techno granny

The other day while driving to target I stopped for a boy,
maybe 8 or 9, to ride his bike across the crosswalk.
With one hand he was clutching the handlebars,
and with his other hand he was dialing his cell phone.
Yes, you read correctly. Boy, 8 or 9. Bike. Cell phone.
Then as I entered the parking lot of target,
I saw the security guard making his rounds. On a segway!
One of those motorized scooter type things that you stand up on
that is perfectly balanced.

And it's not that I think that the security guard should be walking
his rounds but does patrolling the target parking lot
require a George Jetson type mode of transportation?
Once in target, I kept being distracted at regular intervals
by other shoppers talking loudly on their cell phones.
(I do this, too, when I shop but not in target. Because it's target.
Target is a place for reverence and perusal, not casual conversation.)
I also walked up on someone chatting on blue tooth,

which freaks me out, because usually the earpiece is lost in their hair
and you think they are just looking at shampoo
when out of the blue they say,
"You've got to be kidding me! Sam is only 9! Why does he need a cell phone?" EXACTLY MY POINT.
And then there is the whole texting issue,
which I think may be okay to do in target
since it doesn't disturb other shoppers,
except when someone is texted a funny picture or comment
and they are looking down at their hands laughing for no apparent reason.
I was not even aware I could text people on my phone
until my friend, Rene, told me she texted me.
When I finally figured out where to find the text on my phone,
I found one from my friend, Robyn, from LAST HALLOWEEN.
Yep, a year ago.
I wonder if Robyn has thought I am rude for a whole year.
Sorry, Robyn. And Rene. And Lindsey.
And all the other people that texted me and I never answered back.
When I was growing up if people laughed at their hands
or talked to themselves, we called them CRAZY PEOPLE.
Now you can never be sure.
I know that my children will far surpass my ability
when it comes to utilizing the technology at hand.
Jack and Will often tell me to move aside so they can show me
how to do something on the computer. Addison is not far behind.
This became abundantly clear yesterday as I was folding laundry.
My 19-month-old found my pocket calculator
and had it up to his ear, babbling away.
Next thing you know, he'll be texting me from his segway
asking me to buy him an earpiece.
And for some reason, the thought of all this technology
I have yet to harness makes me a little tired....
so many contraptions, so little brain left to understand them all.
I know I sound like an old lady,
but it makes me long for a cup of tea. A piece of chocolate.
Maybe a little on-line shopping would soothe me.

prayer

This next Sunday our church plant is meeting in the CineArts theater
in Palo Alto for the first time.
So this Sunday our small group went there to pray.
When I was in Youth With a Mission, prayer was big.
We prayed, we expected God to answer, we listened for the answers.
We would go up in the hills to pray from "the high places".
We talked about praying in the spirit.
Prayer was like breathing. People were always praying.
Fast forward 15 years and my praying has not been so much like
breathing as it is more like my exercise regimen,
scattered and a bit on the flabby side.
But that is changing. It tends to do that when you're desperate.
In the last two months, a whole lot of crazy has gone down.
We have had 4 visits to the emergency room (two for Scott, two for Will),
4 rounds of the stomach flu
(four seperate weeks that it has infected the house),
Will had a crazy allergic reaction that caused his fingers and toes to swell
(this happened 4 times over two days)
and he had to go in for allergy testing,
not to mention that our rent has gone up, and just this past week
someone told me they knew of a hairstylist who could fix my hair
(even after I told her I liked it and believed it would lighten naturally).
The hair incident nearly sent me over the edge.
So I have been praying. A LOT.
And I have been listening. Because I want to know what God
thinks about all this crazy.
And I have been thinking of praying from some high places...
I am wondering if I perch in the Japanese maple in my backyard
if it will hold my weight.
And as I was racing to the hospital to meet Scott and Will,
as his little digits were swelling up like sausages,
I started talking to the devil. Yep, the devil.
And I told him,
"You can do what you want but God is more powerful than you
and he is going to get done what he wants to get done!
You don't get to win!"
And then I called my family and my friends,
and I cried a little bit because frankly, I'm tired of the crazy,
and told them, "We are no longer taking everyday regular prayers.
Let's get a little praying in the spirit going on."
Because in Ephesians 6:18 it says,
Pray at all times and on every occasion in the power of the Holy Spirit.
Stay alert and be persistent in your prayers for all Christians everywhere.
Why? So that we can stand firm in spite of the crazy (tsg paraphrase).
And in these last few days, I felt the prayers of others bouying me up,
and there is a peace in my house even now as I sit and write.
So I know that God is listening and answering countless prayers.
And I know people are praying for us because instead of being laid out
flat on my back by all that has come our way, I am still able to stand.
When we prayed at the theater yesterday, we prayed with the kids, too.
We prayed for God's presence.
One of our boys' buddies piped up,"I would like some presents."
And then when we prayed that Jesus would bring lots of kids to church,
He added,"And lots of robots, too."
And I would not be one bit surpised next Sunday if we had some presents
and an unexpected showing of robots.
Because when we pray, things can happen.
And I am counting on this
because I have been praying about that lady who made the hair comment
and I think by tomorrow I will be able to forgive her.
Because of prayer.

eleven years

The first time I saw Scott I thought he looked mean.
He was a rapper, after all.
(He was flowing like the motion of the ocean,
coming out as smooth as Johnson's Baby Lotion.)
My friend, Leslie, and I hunted him down to ask him
if he knew a good rap song with the word "Jump" in it
since we needed it for our "Jump" lip sync medley at
our college talent show.
(Jump by Van Halen, Jump for my love by The Pointer Sisters, etc.)
He recommended Jump Around by House of Pain
but we went with Jump by Criss Cross and wore our outfits backwards,
baggy pants and all.
Ahhhh, the early nineties, those were the days.
In the spring of 1994, I met Scott again.
And I thought, he is not mean. He is HILARIOUS.
And tsgs, I love hilarious.
The more we hung out, the more I wanted to be around him.
I told myself,
"I don't like him. I don't like him. He's nice. But I don't like him."
Because for my whole life I was thinking,
there will never be someone who really fits with me,
who loves me, who wants to be with me.
And then one day, Leslie confronted me.
"You like a short rapper!" she said.
"No!" I said.
(By the way, Scott says he is medium not short.
Short is anything below him).
"Yes!" I said. "Yes, I like him."
Then it was out there hanging in the air, in the universe,
I had said it outloud and now it was real.
And then there was that nauseous feeling
that maybe this was like all the other times
when there was all that liking going on and it ended up disastrously.
But it wasn't. It was the opposite. He liked me back.
And tomorrow will be our eleven year anniversary.
Eleven. Years.
2 youth groups, 3 sweet boys, and 1 church plant later,
we still like each other.
Except when we have to clean the house. Then we get angry.
But after the house is clean we like each other again.
Tomorrow we are going to celebrate because 11 years is no small thing.
And I still think he is hilarious.
I don't know all our plans yet. He's been a little vague.
Maybe he wrote a rap for me.

the dark side

This is a 2 blog day.
Because.....
remember how I said I might go dark with my hair?
When I said dark what I meant apparently was a
teensy weensy bit darker.
But the darker I pointed to on the color wheel of
hair color was DARK.
As in Morticia from the Adams family.
Okay, maybe not Morticia.
But I had to apply makeup because this new
color is going to require some blush and colored gloss.
I am definitely embracing my eastern European roots.
I think I look like Louise Schiebelhut, my great grandmother,
who was german but immigrated to America from Russia.
Actually, I think I look like a Russian spy.
Like at any moment I could pull a dagger from my diaper bag
or hurl myself from a play structure doing back flips.
I was thinking chocolate brown, go dark and playful for the
holiday season, and instead I got Russian spy.
Because tsgs, we are talking dark.
When I walked in the door, the boys looked frightened.
Will immediately said,
"I don't like it."
And Jack said,
"Awkward." Yes, he did. He is home from school today, sick.
But after a comment like that, he will be getting no extra pampering.
Scott told me he loved me no matter what.....
I think that means even though I look like a Russian spy.
I can't stop staring at myself in the mirror.
I don't hate it. It is a lovely chocolate brown color.
And yet for the last ten years I have been embracing blonde highlights.
It's going to take some getting used to.
So here it is. The photo you have been waiting for.
My spy pose....you know, I look like I should be wearing a white fur hat.
Susanka Aughtmonskova....Russian spy.....signing off.
Slava Bogu. ("God Bless You" in Russian.)

gray's anatomy

It all went down ten years ago.
I was leading a prayer circle at youth group.
One of the youth kids looks at me and says,
"You have gray hair!"
"What?"
And a that, he pulled a longish gray hair from my head.
I still have not forgiven him.
One, it ruined prayer time....
all the other kids started examining my head.
Two, for actually pulling out a hair from my head.
And three, he brought to my attention the fact that I HAVE GRAY HAIR.
(Side note: being a youth group worker is not for the faint of heart.
If you have adult acne, 10 extra pounds, a largish nose, you may want
to consider working with the seniors. They are more forgiving.)
So now I am in my thirties and
it is not one but many longish gray hairs that I am battling.
This weekend I noticed the battle is thickening.
Not only is the hair gray. But the texture is changing.
I happened to glance at myself in the mirror and
noticed that pulling out of my messy bun,
over both of my ears at different levels,
were two clumps of gray hair, curling up like little afro puffs.
Have I mentioned to you before that I have STRAIGHT hair?
Apparently, the gray has decided to change it up a bit.
When I pointed out this curly phenomenon to Scott,
he couldn't look directly at me.
When I said,"Do you see this? This...this....craziness?"
He refused to answer because he said it was like one of those
lose/lose questions that girls ask guys like,
"Do my jeans make me look fat?"
So I am off to get my hair colored this morning.
I have always done highlights but I think I may go dark.
Just for fun. But then I wonder will it make me look sallow?
Will it bring out the purple tinge under my eyes?
Or will I look more natural since it will match my eyebrows?
Or will my bangs run into my eyebrows and
make them look more bushy than they already are?
Should I go brunette, sandy blonde,
or embrace a chocolate brown with reddish undertones?
Don't know.
All I know is that if I was supposed to be gray,
there wouldn't be such a wide array of luxurious hair color
to be tried out and applied to my hair.
And that brings us back to prayer.
It always best to pray before your hair person applies said color.
I leave you now with some excitement and little fear.
And the hope that when we chat next,
the world will be a little brighter, the peppermint jojo's
will have arrived at Trader Joe's,
and there will be no more gray.
For a few months anyway.

christmas in october

I know. I know. I know. It's not even Halloween.
I have a full 5 lbs. to gain at Thanksgiving before
I should start EVEN CONSIDERING writing about Christmas.
I fully agree with you.
Except that I have this Christmas article deadline that has
been hanging over my head like a big fatload of bricks.
And today I finished. I thought I finished last night. Not so.
After staying up until midnight last night, editing,
somehow, in the vast un-knowledge of technology that I posess,
I failed to save my edits...twice.
And you know, tsgs, a number of "for goodness sakes" where
exclaimed into the wee black hours of this morning.
Because we all know I need my beauty rest.
So this afternoon, my blessed mother-in-law,
came to watch my little guys and I finished it up.
And now I can't stop thinking about Christmas.
I very nearly popped James Taylor's Hallmark Christmas album
into the cd player of my minivan this afternoon.
Because I don't play when it comes to Christmas music or James.
Or my minivan, for that matter.
And then I started thinking about mulled cider.
And buying presents. I love buying presents.
I love the look on peoples faces when they open the
presents that I bought them.
Now my children have been hounding me for Christmas
presents since July. That's right. July.
This does not excite me. I'm all for Christmas lists.
But my children are begging for elaborate
lego starwars building sets that cost hundreds of dollars.
They think they are getting these for Christmas.
(Hundreds of dollars!) And I keep trying to tell them
Mommy just does not carry that much cash.
But santa does, right?
People, lego starwars is about to blow santa's cover.
Because we all know santa would bring the
lego starwars Jabba the Hut sailbarge with
Lando Calrissian and blind Han Solo. He would.
He would have his elvish buddies whip up two matching sailbarges
so that Jack and Will wouldn't have to fight over who gets r2-d2.
But we also all know that mommy buys stocking stuffers
at the dollar store and never the twain shall meet.
If I was a millionaire, I would seriously consider
spending a hundred dollars on one toy. If it was on sale.
Because I would love to see the looks on those two sweet boys faces
when they opened their SINGLE christmas present
and saw Luke and Leia in all of their hinged lego glory.
But the article I've been working on talks about
the other side of Christmas. The giving side.
The side of Christmas when we pour love into the people around us.
And I would love to give that to my boys, too.
I would love for them to know the joy of not just getting toys,
but doing something filled with love for someone who needs it.
And so it has me thinking. About all the fun awaiting us.
About Jesus. About little boys and Christmas morning.
About how we as a family can pour out, instead of just filling up.
And I'm thinking just a little bit about the
peppermint jojo's chocolate sandwich cookies from Trader Joe's
that should be arriving sometime in November.
Just a little bit.
And with that said,
I must soon start the search for halloween costumes.
Luke and Annakin Skywalker, of course.

confession #10: i'm not consistent with my devotions

Don't shun me. Try not to judge me.
I know you want to after reading my confession title.
I asked Jesus into my heart when I was 5,
which means I have had roughly 31 years of inconsistent,
on again/off again, ever so erratic, times set aside
for prayer and Bible reading on a daily basis.
There it has been said. Pull yourself up off of the floor.
I know I have shattered your image of me.
I am a pastor's wife after all.
I know you THOUGHT I spent 2.3 hours praying fervently
each morning before I woke the children and another hour
committing a chapter of scripture to memory in my
evening quiet time just after I tucked the children in bed.
Let's just lay it all out here....I don't play the piano either.
If this all too much for you to take in,
step away from the screen, and throw up a quick prayer on my behalf.
Because I have one more confession for you.
I have grown up thinking that devotions is something
I need to check off of my to do list.
Like groceries, check. Bills, check. Devotions, check.
Now I can move on with my day.
And what I am realizing is that Jesus didn't have devotions.
He had a devotional life. He was in God's presence ALL DAY.
He didn't set aside 20 minutes a day to connect with God
He was connected to God whether he was at a party
or at the synagogue or eating fish for lunch.
And maybe some days he didn't step away from the crowds
to pray by himself but then other times he took, oh, say
40 days to pray by himself. There was no formula to it.
Which is disheartening, tsgs, because I love a good formula.
Jesus was ALWAYS listening for his Father's voice and his direction.
So all of that to say, our church has been using the LIFE Journal.
Where you read scripture, observe it, apply it, pray about it.
And write it down. This can be done alone or with a group of friends.
It is changing how I look at God's word
and how I view the time I set aside for connecting with God.
I'm trying to break free from the thought
that devotions have to look like what I've thought they should look like.
I would like my relationship with Jesus to be more
than a glance at the scriptures and a hurried prayer.
Maybe I can have a devotional life, too.
So I am using this Life Journal as my starting place.
Because I have a history of poor devotion times,
I am just plain stinky at figuring out a "time-with-God" formula,
I am trying something new.
I'm asking God to help me hear him
not for 20 minutes in the morning or the hour before bed.
I would like to learn how to be open to God speaking to me ALL DAY.
Just think, maybe it's like Brother Lawrence said,
you can be in God's presence while you are doing the dishes.
I don't know about you but I have a lot of dishes.
This could get interesting.

easy like sunday morning

I'm not sure what Lionel Richie was talking about
when he sang the line, "Because, I'm easy.....easy like Sunday morning."
But I know three things.
He wasn't going to church.
He wasn't getting his kids ready for church.
And he definitely wasn't cleaning his house
so his church could meet in his living room.
And I know this because those are the things I do
and when Sunday morning rolls around I am never "easy".
Frantic? Cranky? Harried? Yes.
Irritated? Tardy? Mildly psychotic? Always.
Easy? Never. Not in a million years.
I know Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. For someone.
I know Sunday is supposed to be a day of worship. Somewhere.
But for me that is the time when all the crazy comes out.
My house ALWAYS looks like the wreck of the Hesperus.
I use the phrase "the wreck of the Hesperus"
because when I was little my mom used to say,
"This house looks like the wreck of the Hesperus."
And I had no idea what she meant. But now I do.
It means there are so many little things littered across your floor,
you feel your head just might explode.
And then there is getting the children ready.
They are always naked. Or have paired a ski jacket with shorts.
And there is only one sock between the three of them.
And they have I-went-to-bed-with-still-damp-Saturday-night-bath-hair
that can not be tamed with any type of mousse or gel.
And then there is me. Getting me ready.
That is left until after the house is clean, the coffee is made,
we have run to the store for just "one more thing" for the 12th time,
the children are clothed, the furniture is rearranged into rows,
and then I think about my hair. Ponytail or messy bun. Done.
Makeup? Some under eye concealer and shiny lip product.
Can't find gloss? Chapstick, Vaseline, or Vicks will do.
Of course with Vicks, there is the added bonus of mentholatum
which will clear the sinuses.
And then there is the Sunday morning anger.
It wells up just when you are trying to be spiritual.
You turn on worship songs to get ready to.
You are singing along when you realize you have two minutes
to finish getting ready, the children are bickering,
there are no paper products for the coffee you have made,
and the baby has dumped milky cheerios down his 3rd outfit.
And you become enraged in a matter of seconds.
So before the service actually starts,
I have had to repent 3 times and ask forgiveness from my children.
And from Jesus. And Scott. And the neighbors.
And to anyone else who has encountered me at my house
on Sunday morning when I am still getting ready,
I'm throwing a forgiveness shout out to you, too. Sorry.
I'm praying Jesus helps my kids forget these Sunday mornings.
It could stunt their spiritual growth for life.
Our church plant is getting ready to start meeting in a theater.
Which is a huge miracle and answer to prayer.
But I know from the past that getting kids ready, loaded up,
and arriving to church on time, is no small feat either.
And I just have one thing to say about that.
Shame on you, Lionel Richie.
Shame. On. You.

finding my voice

It's no good at all when you see yourself
And don't recognize your face
Out on my own it's such a scary place
The answers are all inside of me
All I have to do is believe
I'm not gonna stop
Not gonna stop til I get my shot
That's who I am
That is my plan
I'll end up on top

Where do such words of wisdom come from?
A business tycoon who has failed
and has come to a turning point in his career?
A musician who has lost herself in the music industry
and is returning to her passion?
No, these poignant words of self-discovery,
of realizing you have become someone you don't know
and the oath that you will return to your former likeable self,
pour from the mouth of a somewhat orangey, self-tanned Zac Efron,
in the "bet on it" golf course scene of High School Musical 2.
For the life of me, I can not get this song out of my head.
I even identify with it a little in that I am now writing for cash
and deadlines and expectations of others,
instead of just writing for the sheer joy of it.
I need to figure who I am as a writer.
As you would say in the writing realm, I need to find my voice.
The style that defines my writing.
The rhythm of words and play of thoughts
that makes me as a writer uniquely....me.
Now I think there are certain things
that I have to offer the world in the way of words,
like thoughts on scones and sleep depravity.
And then are things I should never put down on paper,
like how to re-build an engine or stock market day trading.
That would just hurt people and the economy.
Because let's face it, tsgs, I'm no Maya Angelou.
I don't often wax equolent about the state of the world,
about things like taxes or race relations.
And I have nothing to say in the way of hard theology, science fiction,
crime fighting, murder mystery or self-help.
So many topics...so little viewpoint on my part.
But ask me my take on every day occurences or issues of the heart
like babies in Africa, fashion disasters, tea with girlfriends,
grace, broken friendships, humiliation, hair implants,
the importance of family, church planting, insecurity,
raising little boys, cherry lip gloss or messy closets,
and I could write for days. And days.
So there it is.
From the murky depths of within
and with a little help from a cheesy song
sung by an angst ridden teenager,
with the treasured insight from family members and friends,
the truth of who I am as a writer begins to bubble to the surface.
Oh and all those prayers to Jesus.
I tell him I have nothing to say
and ask if he can give me something good to pass along?
In his graciousness he answers.
Because when I really think of it and the heart of what I'm after,
I would really like my voice to echo His.
That would be the best thing of all.

a couple of simple pleasures

In a world that tends to be on the complex side,
I have come to love that which is simple,
anything that adds a little goodness and beauty to my day,
They may not be world changers but they add a little joy.
And who doesn't need a little joy?
As soon as fall hits, I long for pumpkin. Strange I know.
It could be because pumpkin only comes to visit in fall
(you just never see it in spring)
and I happen to love fall because
stores are flooded with millions of tiny chocolate bars,
I got married in October and my birthday is near Thanksgiving.
To me, anything pumpkin-y seems to personify autumnal goodness.
Crisp fall afternoons seem to shout out,
"For goodness sakes, where are the pumpkin muffins?"
And apparently they are at Trader Joes. In a box.
I love baking from scratch but this is "scratch" in half the time.
They have hidden them in between the lemon pound cake box
and the cranberry orange cake box in the baking aisle.
And they are little boxes of pumpkin gold, so if you find them
and pumpkin signifies all the happy to you that it does to me,
get more than one box.
I made them and all my boys (Scott included) wanted 2 and
declared me "pumpkin goddess" for the day.
Okay, they didn't declare anything but they did want 2.
If you sprinkle them with brown and white sugar before baking,
like my sister Erica suggested,
it forms a carmelized sugar crust
which is a nice texture play against the moist lovely muffin,
(I have been watching WAY TOO MUCH food network)
the heavens will open up and rain down pumpkin joy upon you.
And did I mention it comes in a box?
Onto simple pleasure #2
While browsing at Target...
which is a simple pleasure in and of itself,
I happened upon a dishwashing soap called,
you are not going to believe it,
Simple Pleasures by Dawn.
And it is.

Because not only do you have the grease cutting power of Dawn,
but in a seperate little cage at the bottom of the bottle,
they have enclosed tiny air freshener pebbles that fill
your kitchen with a lovely scent, apple/pear.
And if you have a house full of boys, or stinky diapers,
or you let your laundry sit in the washer for 3 days and
go horrificly sour, you need 4.7 bottles of this to
distribute around your house.
It is fantastic. And I see they now have lemon/tangerine.
Could anything be more simple or pleasurable?
I don't think so.

belly up

We like to to play the "where-is-baby's-body-part?" game
with Addison and see if he knows where his different body parts are.
For instance...
"Where is Addie's nose?" or
"Where is Addie's foot?"
To which he searches his small body to see if he can
find the correct appendage or phalange.
But our favorite body part to locate is the belly button.
Not only is it adorable to see him lift up his shirt
and see his delectably round toddler belly peeking out,
but when he locates his belly button, he tries to say the name,
and it comes out,"budduh-budduh".
This he likes to say over and over.
And truth be told, I like to hear him say it over and over.
Until he tried to locate my "budduh-budduh" today.
He enlisted the help of his brother, Will, whose own taut firm navel,
was easily located on his wiry 4 1/2 year old abdomen.
My belly button, however, has tried to seek refuge and hide out in the
hilly terrain of my after baby belly.
And while the post nursing pounds are slowly dropping off,
the skin has yet to return to it's normal state.
Or scarier yet, this may now BE the normal state of my stomach.
I can't dwell on it. It makes me weepy.
After being over stretched for roughly 2 1/2 years of pregnancy,
I think my abdominal skin finally said, "I give."
That is quite possibly too much information for you, tsgs,
but I've vowed to keep it real with my writing no matter
how painful and traumatic to my own psyche.
All that to say...as the search for my belly button
was realized with Will saying,
"Oh, there it is." and then
"Mom, it kind of looks different because it's so far in there."
I knew the fun and games of "where-is-baby's-body-part?"
had come to a sad and terrible end.
There's not a whole lot more to said.
It's not pretty, girls. It's just not pretty.

reservations

Yesterday I set about making reservations for our trip
back east for Christmas.
I set up the laptop on the kitchen table,
like a mini-command center, so I could watch the children
while completing my task at hand.
But wouldn't you know it, I could not figure out how
to get the flight that I wanted online.
When I typed in "flight leaving at 11:00 am"
they offered me "flights leaving at 6:00 am, 4:45 pm or 6:00 pm"
And when I tried to type in the specific flight number I wanted,
because I actually knew the number, since my sister is flying on it,
the screen said to me basically,
"You are cuckoo crazy to think there is a flight with that number."
So my laptop command center became a cell phone command center
as I decided to call the reservations 800 number.
And then I was dealing with an automated voice person,
asking me questions, like....
"What I think you have said is you would like a flight leaving
San Francisco, is that correct? Please say "yes" if that is correct?"
"Yes."
But at the exact time I would say "Yes",
Addison, would run behind my chair,
baby babbling and ramming his scooter into the wall,
and the fake robot agent would say,
"I'm sorry, I did not understand what you are saying,
I think you said you would like to go to Hong Kong
(or some other foreign place), is that correct?
Please say "yes" if that is correct?"
"No!"
To which, Addison would zoom back behind me, shrieking with baby glee,
and me and pleasant voiced un-human guy would have to start over.
So I just started saying, "Help! Operator! Help!"
Trying to figure out the code word for
"Connect me with a real person, for goodness sakes!"
"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you are saying.
That is not an option. Would you like me to repeat the question?"
Say "yes" if you would like me to repeat the question."
"No! For the love of God, do not repeat the question!
Help me! Someone who is real and is not made up of computer chips!
Help me!"
"Would you like to return to the previous menu?"
"No!"
At some point he offered me the option of saying the word "agent".
"AGENT!" I shrieked into the phone.
"I'm sorry but what I think you said is that you would like to speak with a reservations specialist. Is that correct?
Say "yes" if you would like to speak to a reservations specialist."
"Yes! Agent! Reservations specialist!" I wept into the phone.
"Hold for one second while I connect you to a reservations specialist."
And it was only when the sweet voice of a real live person
came on the line and I completed the unbelievably long process
of reserving 5 tickets and receiving my 14 digit reservation code:
M as in Mary, I as in Inglebert, P as in Pathetic and so on
did I realize that Addison was no longer screeching behind my head.
In fact, it was abnormally quiet at command central.
That and the fact that I heard faint rustlings coming from my closet
caused me great concern and heart palpations.
I went to investigate, finding I could not open the door to my closet,
since Will and Addison had pulled down every article of clothing
and created a pants/blouse/skirt barricade blocking themselves in.
If I could have kicked in the door I would have.
Will, plaintively, explained through the door that
he kept asking Addie if he should pull down more clothes,
to which Addison would agree, yes, by all means pull down more clothes,
which is the answer you would most likely expect from a toddler.
I started yelling punishments through the door
since I could not actually see my children....
no computer, time out on the bed, no chocolate for the rest of your life.
Just so you know, the children are alive and well,
free from the closet and punishments duly served.
But from now on, I believe I will leave the reservations up to Scott.

imperfect

So the thing is...I'm not perfect.
Anyone who has met me can attest to that.
And yet, the other thing is...I want to be perfect.
Anyone who is in my family can attest to that.
And the other-other thing is...I will never be perfect.
Anyone who lives in this broken universe can attest to that.
I believe originally we were made for perfection,
so I think my struggle stems from a latent Garden of Eden gene.
I was meant for a life where everything dovetailed neatly into place...
my relationships, my walk with God, my hair.
All were meant to be perfect.
Then the whole Eve thing went down...blah blah bah.
And here I am thousands of years later still wanting an Eden on earth.
I totally have Eve issues...and yet I am extremely thankful
she was the one who messed up because I know it would have been me.
I would have been gnawing on the apple because I love fruit,
I'm prone to disobedience
and I would have been mesmerized by a wierd talking snake.
That... and the fact that I'm not perfect.
And now I am seeing this in my small boys...this struggle for perfection.
And I am going to call it for what it is...a harbinger of the devil's work.
Strong words, I know. But what started in the garden continues on today.
Lots and lots of lies. Big stinky snake lies.
And if you say them outloud they sound crazy and foolish.
But mostly they live in our heads and our hearts, creating angst and fear.
The lie that I hear in my head on a regular basis is this,
"You need to be good at everything. Perfect, really."
Now, if I say that outloud, I think, "That is absolutely ridiculous."
But now I see Jack dealing with the pressure of school and sports
and friendships and the school yard dynamics.
I see him wavering beneath the pressure of his own reptilian thoughts
of perfection and needing to be good at everything he puts his hand to.
And I then I see Will trying to match up to his big brother's accomplishments burdening his small four year old frame
with 6 year old expectations.
And I am getting ready to go nuts because I see two things,
1) I can see the lies for what they are.
2) I can see myself in my sons.
And the only way I can speak truth into my sons hearts,
or show them how to get free,
is if I am willing to let Jesus expose those slithering lies
that have wrapped themselves so tightly around my own mind and heart.
The lie that has kept rearing it's ugly head in different ways
through out my life...my college eating disorder,
my frenzied control issues (a wide colorful dysfunctional array of them),
and my paralyzing self expectations.
And whereas, Sue the individual, may have been willing to
let the whole "need-to-be-perfect" thing go in herself,
Sue the mom, is not willing to let this lie mess with her kids.
Because, you know, Mommy don't play.
So this is the beginning. This small post.
This small beam of light shining into the dark lie that I tell myself,
that I need to be perfect.
Because there is only one perfect.
That would be Jesus.
And last time I checked, I was not him.

grace

On September 27, Addison had his 18 month birthday.
I can't hardly believe that it was a year and half ago
that they handed me a rather large, 9 lb. 12 oz. bundle
that I clutched to my chest and wept over.
I buried my face into that tiny space between his neck and shoulder
and inhaled that glorious smell of brand new baby.
And while it seems only moments ago that it took place,
it has been such a long year and a half.
I call the first year after you have a baby, "baby lockdown".
You are at the beck and call of your little one,
the feedings, the changings, the sleep deprived nights and the schedules.
You become a one woman show....
a buffet, a caregiver and a baby entainer all wrapped into one...
it's a little like a three ring circus
as you try to juggle the naps, the awake time, and the gas....
let's not forget the gas. Why don't they just burp already?
It seems like a never ending cycle of tiredness and confusion
as you ask yourself endless questions you can not answer like...
Will they sleep through the night?
Are they ready for yogurt?
Was it rocking them to sleep that helped them have a good nap or
the fact that you added rice cereal to their diet?
Is it normal for them to cry 4 out of the 5 hours they are awake
or should you be heading to the pediatrician right now?
It is one giant guessing game that you never quite learn the rules to....
even if you have read all the books and magazine articles.
And now it seems I have turned around twice and
he is playing with Thomas the Train and waxing eloquent about
"dis" and "dat" and "duck" and "moon".
Okay, not eloquent, but he is communicating with me that
whatever chocolate I have, he wants it.
It is an amazing amount of growth for a person
to accomplish in a year and a half.
And then I think about my own journey through post partum and
weaning and trying to re-claim my stomach muscles,
and I think we have both grown, Addison and I.
As I was driving Jack to school this morning,
I began thinking of those dark days right after Addie was born,
when I didn't know how I could make it until lunch,
let alone 18 months. I felt wrapped in loneliness.
Then I thought about how I felt right there in the car,
and that even though I was tired (who isn't, by the way?)
and I still have the dark under eye circles
(I fear they are here for life),
I felt a bit of peace edging its way into my soul.
Like maybe I have rounded a small corner
and I am at the beginning of some new thing.
And then I had this thought, that even though I felt so alone,
even though I could not feel him, God was there.
And even though I could not hear him, he was near.
And even though it has felt like a long road, and all has not been easy,
I have been wrapped up, bundled up, lifted up into strong arms
just like my newborn Addie,
and carried through out this 18 months by God's rich grace.
His unending, boundless, amazing good grace.
So this morning, with the wisps of fog littering the sky,
a good strong cup of coffee in my hand,
and with my toddler clutching a train in each hand,
I am taking a moment to be thankful.
For grace.