Every day, she gives us a new masterpiece.
She is Gasteracantha cancriformis. She makes huge spiral webs, going from our rose bush, to the roof, to the crape myrtle.
Every day, our first gift of the morning is to run outside, my son and I, to see what her web looks like today.
And just a few minutes ago -- excitement! -- I found a "sister" spinning her web on an azalea that's right by our dining room window. I was 1 foot away from her, watching her spin her web. She was on the 4th interior ring, carefully, but rapidly, going spoke to spoke, making the ring.
That, my friends, is a thrill. May you all be given such a gift.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Weeping for another mother's child
Precious Girl is gone. She died last night, at midnight, in her mother's arms, at home.
Saturday, she celebrated her birthday. She turned 5 years old.
September is Childhood Cancer Awareness month. Please consider giving to CureSearch.
Saturday, she celebrated her birthday. She turned 5 years old.
September is Childhood Cancer Awareness month. Please consider giving to CureSearch.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Grown Ups Not Doing Their Job
What bothers me about the whole Jena 6 thing is that it is so ... needless.
We'll put the racist DA to the side for the moment.
Mistake 1: When a new black student approached the principal and asked if he could sit under what had traditionally been a "whites only" tree, this was a powerful opportunity for the educator. Imagine a well-organized school assembly, where students are encouraged to talk about traditional assumptions. Where they are challenged to overcome those assumptions. A little bit of discussion about "olden times" wouldn't hurt, either.
Mistake 2: Kids are stupid. Not all of them, but as a group, yeah, I'll stand by this statement. IT IS OUR JOB, as adults, educators, parents, police, to TEACH THEM to face consequences. Notice: I did not say "ruin their lives." Teach them. You haul the offenders down to the jail, make their parents bail them out, then have a judge who gives them a stern talking-to and assigns them to something clever, like writing essays about prominent African-American heroes, and doing community service at an after-school program for underprivileged children (heavily supervised). The judge also calls all the parents forward and questions whether they think this is just a "prank." He/she dresses them down, too. In short, you scare them straight, both kids and parents.
Mistake 3: The community should have responded. I'm sure someone could have thought of something poetic -- how about a line of adults standing in front of the school the following Monday morning, (after the nooses) holding up posters that say, "Jena is Not a Town of Hate"?
Mistake 4: There were so many injustices throughout this, I won't go into them all, other than to mention they arrested the students who took away another student's gun (that he threatened them with), but did nothing to him? REALLY??? Oh, dear God.
Mistake 5: The assault on the white student, for which the Jena 6 were arrested. They should have been arrested, absolutely. See Mistake 2. But the goal should have been to scare them straight, NOT to make an example of them, or ruin their lives, or both.
There were many other mistakes that others can comment on, like the media ignoring it. But a fundamental issue in this is the grownups -- parents, teachers, etc --
They failed them. White students and black, they failed them.
We'll put the racist DA to the side for the moment.
Mistake 1: When a new black student approached the principal and asked if he could sit under what had traditionally been a "whites only" tree, this was a powerful opportunity for the educator. Imagine a well-organized school assembly, where students are encouraged to talk about traditional assumptions. Where they are challenged to overcome those assumptions. A little bit of discussion about "olden times" wouldn't hurt, either.
Mistake 2: Kids are stupid. Not all of them, but as a group, yeah, I'll stand by this statement. IT IS OUR JOB, as adults, educators, parents, police, to TEACH THEM to face consequences. Notice: I did not say "ruin their lives." Teach them. You haul the offenders down to the jail, make their parents bail them out, then have a judge who gives them a stern talking-to and assigns them to something clever, like writing essays about prominent African-American heroes, and doing community service at an after-school program for underprivileged children (heavily supervised). The judge also calls all the parents forward and questions whether they think this is just a "prank." He/she dresses them down, too. In short, you scare them straight, both kids and parents.
Mistake 3: The community should have responded. I'm sure someone could have thought of something poetic -- how about a line of adults standing in front of the school the following Monday morning, (after the nooses) holding up posters that say, "Jena is Not a Town of Hate"?
Mistake 4: There were so many injustices throughout this, I won't go into them all, other than to mention they arrested the students who took away another student's gun (that he threatened them with), but did nothing to him? REALLY??? Oh, dear God.
Mistake 5: The assault on the white student, for which the Jena 6 were arrested. They should have been arrested, absolutely. See Mistake 2. But the goal should have been to scare them straight, NOT to make an example of them, or ruin their lives, or both.
There were many other mistakes that others can comment on, like the media ignoring it. But a fundamental issue in this is the grownups -- parents, teachers, etc --
They failed them. White students and black, they failed them.
Mychal Bell was denied bail
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070921/ap_on_re_us/jena_six_protest
When he was tried as an adult, his bail was absurdly high, but it was there. Now, perhaps because enough money was raised for a bail bond ... no bail?
This entire thing makes me feel physically ill. Will post more later, once I can type without retching.
When he was tried as an adult, his bail was absurdly high, but it was there. Now, perhaps because enough money was raised for a bail bond ... no bail?
This entire thing makes me feel physically ill. Will post more later, once I can type without retching.
Planning for The Halloween Party
This will be our 13th Halloween party. Ooooh! 13!
Planning is already underway, as it must be. If you have any really amazing party recipes, please share. Finger foods preferable.
And here's one for you. It's so pathetically simple, that I've refused to make it, though I've seen the recipe a million times. Well, I recently had it at Elder Stateswoman's home, not knowing what it was. Fabulous. You take mushroom caps, and fill them with -- get this -- Stouffer's spinach souffle. Top with parmesan. Heat in the microwave.
Go figure.
Planning is already underway, as it must be. If you have any really amazing party recipes, please share. Finger foods preferable.
And here's one for you. It's so pathetically simple, that I've refused to make it, though I've seen the recipe a million times. Well, I recently had it at Elder Stateswoman's home, not knowing what it was. Fabulous. You take mushroom caps, and fill them with -- get this -- Stouffer's spinach souffle. Top with parmesan. Heat in the microwave.
Go figure.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Do You Know Someone Who Will Be At Jena Tomorrow?
If you know of someone who will be there, who would like to "live blog via phone," let me know.
lizardeater at gmail period com
lizardeater at gmail period com
Monday, September 17, 2007
When the minister revealed his pain ...
Ms. Kitty and Making Chutney are talking about ministry and how it affects your life, and what do you choose to share with your congregants.
This past Saturday night, The Husband and I were with the Elder Stateswoman for dinner. Somehow, conversation got around to a minister we had about a decade ago. He was going through an intensely painful time, as his brother was dying from a horrible disease. He shared that pain in a sermon. And he told us this: that the truth about "what happens after we die" was no longer a concern for him. He said that it brings him comfort to believe he will see his brother again. And if that is true, great, and if not, so what.
All of us remembered him saying that, in great detail.
Sometimes, I think sharing your pain is a gift. You allow others to feel compassion, perhaps they can even grow a bit themselves, through your experience.
This scenario isn't exactly what Ms. Kitty and Chutney were talking about. But they got me thinking about it.
This past Saturday night, The Husband and I were with the Elder Stateswoman for dinner. Somehow, conversation got around to a minister we had about a decade ago. He was going through an intensely painful time, as his brother was dying from a horrible disease. He shared that pain in a sermon. And he told us this: that the truth about "what happens after we die" was no longer a concern for him. He said that it brings him comfort to believe he will see his brother again. And if that is true, great, and if not, so what.
All of us remembered him saying that, in great detail.
Sometimes, I think sharing your pain is a gift. You allow others to feel compassion, perhaps they can even grow a bit themselves, through your experience.
This scenario isn't exactly what Ms. Kitty and Chutney were talking about. But they got me thinking about it.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Fantasies of Ministering
1:05 am in my house. Everyone is asleep in my house, even the dog. Except for me.
My reason for wakefulness is not a bad one. No worries eating at me. Fantasies, actually. Two competing fantasies, of a life as a minister.
In one, I am a hospital chaplain. I already know the first rule of medical chaplaincy -- Shut up and listen! -- but I bring more with me. I can't be all things to all people, but I have little bits and pieces that bring comfort. I visit a Jewish family and the mother wants the language from her past, as a student, as a schoolgirl.
Y'varekh'ka ADONAI v'yishmerekha
Ya'er ADONAI panav eleikha vichunekka
Yissa ADONAI panav eleikha v'yasem l'kha shalom
The LORD bless you and keep you.
The LORD make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you.
The LORD lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.
I speak to another. No, I am not a priest, but I can find one ... Do you know ... ? she asks ... Of course, I soothe ... Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee ...
Fantasies.
I have another. I am a pastor and the church I serve, serves all colors, all cultures, all classes.
Black, brown, white, red, yellow. A white father and a black mother attend, and know that their child has others here, with similar backgrounds. Sometimes, being "unique" is not preferable. There are others who understand that even in this world, even now, there are prices to be paid for this richness of culture, this amalgam of ethnicity. They find each other. One can go his way alone, but Oh! To find another!
We are a church of inclusion. Each new culture adds more flavor. We know that we all benefit from the experience of another. Our readings are from the 'Gita. The Koran. The Bible. Many times the Bible, because it is the dominant religious book in our culture. Khalil Gibran. L.M. Alcott. Skinner. Heinlein. W.E.B. DuBois. A.A. Milne.
Shel Silverstein.
We laugh. We cry. We leave fear, self-consciousness, superiority -- all at the door. We leave with a mission to improve the world.
Fantasies ... keeping me awake.
Who knows what my future will be, what path will open up. A chaplaincy at a clinic, ministering to a small congregation such as my home church.
But hopefully, hopefully, I can still take these fantasies with me. And drop a little taste into wherever I land.
It is a million years from year.
And miles to go before I sleep.
My reason for wakefulness is not a bad one. No worries eating at me. Fantasies, actually. Two competing fantasies, of a life as a minister.
In one, I am a hospital chaplain. I already know the first rule of medical chaplaincy -- Shut up and listen! -- but I bring more with me. I can't be all things to all people, but I have little bits and pieces that bring comfort. I visit a Jewish family and the mother wants the language from her past, as a student, as a schoolgirl.
Y'varekh'ka ADONAI v'yishmerekha
Ya'er ADONAI panav eleikha vichunekka
Yissa ADONAI panav eleikha v'yasem l'kha shalom
The LORD bless you and keep you.
The LORD make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you.
The LORD lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.
I speak to another. No, I am not a priest, but I can find one ... Do you know ... ? she asks ... Of course, I soothe ... Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee ...
Fantasies.
I have another. I am a pastor and the church I serve, serves all colors, all cultures, all classes.
Black, brown, white, red, yellow. A white father and a black mother attend, and know that their child has others here, with similar backgrounds. Sometimes, being "unique" is not preferable. There are others who understand that even in this world, even now, there are prices to be paid for this richness of culture, this amalgam of ethnicity. They find each other. One can go his way alone, but Oh! To find another!
We are a church of inclusion. Each new culture adds more flavor. We know that we all benefit from the experience of another. Our readings are from the 'Gita. The Koran. The Bible. Many times the Bible, because it is the dominant religious book in our culture. Khalil Gibran. L.M. Alcott. Skinner. Heinlein. W.E.B. DuBois. A.A. Milne.
Shel Silverstein.
We laugh. We cry. We leave fear, self-consciousness, superiority -- all at the door. We leave with a mission to improve the world.
Fantasies ... keeping me awake.
Who knows what my future will be, what path will open up. A chaplaincy at a clinic, ministering to a small congregation such as my home church.
But hopefully, hopefully, I can still take these fantasies with me. And drop a little taste into wherever I land.
It is a million years from year.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Conversation with myself, communion with God
On my walk today, I was quite dispirited. I am watching another mother's child die, through email and her blog. They upload pictures and I see the deterioration. She has a brain stem tumor and it's fatal. Her family is enjoying these last precious moments, living a lifetime in a matter of months. I call her Precious.
After Isaac was spared, did Abraham give any thought to the children who were not spared?
I walk on. Around and around and around the track. I do not feel that God intervenes, so I am not railing at God. I do not feel He saved Little Warrior. I feel that the system is what it is, and the system does what it does. No reason.
My heart hurts.
On my iPod, Cry for Help is playing. It is at that time that God joins me. He slips his hand in mine and we walk on, silently. Around and around the track.
God appears in different ways, as my imagination follows different paths, depending on the day or the circumstance. Today he looks kinda like your regular image of Jesus. Except he's wearing an Indian kurta set today. Hard to run in robes.
What if God Was One of Us comes on. He kind of smiles sideways at me. We've talked about this before. I know that he can be as frustrated with The System that is in place as I can be. But he knows that this is how it has to be. Free will and all.
A song from Next Stop Wonderland comes one. Have you ever been to Brazil? I ask him. He again looks sideways at me, with a look that, if he were not God, would be described as a smirk. Yeah, okay.
I don't speak the language of the song. What does it mean? He doesn't answer, as is his norm. He reaches over and pushes a button on my iPod to go to another track. He does this frequently. It would annoy me, coming from someone else, except he always goes to a good one.
It's Abba. He loves Abba for some reason, and I find Abba songs frequently popping up where I don't expect them.
Why now? Ah. Of course. Abba sang the songs, even when they didn't know English. They sang with emotion, even though they might not have known exactly what the words meant. Sometimes, the words aren't the important part. Just like this, whom I'm walking with. My imagination? The universe? The interdependentwebofexistenceofwhichwearejustonepartbutcanaccesswhennecessary?
"God" works.
I am getting to the end of my walk. The next song comes on. How Soon Is Now comes on. I swing my head around, startled.
I am the son
And the heir
God is ... giggling. After a second, I start laughing, too.
We walk off the track together, arms slung over each other's shoulders.
Stop at the nursery to pick up Little Warrior. God waits outside for me. When we come out, LW jabbering about her day, he stoops and kisses the top of her head. She's too busy trying to get to the water fountain to notice.
He walks with us out to the minivan. I get LW settled in her seat and turn to him.
"But ... Precious."
He wraps his arms completely around me and holds me close, his cheek resting on the top of my head. "I know," he says softly. He lets go and looks at me.
I give a nod into the minivan, asking if he wants to come home with us. He shakes his head no. He half-jogs back across the parking lot, and goes back inside. I think I saw a pick-up game of b-ball starting as we left.
And Little Warrior and I go home.
After Isaac was spared, did Abraham give any thought to the children who were not spared?
I walk on. Around and around and around the track. I do not feel that God intervenes, so I am not railing at God. I do not feel He saved Little Warrior. I feel that the system is what it is, and the system does what it does. No reason.
My heart hurts.
On my iPod, Cry for Help is playing. It is at that time that God joins me. He slips his hand in mine and we walk on, silently. Around and around the track.
God appears in different ways, as my imagination follows different paths, depending on the day or the circumstance. Today he looks kinda like your regular image of Jesus. Except he's wearing an Indian kurta set today. Hard to run in robes.
What if God Was One of Us comes on. He kind of smiles sideways at me. We've talked about this before. I know that he can be as frustrated with The System that is in place as I can be. But he knows that this is how it has to be. Free will and all.
A song from Next Stop Wonderland comes one. Have you ever been to Brazil? I ask him. He again looks sideways at me, with a look that, if he were not God, would be described as a smirk. Yeah, okay.
I don't speak the language of the song. What does it mean? He doesn't answer, as is his norm. He reaches over and pushes a button on my iPod to go to another track. He does this frequently. It would annoy me, coming from someone else, except he always goes to a good one.
It's Abba. He loves Abba for some reason, and I find Abba songs frequently popping up where I don't expect them.
Why now? Ah. Of course. Abba sang the songs, even when they didn't know English. They sang with emotion, even though they might not have known exactly what the words meant. Sometimes, the words aren't the important part. Just like this, whom I'm walking with. My imagination? The universe? The interdependentwebofexistenceofwhichwearejustonepartbutcanaccesswhennecessary?
"God" works.
I am getting to the end of my walk. The next song comes on. How Soon Is Now comes on. I swing my head around, startled.
I am the son
And the heir
God is ... giggling. After a second, I start laughing, too.
We walk off the track together, arms slung over each other's shoulders.
Stop at the nursery to pick up Little Warrior. God waits outside for me. When we come out, LW jabbering about her day, he stoops and kisses the top of her head. She's too busy trying to get to the water fountain to notice.
He walks with us out to the minivan. I get LW settled in her seat and turn to him.
"But ... Precious."
He wraps his arms completely around me and holds me close, his cheek resting on the top of my head. "I know," he says softly. He lets go and looks at me.
I give a nod into the minivan, asking if he wants to come home with us. He shakes his head no. He half-jogs back across the parking lot, and goes back inside. I think I saw a pick-up game of b-ball starting as we left.
And Little Warrior and I go home.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Back in Seminary
And feels like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Great class, last night. Christian Ethics. Great professor. Great classmates.
I am in the racial minority at this school. I count that as a good thing. It can feel good to not be yoked to unearned privilege.
Great class, last night. Christian Ethics. Great professor. Great classmates.
I am in the racial minority at this school. I count that as a good thing. It can feel good to not be yoked to unearned privilege.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
"Thank you for a wild Saturday night," he said, bending down ...
... and kissing me on the cheek. "Goodnight, Mom. And are you sure I shouldn't do some more homework?"
"It's 10:30, Boy! Go up to the playroom and sleep in front of a movie!"
A Wild Saturday Night for an 11 year old boy, in case you're wondering, involves watching Ned's Declassified School Survival Guide on Nick, dancing with one's parents and sisters to AME and Pentecostal gospel tunes* and watching old Weird Al Yankovic videos on YouTube.
Of the latter, The Boy and I have a special affinity. Especially when we found Weird Al's "The Night Santa Went Crazy." TRULY twisted. NOT for your younger believer children. PERFECT for a new middle-schooler. We laughed so hard. The Boy wrapped his arms around me, insanely chortling.
A Wild Saturday Night.
(smile)
* Hey, I've got religion! "Well, you certainly didn't get it here!" (Old UU joke.)
"It's 10:30, Boy! Go up to the playroom and sleep in front of a movie!"
A Wild Saturday Night for an 11 year old boy, in case you're wondering, involves watching Ned's Declassified School Survival Guide on Nick, dancing with one's parents and sisters to AME and Pentecostal gospel tunes* and watching old Weird Al Yankovic videos on YouTube.
Of the latter, The Boy and I have a special affinity. Especially when we found Weird Al's "The Night Santa Went Crazy." TRULY twisted. NOT for your younger believer children. PERFECT for a new middle-schooler. We laughed so hard. The Boy wrapped his arms around me, insanely chortling.
A Wild Saturday Night.
(smile)
* Hey, I've got religion! "Well, you certainly didn't get it here!" (Old UU joke.)
Friday, September 07, 2007
Inclusion, Not Exclusion, The Answer
Buncha different posts on various topics has me thinking about how we should focus on what we include, not what we exclude.
Peacebang recently wrote, "My wish is that someday, even the most angry, Christian-suspicious Unitarian Universalists will be able to hear selections from the Bible, traditional Christian hymns, and the name of Jesus in sermons with just as peaceful a heart and steady blood pressure as they do hearing the poetry of Mary Oliver or segments from the Dhammapada."
She had comments turned off, which I completely understand. Sometimes, you just know what will provoke debate and sometimes, you're not in the mood for one. But had comments been open, I would have written something along the lines of "Amen, Sister," and that I'm going to use her post in my UU 101 class.
Over on Moxie Life, the author wrote about her church's Sunday speaker, who advised that, "we should not devolve into Humanism." Moxie goes on to explain that "We are proud to be Humanists. We do not see that as a de-evolutionary process. Granted, my anti-Christian stance would not be popular in most congregations, but at a UU Church I expect that there is an understanding that we are standing in the presence of Humanists."
I'm going with all of this, I swear.
Over on Philocrites, there were comments responding to a post about classism by talking about water ceremonies -- how classist they are, how bad people feel when others talk about the vacations they've taken, and how they should be abolished.
Which made me remember a post on the subject of Mothers Day, by Biddies in My Brain. I appreciated her post, because it was honest and raw and it affected what I said in the pulpit on Mothers Day. However, the quote from a friend of hers -- "... DON'T even THINK about bringing this celebration into the church. Not on my watch. I've held too many women in coffeehour who have wept and felt the pain of this day" made me say, really? Really? Does that mean that we should also get rid of child dedications?
And don't even get me started on the "we shouldn't have a Thanksgiving service" posts.
I think that the answer is inclusion, not exclusion. Have a Mothers Day service, but mention that you know this is a day of pain for some. The Bible is full of great, marvelous illustrations for your sermon. Don't get huffy because someone uses one. Humanists have given, and continue to give, wonderful contributions to our churches and I for one think that having the "opt-out" clause in the God column is a good choice to have, whether we take it or not. And our water ceremonies ... the time in which we say, "I left you, my friends, and traveled elsewhere. I saw new people and new things and I brought some of it back to share. Let us pool our combined experiences and rejoice that we are all back together." My contributions have usually included, "This is water from my hose where my kids played in the sprinkler" or "This is water from the hospital where our daughter was getting chemotherapy"; rarely have I had a vacation water, and when I did, it was never from someplace exotic.
We are not a selfish people. We Are Not. As such, we will not say, No, don't use Christian imagery, I am not a Christian. No, don't be a humanist, for I am not a humanist. Don't celebrate Mother's Day, I have no mother. Don't tell me about your vacation, I did not go on one.
Inclusion is the answer. To talk about the simple vacations and wide ranges of beliefs and all different kinds of philosophers and pain and sadness. To say, Here's another view of Thanksgiving and Do you know what your neighbor's kids did all summer, since their mother couldn't afford daycare?
To limit ... no. To expand ... yes.
Peacebang recently wrote, "My wish is that someday, even the most angry, Christian-suspicious Unitarian Universalists will be able to hear selections from the Bible, traditional Christian hymns, and the name of Jesus in sermons with just as peaceful a heart and steady blood pressure as they do hearing the poetry of Mary Oliver or segments from the Dhammapada."
She had comments turned off, which I completely understand. Sometimes, you just know what will provoke debate and sometimes, you're not in the mood for one. But had comments been open, I would have written something along the lines of "Amen, Sister," and that I'm going to use her post in my UU 101 class.
Over on Moxie Life, the author wrote about her church's Sunday speaker, who advised that, "we should not devolve into Humanism." Moxie goes on to explain that "We are proud to be Humanists. We do not see that as a de-evolutionary process. Granted, my anti-Christian stance would not be popular in most congregations, but at a UU Church I expect that there is an understanding that we are standing in the presence of Humanists."
I'm going with all of this, I swear.
Over on Philocrites, there were comments responding to a post about classism by talking about water ceremonies -- how classist they are, how bad people feel when others talk about the vacations they've taken, and how they should be abolished.
Which made me remember a post on the subject of Mothers Day, by Biddies in My Brain. I appreciated her post, because it was honest and raw and it affected what I said in the pulpit on Mothers Day. However, the quote from a friend of hers -- "... DON'T even THINK about bringing this celebration into the church. Not on my watch. I've held too many women in coffeehour who have wept and felt the pain of this day" made me say, really? Really? Does that mean that we should also get rid of child dedications?
And don't even get me started on the "we shouldn't have a Thanksgiving service" posts.
I think that the answer is inclusion, not exclusion. Have a Mothers Day service, but mention that you know this is a day of pain for some. The Bible is full of great, marvelous illustrations for your sermon. Don't get huffy because someone uses one. Humanists have given, and continue to give, wonderful contributions to our churches and I for one think that having the "opt-out" clause in the God column is a good choice to have, whether we take it or not. And our water ceremonies ... the time in which we say, "I left you, my friends, and traveled elsewhere. I saw new people and new things and I brought some of it back to share. Let us pool our combined experiences and rejoice that we are all back together." My contributions have usually included, "This is water from my hose where my kids played in the sprinkler" or "This is water from the hospital where our daughter was getting chemotherapy"; rarely have I had a vacation water, and when I did, it was never from someplace exotic.
We are not a selfish people. We Are Not. As such, we will not say, No, don't use Christian imagery, I am not a Christian. No, don't be a humanist, for I am not a humanist. Don't celebrate Mother's Day, I have no mother. Don't tell me about your vacation, I did not go on one.
Inclusion is the answer. To talk about the simple vacations and wide ranges of beliefs and all different kinds of philosophers and pain and sadness. To say, Here's another view of Thanksgiving and Do you know what your neighbor's kids did all summer, since their mother couldn't afford daycare?
To limit ... no. To expand ... yes.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Middle School Really IS Hell
LE has been quiet for a few days because my eldest has begun intermediate school. I am already threatening to pull him out and homeschool him, simply because of the workload. This is a straight A student who loved school, who now does homework from the time he arrives home, takes a break for dinner, goes back to homework, at 10:00 (11 last night), we tell him he has to go to bed, and he then gets up early the next morning to do more homework.
The Husband and I have been coaching him -- "Don't double check your work. Don't even worry about correct answers. Just rush through it as fast as you can." Is this really what we want to be teaching our kids?
I have a friend who says that after about 3 weeks, the workload tapers down. Something about "showing the kids how tough the teachers can be."
Yes. Because transitioning to middle school isn't difficult enough for a boy who could pass for a 5th grader with a locker under a boy who, I'm pretty sure, has begun shaving.
The Husband and I have been coaching him -- "Don't double check your work. Don't even worry about correct answers. Just rush through it as fast as you can." Is this really what we want to be teaching our kids?
I have a friend who says that after about 3 weeks, the workload tapers down. Something about "showing the kids how tough the teachers can be."
Yes. Because transitioning to middle school isn't difficult enough for a boy who could pass for a 5th grader with a locker under a boy who, I'm pretty sure, has begun shaving.
Friday, August 31, 2007
F*#% Cancer
Okay, so I put in some different symbols for the aggregators, but here, in my post, I'll spell it out.
I just watched two movies. One, a documentary, called "Crazy Sexy Cancer." And the other, which you've probably all seen, "Little Miss Sunshine."
End result: I have a vision, like from a really funny, crazy movie, that I want to make real, but I know that I don't have the courage, and do have the "modicum of decency" to not create:
But, just for fun, imagine the scene:
Next Spring. Lizard Eater and her family -- The Husband, an 11 year old son, an 8 year old daughter, a 5 year old daughter, and Little Warrior herself, 2 years old ... all walk onto the track of a suburban high school. They are surrounded by a moderate amount of people, there to cheer on cancer survivors. All of the members of Lizard Eater's family, including herself, the seminarian and somewhat-model mom, are wearing hats that say, in capital letters:
FUCK CANCER!
Isn't it a great vision?
So what if it won't become reality. The vision still reflects something everyone in my family can get behind. My kids, only 2-5-8-11, can all get behind it. The 5 year old remembers it all -- it's probably why she retreats into herself in this first week of kindergarten. It's grandparents being here, but with worried looks on their faces, and presents given by worried, distracted adults who don't spend much time with her, but instead want to ask her questions about her baby sister. Anyone gets sick now, even the cat, and she asks, dispassionately, "Is it cancer?" Casually. Like it's a cold.
The 8 and the 11 know cancer, remember not being allowed to go to birthday parties or Chuck E. Cheese or the library for-cripes-sake. And washing their hands all the time. And getting attention at school from sympathetic teachers. And grandparents morphing from fun, spoiling people to guys who are like parents, who fuss at you for not doing your homework and make you wear proper clothes to school. And walk around with worried looks on their faces and talk in hushed voices after answering the phone. And even now, they know that "cancer" is a magic, but powerful word, and if they say, "My sister had cancer," people will pull back, and treat them in a way that isn't normal. And they've learned that "special" doesn't always mean "good."
We were a family already. But this has given another layer to that familydom. Which is probably why so many people laugh and cry at "Little Miss Sunshine," and think the movie was made just for them, because they have a completely crazy family that has gone through unique experiences, and know that even though their family is crazy and not the Bradys or the Cosbys, it's still tight, and loyal to each other, and willing to trade embarrassment to protect one of their own.
And the "2" ... Little Warrior herself. The child who acts fearless ... but washes her hands, every chance she gets. She knows what hand sanitizer is for. She knows what a stethoscope is for. She carries her syringes of medicines, three times a day, around to the people in her family, judiciously choosing which one gets the honor of giving her medicine. On vacation, it was "Bops." (Pops.) She wields it like a Queen allowing a privilege to one of her subjects. And she puts bandaids on her stuffed animals, admonishing them, "Shhh, shhhh."
Midnight, it is September 1st. September is "Childhood Cancer Awareness Month."
We're aware.
I just watched two movies. One, a documentary, called "Crazy Sexy Cancer." And the other, which you've probably all seen, "Little Miss Sunshine."
End result: I have a vision, like from a really funny, crazy movie, that I want to make real, but I know that I don't have the courage, and do have the "modicum of decency" to not create:
But, just for fun, imagine the scene:
Next Spring. Lizard Eater and her family -- The Husband, an 11 year old son, an 8 year old daughter, a 5 year old daughter, and Little Warrior herself, 2 years old ... all walk onto the track of a suburban high school. They are surrounded by a moderate amount of people, there to cheer on cancer survivors. All of the members of Lizard Eater's family, including herself, the seminarian and somewhat-model mom, are wearing hats that say, in capital letters:
FUCK CANCER!
Isn't it a great vision?
So what if it won't become reality. The vision still reflects something everyone in my family can get behind. My kids, only 2-5-8-11, can all get behind it. The 5 year old remembers it all -- it's probably why she retreats into herself in this first week of kindergarten. It's grandparents being here, but with worried looks on their faces, and presents given by worried, distracted adults who don't spend much time with her, but instead want to ask her questions about her baby sister. Anyone gets sick now, even the cat, and she asks, dispassionately, "Is it cancer?" Casually. Like it's a cold.
The 8 and the 11 know cancer, remember not being allowed to go to birthday parties or Chuck E. Cheese or the library for-cripes-sake. And washing their hands all the time. And getting attention at school from sympathetic teachers. And grandparents morphing from fun, spoiling people to guys who are like parents, who fuss at you for not doing your homework and make you wear proper clothes to school. And walk around with worried looks on their faces and talk in hushed voices after answering the phone. And even now, they know that "cancer" is a magic, but powerful word, and if they say, "My sister had cancer," people will pull back, and treat them in a way that isn't normal. And they've learned that "special" doesn't always mean "good."
We were a family already. But this has given another layer to that familydom. Which is probably why so many people laugh and cry at "Little Miss Sunshine," and think the movie was made just for them, because they have a completely crazy family that has gone through unique experiences, and know that even though their family is crazy and not the Bradys or the Cosbys, it's still tight, and loyal to each other, and willing to trade embarrassment to protect one of their own.
And the "2" ... Little Warrior herself. The child who acts fearless ... but washes her hands, every chance she gets. She knows what hand sanitizer is for. She knows what a stethoscope is for. She carries her syringes of medicines, three times a day, around to the people in her family, judiciously choosing which one gets the honor of giving her medicine. On vacation, it was "Bops." (Pops.) She wields it like a Queen allowing a privilege to one of her subjects. And she puts bandaids on her stuffed animals, admonishing them, "Shhh, shhhh."
Midnight, it is September 1st. September is "Childhood Cancer Awareness Month."
We're aware.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
I want to strip nekkid
... and pour the contents of my PurWater fridge dispenser over me.
No need to adjust your ratings filter. Lizard Eater is just hot Hot HOT. It is mid 90s in the shade, here on August 30. I pushed the stroller up to the school (1/2 mile) and back (10,000 freaking miles), this time the stroller loaded with backpacks and lunchboxes. And I have reached that point, that point that I reach every year around about this time. The point at which I say forget bloom where you're freakin' planted, I WANT A COOL FRONT!
My parents lived for a while in Rochester, NY. My mother recounts standing at the window, looking out into the grayness, the unceasing snow, and just crying. Tears running down her face.
I'm not crying, mostly because all of the fluid in my body has been converted to sweat.
I'm ready for fall. Autumn. Isn't it just the most delicious word, redolent of pumpkin and cinnamon and long-simmered stews on the stove? Granted, where I live, fall can still be hot, but it's bearably hot, not "I'm going to melt right here on the pavement and you're going to have to scrape me up like a gooey marshmallow and how are you going to explain THAT to your father?"
I'm heading for the PurWater ...
No need to adjust your ratings filter. Lizard Eater is just hot Hot HOT. It is mid 90s in the shade, here on August 30. I pushed the stroller up to the school (1/2 mile) and back (10,000 freaking miles), this time the stroller loaded with backpacks and lunchboxes. And I have reached that point, that point that I reach every year around about this time. The point at which I say forget bloom where you're freakin' planted, I WANT A COOL FRONT!
My parents lived for a while in Rochester, NY. My mother recounts standing at the window, looking out into the grayness, the unceasing snow, and just crying. Tears running down her face.
I'm not crying, mostly because all of the fluid in my body has been converted to sweat.
I'm ready for fall. Autumn. Isn't it just the most delicious word, redolent of pumpkin and cinnamon and long-simmered stews on the stove? Granted, where I live, fall can still be hot, but it's bearably hot, not "I'm going to melt right here on the pavement and you're going to have to scrape me up like a gooey marshmallow and how are you going to explain THAT to your father?"
I'm heading for the PurWater ...
Let me share a little of the good stuff
Okay, time to NOT hold back. Many of you have been on this ride with Little Warrior and me through the worst, darkest, scariest times. Reading Another Working Mom's post about her workplace made me realize that gee, I've shared the bad stuff -- how about I share a little of the good stuff?
Thursday, we had the appointment with LW's oncologist to go over the scans. I already knew they were clear, so there was no stress. Well, other than taking 4 kids downtown to the appointment.
Actually, it was all good. The kids were helpful with LW, and they enjoyed seeing the clinic again, especially the child-life specialist. Now that, my friends, is a calling. To be the person who explains, in child terms, what cancer is, what chemo is, and what the heck is going on with your brother/sister/self. She even goes out to the local schools when a cancer-kid goes to school, to explain to his classmates what's going on.
The oncologist was thrilled to see LW. You know that phrase "feasting his eyes on her"? That's what he did. And here's what he saw:
A fat, laughing little girl, with curls over her head, and a very faint scar bisecting her belly. Who was having a ball, jumping off the exam table, into Mom's arms. Over and over and over. And dashing out into the hall. And creating all kinds of mischief. Really, if you look close enough, you can see two little horns amidst the curls. And that's okay. Because it keeps us from wrapping her in cotton wool or treating her as if she's "precious." She is precious. They're all precious. But she ain't gonna let you treat her as such. She's a rough-tough, rum-tum-tugger.
Her oncologist carried her into the lab to show her off. "What the heck did you do to her?" they laughed. She doesn't look like a cancer kid.
Her older brother asked why the doctor was doing that. Why he was showing her off.
"You know how when you do really well on something at school, you want to put it on the refrigerator?" I asked him. He nodded. "Well, LW won't fit on his refrigerator."
That day, LW got to BE the good stuff for someone.
Thursday, we had the appointment with LW's oncologist to go over the scans. I already knew they were clear, so there was no stress. Well, other than taking 4 kids downtown to the appointment.
Actually, it was all good. The kids were helpful with LW, and they enjoyed seeing the clinic again, especially the child-life specialist. Now that, my friends, is a calling. To be the person who explains, in child terms, what cancer is, what chemo is, and what the heck is going on with your brother/sister/self. She even goes out to the local schools when a cancer-kid goes to school, to explain to his classmates what's going on.
The oncologist was thrilled to see LW. You know that phrase "feasting his eyes on her"? That's what he did. And here's what he saw:
A fat, laughing little girl, with curls over her head, and a very faint scar bisecting her belly. Who was having a ball, jumping off the exam table, into Mom's arms. Over and over and over. And dashing out into the hall. And creating all kinds of mischief. Really, if you look close enough, you can see two little horns amidst the curls. And that's okay. Because it keeps us from wrapping her in cotton wool or treating her as if she's "precious." She is precious. They're all precious. But she ain't gonna let you treat her as such. She's a rough-tough, rum-tum-tugger.
Her oncologist carried her into the lab to show her off. "What the heck did you do to her?" they laughed. She doesn't look like a cancer kid.
Her older brother asked why the doctor was doing that. Why he was showing her off.
"You know how when you do really well on something at school, you want to put it on the refrigerator?" I asked him. He nodded. "Well, LW won't fit on his refrigerator."
That day, LW got to BE the good stuff for someone.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Another Fantastic Quote About Worship
The Elder Stateswoman emailed me this. She and I share a similar belief about the holiness of a worship service, which should be treated accordingly.
Worship at its heart is the practice of becoming aware of the presence of God so that we become more deeply and fully human. I judge every worship experience in which I participate by that definition.
John Shelby Spong
Worship at its heart is the practice of becoming aware of the presence of God so that we become more deeply and fully human. I judge every worship experience in which I participate by that definition.
John Shelby Spong
"Shut Up" - 5 times a day
I have a new spiritual discipline. 5 times a day, I must shut up.
I don't mean that I need to have a period of quietness 5 times a day. I mean that 5 times a day, I have to stop myself right before speaking.
It's not that I say things I regret. It's just that I sometimes speak when it is unnecessary to do so. Which means that I might be missing out on an opportunity to hear something.
A couple of years ago, I lost my voice. Totally, for about 3 days. I still had to go about my life, though. So, I carried a pen and paper. When you have to write out everything, you only speak when you have something really important to say. And you know what? At the end of it, I didn't feel that there was anything important that I had been unable to communicate.
Like Moxie Life, I've had my struggles with Chronic Sharing. Like many females, I have often offered up sharing as a way to bond. It is the equivalent of showing the soft white underbelly, making oneself vulnerable as a gift.
I think that there are better ways to bond.
Sharing with close friends is one thing. But sharing as a way to establish a relationship that is not already in place often leads to that sick feeling in one's stomach and ache in one's head ... the dreaded Oversharing Hangover.
Obviously, if I'm going to be a minister, I have a whole host of other reasons to cut the chronic sharing.
Last week, we were in the clinic and a very nice lady, a volunteer, came over to talk to us. It turned into her telling me all about her second cousin once-removed and her problems with diverticulosis or some such. It didn't particularly bother me, because, hey, I already knew that Little Warrior had clear scans. Not much bothered me that day.
But what if I had a newly diagnosed child. Or we were waiting to hear scan results. The last thing you need at that point is to have to put on a polite face while a stranger prattles on.
I mentally wrote a blog entry: "If you're a volunteer in a hospital, here's some advice ... Shut up."
It's actually pretty good advice for me.
I don't mean that I need to have a period of quietness 5 times a day. I mean that 5 times a day, I have to stop myself right before speaking.
It's not that I say things I regret. It's just that I sometimes speak when it is unnecessary to do so. Which means that I might be missing out on an opportunity to hear something.
A couple of years ago, I lost my voice. Totally, for about 3 days. I still had to go about my life, though. So, I carried a pen and paper. When you have to write out everything, you only speak when you have something really important to say. And you know what? At the end of it, I didn't feel that there was anything important that I had been unable to communicate.
Like Moxie Life, I've had my struggles with Chronic Sharing. Like many females, I have often offered up sharing as a way to bond. It is the equivalent of showing the soft white underbelly, making oneself vulnerable as a gift.
I think that there are better ways to bond.
Sharing with close friends is one thing. But sharing as a way to establish a relationship that is not already in place often leads to that sick feeling in one's stomach and ache in one's head ... the dreaded Oversharing Hangover.
Obviously, if I'm going to be a minister, I have a whole host of other reasons to cut the chronic sharing.
Last week, we were in the clinic and a very nice lady, a volunteer, came over to talk to us. It turned into her telling me all about her second cousin once-removed and her problems with diverticulosis or some such. It didn't particularly bother me, because, hey, I already knew that Little Warrior had clear scans. Not much bothered me that day.
But what if I had a newly diagnosed child. Or we were waiting to hear scan results. The last thing you need at that point is to have to put on a polite face while a stranger prattles on.
I mentally wrote a blog entry: "If you're a volunteer in a hospital, here's some advice ... Shut up."
It's actually pretty good advice for me.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Holding some back
"Be a cool, dignified mystery." I just wrote that in comments to Moxie Life's post about mean girls growing up to be woman haters.
And I go back to my post yesterday about purchasing "The Rules." So, why do I like the book?
At its heart, I don't think The Rules is about "games." Instead, it answers the all-too-painful situation so many of us have seen time and again.
(The following is based on vast generalizations. Of course you know people who don't fit this. But I bet you know some who do.)
Boy falls in love with independent girl. Girl falls in love with him. She then makes him the center of her life, brings him brownies, picks up his dry-cleaning, hangs out with his friends, and tries to provide anything he wants/needs.
Boy says, "What happened to the independent girl I thought you were?"
The Rules is about trying to break females of this "over-nurturing" drive. Have your own friends! Only accept being treated like the unique jewel you are! And for God's sake, hold back a little of yourself!
The latter is good advice for anyone, in any situation. Okay, maybe not therapy. But that's the point ... regular life is not a therapy session for you to dump everything.
As my Southern Belle mama would say, "Keep a little mystery!" I can think of many times in my life I should have followed that advice, whether it was being a little too trusting of an office co-worker, or sharing my insecurities with someone on the second date.
My natural persona is (like you haven't noticed), extremely open, extremely honest. As I have gotten older, I have realized that this has not always served me well. The women whom I admire are those who carry themselves with quiet confidence, quiet dignity. The ones whom, after much time has passed, you learn something about and say, "Wow! She was a race-car driver?" It's not all on display.
It's okay to hold a little sumpin' back.
And I go back to my post yesterday about purchasing "The Rules." So, why do I like the book?
At its heart, I don't think The Rules is about "games." Instead, it answers the all-too-painful situation so many of us have seen time and again.
(The following is based on vast generalizations. Of course you know people who don't fit this. But I bet you know some who do.)
Boy falls in love with independent girl. Girl falls in love with him. She then makes him the center of her life, brings him brownies, picks up his dry-cleaning, hangs out with his friends, and tries to provide anything he wants/needs.
Boy says, "What happened to the independent girl I thought you were?"
The Rules is about trying to break females of this "over-nurturing" drive. Have your own friends! Only accept being treated like the unique jewel you are! And for God's sake, hold back a little of yourself!
The latter is good advice for anyone, in any situation. Okay, maybe not therapy. But that's the point ... regular life is not a therapy session for you to dump everything.
As my Southern Belle mama would say, "Keep a little mystery!" I can think of many times in my life I should have followed that advice, whether it was being a little too trusting of an office co-worker, or sharing my insecurities with someone on the second date.
My natural persona is (like you haven't noticed), extremely open, extremely honest. As I have gotten older, I have realized that this has not always served me well. The women whom I admire are those who carry themselves with quiet confidence, quiet dignity. The ones whom, after much time has passed, you learn something about and say, "Wow! She was a race-car driver?" It's not all on display.
It's okay to hold a little sumpin' back.
Monday, August 27, 2007
I'm buying "The Rules"
Prepare to scream, but I stand my ground.
I'm buying it for a young woman friend of mine. Now, I was already well-married when the book came out, and like most everyone of our (liberal, feminist) type, I thought the whole idea was horrible.
Well, a few years ago, I saw it in a friend's bookcase, and picked it up. And read it. And agreed with most of it.
Not all of it. Some is just manipulative. Don't call back, even if he leaves you a message? Pah.
But a whole lot of it made a lot of sense. It was the stuff Mama told you in high school, that you didn't want to hear. Don't chase after boys. Don't be so convenient. If a boy calls you Saturday afternoon for a date Saturday night, say no. "If you would just spend as much time on your schoolwork as you do thinking about boys ..."
Now ... if they would just change the title to "The Rules -- How to Maintain Your Individuality and Keep Your Self-Respect" -- everyone would like it.
Except the playas.
I'm buying it for a young woman friend of mine. Now, I was already well-married when the book came out, and like most everyone of our (liberal, feminist) type, I thought the whole idea was horrible.
Well, a few years ago, I saw it in a friend's bookcase, and picked it up. And read it. And agreed with most of it.
Not all of it. Some is just manipulative. Don't call back, even if he leaves you a message? Pah.
But a whole lot of it made a lot of sense. It was the stuff Mama told you in high school, that you didn't want to hear. Don't chase after boys. Don't be so convenient. If a boy calls you Saturday afternoon for a date Saturday night, say no. "If you would just spend as much time on your schoolwork as you do thinking about boys ..."
Now ... if they would just change the title to "The Rules -- How to Maintain Your Individuality and Keep Your Self-Respect" -- everyone would like it.
Except the playas.
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