Last night the husband sighed and said, "You know, if we had a whole day off without the kids or school or work, I bet we could..."
Before he concluded the sentence my brain jumped into annoying Google mode trying to guess the end of his sentence before he could get there.
"... plant our garden and clean the entire house."
"... go hiking and have a picnic in the mountains."
"... actually enjoy what married couples get to enjoy legally and without moral condemnation."
How did his sentence actually end? "... sleep the entire day."
Oh. Well. Yes, that actually sounds like the best of all possible options. Good plan, sir!
Monday, May 12, 2014
Sunday, May 11, 2014
She-friend
Women bond over complaining and criticism. We grumble about men and their infantile obsession with explosions, violence, and mayhem. No one could bond over such atrocious behavior! Yet women are worse. Without the grace of our Savior and the love of Jesus Christ in our hearts, we bond over interpersonal explosions, emotional violence, and petty complaining mayhem. It's uglier than any video game, more brutal than any slasher flick, more appalling than a night watching the WWF. But bad attitudes and petty disputes bring women outside of God's mercy together like peanut butter and jelly.
This is the kind of female relationships I am used to. I grew up with unbelieving, incredibly liberal dancer friends. Each of them beautiful, empathetic, gentle, and amazing in her own way. Combined, all this femininity has the disastrous potential of C-4. I couldn't relate to the women at church, those who seemed to have it all together, like I could to the women in the trenches, trying to survive like me. Rarely, did I partake in the slamming, complaining festivities. But there I sat: listening, absorbing, thinking this kind of gossip and malice were normal, were what made girls close.
For mother's day Justin (bless him all the way to his socks) stayed home with the kids while I went out with a wonderful friend. We saw a movie and went out to eat. Over a delightful (and somewhat ridiculous) amount of sushi we chatted about life and got to know one another better. Then, she said it... "I've always felt you were your own person, not swayed by the crowd, not compromising." (Paraphrase. She was more eloquent. I wish I had been wearing a wire, so I could catch her exact phraseology and meaning... I imagine wearing a wire would have cancelled the possibility of Indian food next week, though.)
She complimented me. Un-solicited and with sincere admiration, she gave me a true compliment. I don't know what external Abi was doing. Probably, she smiled thankfully, or shook her head as if to say 'oh thank you, but not really.' Internal Abi was panicking.
What do I do now? She is so nice. I should compliment her back... You too? I think you're smart? Sweet? Cool? The kind of person who wouldn't point out that COOL hasn't been cool since the 90's?
I think the best of this friend, but I am so unused to receiving and giving genuine compliments. And isn't that a little sad. What a difference to be in the presence of a sister with a genuine heart and wonderful spirit. She is not the church face that most people show; she is in the trenches. But she is not alone in the trenches. The One who makes us family has given us hope and that hope let's us see with a spirit of goodness and compassion and patience... sometimes. Often enough to make this woman look different, sound different, live differently than every other close female friend I have had.
So we will be having more coffee or sushi or whatever other excuse to hang out. Because I need practicing reminding people of how genuinely incredible they are, and I imagine she needs practicing hearing such things.
This is the kind of female relationships I am used to. I grew up with unbelieving, incredibly liberal dancer friends. Each of them beautiful, empathetic, gentle, and amazing in her own way. Combined, all this femininity has the disastrous potential of C-4. I couldn't relate to the women at church, those who seemed to have it all together, like I could to the women in the trenches, trying to survive like me. Rarely, did I partake in the slamming, complaining festivities. But there I sat: listening, absorbing, thinking this kind of gossip and malice were normal, were what made girls close.
For mother's day Justin (bless him all the way to his socks) stayed home with the kids while I went out with a wonderful friend. We saw a movie and went out to eat. Over a delightful (and somewhat ridiculous) amount of sushi we chatted about life and got to know one another better. Then, she said it... "I've always felt you were your own person, not swayed by the crowd, not compromising." (Paraphrase. She was more eloquent. I wish I had been wearing a wire, so I could catch her exact phraseology and meaning... I imagine wearing a wire would have cancelled the possibility of Indian food next week, though.)
She complimented me. Un-solicited and with sincere admiration, she gave me a true compliment. I don't know what external Abi was doing. Probably, she smiled thankfully, or shook her head as if to say 'oh thank you, but not really.' Internal Abi was panicking.
What do I do now? She is so nice. I should compliment her back... You too? I think you're smart? Sweet? Cool? The kind of person who wouldn't point out that COOL hasn't been cool since the 90's?
I think the best of this friend, but I am so unused to receiving and giving genuine compliments. And isn't that a little sad. What a difference to be in the presence of a sister with a genuine heart and wonderful spirit. She is not the church face that most people show; she is in the trenches. But she is not alone in the trenches. The One who makes us family has given us hope and that hope let's us see with a spirit of goodness and compassion and patience... sometimes. Often enough to make this woman look different, sound different, live differently than every other close female friend I have had.
So we will be having more coffee or sushi or whatever other excuse to hang out. Because I need practicing reminding people of how genuinely incredible they are, and I imagine she needs practicing hearing such things.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Spidey Sense
I have never liked Spiderman much. That has nothing to do with this blog, it is just something I told a friend today and felt would be worth repeating. Irrational, much?
Often, my children prove to me that they are far more in tune to the extra-physical world around us than I, and often I am wondering if they have been bitten by a sense-heightening, radioactive spider. Okay, perhaps 'often' is an over statement. There probably aren't many folks on the planet who think of sentences like that 'often'. But I've thought it at least twice. And thoughts are so few and far between as of late that thinking the same thing twice makes that idea, regardless of how bizarre, a majority of my collective ideations. So there. The majority of my brainlings are about radioactive spiders, my kids, and superheroes I don't even like. How very unspiritual of me.
Justin has class Monday and Wednesday from 6:00-8:00pm. Noah's bedtime is 7:30, and Hannah generally goes down to sleep shortly after that. Mommy feeds them and gets jammies on them, mommy tucks them in, and if screaming ensues ('if'... haha), mommy rocks them, shushes them, hands them milk, or starts cramming towels under the door to block the sound. As far as reality presents they don't know where daddy is until the next morning.
But somehow they feel he is there.
The first clinical rotation for Justin's class started Thursday night at 6:00pm and ended at 3:30am. From there he drove to work and played with ecoli and other viruses until 11:30am. To my foolish and ever optimistic assumption, this night would be like any other. (Except Dumpster would get to sleep on the big bed with me because, I am, in my heart of hearts, a coward, afraid of the dark, the light, and staplers that make too loud a crack. If I still lived in the deep south with all its toothless flora and fauna, I would most certainly be accused of being 'yella'.) I got the younglings into their beds, got myself ready for bed and laid down. To my surprise Dumpster did not come and offer his courageous (albeit stench-ridden) presence on the bed to guard his mistress from the foes of night. And from there nothing went as I had foreseen.
Noah woke up screaming. And again. Third time's the charm. And third time he brought Hannah with him. And then she decided the day ought to start at 3:00am and sleep was no longer an option.
If you want to see a desperate woman, imagine this blogger, scampering back and forth from room to room, scratching Noah's back and shushing him, diving next door to give Hannah her pacifier back, dodging a curious bulldog (traitor!) as she runs back to re-wrap Noah in his blanket. One would finally be quiet, and the other one would let out a shriek just piercing enough to awaken the first, and start the strange series of events again. The carpet in our hallway is now sadly worn, the warpath through the jungle, showing the slogging of two tired boots from battle to battle.
How do they know that daddy is away? It has to be extra-sensory.
Justin is a presence in the house: a strong tower, a source of security, and encouragement, and provision. He isn't perfect, he doesn't make perfect decisions, but there is never a time when I wish he was somewhere else. I never want a break from him. Even when he spends hours studying in the basement, or working in the yard we know he is a whisper away. I suppose the kids are just like me. I don't sleep when he isn't here. It's not just that he calms our fears. It's not that he is some megawatt superhero, and I'm laying down beside ... I just realized there is no superhero name with which I can complete this sentence and not draw serious repercussions... . He's just a dad. A good one. And everything is better when dad's around.
I went out with some ladies to see the movie Mom's Night Out (more on this to come). I had the thought that someone should make a movie like this about dads. Then it occurred to me that would be the worst selling movie ever. Moms want to see movies where moms are lifted up. And dads... dads want to see movies where stuff is blown up. That knocks out almost all of the potential audience
Dads are important, more than we as a society are willing to believe. I'm as feminist as the next girl. I know I am smart, strong, capable, beautiful, a fighter, independent (all and only by grace). But I cannot imagine trying to accomplish this impossible task of raising two children filled with potential all alone. So this Mother's Day, despite the fact that he gets a day in June, I want to honor my husband, a dad, a good one, who makes everything better.
Often, my children prove to me that they are far more in tune to the extra-physical world around us than I, and often I am wondering if they have been bitten by a sense-heightening, radioactive spider. Okay, perhaps 'often' is an over statement. There probably aren't many folks on the planet who think of sentences like that 'often'. But I've thought it at least twice. And thoughts are so few and far between as of late that thinking the same thing twice makes that idea, regardless of how bizarre, a majority of my collective ideations. So there. The majority of my brainlings are about radioactive spiders, my kids, and superheroes I don't even like. How very unspiritual of me.
Justin has class Monday and Wednesday from 6:00-8:00pm. Noah's bedtime is 7:30, and Hannah generally goes down to sleep shortly after that. Mommy feeds them and gets jammies on them, mommy tucks them in, and if screaming ensues ('if'... haha), mommy rocks them, shushes them, hands them milk, or starts cramming towels under the door to block the sound. As far as reality presents they don't know where daddy is until the next morning.
But somehow they feel he is there.
The first clinical rotation for Justin's class started Thursday night at 6:00pm and ended at 3:30am. From there he drove to work and played with ecoli and other viruses until 11:30am. To my foolish and ever optimistic assumption, this night would be like any other. (Except Dumpster would get to sleep on the big bed with me because, I am, in my heart of hearts, a coward, afraid of the dark, the light, and staplers that make too loud a crack. If I still lived in the deep south with all its toothless flora and fauna, I would most certainly be accused of being 'yella'.) I got the younglings into their beds, got myself ready for bed and laid down. To my surprise Dumpster did not come and offer his courageous (albeit stench-ridden) presence on the bed to guard his mistress from the foes of night. And from there nothing went as I had foreseen.
Noah woke up screaming. And again. Third time's the charm. And third time he brought Hannah with him. And then she decided the day ought to start at 3:00am and sleep was no longer an option.
If you want to see a desperate woman, imagine this blogger, scampering back and forth from room to room, scratching Noah's back and shushing him, diving next door to give Hannah her pacifier back, dodging a curious bulldog (traitor!) as she runs back to re-wrap Noah in his blanket. One would finally be quiet, and the other one would let out a shriek just piercing enough to awaken the first, and start the strange series of events again. The carpet in our hallway is now sadly worn, the warpath through the jungle, showing the slogging of two tired boots from battle to battle.
How do they know that daddy is away? It has to be extra-sensory.
Justin is a presence in the house: a strong tower, a source of security, and encouragement, and provision. He isn't perfect, he doesn't make perfect decisions, but there is never a time when I wish he was somewhere else. I never want a break from him. Even when he spends hours studying in the basement, or working in the yard we know he is a whisper away. I suppose the kids are just like me. I don't sleep when he isn't here. It's not just that he calms our fears. It's not that he is some megawatt superhero, and I'm laying down beside ... I just realized there is no superhero name with which I can complete this sentence and not draw serious repercussions... . He's just a dad. A good one. And everything is better when dad's around.
I went out with some ladies to see the movie Mom's Night Out (more on this to come). I had the thought that someone should make a movie like this about dads. Then it occurred to me that would be the worst selling movie ever. Moms want to see movies where moms are lifted up. And dads... dads want to see movies where stuff is blown up. That knocks out almost all of the potential audience
Dads are important, more than we as a society are willing to believe. I'm as feminist as the next girl. I know I am smart, strong, capable, beautiful, a fighter, independent (all and only by grace). But I cannot imagine trying to accomplish this impossible task of raising two children filled with potential all alone. So this Mother's Day, despite the fact that he gets a day in June, I want to honor my husband, a dad, a good one, who makes everything better.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Scrubs, Socks, Mittens, and the Wizard
A glance at the current state of our family through four articles of clothing(ish):
Scrubs - The Husband: Justin is embroiled in a tear down, drag out, shoot 'em up street fight with nursing school. This semester is the peak before we start getting to head downhill to the blessed light at the end of the tunnel. He has to wear scrubs to every class and his clinical rotation. The thing is, despite being given high blood pressure and elevated cortisol levels from school, my husband is built like a Greek statue. He keeps grumbling about stress (and my cookies) making him fat. Right, like if the 'David' put on a couple after arm wrestling a bear and a lion. He is tall and trim. Ever since I've known him he has been tall and trim. There are certain less civilized regions of the world where men have been executed for lesser crimes. Like Hollywood. I digress. We buy him size X-Large scrubs because he can't stand the tantalizing glimpse of tube sock peeking haughtily out from under his cuffs. While X-large pants are long enough (barely)*, both he and I and Dumpster could stand in the waist with room to spare... now there's an image. And here's one: my scrubby clad adonis:
Socks - The Blogger: We decided since our softball team tends to disappoint in the winning area of the game, we should try to make it excel in the fun area of the game. Step one: get Abi some awesome softball socks.
* Justin spent a year in New Zealand. I swear he left at a respectable 6' 2", but returned at an uncanny 6'4". And this was when he was 25 years old. It is just wrong for anyone to have a growth spurt that late in life. I swear he found the One Ring that instead of unusually long life, makes someone concerningly tall.
Scrubs - The Husband: Justin is embroiled in a tear down, drag out, shoot 'em up street fight with nursing school. This semester is the peak before we start getting to head downhill to the blessed light at the end of the tunnel. He has to wear scrubs to every class and his clinical rotation. The thing is, despite being given high blood pressure and elevated cortisol levels from school, my husband is built like a Greek statue. He keeps grumbling about stress (and my cookies) making him fat. Right, like if the 'David' put on a couple after arm wrestling a bear and a lion. He is tall and trim. Ever since I've known him he has been tall and trim. There are certain less civilized regions of the world where men have been executed for lesser crimes. Like Hollywood. I digress. We buy him size X-Large scrubs because he can't stand the tantalizing glimpse of tube sock peeking haughtily out from under his cuffs. While X-large pants are long enough (barely)*, both he and I and Dumpster could stand in the waist with room to spare... now there's an image. And here's one: my scrubby clad adonis:
(He's the tall cute one in the back.)
Socks - The Blogger: We decided since our softball team tends to disappoint in the winning area of the game, we should try to make it excel in the fun area of the game. Step one: get Abi some awesome softball socks.
Really, what else needs to be said. I traipsed about the field all night in hot pink knee-high socks. It's a living.
Mittens - Baby Girl: Shortly after her four month doctor appointment, Hannah developed some skin problems. It started on her face and has spread to most the rest of her body. A lesser (meaning less cute) girl would be in a sad state, but Hannah wears her rough, flaky, and red skin like a champ (an adorable champ). The worst part is she scratches at her face when it itches. For any of you who have little ones, you know how hard it is to keep baby nails short enough that they can't claw themselves to within an inch of your sanity. So, in order to save her face and my nerves we have been putting mittens on her for the last few weeks. We take them off so she can play, and if her skin has a good day. Otherwise, Hannah has some version of mittens on most of the time. Like so:
And yes, she is wearing boy clothes. That's what happens with babies: they wear everything they own in one week and then spit up on the last God-forsaken outfit... or worse. Usually worse.
The Wizard - Baby Noah: (Before we get to the explanation, I apologize that I don't have a picture for this section. I'm having a devise transferring issue. Next post about Little Man, I'll get a good Noah pic up. Until then, our imaginations are woefully underused; dust yours off and make this as cute, funny, or boring as you want.) Noah loves his blankets. He's on a sure path to being the next Linus in Peanuts. He's not partial, and will drag any available scrap of fabric around, but there is one for which he has a slight preference: It is white with blue and silver stars all over and a blue trim. Lately he has taken to wrapping this blanket around his shoulders before scampering about the house chanting all manner of incomprehensible incantations. Shy of one pointy hat, he looks like a little wizard ready to turn Dumpy into a toad (not too much challenge, really entry level magic. The same thing could be done with a razor and a bowl of water).
There you have it: us by garment.
* Justin spent a year in New Zealand. I swear he left at a respectable 6' 2", but returned at an uncanny 6'4". And this was when he was 25 years old. It is just wrong for anyone to have a growth spurt that late in life. I swear he found the One Ring that instead of unusually long life, makes someone concerningly tall.
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