My early blogging efforts, pre-internet, pre-lunar landing, involved a reel-to-reel tape recorder. I happily devoted hours to capturing songs, stories, Bible memory verses and other expressions of my very small world, to be played back for admiring family and friends. (Well, my mother was enthusiastic, anyhow. An older sibling or two may have yawned and recalled the urgency of homework or dishwashing.)
At age 3 I composed a song including the phrase, “many, many missionaries, going on furlough” – clearly the big news of my day.
Much later, my Georgia family praised my renown as correspondent. Unfortunately, my missives from Tokyo had so much detail I would be exhausted for a year or two before writing another. A fault I still carry today.
But blogging is different; it has its own discipline built in to motivate regular posting. Letters go off in the mail and are never seen again; blog posts remain staring at one, until one writes something new to fill the spot.
They say women must utter roughly twice the number of words as men in a day, in order to achieve emotional resolution. (Some say this is because men don’t listen and women must say everything twice. I do not say this or I would be swiftly corrected, as the fault lies in the opposite direction in my household.) However, I know I must speak or write a significant amount each day or I feel I have not fully lived.
Sometimes I put Mitch to sleep, particularly if I am really scraping the topic barrel to use up those last few thousand words.
I blog because I have a great many opinions and feel the world is entitled to share the enlightenment. But I cringe at the thought of boorish recitations to captive audiences (except of course when I am giving hour-long benefits orientations) so like any good flights of fancy attendant, may I direct your attention to the small X in the upper right corner of your screen. If at any time while reading my blog you feel bored, first wait a second and see if a little yellow oxygen mask pops out of the screen. Failing that, do feel free to exit in mid-flight. Assuming your parachute opens, you can always check my blog another day. Or not. You’re the customer, you decide.
Finally, I blog because I would like to be published someday. Second for personal fulfillment, first because my family needs the money (did I mention we both work for non-profits?) I want to get some thoughts out there, see what people want to read, what makes them yawn, what prompts response. Hone my writing, better develop my choice of topic. Then when I think I have something close enough to ready . . .
Why do you blog?
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
My Day Ahhhhhhhhff
Since my employer charmingly mandates that I use up all remaining vacation time before fiscal year end, I took the day off yesterday. A Monday at home is delightful. Not part of a massive road trip effort, not even a trip to the Cheyenne Mountain zoo, just home.
When I would normally be stuffing leftovers into a sack and grabbing kisses from both kids, I instead cuddled in our waterbed with my 3-yr old, surrounded by stacks of books and an audience of plush doggies.
Once Mitch got home from work, we ate breakfast all together and then headed off for Walmart – before pre-nap exhaustion, sibling stress, and kid-consumer gimme-ism set in.
We got home just in time for a quick dip in our new backyard pool, frigid although Mitch gallantly tried to warm it by draining our hot water heater repeatedly. But kids don’t care about such details. We learned when my son was 2 that the standard answer will always be, “N-n-n-n-no, I’m not c-c-c-c-cc-cold.”
Still, I got no argument taking a shivering little girl out for nap, and she didn’t even pull the last-second delay tactic, “But I’m huuuuungry.”
One child safely down, I spread lunch fixings all over our table. It’s amazing how a sandwich can taste like you bought it in a restaurant if you put enough good stuff on it. Lately I’m enjoying a Basil Ranch salad dressing, my son prefers Goat Cheese with Sun-Dried Tomato. Mitch peeled us an avocado, and we had lots of romaine and red-leaf, roma tomatoes and red bell peppers. My young gourmet fried us up some bologna slices – they bulge in the middle with the heat and come out looking like little sombreros.
The three of us finished Steve Martin’s Pink Panther – we started it at dinner the night before but my 3-yr old kept asking every 5 seconds “What happened, Mama?” plus she truly did not understand the humor of people getting knocked down, hit in the head and what not. I could tell she disapproved.
So we three enjoyed it sans running commentary. My favorite part is when Inspector Clousseau spins the big globe, and, with a nod to Peter Sellers’ falling on the floor with that move, the globe instead comes off its stand and turns into an Indy Jones-like missile destroying all in its path and takes down a pack of cyclists like bowling pins.
Getting Mitch to do anything sitting down is a little tricky, but I’ve been wanting him to read my blogs for days now, and he knew it, so he sat still long enough to catch up. Since he’s the human whose approval I care most about, that alone made my day.
Naptime over, we got another arctic dip, put the kids in pink and blue see-through donuts and spun them like bumper boats. Later I swathed them in warm towels and blankets.
I made curry for dinner, S&B Golden Curry, Medium Hot, a Japanese import which takes me back. I’ve made peace with the fact that, at least for now, my kids do not like curry, so I make two meals on these nights. Mitch has the same taste I do, or I might not have married him. Life is too short for bland food.
Afterward Mitch started to throw away the S&B box and I stopped him – “Wait, I might need to blog about that.” This made him laugh out loud. (When we first started dating, Mitch’s laugh embarrassed me, until several of my friends commented how nice it was, and I have loved it since. Mitch is the one you hear laughing across the room in church or at the movies. Not the annoying kind that goes on and on, Mitch laughs because he really thinks it’s funny, and he’s not thinking about himself. That makes people happy to be around him.)
Mitch thinks I should blog about “You Might Be A Blogger If . . . .”
My desire to save the curry box being Exhibit A.
We finished the evening by watching Dinotopia – this one accessible for my 3-yr old with its talking saurians and comprehensible dangers. I am completely intrigued by this movie. It reminds me very much of Kent Hovind’s DVD on dinosaurs. Although philosophically the two are realms apart, they both tell of a world where humans and dinosaurs lived together.
Refreshed, I’m ready to return now to the world of EOBs and death certificates, benefits summary rewrites and finding new ways to make all these things comprehensible and accessible to all I work with. As big a challenge in its own way as piloting a brach through a T-Rex infested forest.
It’s Tuesday, time for my own adventure!
When I would normally be stuffing leftovers into a sack and grabbing kisses from both kids, I instead cuddled in our waterbed with my 3-yr old, surrounded by stacks of books and an audience of plush doggies.
Once Mitch got home from work, we ate breakfast all together and then headed off for Walmart – before pre-nap exhaustion, sibling stress, and kid-consumer gimme-ism set in.
We got home just in time for a quick dip in our new backyard pool, frigid although Mitch gallantly tried to warm it by draining our hot water heater repeatedly. But kids don’t care about such details. We learned when my son was 2 that the standard answer will always be, “N-n-n-n-no, I’m not c-c-c-c-cc-cold.”
Still, I got no argument taking a shivering little girl out for nap, and she didn’t even pull the last-second delay tactic, “But I’m huuuuungry.”
One child safely down, I spread lunch fixings all over our table. It’s amazing how a sandwich can taste like you bought it in a restaurant if you put enough good stuff on it. Lately I’m enjoying a Basil Ranch salad dressing, my son prefers Goat Cheese with Sun-Dried Tomato. Mitch peeled us an avocado, and we had lots of romaine and red-leaf, roma tomatoes and red bell peppers. My young gourmet fried us up some bologna slices – they bulge in the middle with the heat and come out looking like little sombreros.
The three of us finished Steve Martin’s Pink Panther – we started it at dinner the night before but my 3-yr old kept asking every 5 seconds “What happened, Mama?” plus she truly did not understand the humor of people getting knocked down, hit in the head and what not. I could tell she disapproved.
So we three enjoyed it sans running commentary. My favorite part is when Inspector Clousseau spins the big globe, and, with a nod to Peter Sellers’ falling on the floor with that move, the globe instead comes off its stand and turns into an Indy Jones-like missile destroying all in its path and takes down a pack of cyclists like bowling pins.
Getting Mitch to do anything sitting down is a little tricky, but I’ve been wanting him to read my blogs for days now, and he knew it, so he sat still long enough to catch up. Since he’s the human whose approval I care most about, that alone made my day.
Naptime over, we got another arctic dip, put the kids in pink and blue see-through donuts and spun them like bumper boats. Later I swathed them in warm towels and blankets.
I made curry for dinner, S&B Golden Curry, Medium Hot, a Japanese import which takes me back. I’ve made peace with the fact that, at least for now, my kids do not like curry, so I make two meals on these nights. Mitch has the same taste I do, or I might not have married him. Life is too short for bland food.
Afterward Mitch started to throw away the S&B box and I stopped him – “Wait, I might need to blog about that.” This made him laugh out loud. (When we first started dating, Mitch’s laugh embarrassed me, until several of my friends commented how nice it was, and I have loved it since. Mitch is the one you hear laughing across the room in church or at the movies. Not the annoying kind that goes on and on, Mitch laughs because he really thinks it’s funny, and he’s not thinking about himself. That makes people happy to be around him.)
Mitch thinks I should blog about “You Might Be A Blogger If . . . .”
My desire to save the curry box being Exhibit A.
We finished the evening by watching Dinotopia – this one accessible for my 3-yr old with its talking saurians and comprehensible dangers. I am completely intrigued by this movie. It reminds me very much of Kent Hovind’s DVD on dinosaurs. Although philosophically the two are realms apart, they both tell of a world where humans and dinosaurs lived together.
Refreshed, I’m ready to return now to the world of EOBs and death certificates, benefits summary rewrites and finding new ways to make all these things comprehensible and accessible to all I work with. As big a challenge in its own way as piloting a brach through a T-Rex infested forest.
It’s Tuesday, time for my own adventure!
Mind the Checks
"I’ll just slip into the house to put this stack of laundry away and I’ll be right back. Watch your sister," I told him. I had two full baskets of clean laundry to fold, sitting at the picnic table while the kids played in the front yard. Mitch was very close, planting rosebushes beside the driveway, but the van hid his view of the kids.
I started to walk away. Something inside said, “Don’t leave right now.”
The radio was playing "God is watching over you, as always." I almost turned to my son to stress the reminder, "Remember, you need to watch over your sister, kind of like God watches over you."
I left the words unsaid. I did not respond to the nudge inside.
Halfway up the stairs inside, I heard my little girl crying.
We were very fortunate. The sharp branch left a red mark just beneath her eye, and more sharp branches scraped her chin, arms and legs. She had tried to follow her brother through a tight place between shrubbery and wall. The sort of thing an adult would have caught quickly and said, “No, Sweetie, don’t try to get through that way.” The sort of thing my son knows, but didn’t stop to process. Don’t go places your sister can’t follow, when you know she’s following you.
He cried pitifully and long when he saw all her bandaids and the scrape so close to her eye. And that’s a good lesson for him to learn responsibility. But I knew that ultimate responsibility always lies with those who do the delegating.
And I ignored mine.
“Mind the checks,” my father has often told me, a bit of wisdom passed to him from some older saint. The little “check” inside, that tiny, almost indiscernible bit of resistance, like when a rusty door doesn’t quite open but you push it anyhow and it breaks.
It’s easy to override. But we shouldn’t.
I started to walk away. Something inside said, “Don’t leave right now.”
The radio was playing "God is watching over you, as always." I almost turned to my son to stress the reminder, "Remember, you need to watch over your sister, kind of like God watches over you."
I left the words unsaid. I did not respond to the nudge inside.
Halfway up the stairs inside, I heard my little girl crying.
We were very fortunate. The sharp branch left a red mark just beneath her eye, and more sharp branches scraped her chin, arms and legs. She had tried to follow her brother through a tight place between shrubbery and wall. The sort of thing an adult would have caught quickly and said, “No, Sweetie, don’t try to get through that way.” The sort of thing my son knows, but didn’t stop to process. Don’t go places your sister can’t follow, when you know she’s following you.
He cried pitifully and long when he saw all her bandaids and the scrape so close to her eye. And that’s a good lesson for him to learn responsibility. But I knew that ultimate responsibility always lies with those who do the delegating.
And I ignored mine.
“Mind the checks,” my father has often told me, a bit of wisdom passed to him from some older saint. The little “check” inside, that tiny, almost indiscernible bit of resistance, like when a rusty door doesn’t quite open but you push it anyhow and it breaks.
It’s easy to override. But we shouldn’t.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Three Quarts' Worth of Atonement
“I put three quarts in, and this vehicle only holds four quarts.”
Oops.
The voice on the phone sounded almost cheery – the gritted-teeth sort of cheerfulness one reserves for informing someone of transgressions. Someone one has told many times before.
“The person who normally drives this vehicle did not MENTION to the person who normally changes the oil on this vehicle that THE GAUGE IS AT THE BOTTOM. In fact, I didn’t even NEED the gauge, I heard the engine rattle WHEN I TURNED THE MOTOR ON.”
Cringe. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry . . . I guess I didn’t notice.” Very lame.
A pause. “That’s what you said the last four times this happened.”
Major oops. Major cringe. Major atonement needed.
I sought advice from a married co-worker. “Well, you can’t very well bring him home a dozen roses,” she pondered. “Wait, I know! Just walk right up to him, throw your arms around his neck, give him a great big smooch, smile and say, ‘Honey, I KNOW you love me!’”
Would you believe it worked? And it sure beat mumbling “sorry” repetitively for half an hour. Nobody likes a groveler.
For those who’ve acknowledged Jesus as our Savior, no further atonement is possible. Not even for spousal misdemeanors. Grace is ours, but it has to be received, and that’s pretty tough to do with one’s head down and one’s tail between one’s legs.
Naturally, grace in hand, wifely good deeds do tend to follow – but as gifts, not quid pro quo. And if anyone has a great tip to jog my memory on watching that gauge, I’m all ears.
Oops.
The voice on the phone sounded almost cheery – the gritted-teeth sort of cheerfulness one reserves for informing someone of transgressions. Someone one has told many times before.
“The person who normally drives this vehicle did not MENTION to the person who normally changes the oil on this vehicle that THE GAUGE IS AT THE BOTTOM. In fact, I didn’t even NEED the gauge, I heard the engine rattle WHEN I TURNED THE MOTOR ON.”
Cringe. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry . . . I guess I didn’t notice.” Very lame.
A pause. “That’s what you said the last four times this happened.”
Major oops. Major cringe. Major atonement needed.
I sought advice from a married co-worker. “Well, you can’t very well bring him home a dozen roses,” she pondered. “Wait, I know! Just walk right up to him, throw your arms around his neck, give him a great big smooch, smile and say, ‘Honey, I KNOW you love me!’”
Would you believe it worked? And it sure beat mumbling “sorry” repetitively for half an hour. Nobody likes a groveler.
For those who’ve acknowledged Jesus as our Savior, no further atonement is possible. Not even for spousal misdemeanors. Grace is ours, but it has to be received, and that’s pretty tough to do with one’s head down and one’s tail between one’s legs.
Naturally, grace in hand, wifely good deeds do tend to follow – but as gifts, not quid pro quo. And if anyone has a great tip to jog my memory on watching that gauge, I’m all ears.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Little Mama Award
Yesterday leaving work, I had a vague sense I should go somewhere, but shrugged it off, thinking it must have been Safeway, an item I could get another day rather than make a special trip. I found a ladybug on the front sidewalk and picked it up with a blade of grass to take home for my kids. It crawled all around the dashboard, but flew out the window while I was at a red light. Even so, my attempt at a small gift for my kids made me feel relaxed and happy. I walked in the door and received my 3-yr old’s enthusiastic welcome. When the family acts excited for me to be home, it just makes my whole day, so I really soaked in her hug and played up the moment. Finally, I stood up and told her,
“Just let me put my stuff down, Sweetie, and we can go outside and play for a bit before dinner.”
She stepped back, looked up at me, and said loudly,
“But, Mom – WHAT ABOUT PICKING UP MY BIG BROTHER???!!!”
Oh, yeah. That must have been it. My son spent the afternoon at a friend’s house north of town, and I was supposed to head there straight from work to save on doubling back.
When I called our friends to apologize, she laughed, “I wonder how long it would have taken you and Mitch to notice, if your little girl hadn’t mentioned it?”
How long indeed.
My son, of course, was thrilled to get an extra hour with his friend on Lego Star Wars PS2, and in fact pleaded for extra time, “We’ve almost killed General Grievous!” I even heard him speculating to himself that perhaps he shouldn’t have told his little sister that mom would be picking him up . . .
I remember in elementary school (and high school), my mother used to ask me every morning as I walked out the door, “Bethie, do you have your bus pass?” (season ticket for public bus)
It irritated me, but a couple of times I forgot, so it came in handy . . .
Now, sometimes, my little Mama asks me, as I’m heading out the door, “Mom, don’t forget your coffee!”
I’m sure my Mom will be thrilled to know her genes have indeed made a successful leap – even if they did skip a generation!
“Just let me put my stuff down, Sweetie, and we can go outside and play for a bit before dinner.”
She stepped back, looked up at me, and said loudly,
“But, Mom – WHAT ABOUT PICKING UP MY BIG BROTHER???!!!”
Oh, yeah. That must have been it. My son spent the afternoon at a friend’s house north of town, and I was supposed to head there straight from work to save on doubling back.
When I called our friends to apologize, she laughed, “I wonder how long it would have taken you and Mitch to notice, if your little girl hadn’t mentioned it?”
How long indeed.
My son, of course, was thrilled to get an extra hour with his friend on Lego Star Wars PS2, and in fact pleaded for extra time, “We’ve almost killed General Grievous!” I even heard him speculating to himself that perhaps he shouldn’t have told his little sister that mom would be picking him up . . .
I remember in elementary school (and high school), my mother used to ask me every morning as I walked out the door, “Bethie, do you have your bus pass?” (season ticket for public bus)
It irritated me, but a couple of times I forgot, so it came in handy . . .
Now, sometimes, my little Mama asks me, as I’m heading out the door, “Mom, don’t forget your coffee!”
I’m sure my Mom will be thrilled to know her genes have indeed made a successful leap – even if they did skip a generation!
Monday, June 12, 2006
Happy Birthday, Joy!
From my earliest memory you were there, like the air I breathe. We shared a room until you were in 8th grade. I drove you crazy by my “organization style,” draping each day’s worn clothes over a chair until it nearly tipped over. I made fun of your juice can hair rollers.
When I was 7, we roughhoused on your bed in what was for you an uncharacteristically crazy tickle fight. In a reflexive kick, you knocked a loose tooth right out of my mouth (it only hung by a thread) and then felt so bad you apologized profusely. Probably the most violent act of your lifetime.
Together, we put on our swimsuits to do the dreaded chore, thinly disguised by Mom as a “Bathtub Scrubbing Party,” griping the whole time. Although you would have preferred a quiet leisurely read, you trekked with the family on a thousand picnic hikes, at the most memorable of which you flung a banana peel into the bushes, but it caught on a prominent twig and hung there like a neon sign. We laughed hysterically. We always laugh together. And cry when we need to.
We’re joined by memories and blood, not by any similarity of habit or temperament. Your Christmas tree disappears on New Year’s Day – mine lingers until Easter some years. (But as I grow older and more organized – more like you! - I try to get it put away before February.) Open heart surgery could be performed on your kitchen floor, and your definition of “clutter” is two stray sticky notes. I’ve been known to hide stacks of dirty dishes in the linen closet when Mom was coming to visit, and I think I have a couple more rooms to my house if I could just excavate my way inside.
You send gifts and cards like clockwork for every occasion but Groundhog Day. I have great intentions, but do well to remember Christmas. The year I mailed your gifts on time, your husband called and asked if he should save the package until February, so as not to break tradition.
So today, I thought I would REALLY surprise you with something ON TIME!
I love you. You are my Steel Magnolia, my quiet hero, the best friend I know will never drift away.
Happy Birthday, Joy!
May Love lift you up where you belong, and may your view from here be your best ever!
When I was 7, we roughhoused on your bed in what was for you an uncharacteristically crazy tickle fight. In a reflexive kick, you knocked a loose tooth right out of my mouth (it only hung by a thread) and then felt so bad you apologized profusely. Probably the most violent act of your lifetime.
Together, we put on our swimsuits to do the dreaded chore, thinly disguised by Mom as a “Bathtub Scrubbing Party,” griping the whole time. Although you would have preferred a quiet leisurely read, you trekked with the family on a thousand picnic hikes, at the most memorable of which you flung a banana peel into the bushes, but it caught on a prominent twig and hung there like a neon sign. We laughed hysterically. We always laugh together. And cry when we need to.
We’re joined by memories and blood, not by any similarity of habit or temperament. Your Christmas tree disappears on New Year’s Day – mine lingers until Easter some years. (But as I grow older and more organized – more like you! - I try to get it put away before February.) Open heart surgery could be performed on your kitchen floor, and your definition of “clutter” is two stray sticky notes. I’ve been known to hide stacks of dirty dishes in the linen closet when Mom was coming to visit, and I think I have a couple more rooms to my house if I could just excavate my way inside.
You send gifts and cards like clockwork for every occasion but Groundhog Day. I have great intentions, but do well to remember Christmas. The year I mailed your gifts on time, your husband called and asked if he should save the package until February, so as not to break tradition.
So today, I thought I would REALLY surprise you with something ON TIME!
I love you. You are my Steel Magnolia, my quiet hero, the best friend I know will never drift away.
Happy Birthday, Joy!
May Love lift you up where you belong, and may your view from here be your best ever!
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