroom, and a terrified child who wanted to go to her Nana's house until the bug could be properly destroyed. I saw the two inch long, exoskeleton covered bug run through the middle of my room, and I felt instant fear. I like lady bugs, and am not afraid of love-bugs or plastic bugs, but that about covers it.
I looked around the room trying to find a lethal device, but all I could see were my book on Mother Theresa, my prayer journal, and an alarm clock. I immediately started to think like MacGyver, but in the instant that I searched for a paperclip and a piece of thread to fashion into some sort of pith, the bug vanished. Fear turned to panic. This bug could have been pregnant and now was off proliferating. It could be getting inside my walls or finding its way into pillows stacked on the floor. It could hide out until I go to bed and then would crawl in my mouth while I slept! HELP! Hero, where are you?
I have had many heroes in my life, and each one is so absolutely crucial to my sanity. Sometimes my heroes are my friends who are there to talk me through a parenting dilemma or a spousal misunderstanding. They send me cards in the mail, "just because" and surprise me with Starbucks, phone calls, and birthday luncheons. I love them for laughing with me, and sometimes at me, thereby healing my soul!
Always they are my parents, whose words are so ingrained in my heart that I cannot separate them from my own most times. The whispered reminders are telling me to be kind, to be still, to be courageous, and to make wise choices.
My brother and sister are heroes to me. Providing me with a much needed link to the past. A history. A place to belong no matter how strange I feel in the world. An anchor.
Jesus is my ultimate hero. The perfect model of love, of sacrifice, of courage, and the most effective teacher ever. His promises are what I count on both when times are good, and when times couldn't get much worse.
Usually, for me and the kids, Jayme is our hero. When the favorite plastic toy breaks, breaking a tender tiny, heart along with it, he has just the thing to glue it back together. When I can't open the juice (because they are making the covers more ridgy and they hurt my hands) he can. When there is a bolt in the tire of the Jeep from some unknown origin, he knows where to take it to get it fixed. He tells the kids how long the house has been standing, and how many storms it has stood up to, and they are no longer afraid of the thunder. And usually when Palmetto bugs are loose in the house, or lizards, or (twice) snakes, he saves the day. I know he doesn't ride around on a white horse or wear a cape or a uniform, but he is every bit as much my hero.
I hope that I am a hero sometimes too. My heroes deserve to have me save the day right back. I pray that I will get the chance, and will not be to busy, too self absorbed, too tired, too afraid... I think that, usually, when it is your turn to be the hero, no one can do it but you. Of course, there are times when there is no one else to turn to. That's when you get to be your own hero.
I was my own hero yesterday, and I hated every minute of it. (It occurs to me that is often true. We would rather be rescued, than go through the saving of ourselves from a tough situation). I did it though! I tracked and hunted that bug like a pioneer trying to feed his family would track an animal. I found that wee beastie hiding among some blankets, and I killed that bug dead (may I add, there is way too much "splat" involved in killing palmetto bugs. Then, Taryn and I whooped and hoorayed like I had a caught one of America's Most Wanted. "Mommy," Taryn said, "You saved the day."
And so it begins. In her eyes a hero was born.
I was in the midst of a personal crisis involving a Palmetto bug loose in my bedroom, and a terrified child who wanted to go to her Nana's house until the bug could be properly destroyed. I saw the two inch long, exoskeleton covered bug run through the middle of my room, and I felt instant fear. I like lady bugs, and am not afraid of love-bugs or plastic bugs, but that about covers it.
I looked around the room trying to find a lethal device, but all I could see were my book on Mother Theresa, my prayer journal, and an alarm clock. I immediately started to think like MacGyver, but in the instant that I searched for a paperclip and a piece of thread to fashion into some sort of pith, the bug vanished. Fear turned to panic. This bug could have been pregnant and now was off proliferating. It could be getting inside my walls or finding its way into pillows stacked on the floor. It could hide out until I go to bed and then would crawl in my mouth while I slept! HELP! Hero, where are you?
I have had many heroes in my life, and each one is so absolutely crucial to my sanity. Sometimes my heroes are my friends who are there to talk me through a parenting dilemma or a spousal misunderstanding. They send me cards in the mail, "just because" and surprise me with Starbucks, phone calls, and birthday luncheons. I love them for laughing with me, and sometimes at me, thereby healing my soul!
Always they are my parents, whose words are so ingrained in my heart that I cannot separate them from my own most times. The whispered reminders are telling me to be kind, to be still, to be courageous, and to make wise choices.
My brother and sister are heroes to me. Providing me with a much needed link to the past. A history. A place to belong no matter how strange I feel in the world. An anchor.
Jesus is my ultimate hero. The perfect model of love, of sacrifice, of courage, and the most effective teacher ever. His promises are what I count on both when times are good, and when times couldn't get much worse.
Usually, for me and the kids, Jayme is our hero. When the favorite plastic toy breaks, breaking a tender tiny, heart along with it, he has just the thing to glue it back together. When I can't open the juice (because they are making the covers more ridgy and they hurt my hands) he can. When there is a bolt in the tire of the Jeep from some unknown origin, he knows where to take it to get it fixed. He tells the kids how long the house has been standing, and how many storms it has stood up to, and they are no longer afraid of the thunder. And usually when Palmetto bugs are loose in the house, or lizards, or (twice) snakes, he saves the day. I know he doesn't ride around on a white horse or wear a cape or a uniform, but he is every bit as much my hero.
I hope that I am a hero sometimes too. My heroes deserve to have me save the day right back. I pray that I will get the chance, and will not be to busy, too self absorbed, too tired, too afraid... I think that, usually, when it is your turn to be the hero, no one can do it but you. Of course, there are times when there is no one else to turn to. That's when you get to be your own hero.
I was my own hero yesterday, and I hated every minute of it. (It occurs to me that is often true. We would rather be rescued, than go through the saving of ourselves from a tough situation). I did it though! I tracked and hunted that bug like a pioneer trying to feed his family would track an animal. I found that wee beastie hiding among some blankets, and I killed that bug dead (may I add, there is way too much "splat" involved in killing palmetto bugs. Then, Taryn and I whooped and hoorayed like I had a caught one of America's Most Wanted. "Mommy," Taryn said, "You saved the day."
And so it begins. In her eyes a hero was born.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
All BecauseTwo People Fell in Love
College kids.
Fun, friendships, freedom.
Falling in love.
Basketball, softball and soccer games, Street Fighter.
Bible studies, dinners out...
Thinking we were all grown up.
Being so wrong.
Just kids.
Newlyweds.
Together. Stars in our eyes. Totally in love.
Dreams of the future. Not even sure what to dream.
Cold winter, ice storms, radiator heat.
Money earned. Money spent. Laundromat, pizza place.
Thinking love was all we needed.
Being completely right.
Being completely wrong
Being completely in love.
Growing up.
First baby. Shock, excitement, heartache.
Innocence lost. Crying, Sadness. Solitude.
Leaning on each other. Loving each other.
Trusting. Doubting.
Too young for broken hearts,
but that didn't matter.
Believing "it is well" though it didn't feel "well".
Being right.
Parenthood.
Completely worth the risks.
Definitely worth the wait.
Two perfect blessings.
Love like we have never known.
Worry, joy, laughter, pain...all magnified.
Juggling new hats. Daddy, Mommy.
Thinking we should have been required to take a test.
Knowing we would have never passed. :)
Learning day by day.
Smiling at them- at just the thought of them.
Smiling at seeing each other in their eyes.
Growing older.
Long in the tooth. :) Gray hair.
Aches, pains, sun damage.
Happy Birthdays for us...for them.
Finding our love has grown comforting.
Not thinking there is anything wrong with that.
Knowing our love is true. Still laughing, still happy.
More beautiful than ever.
Like good wine.
One Heart. Two bodies. 100 directions.
Always coming home to the same place.
Our Future.
Quickly becoming the past.
Wide open. Full of potential.
Uncertain. Unknown. Unlimited.
Planning.
Thinking we have time.
Being so wrong.
The future is not now.
The future was yesterday.
Together, we two.
In love. Happy. Side by side. Step by step.
Thinking we are blessed.
Being so right!
Jayme, I love the memory of falling in love with you, and the reality of staying in love with you. For the notes on my car, and the poems that you wrote. For the dinners you made, and the flowers. For when you get up with the kids, and when you chase them all around the house and make them laugh. For the smiles, laughter, and maybe even more, for the tears. Thank you. What we have done together, we never could have done apart. "...all because two people fell in love".
Fun, friendships, freedom.
Falling in love.
Basketball, softball and soccer games, Street Fighter.
Bible studies, dinners out...
Thinking we were all grown up.
Being so wrong.
Just kids.
Newlyweds.
Together. Stars in our eyes. Totally in love.
Dreams of the future. Not even sure what to dream.
Cold winter, ice storms, radiator heat.
Money earned. Money spent. Laundromat, pizza place.
Thinking love was all we needed.
Being completely right.
Being completely wrong
Being completely in love.
Growing up.
First baby. Shock, excitement, heartache.
Innocence lost. Crying, Sadness. Solitude.
Leaning on each other. Loving each other.
Trusting. Doubting.
Too young for broken hearts,
but that didn't matter.
Believing "it is well" though it didn't feel "well".
Being right.
Parenthood.
Completely worth the risks.
Definitely worth the wait.
Two perfect blessings.
Love like we have never known.
Worry, joy, laughter, pain...all magnified.
Juggling new hats. Daddy, Mommy.
Thinking we should have been required to take a test.
Knowing we would have never passed. :)
Learning day by day.
Smiling at them- at just the thought of them.
Smiling at seeing each other in their eyes.
Growing older.
Long in the tooth. :) Gray hair.
Aches, pains, sun damage.
Happy Birthdays for us...for them.
Finding our love has grown comforting.
Not thinking there is anything wrong with that.
Knowing our love is true. Still laughing, still happy.
More beautiful than ever.
Like good wine.
One Heart. Two bodies. 100 directions.
Always coming home to the same place.
Our Future.
Quickly becoming the past.
Wide open. Full of potential.
Uncertain. Unknown. Unlimited.
Planning.
Thinking we have time.
Being so wrong.
The future is not now.
The future was yesterday.
Together, we two.
In love. Happy. Side by side. Step by step.
Thinking we are blessed.
Being so right!
Jayme, I love the memory of falling in love with you, and the reality of staying in love with you. For the notes on my car, and the poems that you wrote. For the dinners you made, and the flowers. For when you get up with the kids, and when you chase them all around the house and make them laugh. For the smiles, laughter, and maybe even more, for the tears. Thank you. What we have done together, we never could have done apart. "...all because two people fell in love".
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Priceless
I feel like people should know about our last drive from Orlando to Cleveland, TN. We were going for different reasons, Jayme for a car show about thirty minutes from my sister's house, and the kids and me to spend a few glorious days with my sister and her family.
In our pre-child days, this is a little bit less than a nine hour drive. With kids, 9-10 hours is doable, as long as the kids "hold it" for as long as possible between bathroom stops, and there are no dinners at Cracker Barrel. This drive,however, did not go as planned...at all, in any way.
We left our house at 8:15 much to Jayme's dismay because he had wanted to leave at 8. We were meeting a friend of his on the highway, in order to convoy to Chattanooga where there was a Volkswagen show that they were attending. We got gas, and got going. We headed to the predetermined spot on the highway where we were to wait for them to drive past and then follow them to TN. We waited for them for about ten or fifteen minutes. It was fine, not a bad wait, other than my brain convincing me that being pulled over on the side of a highway, with my precious children singing songs in the back seat, is perhaps the deadliest place in the world to be. "Good thing we didn't leave the house on time", I lovingly pointed out to Jayme. "Otherwise we would have had to wait with a bulls-eye on our car for a half hour". Sometimes, I am fun to be married to, and sometimes I am just...not. Anyway, they passed us and we pulled out behind their car, ready to get to the business of the trip.
About ten minutes later we got a call from the car in front of us that they had to pull over. They were towing a car to the VW show, and needed to adjust something on the car. We pulled over again, in the deadliest place on earth, and after five minutes or so, started driving again. Just as we took off to merge back into traffic Taryn started making a choking sound, and when I looked back, she was covered in throw up. Gross! If you know me at all, I do not do throw up. Her mommy (I like to refer to myself in the third person when I do stupid things) had given her a bowl of dried cranberries to eat, and she had eaten about 50 craisins in about 2 minutes. She had started to choke on some, and voila...threw them up. We called the car in front of us to tell them to pull over so we could handle the "situation".
We got Taryn cleaned up and settled down, but the stop at the rest area took almost an hour. She was hysterical. This was only the second time in her life that she had thrown up, and she was afraid to throw up again. She just wanted to go home. In fact, I believe at this point she had volunteered to walk home. In addition to the getting sick, she had a meltdown in the restrooms because they were automatic flush toilets, and she is terrified of them. I knew there was no way that we were stopping again for a bathroom break, we were already WAY behind schedule, so she had no choice. The people outside of the bathroom probably thought I was being abusive, but I assure you I was not. Taryn had her hands over her ears (although it was completely silent in the bathroom) and she was screaming, "Get me out of here! Just let me GOOOO." I did not let her go. Eventually, she used the bathroom.
It was now almost 10:00, and we were only about thirty minutes from home. I was stressing out. We got to driving, and finally got some good miles under our tires when we got a call from the car in front of us, "after we cross into Georgia, do you want to stop for lunch?" I informed them that would be great, we just needed a place with grilled cheese, or chicken nuggets and other than that could stop anywhere. The restaurant of choice, Cracker Barrel. So, I was freaking out in my travelers mind. Cracker Barrel? Oh no. Good food, but slow service! "Relax", my brain told me. "Enjoy the day. Stop watching the clock. You have kids, and they would probably like to get out of the car for a while. You are on a relaxing trip, no one is keeping time. It's not a race." I responded that plan sounded fine, and we went to Cracker Barrel.
The kids were excited to get pancakes for lunch, but Taryn was still afraid to throw up if she ate again, so she only nibbled at hers. Her desire to eat was further diminished by the fact that Cracker Barrel gives real Maple Syrup for pancakes, and Taryn (like her mother) despises real Maple Syrup. We only like pancake syrup in my house. We asked for sugar free syrup, which tastes like aunt Jemima, and she ate a few bites, but still almost nothing. (Oh well, can't live in the Cracker Barrel waiting for Taryn to be brave enough to eat delicious pancakes!)
Back on the road, and thirty minutes into the drive Taryn announced that she had to go potty. I reminded her that she just went, but she apparently had to go Number 2. (Of course she did). We told her we were looking for a place and would stop as soon as possible. We were able to play out that scene for about thirty minutes before she couldn't hold it, so we called up to the front car, and pulled over. Guess what kind of toilets were at the rest area? That's right!! Automatic toilets. Taryn had a panic attack...again. She refused to go...I made her try, she did a drip of pee pee and we were back in the car again. Shortly, we had to make a routine stop for gas and I took Taryn in to the grossest bathroom that has ever failed to be maintained. It was the kind where you get the key inside and walk around back to use it. I opened the door and wanted to run away screaming in terror, but not Taryn. Her eyes lit up! "Mommy!!!! It doesn't flush on it's own!!!" (OK, so apparently I am going to enter this filth hole. No problem Taryn,let me just use every Wet Wipe in my purse to clean the general toilet area and then you can have at it). She went (all numbers), and we got back to driving.
At this point we were basically to Atlanta. We had already been on the road for ten hours, and I just couldn't get it out of my head that we should ALREADY be there! Just as we got into the heart of Atlanta the sky opened up and the rain started falling in sheets. We could barely see. It was 6 pm on a Friday and traffic was bad. There were minutes where I don't think I took a breath. (As if the passenger of the car holding her breath helps the ride be more safe?) I couldn't help it. I think the kids were being good, but truly, I don't remember. I just remember the fear.
The rest of the two hours went smoothly. We persevered through the torrents of rain, dropped Jayme off at his hotel, about thirty minutes from my sister's house, and then the kids and I kept going until we reached Cleveland! I called Chrissy when we were almost there and she met me off the exit. In the rain, and having been too long since our last visit, I knew full well the possibility of my getting lost. I still get lost in my own home town, sadly. I followed her to the house, and have never been so happy to be done with a drive. I checked my watch. 8:30. It just took us twelve hours to make a 8 and a half hour trip, Aaaaaaggghhhhh!!! Substandard!!! Had I known before we left that we would have been substandard and traumatized travelers, then I may have chosen to stay home.
Three days later though, when I was leaving my sister's house to go pick Jayme up from the hotel, all I could think was that it was totally worth it. Gas: $200 Driving time: 12 long hours, frustrations: plentiful, three days with my sister: PRICELESS!!!!
In our pre-child days, this is a little bit less than a nine hour drive. With kids, 9-10 hours is doable, as long as the kids "hold it" for as long as possible between bathroom stops, and there are no dinners at Cracker Barrel. This drive,however, did not go as planned...at all, in any way.
We left our house at 8:15 much to Jayme's dismay because he had wanted to leave at 8. We were meeting a friend of his on the highway, in order to convoy to Chattanooga where there was a Volkswagen show that they were attending. We got gas, and got going. We headed to the predetermined spot on the highway where we were to wait for them to drive past and then follow them to TN. We waited for them for about ten or fifteen minutes. It was fine, not a bad wait, other than my brain convincing me that being pulled over on the side of a highway, with my precious children singing songs in the back seat, is perhaps the deadliest place in the world to be. "Good thing we didn't leave the house on time", I lovingly pointed out to Jayme. "Otherwise we would have had to wait with a bulls-eye on our car for a half hour". Sometimes, I am fun to be married to, and sometimes I am just...not. Anyway, they passed us and we pulled out behind their car, ready to get to the business of the trip.
About ten minutes later we got a call from the car in front of us that they had to pull over. They were towing a car to the VW show, and needed to adjust something on the car. We pulled over again, in the deadliest place on earth, and after five minutes or so, started driving again. Just as we took off to merge back into traffic Taryn started making a choking sound, and when I looked back, she was covered in throw up. Gross! If you know me at all, I do not do throw up. Her mommy (I like to refer to myself in the third person when I do stupid things) had given her a bowl of dried cranberries to eat, and she had eaten about 50 craisins in about 2 minutes. She had started to choke on some, and voila...threw them up. We called the car in front of us to tell them to pull over so we could handle the "situation".
We got Taryn cleaned up and settled down, but the stop at the rest area took almost an hour. She was hysterical. This was only the second time in her life that she had thrown up, and she was afraid to throw up again. She just wanted to go home. In fact, I believe at this point she had volunteered to walk home. In addition to the getting sick, she had a meltdown in the restrooms because they were automatic flush toilets, and she is terrified of them. I knew there was no way that we were stopping again for a bathroom break, we were already WAY behind schedule, so she had no choice. The people outside of the bathroom probably thought I was being abusive, but I assure you I was not. Taryn had her hands over her ears (although it was completely silent in the bathroom) and she was screaming, "Get me out of here! Just let me GOOOO." I did not let her go. Eventually, she used the bathroom.
It was now almost 10:00, and we were only about thirty minutes from home. I was stressing out. We got to driving, and finally got some good miles under our tires when we got a call from the car in front of us, "after we cross into Georgia, do you want to stop for lunch?" I informed them that would be great, we just needed a place with grilled cheese, or chicken nuggets and other than that could stop anywhere. The restaurant of choice, Cracker Barrel. So, I was freaking out in my travelers mind. Cracker Barrel? Oh no. Good food, but slow service! "Relax", my brain told me. "Enjoy the day. Stop watching the clock. You have kids, and they would probably like to get out of the car for a while. You are on a relaxing trip, no one is keeping time. It's not a race." I responded that plan sounded fine, and we went to Cracker Barrel.
The kids were excited to get pancakes for lunch, but Taryn was still afraid to throw up if she ate again, so she only nibbled at hers. Her desire to eat was further diminished by the fact that Cracker Barrel gives real Maple Syrup for pancakes, and Taryn (like her mother) despises real Maple Syrup. We only like pancake syrup in my house. We asked for sugar free syrup, which tastes like aunt Jemima, and she ate a few bites, but still almost nothing. (Oh well, can't live in the Cracker Barrel waiting for Taryn to be brave enough to eat delicious pancakes!)
Back on the road, and thirty minutes into the drive Taryn announced that she had to go potty. I reminded her that she just went, but she apparently had to go Number 2. (Of course she did). We told her we were looking for a place and would stop as soon as possible. We were able to play out that scene for about thirty minutes before she couldn't hold it, so we called up to the front car, and pulled over. Guess what kind of toilets were at the rest area? That's right!! Automatic toilets. Taryn had a panic attack...again. She refused to go...I made her try, she did a drip of pee pee and we were back in the car again. Shortly, we had to make a routine stop for gas and I took Taryn in to the grossest bathroom that has ever failed to be maintained. It was the kind where you get the key inside and walk around back to use it. I opened the door and wanted to run away screaming in terror, but not Taryn. Her eyes lit up! "Mommy!!!! It doesn't flush on it's own!!!" (OK, so apparently I am going to enter this filth hole. No problem Taryn,let me just use every Wet Wipe in my purse to clean the general toilet area and then you can have at it). She went (all numbers), and we got back to driving.
At this point we were basically to Atlanta. We had already been on the road for ten hours, and I just couldn't get it out of my head that we should ALREADY be there! Just as we got into the heart of Atlanta the sky opened up and the rain started falling in sheets. We could barely see. It was 6 pm on a Friday and traffic was bad. There were minutes where I don't think I took a breath. (As if the passenger of the car holding her breath helps the ride be more safe?) I couldn't help it. I think the kids were being good, but truly, I don't remember. I just remember the fear.
The rest of the two hours went smoothly. We persevered through the torrents of rain, dropped Jayme off at his hotel, about thirty minutes from my sister's house, and then the kids and I kept going until we reached Cleveland! I called Chrissy when we were almost there and she met me off the exit. In the rain, and having been too long since our last visit, I knew full well the possibility of my getting lost. I still get lost in my own home town, sadly. I followed her to the house, and have never been so happy to be done with a drive. I checked my watch. 8:30. It just took us twelve hours to make a 8 and a half hour trip, Aaaaaaggghhhhh!!! Substandard!!! Had I known before we left that we would have been substandard and traumatized travelers, then I may have chosen to stay home.
Three days later though, when I was leaving my sister's house to go pick Jayme up from the hotel, all I could think was that it was totally worth it. Gas: $200 Driving time: 12 long hours, frustrations: plentiful, three days with my sister: PRICELESS!!!!
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