I Am A Queen!

One of our family jokes is that I am the queen. Not in a froo-froo princessy way, but more in a royal-feel-free-to-serve-me way.

Lately, though, I have been thinking they may not realize it's actually a joke. It seems every time I turn around my boys are doing nice and kind things for me. Of course they have always done nice and kind things for me, but I really think it's happening more and more.

For instance, tonight Boy 2 asked me to write down instructions for how to make spaghetti. When I asked him why, he said he wanted to make dinner so I could have the night off.

Both the boys and Mark show their love for me in myriad ways, and I wonder if I do half as good a job showing my love for them. Too often I walk into a room and see a mess instead of a family. I assign a chore and see what wasn't up to par instead of what was.

I fear I am in the same predicament with my love for God, Creator of the Universe. Despite His constant signs of love for me, I am far more apt to see things that aren't just the way I want them.

I'd like to improve my eyesight and begin to see things as they are meant to be seen.

More than Just a Name

My 40th has come and gone, and what a blast it was! I've been asked if I will continue to blog. I might, but if I do, I need a new title for my blog. 

I like to have edgy titles for things I write or teach. Titles can capture the imagination of a potential reader/listener. Good titles hint at something unexpected lying just below the surface of the title. Good titles reflect accurately the content of the piece while making room for a creatively fresh look at the subject matter. 

I don't really blog about a specific topic. Many of my posts are anecdotal tellings of everyday life. One day I might write a humorous blog, another day might find me tackling a serious issue. Often my tellings reveal something about God.

So what do I call this eclectic blog? What title will best reflect its content in an edgy and nuanced way? 

I don't know. 

Woot! Woot!

Well, here it is. My birthday. I'm finally 40. Woot! Woot!

To celebrate I asked my family if we could do a whole lot of nothing today. No studying. No housework. No cooking. No fuss. Just me hanging out with the three most beloved individuals in my life. Lovely.

Of course there were gifts. From Boy 1 a full-on, top-down housecleaning. A very clever card in which in which he gave me a lesson in birthday math (39 + 365 = 40) announced his gift for me. This is a huge gift considering how we all disdain housework. A true labor of love: doing something he abhors for someone he adores.

Boy 2 wrote me a letter and attached a large black bow. The letter informed me that his gift will be all the vegetables he will grow in the raised garden bed he built last weekend. Another labor of love: doing something he loves for someone he loves.

Finally, Mark presented me with a scrapbook of sorts. One which proclaimed that I ought to get out of town. To that end, the pages took me on a tour of an overnight trip for two to Chicago...one which my groom will be whisking me off on in the very near future!

All three gifts were a perfect reflection of what my family knows I love and appreciate. I love gifts that are homemade, given from the heart and hard work of those who love me. I love gifts that include time to spend with those I love. And I LOVE the cities of this world!!

Now that I'm 40 I don't feel any different. No, I feel just as love and blessed beyond measure as I did yesterday and the day before and the day before....

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I Love Ya...

Tomorrow is the big day, the mother of all birthdays, the culmination of this blog:

My 40th Birthday!!

You may recall that I started this blog in an effort not to let my big birthday be stolen from me. Being several years younger than most of the people I spend most of my time with, milestone after milestone comes long after they have come for my "older" friends. Consequently, by the time I get to the milestone, everyone else has so moved on.

In an effort to preserve the sanctity of my 40th birthday, I have celebrated the joys and shared the woes of my 39th year of life through this blog. And I have had a blast doing it!

Of course, I realize that this is just one more birthday. There will be no bells tolling for me tomorrow, I won't suddenly have life figured out and know exactly what God intends for me. In fact, I cannot expect to become anything more than one day older.

But oh the difference a day can make!! I love you, tomorrow!!

The Inside-Out Boy

A little more than 10 years ago Boy 2 entered this world with a gusto that flows far more than it ebbs. At the age of 3, when asked who he was, he stood upon the chair he was in, raised his hands to the sky and proclaimed, "I am KING of the universe!!" Of course, his dad and I have helped him better understand his place in the universe, but his great passion for living has not diminished.

More than just wearing his heart on his sleeve, Boy 2 shows all his emotion everywhere on the outside of himself. Indeed, I have taken to calling him the Inside-Out Boy. I never have to guess what Boy 2 is thinking or feeling, When he is sad, you see it on his face and in the downward droop of his entire body. When his is excited, step back and get out of the way!

Not only are Boy 2's reactions to the world obvious, they are always full of dramatic expression. He is never bored, he is at great loss for any iota of entertainment! Sleepy? No, "utterly exhausted." Happy is not a big enough word for Boy 2; he requires something more along the lines of "excruciatingly joyful." And if you ever have the blessing of watching that child eat ribs you will be treated to a full-on experience of palette pleasure.

Of course, this trait comes with its challenges. When Boy 2's feelings are hurt, his outward mourning is apparent to all and becomes for some invitation to hurt more. He's had to learn a time or two what kids will do if you let them know how successfully they got to you.

But far more than challenges, Boy 2's enthusiasm and gusto bring great joy. Simply watching and listening to him experience life is enough to give hint to the joy of the Father when His children enter full-on into living life.

So to say that I am thankful for Boy 2 would be to insult his Inside-Outness. Instead, I must insist that on this, the 8th day before the grand occasion of my 40th birthday, I am filled with such a rush of momentously loving emotion that I can hardly keep my feet on the ground!

The Chin-Strummer

For 14 of my nearly 40 years I have been blessed by my firstborn, Boy 1. From the very beginning Boy 1 has made his unique personality known: in utero snapshots often showed him strumming his chin as if deep in thought. A teacher once likened him to still waters that run deep and time outs never worked for he would simply sit in a corner and ponder.

A tender and compassionate heart pairs itself in Boy 1 with a strong desire to benefit the Kingdom of God on earth. A few years ago Boy 1 bought a bunch of stickers and began giving them out to younger kids he came across in the hallways of our church building. Another time he gave his entire savings (about $50 at the time) to buy school textbooks for some children who could not buy their own. Many small and hidden acts of loving service have always been a part of Boy 1's quiet stroll through this world.

In the midst of Boy 1's serious outlook on life runs a marvelous sense of humor and a love for the silly and absurd. And the love he holds for his brother, though appropriately well-masked by sarcasm and acts of aggravation, shows the depth of his heart.

Boy 1 grows evermore fascinating with each passing day. I am blessed beyond measure to be mom to this chin-strumming, seriously sarcastic and silly, loving deep thinker. 

He Has a Great Vocabulary!

Anytime I think about what I am grateful for, my first thoughts fly to my boys. One of those boys is my husband of 18.5 years.

I first met Mark 20 years ago this December. I was in my junior year in college, and he was a high school teacher. A mutual friend, David, convinced me to attend the book review Mark was giving at my college's library. I did not expect much from this book review, but I went to satisfy my friends.

I arrived a few minutes late and the review was already under way. Glad I would be able to slip in and out unnoticed, I found a spot with some friends. What happened over the next 30 minutes or so surprised no one more than me.

I noticed how cute Mark was right off, but as I listened I began to see a number of admirable qualities in this man I would have completely blown off if my friends had let me. Rather than slipping out unnoticed I became  determined to meet him.

When I got home later that night, my roommates asked me what I thought of this Mark Parker guy. "He's cute, has a great vocabulary, and is quite witty," I told them.

Twenty years later Mark ranks at the top of my list of blessings.

My Birthday Gift to Me

I've said for many years that I love having my birthday fall on Thanksgiving Day. Knowing the whole nation is giving thanks on my birthday makes the day even sweeter. I know that 99.9% of the people celebrating Thanksgiving are not giving thanks for me specifically, but it's still nice. So having my birthday of all birthdays fall on Thanksgiving seems appropriate.

Therefore, I dedicate the rest of my 40minus365 blog to the convergence of these two magnificent days by giving thanks for things that bless me tremendously.

Today, I would like to take a moment to give thanks for naps. I love naps. I adore them! If I were not already married, I would marry a nap.

Naps are so great I even dressed up as one for Halloween.

Naps are also quite useful. Think of all the times we hear the phrase, "Boy could I use a nap right now."

Naps are a luxury most of the world does not enjoy on a regular basis. I, however, have an opportunity to nap at least twice most days. I can generally get a nap in during at least one of Wee 1's naps and during the 4 o'clock hour when carpool is done and everyone is home.

That's not to say that I take naps twice a day...that would be gratuitous. I really don't even take one every day. But just knowing I could take a nap if I needed to makes me very happy.

For my birthday this year I am going to give myself a nap.

A Good Tired

I spent the weekend at the World Mission Workshop with 100+ mission-minded college students and the missionaries who were there to teach and mold the young students. There are few things more exhausting than college students interested in missions. One group that is more exhausting, though, are adults who are, were, or were raised as missionaries.

Mark and I spent a total of 5 years in Croatia in the early 1990s. Our oldest son, Boy 1, was born in the capital, Zagreb. We continue to cherish the connections we made with people and places in the country in which our marriage came of age.

14 years after returning to the States we are fully engaged in life here and find ourselves able to return to Croatia less and less often. Yet when we come across others who have experienced overseas missions, regardless of in which quadrant of the globe, we enjoy a unique connection like no other. It's not necessarily a better connection that the ones we share with our friends and family here; yet it is unique.

There are unspoken understandings among missionaries: understandings of how big and small the world is, of the brilliance of little children in other countries who so fluently speak their own foreign language, of the colorfulness of currency. With missionaries, common boundaries fade away. Differences in age, stage in life, and socio-economic status pale as we share a common bond of wanderlust and marvel at the inclusive nature of the Kingdom.

The energy that is generated by missionaries, passionate for the peoples they have come to love, as well as  for whatever ministry God has called them to in the present, is truly exhilarating. The only thing that brings that energy to an even greater pitch is the opportunity to light another heart on fire for God's mission in the world.

So after a weekend in the midst of all of that energy I am tired...but in a very good way.

Hooray!

Nearly a year ago, I began this blog as a light-hearted look at the year between my 39th and 40th birthdays. The year has taken some highly unexpected twists and turns, not all of which have been lighthearted; yet I remain committed to loving the experience of turning 40. 

To that end I have searched high and lo for a button announcing my new decade. I envisioned a black button with white lettering announcing that I'm as old as dirt. Once found, I would take that button an bedazzle it in a way that would make clear my boisterous celebration of finally reaching this long-coveted birthday.

On Wednesday of last week my search ended in a most unexpected and beyond imagination way! Lisa Jo, an amazingly gifted and crafty-in-oh-so-many-ways friend brought me a pendant which boldly proclaims: "Hooray! I'm finally 40!"

Thank you, LJ, for such a generous and perfect-in-every-way gift!

40 Minus 50

I will be 40 years old next month. Only 50 days away, the anniversary of my birth approaches steadily, and I still have not found my button proclaiming "Finally I'm 40!"

As I prepare myself to ring in a new decade, I realize this year's birthday is special for another reason: it is the same day as Thanksgiving! I love it when those two days overlap; it brings joy to know that the entire nation is giving thanks on my birthday.

I know, I know...they are not ALL giving thanks for me, but it does add a bit more joy to my much anticipated day!

The Drama of Parenthood

I watched an episode of the new drama Parenthood last night. I thought it would be an enjoyable, if vicarious, commiseration over the profound and absurd of parenting.

Parenthood portrays the family lives of the various siblings of the Bravermans. As I watched, I laughed with the mom whose teen daughter communicates primarily through superbly refined eye-rolling, I empathized with the father who wants to be noticed by his young autistic son, and I got irritated with the grandparents playing Wii with the grandkids when there is still homework to be done.

But in the end I also found myself dismayed. Throughout the episode the mom of the teen daughter struggled to be "cool" in her daughter's eyes. Of course, the daughter wants nothing to do with her own mom and spends most of her time at her BFF's house. On a rare occasion of finding her daughter and the BFF at her house, our Parenthood mom convinces her daughter to let her take the two girls to a concert. On the eve of the concert, our desperate-to-be-cool mom assures the mom of her daughter's BFF that she will be with the girls during the entire concert and make sure they are safe and responsible.

In response, the other mom waves her hand as if to blow off any concern and says something like, "Oh sure, whatever."

Suddenly it becomes clear to the discerning viewer why the teen daughter prefers the BFF's house to her own: lack of supervision. And the befuddled look on our mom's face indicates she now gets it too. And the mom is faced with deciding whether being "cool" is worth the sacrifice of properly supervising her daughter.

We all want to be the cool parents and to have the cool home where the kids congregate. But does this desire to be cool really require giving up supervisory rights? I would suggest (as would tons of good research and the experience of countless parents who have gone before us) that the opposite is true: Truly "cool" parents have fun with their kids and retain their parental authority.

But creating a place where teens can congregate and have fun while being properly supervised is a LOT of work. So, Mark and I have spent years getting to know the boys' friends and their parents and have, as a result, a network of "cool" homes where we know the kids are getting all the right supervision while still having fun.

Being one of the cool families requires sacrifice. It costs time, effort, space, and food...lots of food. It means we cannot go out when the boys are at our house with friends; it means we have to carve money out of  our food budget for feeding teens; it means going to pick up other kids and bringing them back to our house.

But there is one sacrifice no one in our network makes. None of us have traded being responsible parents for being "cool" parents. Indeed, we have all found ways to weave responsible supervision into our "cool" parenting.

And believe it or not, the kids do not shun any of us. Of course they roll their eyes at us, but they are also happy to hang out in our homes eating our junk food. And they talk with us and laugh with (read: at) us.

And none of the parents have to deal with the conundrum our Parenthood mom had to deal with, because the kids know they are going to get the same supervision no matter where they go.

"Are You Sober?"

The scene: 

Boy 1, age 14, sits at the desk working studiously on his Latin II assignment. Father sits on a nearby  couch reading. Boy 2, age 10, enters the room from kitchen and approaches Boy 1.

Boy 2: (with completely deadpan demeanor) Are you sober?

Father: Why would you ask him that? Of course he is sober!

Boy 2: Seems appropriate for me to know if my teenage brother is sober. 

Father: Well that was completely random.

Boy 2: Yep. (exits room)

Boy 1 silently returns to his Latin textbook. 

Life with teenagers amuses me.

The Coach Who Yelled at My Baby

Boy 2's soccer season started this week with practice and the first game. The volunteer coach clearly has his work cut out for him. With his recreational team of 9-13 year olds, Coach B is tasked with challenging the older, experienced players while teaching the younger ones in a way that integrates the fledglings into a cohesive team.

Growing up I did not play sports.  My 2nd grade foray into track and cross-country ended with the coach suggesting to my parents that perhaps I was rather small for running fast. I have since learned that some of the fastest people are some of the smallest, but that is another blog post. 

So when I first watched Coach B holler at my baby, my mother bird feathers were rather ruffled. I wanted to chirp loudly: This is a recreational team, Coach! The kids are here to have fun, not get yelled at!

But as I watched and listened, I saw what Coach B was really doing. He was not yelling at the kids, he was yelling to them. He was not disheartening them, he was setting a high standard and expecting them to reach it. Refusing to allow the older kids to slack off in the presence of the younger, he came alongside the younger children with teaching and encouragement. 

You can guess the result: a very diverse group of kids became a soccer team. With grins on their faces as they closed out the practice with a sprinting race against Coach B (who happens to stand over 6 feet tall with the long litheness of a runner), they finished strong and happy. 

Of course, looking back this all makes complete sense. Children and adults alike rise to high and attainable standards. Expectations coupled with discipline and teaching bring the best out of us.

On the way home from practice Boy 2 could not stop talking about Coach B. Thrilled with the challenge he was facing on the field, he explained that when Coach B wins the sprint, Coach will add 30 seconds to the next week's sprint. Boy 2, his 4'4" frame holding the heart of a giant, proclaimed, "I will beat Coach B before the end of the season."

Today I bought myself a Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte

Today I spent 15 minutes looking for the keys I needed to drive Boy 2 to school. Keys I always put in the same place, because I know I won't remember where I put them if I don't.

Today I went to work, to physical therapy, then back to work.

Today I generated paychecks for employees and set them on my desk to hand to my receptionist. They were still on my desk when she left at noon.

Today I went to a doctor's appointment to get a prescription filled which I did not need because said doctor had already written the prescription at my last appointment. My pharmacy has it on file and is filling it now.

Today I left my doctor's office three times: Once to make sure I had locked my car. Once when my appointment was over. And once after going back to my exam room to get my purse.

Today is only half over.

So today I bought myself a Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte.

Matilda

Alas! Has it been a month since my last writing? Why yes, yes it has. Just one more thing to blame Matilda for.

Who, you ask, is Matilda? Is she a house guest, who despite the fact that both fish and guests smell bad after three days, stayed a whole month? Is she a new addition to your brood of Boy 1, Boy 2, and Wee 1? Is she an imaginary friend?

Well, no, she is none of those (though there are times when I must re-convince myself that she is indeed NOT imaginary).Matilda is the name our family has given to whatever this/these illness/illnesses is/are that plague me.

I decided to name the havoc being wreaked in my body until such time as a doctor can give it a proper name. To say, "I'm sure having a Matilda day today!" is much easier than, "Whatever this is I've got...or had...or might have...or, oh you know what I mean...is really bothering me today."

And on days when my brain battles fiercely to get my mouth to say the words it has found and to find the words it's lost, proclaiming, "Stupid Matilda!" is not only easier but also somewhat gratifying.

For Her Eyes Only

For years I have held out hope for the early menopause my mother and grandmother both enjoyed...42 and 38 respectively. Being right in between those ages, I hope to average out the age at which our family's women go through "The Change." Consequently, about 3 years ago I stopped buying the Costco box that would last a whole year. I didn't want to get stuck with a bunch of pads when my time finally came.

As I near 40, I have more and more reason (read: unrealistic hope) to buy month to month. Consequently, I have been privy to the changes in the feminine hygiene industry and have learned much from my frequent perusals of Target's "Feminine Needs" aisle.

For instance, there must be at least 100 permutations of wings. They can be long or short. The peel off part can be one piece or two, or even part of the stuff that peels off the back (I'm not sure how they accomplish that one). Wings come alone or with "Cottony Soft Side Barriers" for full length side protection.

I've also learned good absorption depends upon myriad factors: Whether one has heavy or light flow and is wearing the product at night or in the daytime. The type of quilting, a variety of oval shapes, and the nature and number of the micro-thin layers of padding.

Fortunately for all of us, the complexity of the absorption problem has been solved by at least one feminine protection manufacturer in the form of a sort of all-purpose box containing pads of every length and level of absorption, making it possible for us to go from heavy to light days with just one box!

Finally, there is the bit of fabric that keeps a woman feeling fresh and clean all day long.

During a recent sprint into Target (after discovering that I had not yet been blessed as my ancestors had), I found something completely new to me:

Fashion Feminine Hygiene

I have never had qualms carrying a box of pads for my monthly through the store and then out of the store without a bag. In fact, I would be one of those women in commercials who plop down a box of kotex and look the male cashier in the eye while paying, if only those commercials existed.

But last night when I found the Fashion Feminine Hygiene, I walked taller and prouder than ever before!

Sleek with its black matte coloring and hip color accents, the box was decades away from Kotex blue and Playtex pink. But the real joy came when I got home and opened the box...every pad was wrapped in a different hip color that did not carry the shame of the peach, yellow and light green I'd become accustomed to carrying in my purse.

Maternity clothing may have joined the ranks of the hip and cool after my time, but I am glad to have had a chance to participate in the coming of age of feminine hygiene.

That said, bring on the change!!

My Thumb...It Burns Me, Or, Why I Like My New Yoga Class

Several weeks ago I found a yoga class that suits me perfectly. A good mix of the lithe and lumbering, I fit somewhere in the middle of the participants. The instructor is a perky, young, aspiring physical therapist who kindly teaches us how to make slight adjustments to our poses which facilitate a deeper stretch or make the pose significantly easier to hold.

The class meets at midday on Saturdays; not too early, not too late. The facility has a whirlpool I can sit in before class. Most days I finish feeling incredibly loose, relaxed, and generally wishing I could stay on my yoga mat and sleep for a few hours.

I have done yoga in fits and starts in the past, but it never resulted in a strenuous workout that did not require that I push myself harder than my body is ready to go. This class, however, is different. My own PT insists that I do nothing that pushes my body beyond a comfortable workout. Slowly Dr. Jim has taught me if I let my body go where it is ready to go in yoga, it will naturally get there faster than if I try to push it. My perky young yoga instructor agrees and often suggests one of her students pull back a bit and let the body find its pose.

So as I balance on various parts of my body upon which I would previously have sworn it was impossible to balance, the sweat running in large drops down (or up, as the case may be) my face attests to the strenuousness of the workout.

Not only have I begun regaining the strength I lost during the 6+ months of sitting on the bench while my body decided it was time for everything to hurt all at once, I have also come to love yoga...most of the time.

There will always be times when I stick out like a sore thumb because FMS pain forces me to modify and/or not do certain poses, even ones I perfected the previous week. But frankly I do not care because sometimes my own thumb felt like it is on fire (nerve pain can make you feel some funky things).

So I think I will stick with this yoga class, its perky instructor, and whirlpool prelude. And when my thumb burns me or various other funky feelings come upon me, I will simply modify as necessary and choose not to care.

Nunnymolers in the New Kitchen

For the better part of three weeks our entire family worked hard and lived in a bit of chaos as our kitchen was renovated. Since then we have been pondering what would serve as an appropriate celebratory meal in our new kitchen. Tonight Boy 2 got tired of pondering and did something about it: he planned, purchased, and prepared a three-course gourmet meal from the land of Redwall.

Redwall exists only in the minds of author Brian Jacques and his innumerable readers. In this land the mice and other small animals of field and forest often sup at a banquet table laden with delectables such as the Nunnymolers we feasted upon tonight, along with Shrimp and Hotroot Soup, Golden Hill Pears, and October (Ginger) Ale.

Boy 2 read most of the books written by Mr. Jacques (I think he has counted 32) over the past year. Every time he entered his school's library, the librarian chatted with him over the new volumes she had recently added to their collection in anticipation of his readiness for the next one.

As he read, I had the pleasure of hearing his laughter, exclamations, and empathy for the land of Redwall and its residents. More than a few times I heard Boy 2 exclaim, "Oh, that sounds so GOOOOOD!" as he read of their many feasts.

Perusing Mr. Jacques's website one day months ago, we discovered he had written a cookbook with many of the scrumptious recipes his Redwall folk enjoyed. Thankful for his hard work for our new kitchen and knowing his love for cooking, I presented him with his very own copy of The Redwall Cookbook.

Immediately, Boy 2 read the cookbook straight through and planned his first meal; the meal we all enjoyed tonight.

Although he insisted upon cooking the feast with only the help of his sous chef (Boy 1), Boy 2 did allow me to transport him to the grocery store for his purchases and sought my advice at certain points in the preparation.

Boy 2's efforts resulted not only in an unmatched culinary experience and grand celebration of our new kitchen, but a warmth of spirit as we all anticipated and enjoyed his meal. The satisfaction his father and I witnessed on Boy 2's face as we enjoyed his creations was priceless.

But the moment that topped it all for me was the moment Boy 2 looked at me and exclaimed, "I am so tired and my feet hurt! I cannot believe you do this every night!"

Hope Hasn't Killed Me Yet

I'm not very good at not getting my hopes up. I like to think that things will work out in just the right way that will result in the best for everyone involved. Sure, I've been more than disappointed on an number of occasions, but until the disappointment I got to enjoy the pleasure to anticipating in hope.

When we first learned about my fibromyalgia, I was tremendously hopeful that this would lead quickly to ways of feeling better. Sadly, it hasn't. But the way I see it is those hope-filled days didn't kill me and I am suffering no more now than I would have had I not felt hopeful. (But it's still early in the symptom management process, so there is still hope for feeling better!)

Often folks look at me crosswise when I talk about my hopeful plans, especially the ones about having greate teen-aged boys and eventually daughters-in-law who adore me. Even those who don't say it with words certainly express with their expressions the standard you-can-hope-all-you-want-but-you-can't-control-who-those-boys-marry response.

But I don't sit around hoping and not doing anything to influence things to turn out well. I have got to be one of the most compliant patients most doctors have ever seen. And I've been working for years on influencing the love of my future daughters-in-law. I have taught my boys to clean, do laundry, cook, bake, and generally be independent. I have instructed them in respect and the proper ways to treat a girl. And I have said more than once, and only partially tongue-in-cheek, that I know they would not marry anyone who could not love me...it's simply not in their natures.

Of course I know there are no guarantees in life. The best raised children sometimes grow up into complete messes and those who seemed to have no chance manage quite well. But why should I expect the worst when I can hope for the best?

So when I get that crosswise look, I just smile and say, "Hope hasn't killed me yet."

Retro Cool

On a recent trip to Target to purchase a birthday gift for Wee 1, a small, metal tea set caught my eye. It was just like the one I had 35+ years ago. Painted white with red and blue flowers, that tea set was a favorite toy. My mother once made me coffee (lots of milk and sugar and an itsy bitsy bit of coffee) in one of the cups. Of course, I hated the coffee, but I loved that tea set.

Looking a bit further down the aisle, I saw a clock and a phone and a set of blocks that also looked just like the ones I had when I was little. Noticing a pattern, I inspected the toys closely and realized they were the Fisher Price toys we all had repackaged in retro boxes and priced more as collectors' items than kids' toys.

The first time I realized my life had become retro was a few years ago when a Christmas commercial featured the tree lights we always hung on our yule branches. When the mother plugs the lights in, the father and son ask, "What's that?"

Claiming that the 70s and 80s are cool now because we were so cool back then, I have coined the term Retro Cool. Sadly, every time I try to explain this, all I get are blank stares from teens wearing Hello Kitty t-shirts.

So instead of trying to convince young people that we had remote controls and indoor plumbing when I was a kid, I will just quietly wait for penny loafers and pegged pants to become Retro Cool.

Marinated Posters

One of my favorite movies is "Joe vs. the Volcano." Joe lives a bleak existence as a former-firefighting hyperchondriacal advertising library assistant in a rectal probe factory. Pasty under the gray lights, Joe spends all his time and money trying to discover what's wrong with him. Finally he finds a doctor who tells him what he has always known: Joe is dying. In a twist Joe discovers that he is not dying from anything related to the systemic symptoms he suffers. Indeed, the doctor tells him he is a hypochondriac. Rather, Joe has a "brain cloud" that will kill him in a matter of months.

I, too, have a brain cloud. Called brain fog by the medical community, Fibromyalgia Syndrom causes memory, recall, and other cognitive difficulties. For years I have had difficulties recalling the precise word I want to use. I can create convoluted explanations for the one word I seek, but I cannot get my brain and mouth together on the word. All of my friends have watched me staring at them trying to find their names only to end up having to point and say, "You."

Often such experiences are tremendously amusing. Like when I tried to tell our children's minister that I had taken down all the laminated VBS posters. The only word I could say was "marinated." Of course, I knew the posters were not marinated. My poor friend was at a loss trying to guess what on earth I was trying to say.

Another recent event took place on my 18th wedding anniversary. Having gone to a lovely restaurant to celebrate, I foolishly closed my menu before ordering. (Keeping my menu open is a little trick I use to avoid displaying my cognitive inabilities to every restaurant server in the universe.) In the process of ordering I needed to say "New York Strip" four different times. Not once could I do it. Fortunately, I have a loving husband who, each time I turned to him, would supply the necessary words.

Boys 1 & 2 are used to hearing me telling them to do things like put their laundry in the dishwasher or go comb their teeth. Most times they simply go and do what they know I meant to say.

Certainly everyone does this kind of thing from time to time. But anyone with a syndrome that causes similar cognitive symptoms knows that few can come up with some of the crazy things we say.

My "brain cloud" will not kill me, though it may slay many with laughter. And like Joe, I choose to live life as a grand adventure rather than give into the adverse effects of this "dark cloud of tissue running through the center of my brain."

So when you hear me call you, "You," know that I love you and your name, I just cannot recall it in the moment. And if I try to tell you about marinated posters, laugh with me until we find the right word.

I Love What You've Done With My Kitchen!

Three and a half years ago we bought the house of our dreams. Five bedrooms, three baths, living room, dining room, den. Hardwood throughout with brick exterior and large backyard. And a MAJOR fixer-upper.

We bought the house "as is" and got an amazing deal on it. In addition to needing cosmetic work throughout, the banister for the stairs was missing, the hot water heater near the end of its life, and our homeowner's insurance told us we had to replace the roof within the first month of occupation in order to keep our coverage.

Various parts of our home have been named for the folks who have helped us renovate over the years. It all started when we named Bonner Hall (the entryway) after the dear friend who helped us find the house. CrossWalk Way honors the two men from our Bible class who built a new banister and fixed some of the steps. The Craddock Parlor (living room) and Lawson Suites (upstairs bedrooms) were painted by great friends. All the wiring is affectionately known as Chris's Clever Electrical Fixes (much of the wiring had been poorly rigged by the former owner), and the Parker Palace is the game room created upstairs when Mark and the boys took out some walls to make room for our growing boys and their friends to hang out.

Now begins the final phase of the renovations: the kitchen. Note the faux brick linoleum (which is peeling up in a couple of places and tripping people, especially me) and sad ceiling fan. The hand-crafted solid wood cabinets look lovely, but the craftsman was past his prime when he did these and many of the doors are not square, leaving gaps between them and the cabinets causing the doors to swing open when the fan is on.

As I sit in the Craddock Parlor, workers are scraping off the 3 layers of wallpaper that, by the looks of them, date back to 1969 when the house was built. Each layer was painted a new color before the next wallpaper went up. The final layer had two coats of paint: the peachy taupe color it was when we bought it and the lovely pale yellow we slapped on over it to tide us over until we could finally redo the kitchen.

When I looked at the kitchen in the midst of the demolition work, I said to our trusty craftsmen, "I love what you've done with the kitchen," I don't think they knew how much I really meant it!

One Stubborn Chick

I am one stubborn chick. I've gotten myself in some mighty pickles over the years, but other times my refusal to give in or give up has saved me much grief. My insistence that I can do anything has pushed me to keep going when I'd really rather have spent a week in bed.

About 17 years ago I had a brief conversation with a woman whose 20 year-old daughter had just been diagnosed with a widespread pain disorder very few had heard of. As I listened to the mom tell me what the girl suffered, I thought to myself that I experienced many of those same problems. But being a missionary on furlough who was heading back to Croatia in a matter of days, I blew it off as just a bit of hypochondria. 

Nearly two decades later I find myself with the very same diagnosis: fibromyalgia.  As I look back on 17+ years of an undiagnosed pain disorder I'm pretty sure that being a stubborn chick has been a true blessing (though for others it my stubbornness may have been more of a curse!). 

Sure there have been days when I stayed in bed, but thinking that most of what I experienced was a normal experience of life motivated me to push through most of those days the way those around me seemed to be doing. (Yes, I know it's stupid to think that everyone regularly has times when everything aches and they are tired out of their minds, but I assure you that's not the stupidest thing I've ever thought!)

So now that I have discovered that I actually have a disorder for which there are well established ways to manage the pain and fatigue, I'm feeling a great deal of relief and excitement. The possibility of feeling good looms larger than life before me. 

And to those who would say, "Christine, you are one stubborn chick," I reply, "Yes, and stubbornness pays of...sometimes." 

Boy 2 and the Kanigets of the Round Table

The Parker Family loves quotable movies. Movies are most quotable when there are plenty of one-liners, said one-liners can be used in the normal flow of conversation, there is a great accent to emulate, or the movie is known by those around us just enough to get a good laugh from someone without it being cliche. 

"Joe vs. the Volcano" is one of our family favorites in this quotable movie genre. It's not unusual to hear one of us say, "I'm not arguing that with you," or, "I have no response to that," in the midst of conversation. 

Just last week we all watched "Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail." Now Boy 2 fancies himself a member of the Kanigets of the Round Table and has finely tuned his goofy medieval accent. He finds a way to say, "It's not a matter of how it grips it..." in every conversation and will happily quote some of the taunts of the French knights for you.


So if you ever see Boy 2 "galloping" around and singing, "When danger reared its ugly head, he gladly turned his tail and fled," know that you are witnessing the scene with Sir Robin's minstrels and enjoying the fruits of Boy 2's amazing ability to memorize movie lines and copy accents.


As I like to say, we all have our gifts!

End Times

I realized when I was pregnant for the first time that there are many things in life people will inevitably tell you a bzillion times which you can cognitively know to be true, but which you will not really "get" until much later.

Things like, "You think you are tired now..." or, "Just wait, you have now idea just how hard it is until the baby is born," and so on. True statements, but ones which only experience make comprehensible.

Fourteen plus years since that first go-round with growing a baby and I am just now "getting" one of the world's favorite adages for new parents: "They grow so fast; he's a baby now, but tomorrow he'll be asking for the car keys, and the next day he'll be gone."

Well, Boy 1 has another year before he can have the car keys at all, but the experiences of the past few weeks have been, for me, the experiences by which I have learned just exactly what "they grow so fast" really means.

Finishing 8th grade has been the first real experience of end times; of witnessing the end of a major part of my son's life. Of course, kindergarten marked the end of those earliest years, the end of 5th grade was the end of elementary school, but for me those endings were far less monumental. Boy 1 was still a child at the end of all the previous ends.

Not so now. The end times of middle school point to the end of his early years, the end of his education as a child.

My experience of the various markers of these endings (the last middle school concert, the last awards assembly, the final projects) have been a fine combination of sweet nostalgia. I do not long for the olden days or wish he would always stay as he is now.

Rather, I sweetly remember his little pixie face and the many Mother's Day gifts from his elementary school years while celebrating who he is now and eagerly looking forward to watching him grow through his next adventures.

How true it is that they grow so fast. I am glad to say that the truth of this statement has been a source of excitement and joy far more than the sense of impending doom so often misread into before we really have a chance to "get" it.

The Communion of the Lord's Supper

Nearly every Sunday of the past 26 years I have enjoyed the feast of the Lord's Supper. Being a person who thrives on interaction, I am always looking for the communion of the Lord's Supper. That is to say, ways in which to commune with my Christian family through the Lord's Supper.

You can imagine how much I love it when we take communion around tables. Or when we serve one another and are able to look each other in the eye as we share the body and blood of Christ. I call it putting the commune fully into communion.

Yesterday I reveled in a whole new experience of the communion of the Lord's Supper while, for the first time, all three of of the men in my life served the Lord's Supper together.

As I lifted my head after the prayer, I watched as Boy 2 walked past on his way to the front row, plate of unleavened bread in hand. Close behind was Mark coaching him through his first serving of communion. Glancing to the right I noticed Boy 1, with already three years of experience serving, passing the bread at the other end of my set of rows. And so it went with the cup and the offering.

I experienced the communion of the Lord's Supper in a new and deeper way yesterday, and I treasured it all up in my heart.

Promises, Schmomises

When I began this blog on November 26, 2009, I promised it would be a "light-hearted" look at turning 40. I guaranteed it would not be full of complaints of creaking joints, menopausal menaces, or otherwise irritating medical TMI.

A glance through my archives remind of the first man-shirt I bought for Boy 1, the blizzard we barely survived earlier this year, and the realization that Wee 1 is almost as stubborn as I am. I have laughed a lot and cried a little through the writing of this blog. I have shared the stupid moments and looked at the deep richness of my life, but I have kept my promise.

Today I am breaking my promise.

In March I spent a week in bed with some kind of flu. A few weeks later I spent several hours in the ER with the most excruciating stomach pain ever. Since then I have experienced a level of fatigue rivaling that of any new mom, and various joints and whatnot seem to have begun some kind of mutiny, plaguing me with pain and more fatigue.

As a result, blogging has slowed to a bare minimum. But then, so has everything else.

What I have begun to discover through all of this is just exactly what constitutes the "bare minimum." Last year God taught me to truly focus only on the things that are really important. These months of illness and weariness have led to discover what things are truly non-negotiable.

Here is my list:

• Daily walking in the flow of God's grace.
• Loving and being loved by my husband and sons.
• Touching the lives of others in meaningful ways.

Short, simple, non-negotiable. And when illness, weariness, or other ebbs and flows of life demand a choice, that which does not fit the categories of this list must go.

It almost seems silly that I did not know this before, but I confess I am quite susceptible, to the whims of pride and ambition.

Now, before you go expressing condolences for the myriad things I may have to give up if this physiological mutiny continues, let me stress that a clear knowledge of the non-negotiables is more precious than any achievement I can think of. It is, perhaps, one of the greatest blessings God could have offered to me and my family.

Now that I have fully disclosed medical TMI and thrown my promise to the wind, I plan to get back to the light-hearted look at life I set out to blog about. But be warned, if I have to choose between blogging and having the energy for the nightly family walks Boy 2 recently initiated, blogging will lose every time.

Hacked, Pfished, and Whatnot

I just finished reviewing every privacy setting in my Facebook account. I also deleted a number of applications, changed my password, and reported some spam invites being sent from my account.

It's a strange feeling to have your personal cyber-space invaded; to know that someone managed to get into your account without permission. The damage was fairly innocuous. Some friends got invited to try a miracle weight-loss strategy while others had the option to engage in 5 minutes of life-changing activity. Fortunately my friends know I am too level-headed to fall for too-good-to-be-true offers.

In addition, I recently received three Explanations of Benefits from my insurance company for claims filed on behalf of myself and my two sons for well care visits we did not have with a doctor we did not see. Somehow our HIPAA protected health information was obtained and used to file fraudulent insurance claims.

What I am learning is that such events have become so common that everyone knows what to do when it happens. "Change your password," they are saying. "Call this number to report insurance fraud," I am told.

It saddens me that the present reality assumes everyone will be hacked, pfished, and whatnot. Perhaps it sounds naive, but I yearn for a place where being preyed upon is not normal. I long to live without the need to for constant vigilance. 

I am going [to my Father's house] to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me....

--Jesus, John 14:2b-3

In that place there will be no need for passwords, privacy, or vigilance. Come, Lord Jesus. Come. 

Ruth

I wrote the following on March 3, 2010:

I spent a couple of hours at the hospital tonight with a good friend and her family. Ruth, who taught me everything I know about football, has been chronically and severely ill for as long as I have known her. She is in her 60s and spends most days in extreme pain. Now unable to walk and barely able to stand, Ruth is one of the toughest chicks I know.

I enjoy visiting with Ruth. Her strength and will are inspiring. Her faith unflagging. Her humor hilarious. But I think the best part of visiting with Ruth is knowing that she loves me.

The greatest gift a person can give another is the gift of presence. That is the gift Ruth gives me. She is always thrilled to see me, ever asking about my boys, and never afraid to be herself with me. Her trust in me calls me to be a better person.

I never posted this blog. I am not sure why. Ruth died peacefully with her faithful husband at her side early last Friday morning, so it seems fitting now to post this as a small thank you note to my friend.

I am one of many whom Ruth loved and inspired; some knew her for decades while I knew her only a few years. Part of Ruth's gift was that she had enough room in the space of her love that there was always a place for anyone who would join. Since writing the blog above in March I have realized that this, too, was part of Ruth's gift to me.

The Sacred Space of Dying

Over the past week I have had the honor of sitting by the bedside of a dear friend while she and her family awaited the arrival of her death.

It's an odd thing to say, I know.

In our cluttered lives we do not leave much room for death. Death happens and we deal with it when it does, but we rarely wait for it. Indeed, we often try to deny its approach or take fantastic measures to ward it off.

Yet at times it is clear that death is inevitable.

There is a lovely grace in acknowledging that, gathering around you those whom you love the most to cherish one last time, and then simply waiting together.

Such waiting takes place in very sacred space. Few deeper intimacies exist than the one among those who wait on eternal things. Few greater privileges exist than to enter the sacred space of dying as a trusted and beloved friend.

Real Advice from Real Moms

I spent my morning with a group of young moms at a playground. I remember when I was the young mom with kids to take to the playground during school hours. I'm not old, but I am older, and I don't mind it a bit.

I love these young moms. They are fun and interesting and have beautiful kids who range in age from 3 weeks to 4 years old (with a couple of school-age kids as well). I love these moms because they are real. Everyone was in shorts or capris, no one wasted time on makeup for a trip to the park, and every one of them has retained the edge of intelligence that marks them as adults.

These moms, who hold little ones and walk around with some kind of goop on their shoulders pretty much all the time, were more than happy to let me hold the 3 week old. And not a single one of them tried to hide from our newest mom the fact that the first 2-3 months is the hardest ever.

"Enjoy every precious moment," we tell brand new moms. Good advice, but we forget to tell them there are very few, if any, precious moments in those first weeks and months.

"Sleep when the baby sleeps," we advise, yet we don't mention that the baby will only sleep about an hour at a time because a 2-hour feeding schedule means the baby eats for 30 minutes and burps for another 30 minutes of that 2 hour cycle and that sometimes the baby gets hungry even sooner and the cry for that sounds just like every other cry and no you are not a bad mom if in desperation you try feeding early only to discover the baby was hungry and you held out because the "book" said to wait!

"This time will pass by too fast," we warn, not realizing those are the sweetest words on earth to an exhausted, uncertain, and guilt-ridden new mother whose friends all forgot to tell her there may be more screaming than smiling at first and it's not the mom's fault.

And that's why I love the young moms I hung out with this morning. Their words of wisdom and comfort to their new compatriot were very real:

These weeks will pass quickly, hallelujah! It's impossibly hard right now, but it won't always be. And once this part is over, you can repress the memories and it will all be a blur. And THAT is when you will be able to start 'enjoying every precious moment!'

I am Free

I recently had a flare-up of a painful stomach problem that began when I was 7 years old. It involves severe pain in my upper left abdomen that lasts for a few hours to a few days. Sometimes the flare-ups happen only once in many years, other times they happen repeatedly for several months.

Back in October I experienced the first episode of what would become the worst flare-up ever. Over the months the pain has become more frequent and more intense until I finally landed in the ER Sunday morning.

32 years ago when this first happened my parents took me to all the doctors. In the end we were told there was nothing really wrong with me, that my stomach was having spasms and that I needed to learn to relax.

I spent the next three decades relaxing. Deep breathing, meditation, flotation tanks, neuromusic. If it could help me relax, I tried it. And it worked. I relaxed. I can relax through anything. I fell asleep in between labor contractions. I can get into a meditative state with my eyes open. I can relax!

But the pain persisted.

Today I saw another specialist who confirmed that 30 years ago the docs were on the right track. The spasms they believed were causing my stomach pain are similar to charley horses in the leg. Excruciating and uncontrollable. But not caused by stress. Furthermore, today's doctor stated very pointedly that while the relaxation techniques I learned in an effort to end the torment were good things, they really could have no impact on what was likely happening in my stomach muscles. After all, what can one do when a charley horse strikes but wait it out trying not to shriek with pain.

I, of course, quipped that my ability to relax was helpful in keeping me from shrieking in pain when Charlie's horse was running amok through my torso.

There are moments of great freedom in life. Some of the greatest moments of freedom come not in the obvious, but in the more subtle undertones of life. Today I experienced just such a moment. Today I was told definitively that my pain is not caused by my inability or failure.

Decades of work and worry over this pain began slipping away as I realized for the first time freedom from this dark shadow. I am not free from the pain. It will continue episodically and all I can hope for is to control the attacks when they come.

I am free from the responsibility for them; from the blame and the cure. I did not cause the pain and I cannot cure it. This is a far better freedom than being pain-free.

This strikes a resonant chord deep within me. Somewhere else I have experienced such freedom. Freedom not from pain, but from blame and from responsibility for the cure.

At the foot of the cross, at the empty tomb, at the throne of the exalted Christ.

Freedom from the blame (for it was my sin, but that has been forgiven) and from responsibility for the cure (for it is a gift from God, King of Kings, that I am cured).

At the foot of the cross, at the empty tomb, at the throne of the exalted Christ. 

That is where I am free.

An Historic Day

Wow, two posts from me in one day...this is an historic day!

Seriously though, a friend shared a link where he found good, solid information about the anticipated effects of the new healthcare legislation.

I won't pretend the sources are unbiased. (There is no such thing as an unbiased source. Sorry folks.) But they are reliable sources and include The New York Times, Newsweek, and New Yorker Magazine.

So if you want a sense of what to expect personally, take a look at the website below and read the linked articles.

http://www.fastcompany.com/1595405/infographic-of-the-day-what-does-the-new-healthcare-bill-mean-for-me

Pomp, Circumstance, and Party Lines

I just watched President Obama sign healthcare reform into law.

I love watching presidents sign bills. The pomp, the circumstance, the way they use multiple pens. It sends thrills down my spine to watch history happen.

My undergraduate degree is in history and political science. One of my favorite subjects was the American constitution, its formation, function, and the intent of its authors. So a day like today really gets my blood flowing. I have had conversations about the nature of our Constitutional Republic, the specific task of our elected officials to govern for us, and the correctives of the democratic process. 

But not once have I discussed my views on the bill itself. This is a dangerous topic. One which will get you labeled and vilified in 60 seconds or less. I have no interest in engaging a hate-filled debate over things most of us (myself included) know only from the loudest propagandists.

As I watched the signing and listened to the President speak about elements of the bill, I heard things I had not heard before today. I am a pretty savvy consumer of news and keep myself fairly informed, but my own knowledge of the bill itself was so limited that I did not know if what the President was saying was true or not.

So I went in search of some good information. Most everything I found was news reports or websites written by proponents or opponents of the bill. I could not find one thing that I could confidently say was written by a relatively unbiased source. So I began looking for consistent pieces; stuff everyone was saying was part of the reform. The following statement is a good summary of what I read on nearly every site and confirmed what the President said this morning:

"Starting this year, health insurance carriers would be forbidden from placing lifetime dollar limits on policies, from denying coverage to children because of pre-existing conditions, and from canceling policies because someone gets sick. Parents would be able to keep older kids on their health insurance coverage up to age 26. A new high-risk pool would offer coverage to uninsured people with medical problems until 2014, when the coverage expansion goes into high gear. Major consumer safeguards would also take effect in 2014. Health insurance providers would be prohibited from denying coverage to people with medical problems or charging them more. Health insurance carriers could not charge women more." 

http://healthbill2010.info/index.html

I'm not saying I am an expert or that the above sums up the bill in its entirety. I am confident there will be parts of the bill I don't like and/or which do not benefit me personally. But I like what I saw. I don't know if the bill as a whole will be good for America as a whole or not. I do know that this is not (or at least should not be) a matter of "party lines."

Healthcare is inherently a social issue, not a political one. Healthcare reform in America is intimately linked with issues of wealth and poverty, and the God of all is intimately concerned with such issues.

So in the small space of my personal blog I will say that I support healthcare reform regardless of party lines and that it is my sincerest hope that this historic day will prove the benefit of the many impoverished and working poor among us.

CDC Says Sleep

I have the flu.

I have spent a lot of time this winter caring for Boy 2 and fighting off all the small viruses I have gotten from him in the process. Otherwise, I don't get really sick very often. I cannot remember the last time I had flu. But, just like riding a bike, it all comes back to you. The fever, the cough, the aches. Even my skin hurts.

Most people, I am told, sleep a lot when they have the flu. In fact, the World Health Organization, the CDC and the Mayo Clinic all advise flu sufferers to get extra sleep in order to facilitate the healing process. I, however, have not been able to sleep through this. Despite the medications claiming to be "so you can rest" medicines, I have been wide awake since this morning.

Daytime in an empty house when you can't do much because your skin hurts and every move you make threatens to cause a house-wide flu pandemic is amazingly boring.

Lacking the brain power to read, I watched TV for a few hours this morning. Today, Rachel Ray, a little bit of the View. And to top it all off, I watched a full episode of "Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader."

Having hit bottom with that last prize-winning show, I clicked off the TV and turned to streaming episodes of LOST. But in an effort to be good stewards we recently reduced our home internet speed, leaving me with more mud puddles than stream.

So here I am, waiting eagerly for LOST to buffer fully in hopes that I can go back to it in its full-stream glory, writing about being bored with the flu.

If any of you out there have any suggestions for inducing sleep in a sleepless flu victim, I am all ears. Or, if you have ideas for passing the time that don't take too much brain power, but do take more than daytime TV requires, I'm listening.

God in Pagan Philosophy

I love the way God powerfully invades His creation. Even in those who do not know God, God can be known.

The ancient philosopher Seneca once wrote, "Let him [the rich man] compare all that he has with what he still covets, and he is a poor man!"

Though a pagan, Seneca's words carry truth for more than mere possessions. When I compare my life with what I still want to accomplish, I feel poor. I yearn for more status, recognition, praise, power.

But when I think of the immutable God I serve; the amazing husband and children I am blessed with; the many other deep, rich, loving relationships I have; the home God gave me in which to nourish those relationships; the opportunities for learning and growth; the spheres of influence for a better world in which I travel; and the innumerable other blessings of my life, I can think nothing but that I may be the richest person around.

So it is that from pagan philosophy I gain a godly truth:

May I not ponder what I do not have as a measure of my life; for in comparison to what I do have, that which I covet fades to nothingness.

Less is More

It's been a week since my last post. At many points in the week I have thought of things I want to write about, but too much stuff got in the way. I confess there was a time when every week was like that. Jam-packed with things to do, meetings to attend, people to host, commitments to keep.

About a year ago I came to the end of a journey during which God impressed indelibly on my heart and mind the importance of doing less, scheduling less, giving up good stuff and keeping only the best. It was a difficult journey and I grieved over many of the things I left behind, but I have no regrets.  In the end I found my life recentered on God and family.

This past year I have enjoyed the fruits of that journey, and it is weeks like this past one that remind me to continue the work of maintaining the simplicity I found. Today life has space for the unexpected and unforeseeable. Unplanned happenings are absorbed into the fabric of everyday without rending that fabric.

So, when Mark called Saturday and said a graduate student was coming Sunday and needed a place to stay for a week, life was not turned upside down by putting him in our guest room. When Boy 1 had a migraine, I had the time needed to take him to the doctor on the same day that I was hosting 30 graduate students for dinner. When a friend called and invited the boys to swim with her boys at the YMCA I had the time to chat for 30 minutes when I dropped them off with her.

And in the midst of it all I still had plenty of time to study, work, hang out with Wee 1, have lunch with a friend, attend a case review session on infant mortality, and enjoy my morning coffee with Matt, Meridith, Al, and Ann.

Wondering Parents

I have a number of friends who just became parents, are about to be parents, or are trying to become parents. As I cleaned the toothpaste spit off of the mirror in the bathroom Boy 2 uses I thought of those friends. 

This mirror is about 10 inches higher than the top of Boy 2's head. So I have to wonder, what on earth does he do to get toothpaste spit way up on that mirror. And not just on the lower portion of the mirror. He manages to get toothpaste spit all the way to the top of the mirror.

I know you are thinking that he is probably playing target practice with my mirror. I have thought that too. And so I have spied. He seems to be brushing his teeth and spitting into the sink in the most normal, calm, non-target-practice way. I guess he just has a wide spittle range. But then I have to wonder, HOW?

As I wiped this today's toothpaste spit off the mirror I thought about the myriad other things I have always wondered about kids. 

Here is just a sampling:

1.  What's the big deal about licking?

2.  What makes the sight of a bottom so irresistible that it must be smacked?

3.  In what book did you ever read that saying please a bzillion times would be an effective and efficient means to any end?

4.  Are jokes about pooting, imitations of pooting, and all other poot related things truly hilarious? (Okay, I don't really wonder about this one.)

5.  How does a nice, clean home become a total wreck in under 30 minutes while everyone "was just sitting watching TV?"

6.  What is it about hearing, "I know you are but what am I?" that is so befuddling?

7.  How many licks does it take to get to the inside of a tootsie-roll pop and how will I ever know if you won't stop biting your suckers?!?

8.  In what way are chores and being spoken to mutually exclusive?

9.  Can you say napkin?

10. Is it really worth extra chores just to get the last word in? Really?

Of course there are lots of other things that leave me wondering. How did even God manage to make such marvelous creatures? Is there anything more amazing that a soft baby hand on your cheek? When did that baby's hand grow bigger than mine? Why does everyone say teen years are awful? How can God love my babies more than I do? And so on and so on...

So to all of you about to enter the world of wonders that is parenting, I say:

Enjoy every moment of every stage...even when it leaves you wondering.

Two Taunting Ten Year Olds

The weather today is the nicest it's been in months. After the unusually frequent sub-freezing temps and two snowfalls and an ice storm that took a tree out of our front yard, today's balmy 60 degrees beckoned me out of doors. Unwilling to resist the call of the sun and shine, I went for a walk with the family.

Out we went on an innocent stroll through the neighborhood. Boy 2 and his friend had more energy than two ten year olds should have at the end of a Saturday afternoon, so we sent them running through a field.

They quit running halfway back to where we stood amazed as they claimed to be exhausted after such a short run. I, being the mom I am, taunted them in hopes of getting more running out of them. "Oh come on," I yelled, "you've been playing video games for an hour. Surely now you have the energy to run!"

Then came the fateful words from Boy 2's friend. "Let's see YOU do it, Mrs. Parker!"

Off I went through the grassy field. Halfway to my destination I felt the earth giving way beneath me. I was still up and running, but somehow I was not making contact like I should. That's when I realized I was running in mud. As I continued going through the motions of running the mud refused to support my intentions and down I went.

I often respond to ten year old taunting by proving I can do what they claim I cannot. I enjoy the look of amazement on their faces when they realize that old people can still do some funky moves. Today, however, the ten year olds triumphed.

But fear not. There will be plenty more opportunities to show up the ten year olds in my life!

"I just didn't do it..."

To quote a friend:

"Just looked at my two sleeping babies....being a mother is so surreal some times. Who am I to be raising kids???"

My response? This experience keeps us learning and adjusting our parenting as each individual child grows and shows their changing needs.

Boy 1 did not do a group project in his class for academically gifted students. His entire group failed to do it, but for Boy 1 this was a first. I only discovered the problem by accident because I am blessed by not having to follow this child's academics. He loves to learn, he loves to do creative projects, and he always gets stuff done. He's not a rigid perfectionist. He does not beat himself up over a lower grade, and he has made wise decisions from time to time about working harder for one test and allowing another to slip a little based on his own needs. 

So for this 50 year-old 8th grader, having not done a project shocked him. When I began asking about it, he began a mental and verbal dance around what was/was not, what he needed to do to get it done, albeit late, etc. It took the boy two days and a firm confrontation from me to finally say, "I just didn't do it and I have been dancing around it because I did not want to admit it." 

That simple statement brought Boy 1 such relief, he amazed himself. So much energy went into not facing reality that he could not move efficiently towards dealing with that reality.

Enter my need to adjust my parenting to this individual child. I knew all along he "just didn't do it." I didn't need him to admit that. He did. He needed to hear from me that screwing up occasionally is a normal part of life. He needed to know perfection was not expected by me, his father, his Father, or anyone else. He needed to let himself off the hook.

Then he needed to get the project done.

Had the situation been different, had he been in a bad habit of "just not doing it," had he been a more typically disorganized and distracted 8th grader, my parenting would have been different and he would have felt more than just the sting of his own conscience. 

I wonder how often I do this dance with God. How often do I dance around the things God just wants me to admit and then deal with? How much energy do I put into not facing reality that my ability to deal with that reality is diminished?

How often does God adjust His parenting of me as I reveal my individual self to Him? 

I'm thinkin' pretty much always!

Love in the Mail

My Facebook status for today:

Christine Fox Parker

and Mark met in December of 1990, had their first kiss on April 21, 1991, and got married in 1992. Nearly 20 years of happiness! Happy Valentine's Day

This status prompted a few college friends/roomies to comment on those days, which prompted some answers from me. In the end I have a lovely trip down memory lane.

Mark and I met when during the year he was fundraising to do long-term mission work in Croatia, and I was in my junior year of college. We dated for two months before he left, but it hadn't taken long to know we were right for each other. It wasn't exactly love at first sight, more like love in two weeks. 

As the time for his departure neared, we talked more and more about our future and whether we would have one together. We decided that I would spend my Christmas break during my senior year visiting him in Croatia and make a final decision then.

We married two months after I graduated from college. The year we spent apart was very difficult and expensive. It was way before email or cell phones and living on campus I did not have long-distance telephone service. I would go to a friend's house and call Mark at appointed times and then pay those friends when the bill came in. 

The month I spent in Croatia that year remains as one of the happiest memories I have. Christmas is a magical time, and spending it in Europe with the man I loved...well, let's just say it was dreamy!

But the one thing I always tell folks about when they ask about that year is the mail I received. Mark and I both still have the boxes of letters we each saved from that year. More fun than reading them is looking at them all. Mark decorated most of the envelopes he mailed my letters in. Water color paintings, chalk drawings, sketches. His love was not simply in the words he wrote, but in every aspect of sending the letters. And the artistic envelopes did not taper off over time. Throughout the entire year decorated my mail. 

As I look back I see how his faithful devotion through the international postal system was indicative of the kind of man he is: loving, creative, committed, stable. 20 years later his faithful love is still apparent in far more than his words.

Santa's Not the Only Thing Gone!

Boy 2 finally decided that he has enough evidence to conclude there is indeed no Santa Claus. It made for a different kind of Christmas around the Parker Home, but one I think will be treasured in my memory for years to come.

In light of the changes in our Christmas tradition, I have sought to protect other important things we do together as a family. Traditions serve as glue in many ways; they bind us together in our memories.

All week, with Friday night approaching, I planned and anticipated. I arranged for Boy 2 to have a friend over to enjoy the upcoming event. I made the family's favorite Croatian dessert: Palachinka. I checked and re-checked listing times. I reminded Mark to stop and pick up the pizza on the way home and had our home staged.

All I had left to do was switch on NBC and the Bi-annual Watching of the Olympic Opening Ceremonies at the Parker Home would begin!

Imagine the deflation of my heart, of all my hopes for this grand event, when one by one my family informed me that they did not want to watch.

Children outgrow things. Husbands have projects they want to spend time on. No one intended to pop my Olympic size balloon; but popped it was. I could have demanded acquiescence to my plans for the evening. All three would have participated had I expressed how important it was to me. But the Olympics do not warrant such demands.

Some traditions are important enough to fight for, to insist upon. Traditions that draw us together around our shared beliefs and values are non-negotiable. Traditions that lead us to love and serve others will not be outgrown. Traditions that center us as a family cannot be replaced by projects.

As my Olympic balloon joins Santa in the wastebasket of bygone traditions, I will save my demands for the traditions that really matter.

Meanwhile, I will watch the ceremonies all by little ol' self!

Our Babies are Dying

The problem in Shelby County is so tremendous it has made national news and been featured on prime time news programs. Memphis leads the nation in per capita infant mortality rates.

Of course, there are always babies born so ill that there is no hope for life. Grieving family gathers around many of those babies, loving them passionately for the days they do survive and honoring them in their death.

Too often the picture of infant mortality in Memphis if far more grim. Too often the babies die for no readily apparent reason. Too often the families cannot manage the expenses associated with death and burial. Too often our babies end up in pine boxes alongside several other pine boxes.

Nothing speaks horror like the idea of a mass grave. But, my dear readers, that is where many of our Memphis babies end up.

Finally, decades into this tragedy, someone is doing something about it, and I am fortunate enough to be a part of it. Not because of any special qualifications, not because I was singled out, but because a plea went out for volunteers, and I am in a position to be able to answer that call.

This afternoon I will meet for the first time with about 20 other volunteers to review medical/social records for these babies of ours that are dying. Together we will look for gaps in care, education, resources, etc., that may have led to neonatal death. From that we will envision ways to fill those gaps and another team of volunteers will turn our vision into reality.

I have no idea what to really expect today. I bring no technical or clinical skills to this table. This is not an area I have any experience in. What I do bring, however, is a passion for giving voice to the voiceless (which in this case includes the families of these babies) and influencing the world with Kingdom values.

So You Can Teach an Old Dog...

Several weeks ago I blogged about the mania surrounding even the possibility of a light dusting of snow in Memphis. I poked a little fun at myself and my community for our obsessive weather-watching and emergency grocery runs. After nearly 14 years in Memphis I have watched and ridden the it-might-snow roller-coaster enough times to understand all of its ups and downs and to assume, fairly safely, that this entrenched behavior is unlikely to change.

Today, however, proved once again just how erroneous assumptions can be.

Yesterday was a breezy, chilly day, but nothing unusual for this time of year here. Upon Boy 1's return from his Super Bowl party, at which time the rest of us learned that the Saints had finally prevailed, we all drifted off to bed in anticipation of a Monday filled with classes, field trips, work, and all the other usual activities.

We awoke, however, to a winter wonderland! Silently our world had been blanketed overnight by four inches of  snowflakes. So silent had the blanketing been that Boy 1 was up and showered and dressed before his father, making coffee in the kitchen, glanced out the window and beheld the glistening of street light upon the frosted boughs.

How could this be? So much snow came without a whisper. No warning to stock up on frozen pizza and chips. No hint that I might get to sleep in that so distracts me that I stay up late watching every possible weather forecasting model.

All I can say is that even an old dog like Memphis can learn a few new tricks.