A Whirlwind of Hooligans (Part I)

Our children were lengthening their bones and leaving us at an alarming rate.  They were pursuing relationships and bachelor's degrees, they were buying cars and marrying.  They were raising families.  Our number had shrunk from eight to five.  I found myself crying over our lack of sippy cups in the cabinet and Matchbox cars wedged under the couch. Our vacuum cleaner never smoked from sucking up Polly Pockets and no Barbie hair clogged the bathroom drain.  Our youngest child was almost twelve, and no longer needed his hot dogs sliced down the middle, and our oldest spent most evenings sequestered in her room.   

Our house had become quiet, and to a mother used to hustle and flurry, the quiet was nearly unendurable.  How many times did I search the heavens for free-falling babies?  How much did I fuss and coo over babies in stores?  How many knowing smiles did I bestow on frazzled strangers at Walmart, frazzled female strangers with toddlers spilling from their grocery carts?  The answer:  too many and too much to be considered sane or, at the very least, polite.

Guilty.  Me.

When the phone rang one early August evening and the flat, angry tone in our daughter's voice came through the wires from far, far away, I reached back through them with comfort.  "Come to us," I told her.  "Pack up your three babies and your husband and make your home here until you figure things out."  I was dizzy with excitement; our home would be full of babies again.  We would grow to ten; and we would make it work.  Concerns, stifled, went unspoken. 

Convincing the current oldest child was a different story--she had only just last year made her way into the Circle of Trust and Favor.  As Number Four, she had arrived at oldest and was loathe to relinquish the title.  Plus, as we considered the logistics, we did not anticipate the living situation with great hope.  While we longed to squeeze our long lost and dearest loves, reality and experience dictate that the honeymoon wears off in time and that grown children really shouldn't move back home.  But there was a need, and it was our job to meet it.

We have been pleasantly surprised.

Grief

“to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”
― Ellen Bass


Interestingly, this quote showed up on a friend's Facebook page yesterday.  And, here today, we grieve.  I sit in the wake of this ugliness in Aurora, CO, and the poem quoted, which seemed so knowing and haunting just a day ago in a removed sort of way, hangs heavier than it did yesterday, so much heavier.  I ache for those whose bodies have to withstand this unbearable, this weighted and raw agony.  I pray from some deep place for every family, even for James Holmes and his sad family.  I long, in that way we all do, for the impossible--the ability to turn back time and refuse to allow the event.


As a mother, this sadness is like a kick in the stomach.  I watched an interview this morning with a young man who had taken his little sister and his girlfriend to see the new Batman movie last night.  It's not that his story was chilling that made me hurt so much for him, rather, that he is not the same person he was when he walked into the theater.  And he never will be.


I ask everyone reading this to stop just now, and pray.  Pray for an unmistakable holiness in and around each person.  Pray that each broken heart would mend, and that each person will one day be able to take life between the palms and "say, yes, I will take you/I will love you, again."

Never A Dull Moment

To say that we run around like chickens with our heads cut off would be a gross understatement.  To say we fall into bed each night exhausted from a busy day at work and play would be one, as well.  It's more like we have been forced into an obligatory life-imposed Attention Deficit.  What happened to the lazy hazy days of summer we spent the colder months dreaming of?  I don't think they exist for any of us.  When I was a child, one glorious summer day blended with the next, and the next, and the next.  We got up early, ate breakfast, arrived at the beach before the lifeguards, left the beach long after the lifeguards, ate supper, played at the playground and went to bed.  Sprinkled in the middle were odd chores like walking Stormy (the favored pooch), playing with Matt (the favored baby brother) and gathering kindling for regular campfires.  For a child, life really doesn't get much better.

Sadly, my children have never experienced summer life in that way.  They pack for camp, go to camp, get picked up from camp, pack for camp, go to camp, get picked up from camp, and so on.  For most of the summer.  They have very, very few days to lie around and do nothing.  I feel bad for them.  For instance, our 17-year-old daughter went to Girls State (week-long mock government activities--so awesome!--sponsored by the American Legion) two days after we returned from our crazy little vacation in Williamsburg, VA, with another family (see previous blog).  After Girls State, we both spent a super intense week preparing for the Miss West Virginia's Outstanding Teen pageant to be held in Morgantown, WV.  She hit the pike for the pageant and I finished up the particulars.  A friend and four of her five children stayed with us and then we all headed for Morgantown.  Once home from the pageant, where our dear daughter made the top eight, she took a nap, re-packed and headed out to Bible camp in Pennsylvania for a week.  Hubby picked her up Friday evening and Saturday morning she and her younger sister went to a Pirates' game and concert with friends.  Yesterday, the girls unpacked from the game and concert, re-packed and joined two of their brothers and lots of others for a local week-long mission trip in Capon Bridge WV (sponsored by our church).  She is planning to attend another youth activity in Cumberland, MD, over the weekend.

While our daughter is running with her choke out, her parents and siblings are neither twiddling their thumbs nor lazing around.  Rather, we are working here at home and out in the cut-throat world of business, packing and unpacking for other camps, preparing for and performing at various storytelling events, harvesting vegetables, killing fleas (on the pets and in the house), teaching Boy Scout Merit Badges (okay, just one so far, but it's time-consuming), having babies (congrats on John Patrick's healthy birth, Cheryl and Bill!), holding an Eagle Scout ceremony, completing long-neglected writing projects, and trying to find a dependable cheap/free car.  There are lots of other things on all of our plates but there is really no need to continue.  Everybody's busy--cold, but true.

So, what do we do to reclaim the summer?  Well, as far as I can see, we finish up the last camp experience (Boy Scout Camp) and guard August jealously.  Unfortunately, our college student returns for R.A. training on August 8 and our daughter's Trojanette activities begin around the same time.  Grrr--to what do we say, "NO?!"  I wonder if you can imagine how happy I was when the power went out last week and did not return completely for five days.  The phone and Internet lines were damaged and stayed that way for eight days, and I wasn't one bit sorry.


A complete collapse of technology in our world?  Bring it on, at least until we get tired of having nothing to do.        

Sweet William-sburg!

When my dear Wendy was offered a suite at a resort in Williamsburg, VA, at a crazily low price, she decided to command me to join her...and five of her kids...with three of mine.  The dates fit perfectly within our very tight early summer schedule.  The price was certainly right.  The boss said I could go.  Win-win.  All the way around.  We were all really excited.

Our departure date crept up and bit us in the butt.  But, always champs in a crunch, we got ourselves together and made it out the door in time to catch the bus (i.e., Wendy's Suburban).  We made it to Williamsburg with only one pit stop at Walmart for a potty break, and already knew what we were making for supper.  We checked in without a hitch, chose our bedrooms without a fight, cooked and ate without so much as a spill.  Yessss.  We planned our meals, found both a Walmart and a Martin's close-by, shopped, and (finally!) hit the sack. 

Our week progressed in very much the same pleasant and orderly way.  But, after parenting eight children together for six days, we discovered that our households are quite different, as are our parenting styles.  While our children have all been raised to love and serve God, and while we take part in some of the same family-related church and social activities, and while we are roughly the same age, we are so different in the ways we approach certain behaviors in our kids.  I won't go into detail since Vegas rules apply in this situation, yet, suffice it to say, it was a week full of eye-opening wonders within our friendship.  Even though our youngest children are far from being babies, and our oldest children have flown the coop, I feel that Wendy and I have both taught and learned a few things in our sweet little suite in Williamsburg.  I believe it is a credit to our relationship both before God and before each other that we didn't take offense at  being shown other ways of doing things.  I don't believe we are ready to jump into another vacation right this second, but none of us came home vowing "never to go on vacation with those people  again." 

Our last night together, Wendy and I laughed until nearly 3:30 in the morning--I was really surprised one of us didn't have an attack of some kind.  That's how hard we laughed. 

All things considered, our vacation together was a wonderful time with wonderful friends.  We swam, rented a movie, got ferocious sunburns, went to the beach, made craft dough, saw a magic show, and bothered the front desk people relentlessly.  Most importantly, we put our busy lives on hold and simply went with the flow.  We do sometimes need to stop and smell the roses as we toddle through life, or, in this case, the magnolia blossoms.  Hats off to you, Princess Wendolyn!

How Far Is Too Far? How Much Is Too Much?

Boogers and poop.  That is what so many of our dinnertime conversations degenerate into.  It doesn't go straight from, "pass the potatoes," to "boogers and poop."  No!  It's usually a downward spiral starting about the time we have all shoveled at least three forks full of whatever's on the menu into the pie hole.  It begins innocently enough--someone (a kid) steps three whole feet away from the table and grins.  Whether we have heard anything or not, the best guess is always that there was some small attempt made at the mannerly relief of gas.  Me?  I personally think they should go outside and down the road a ways if we are all sitting around the dinner table, but that doesn't seem to be anyone else's conviction.  Sometimes, the offender mumbles the 2012 phrase for, "Excuse me."  My bad.  Next thing you know, it's fifteen minutes later, the kitchen is filled with raucous laughter, loud guffaws, people falling out of their chairs, and completely atrocious manners.

It is at this point that my dear hubby and I look at each other helplessly and say, with sad resolve, "Yes, dear, we have, indeed, become Dan and Roseanne .  But is it all bad?  Some of you would curl a lip in disgust, not even giving me the benefit of your correction. 

I had this conversation with a fella after we were pulled up about singing a TRADITIONAL camp song at a Cub Scout event.  My husband and I were both den leaders and the song, "The Bear Went Over the Mountain," is adorable.  It involves a little bear going over the mountain, seeing a bunch of Girl Scouts, eating up the Girl Scouts, taking Alka-Seltzer, and then barfing up the Girl Scouts.  The Girl Scouts tell his mommy and she "spanks his little bottom."  You know why it was inappropriate?  It was not honoring to women.  In this conversation with the dad who was appalled by our choice of songs, I said:  "C'mon, [insert name], you have sons.  Can you honestly tell me most of your dinnertime conversations don't degenerate into boogers and poop?"  Ummm--his lip, indeed, curled in disgust.

"No," he whispered in a deep and slow and scary way.  "That is not appropriate dinnertime conversation."

Here's me:  "My bad."  (That means excuse me in today's vernacular.)

Sometimes things get out of hand--like if we have stiff company (which is not often) or we are at a restaurant.  Our kids don't seem to make the distinction between HOME and OUT all the time.  Sometimes, we don't--I'll admit it.  One afternoon, we were at an Old Country Buffet with another family (also given to fun dinners), and there was a small incident.  Several of the kids took some of the littler ones to the bathroom.  They were gone kinda long but we didn't notice--we were enjoying adult conversation for once.  Then a manager approached us.  His face was purple.  He looked frantic, angry:  "Where are the responsible adults?" he demanded.

We all four stopped in mid-conversation and looked at him blankly for a little longer than is polite.  Then, as if on cue, we all looked to one another and shrugged.  He said something about kids and the bathroom and stomped away.  We fell out of out chairs laughing.  Then, of course, the moms high-tailed it to the bathroom to correct our mannerless children.  (Our bad.)

Stop! In The Name of Love--Stop!

A few years ago, I found myself super busy and super overwhelmed.  I have a condition, you see, called AGH.  When my AGH kicks in, I know it will be a matter of only a few short months before I begin to feel poorly.  I start snapping at my family for no reason.  I don't sleep well.  I eat junk like it's going out of style.  I don't check the oil in the old Jeep, forget to go grocery shopping, avoid my mother, let the kids eat way too many Ramen noodles, don't sift the cat box.  Lovely. 

My AGH is manageable, if I can manage to manage it, and could conceivably become a condition in lifetime remission.  But my tendency is to deny its presence in my life, to not treat it with lifestyle changes.  Like so many, I walked around for most of my life not realizing I had AGH.  I didn't know the symptoms.  All I knew was that I felt busier than most (or else I was a loser because I couldn't manage all my responsibilities).  And from the symptoms' onset until I flipped my plate completely over and walked away from every unnecessary item on my TO DO LIST, I felt progressively worse--physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.  The condition is cyclic.  I volunteer, volunteer, volunteer, volunteer.  And then I lose my mind.  And then I flip my plate, thus, deleting every single item on my lengthy TO DO LIST.  After I clear my schedule, I feel liberated and wonderful.  These are typical signs of AGH, or Anti-Gravity Hand.

I raise my hand to volunteer for things on a regular basis.  A couple years ago, when my son's Cub Scout den needed a den leader, my hand shot up.  When our daughter and her husband needed a place to stay--oooo, stay here!  When the church was short a Wednesday night teacher--I volunteered!  When there weren't enough adults staying the whole week of camp--I packed my bags!  And so on, until my daily TO DO LIST resembled War and Peace.  At that point, I hit crisis mode and quit everything.  I forsook commitments and disappointed people who counted on me. 

Anti-Gravity Hand (AGH) is a very serious condition that, if left untreated, could cause damage in all areas of life.   Because, when the kids ask me to play a board game, or my sister wants me to pop over for lunch, I have too much to do.  I regularly forsake matters of the heart for things that don't matter, and that's terrible for a mother.  So, for today, I pledge to under-commit to stuff that other people could do, and commit, instead, to the stuff only I can do.

A Career In Modeling

Parenthood--that's why I titled this entry the way I did--is a career in modeling.  From the time they pop out of the womb, our children's eyes watch us.  They embrace our behaviors, our beliefs, our tastes, our prejudices.  They imitate our words and our actions, tweak them a little, and make them their own.  I will remember forever the day our oldest daughter spotted something on the floor across the room and asked, casually:  "What the hell is that?"  She was three.  Of course, our jaws hit the floor.  We were incredulous.  Where, in the world, did she learn to talk like that?  And, just as the words were on my lips to speak correction, my mind's ear recalled those very same words with those very same inflections--coming straight out of her father's mouth.  (Not mine!  Perish the thought!)

Most parents have similar stories.  This is the reason we cringed every single time Pastor Rudy asked questions after a children's message and shoved a microphone in our kids' faces.  We never knew what might roll off their tongues.  Still don't.  It was way back when the our little girl said the H-E-double hockey sticks thing that we realized we'd better watch our own potty mouth.  Remember the show a million years ago with Brandon Cruz and Bill Bixby--The Courtship of Eddie's Father?  Throughout the series, the little boy (Eddie) schemes to get his widower father to remarry.  They spend a lot of time together and Eddie imitates everything his father does.

One word:  Beware.  We have to be wise as we bring up our children.  Adults come with habits, beliefs, practices, prejudices.  Children don't.  Before we make ethnic jokes, bad-mouth the neighbors, ridicule the educated (or uneducated), espouse the evils of law enforcement, pronounce doom upon the future, lose our minds over a spider on the ceiling (It happens.), cuss a blue streak or trash our our spouses, we must ask ourselves what we want our kids to grow up believing about the world. 

The bottom line is:  We Have All Power.  That's a lot of responsibility.  How can we tell them it's wrong to steal when our stack of post-it notes were stolen from Daddy's work?  Too many thoughts conflict in their little minds and they have trouble sorting them out at first.  Eventually, they embrace and justify.  Wouldn't it be better for them to see us bring back the unpaid-for item that was forgotten in the cart at check-out?  Yes--far better than it is for them to hear us congratulate ourselves in our good fortune at getting a freebie.  It is so much more profitable for them to see us facing life on life's terms, taking responsibility for our mistakes, giving grace where it doesn't seem warranted, and continually working to better ourselves. 

Model good behavior.  Extended out, we are bettering generations, hundreds of future people, when we better ourselves.