I started working out again last week. Who knows how long this will last, as I'm pretty bad about sticking to things like this, but I'm doing what I can. I determined that I prefer walking (even occasionally running--gasp!) on the indoor track, rather than being stationary on an elliptical machine or bike.
The indoor track at my preferred Y location is 18 laps to a mile. As I started my walk today, I tried to think of a way to both focus my thoughts as I walked and keep track of what lap I'm on. What came to mind was a wonderful exercise in reflection and gratitude. I let the number of the lap be a prompt for things in my life to be thankful or prayerful for as I walked.
ONE holy God, Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer of the world.
TWO darling daughters, and all the Mommy-Daughter fun we have. I wanted girls so badly, and though I now have a beautiful son to love as well, I marvel at the two awesome girls I get to mother.
THREE precious children: fireball Kate, cheerful Claire, and sweet baby Jonah. I love them so!
FOUR years in Brentwood, living in our lovely home, close to things we enjoy, and just three miles from Matt's parents.
FIVE members of our family. What fun we have and how I love our little family!
SIX seats at the table. Both our kitchen table and dining room table each have six chairs around them. With four of us currently using chairs, and Jonah who will eventually sit in one, that means we always have room for at least one more: a guest, a foster child, another child, etc.
SEVEN days in a week, time to be productive and time to rest. (Just picturing a page in my planner makes me smile!)
EIGHT weeks of Jonah! The joyful rest of my days getting to know my sweet boy, and thankfulness for his health and mine, especially in light of so many I know who've had traumatic births and postpartum experiences.
NINE years of marriage. Matt is such a loving husband and great father. It's not always easy, but as Andrew Peterson says, "that's what the promise is for."
TEN years in publishing. I love my work and have a great career going!
ELEVEN . . . praying for some eleven year old out there going through a tough time. I couldn't think of anything personal for this number, but middle school is rough . . .
TWELVE years in Nashville (well, the Nashville area). I came for Vanderbilt Divinity School and stayed because of Matt. Four years in Midtown, four in Clarksville, and now four in Brentwood. I love my hometown of Louisville, but being a Tennessean isn't so bad either!
THIRTEEN years old when I switched to private school. Seventh grade was wretched for me, and for eighth through twelfth grade, I thrived in a much smaller educational environment where I could participate in a lot of activities and hold several leadership roles.
FOURTEEN years of studying religion. Choosing the religion major at Furman University enhanced my faith and changed my thinking, my politics, my personal and professional life, and maybe in some small way, the world, as it's given me a more global and missional perspective.
FIFTEEN minutes of walking (by the second mile, that is, as I counted back down from 18. I couldn't think of anything for fifteen the first time!) Thankful for my body, my health, the ability to walk, and a nice facility with childcare in which to work out!
SIXTEEN years since high school. Adulthood has been pretty good so far.
SEVENTEEN days left in the year. Seventeen days to relax, spend time with family, and celebrate the birth of Christ. And 21 days left in my maternity leave--eek!
EIGHTEEN years at home. Thankful for my happy childhood and wonderful parents. Day trips and vacations, history lessons, traditions, and family dinners.
18 laps--well, 36, actually. Two miles thinking on such things made me feel grateful, proud, and happy with my life. Sure beats a half hour pondering my jiggly thighs or envying the fit aerobics instructor leading a class in the gym below. And it made my cardio time fly by! I moved on to the weight room with a peace I carried on to pick up my sleeping son from the nursery and out into the surprising warmth of a December day.
Showing posts with label ponderings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ponderings. Show all posts
Monday, December 14, 2015
Sunday, June 29, 2014
What's on Your Mind?
That's what Facebook asks these days, in the space where you are invited to type a status update. Remember when it always said "Jessica is _____________" and then it was a newsworthy thing when they dropped the "is"? Interesting.
Anyway, I rarely have anything to "say" to the Facebook world. More often, I share articles I've found interesting than share a random thing about my day. This evening, though, I seem to be thinking in status updates, because more random thoughts are coming to my mind than I want to flood the "wall" with (is it still called a wall?) And since I feel a twinge of unnecessary guilt over not blogging enough, let me share these random thoughts with you.
I shared this on FB:
"Sometimes I feel self-conscious about mothering in public, afraid people think I can't discipline my children or that I let them run wild. But the flip side of that coin is people complimenting how "relaxed" or "patient" I am being. Somehow that means a lot more to me than praise for running a tight ship."
Yesterday morning, I took the three girls to the Farmer's Market while Matt helped lead worship in a women's prison. The peaches were amazing and the strawberries (as I expected) were pretty much devoured before we even got home. But after filling our wagon with awesome local produce, I felt like the excursion was over far too quickly, so we partook of the free water and coffee and just sat on the curb for a while, enjoying the live music and atmosphere. Between noshing on the berries (both straw- and blue-) the big girls began running circles around me and the wagon in which BGC sat. I was a bit worried about one of them (especially Claire) tripping over the curb and busting something, but otherwise, it was a no-stress situation. A woman commented, "You're such a patient mother!" and my internal response of "What? They're just running circles around me," sounded a little ridiculous, but nonetheless, I do feel proud of my ability to just relax and let my kids be kids. I guess it's because I have a pretty type-A personality in general, so my evolving natural proclivities give me some sense of satisfaction.
Which leads me to the second (and beyond) would-be status updates of the evening...
Anyway, I rarely have anything to "say" to the Facebook world. More often, I share articles I've found interesting than share a random thing about my day. This evening, though, I seem to be thinking in status updates, because more random thoughts are coming to my mind than I want to flood the "wall" with (is it still called a wall?) And since I feel a twinge of unnecessary guilt over not blogging enough, let me share these random thoughts with you.
I shared this on FB:
"Sometimes I feel self-conscious about mothering in public, afraid people think I can't discipline my children or that I let them run wild. But the flip side of that coin is people complimenting how "relaxed" or "patient" I am being. Somehow that means a lot more to me than praise for running a tight ship."
Yesterday morning, I took the three girls to the Farmer's Market while Matt helped lead worship in a women's prison. The peaches were amazing and the strawberries (as I expected) were pretty much devoured before we even got home. But after filling our wagon with awesome local produce, I felt like the excursion was over far too quickly, so we partook of the free water and coffee and just sat on the curb for a while, enjoying the live music and atmosphere. Between noshing on the berries (both straw- and blue-) the big girls began running circles around me and the wagon in which BGC sat. I was a bit worried about one of them (especially Claire) tripping over the curb and busting something, but otherwise, it was a no-stress situation. A woman commented, "You're such a patient mother!" and my internal response of "What? They're just running circles around me," sounded a little ridiculous, but nonetheless, I do feel proud of my ability to just relax and let my kids be kids. I guess it's because I have a pretty type-A personality in general, so my evolving natural proclivities give me some sense of satisfaction.
Which leads me to the second (and beyond) would-be status updates of the evening...
- I finally checked out The New Birth Order Book by Kevin Leman from the library. It's been in my Amazon cart forever, but I rarely buy books anymore (a shameful thing to admit for someone in the publishing business). I prefer to get them from the library if possible, though I still do order a Kindle book or even a hardcopy now and again. Anyway, I am a classic only child, a "firstborn on steroids," driven, organized, a list-maker, confident of the "right way" to do everything, older than my years, and more comfortable with older and younger people than with my peers. I'm now analyzing everyone I know. Matt and his brother are so close in age that both have a lot of firstborn qualities. My mom is a "functional only-child" being ten years younger than her brother.
- I'm pretty sure the girls are going to wear out the batteries on their new musical Anna and Elsa dolls (a gift from Granna and Opa) within 24 hours.
- Pool + movie = accidental nap for two girls that otherwise gave up naps ages ago! This summer has brought a lot of damp-haired late-afternoon snoozes on our couch!
- During one such snooze last weekend, I indulged in a marathon of "19 Kids and Counting." I made sure Matt was asleep too, so he couldn't make fun of me. What can I say? I love big families!
- Matt likes to put several kinds of meat on the smoker every so often, and then we eat off those birds and roasts all week. By tonight, I was really tired of the same beef and pork roasts we've had all week (and I was out of town two nights of the week, even) so tonight we had pork-sweet potato-cabbage-corn-couscous. Sounds weird, but it was good. Fortunately, Kate was taking a damp nap on the couch and wasn't there to declare it disgusting, and therefore Claire ate it.
Friday, March 07, 2014
Why Fostering Is Like Dating
I wouldn't say I dated a ton before finding my Reverend Charming—one other serious boyfriend and maybe two other relationships that reached the "official" status. (Oh, how thankful I am not to have uttered the term "DTR"—"defining the relationship"— in over a decade!) But those relationships and other steady dates (for lack of a better definition!) brought more than just fun and romance to my life.
They introduced me to and immersed me in hobbies and characteristics I might never have otherwise given a second thought. And it is that aspect of dating that has come to mind at various times over the course of our first year of fostering.
I remember the moment my "classic rock education" began, when Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock 'n' Roll" came on the radio while my high school sweetheart and I were in the car, and I guessed that it was Little Richard singing! What followed were many awesome mix tapes that I still enjoy today, and an appreciation for Billy Joel, Paul Simon, James Taylor, and other artists of the 1970s and '80s.
In college, I dated guys with passions for film scoring and musical theatre, and learned a lot from them about Alan Silvestri and John Williams, and a lot of shows less well-known than those in which I played minor roles in high school.
Beyond music, these relationships (and non-relationships) taught me about Tourette's Syndrome (it's not all about swearing), golf, baseball, the Baptist church, the Episcopal Church, cigar-smoking, and various cities around the South from which these young men hailed. Lest this seem like "Runaway Bride," where Julia Roberts doesn't even know what kind of eggs she likes, I hope maybe these fellows learned something about religion, Russia, or language (grammar, linguistics, etymology, etc.) from me. Or maybe not—my interests don't sound as interesting in comparison!
But in our year of fostering, exposure to and relationships with children and adults from different backgrounds and life experiences has taught me things I might not otherwise have immersed myself in.
Things like:
how African American hair and skin require different care and styling. . .
how race and poverty are so connected in America . . .
how family members who try to break patterns that fuel the cycle of poverty end up estranged . . .
how the juvenile and family court system works (and where that courthouse is even located in our city) . . .
where education ranks on Maslow's hierarchy of needs (after shelter and stability) . . .
what "white privilege" really looks like (actually, Matt learned that. I'll share that story sometime) . . .
the frustrations of parenting a teenager (oh, curfews and one-word answers!) . . .
navigating the prison and criminal court system . . .
how people can have substance abuse problems and criminal issues and still be devoted parents . . .
how thrilling it is to see progress like a 16-month-old child finally able to sit up! (without that boppy, too) . . .
how bizarre it is to get excited over a child nomming a toy or NOT gagging at phlegm in her throat, because dealing with semi-solid stuff in her mouth is a major project in therapy. . .
how vital social services like TennCare and TEIS (Tennessee Early Intervention System) are . . . and more.
BGC gets her hearing aids next week, so we'll start navigating those changes (oh, big girls, please keep the noise down—she can actually hear you now!) and add speech therapy to our weekly regimen of developmental, physical, and feeding therapy.
We're in the home stretch of reunification with BGC's parents, so we're navigating a tricky but very special relationship right now (a double-date, so to speak?) We're going to a training next week about "Working with Birth Parents," and we'll have some positive examples to share, gladly offering a counterbalance to some of the tougher situations our fellow foster parents may have to share.
We entered foster care because we have something to share—a room with a crib and a bed, extra car seats, a modicum of flexibility and openness—but there is so much we gain in the process as well. Namely, a wider view of the world, seeing things that are right under our noses, maybe in a different area of town or different wing of the hospital—so close yet so far away, only because luck and chance and birth have kept it far away.
These relationships aren't forever, but they expand our minds and hearts nonetheless.
Monday, October 15, 2012
On Christian Celebrity
__________________________________________
In college, there was a group I thought of as “the elite Christian crew.” They were the cool kids active in the bigger campus ministries at our formerly-Baptist liberal arts college. The guys wore Birkenstocks or flip-flops and some had longish hair and maybe a goatee. They were trying to look like Jesus, I hypothesized, with their sandals and suburban-hippie vibe.
They were great people, as far as I was aware, serious about their faith, and genuine in their desire to bring others into the fold. But they were still kind of a clique, and I wondered to myself at the irony of “popular Christians.” Among the general strata of "big men" and "big women" on campus, some were very religious and others weren’t; it wasn’t really the concept of Christians being well-known or holding campus leadership positions that seemed odd, but the idea that among the community of faith there would be a cream-of-the-crop that others couldn’t seem to touch seemed out of place for followers of someone as humble and egalitarian as Jesus.
Fast forward ten years and I work in “the biz.” Not Hollywood, not country music, but the religion biz. Christian media. And there is another elite Christian crew. There are celebrity pastors and mega-bloggers, and all those worship leaders and other cool kids still recovering from last week’s Catalyst conference. These days, it can feel as if “success” in ministry depends not just on love of God, love of people, and the ability to help those people connect to that God—but on coolness. On celebrity.
It can feel like the people who are really making a difference must be those with the overflowing auditoriums for all three Sunday morning services, or those whose books are hitting bestseller lists and being discussed in small groups nationwide, those with thousands of Twitter followers and Facebook fans.
Comparing ourselves to these “celebrity Christians” can spark feelings of inadequacy, defensiveness, resentment, cynicism, and misplaced ambition. They rear their ugly (green, monster-ish?) heads when we compare blog readership, worship attendance numbers, relative hipness of our worship style or personal fashion, compliments after the service, or even something as simple as “likes” on a Facebook status.
I was struck by the following confession I recently read in a book:
“I had taken pride in getting responses to witty things I’d post or compliments from long-lost acquaintances about my beautiful family or my relative 'success' in life.”
Reminds me of that tree falling in the woods. If something interesting happens to us and we don’t announce it on Facebook, did it really happen? Or worse, if we announce that interesting thing but no one else seems to find it interesting, was it really interesting? It’s no longer just my mother giving feedback on every element of my life and influencing my self-esteem—it’s 400 virtual acquaintances.
It’s easier than ever for our self-worth to be determined externally, and we find ourselves craving and chasing after the affirmation of people we don’t really even know.
Read the rest on Ministry Matters
Monday, June 04, 2012
On Doing Something and Nothing
By last Friday, I was totally ready for a weekend. (Even though, yes, it had been a four day week, preceded by a long weekend and preceded only a week before that by vacation.) But Friday afternoon, all I wanted to do was lay on our living room floor and play with my kids. And we did a lot of that this weekend.
But last night, as Mad Men was ending (our Sunday night ritual to unwind after a day full of church), I told Matt, "I feel like we didn't do anything this weekend. Just a lot of laying around and playing."
"That is doing something," Matt told me. He's much better at doing nothing than I am. Or seeing the value in it, at least.
Usually, the conversation is Matt telling me, "You don't always have to be doing something, you know." And I retort, "Well, it's impossible to do nothing. Even if you're just relaxing, you're reading a book . . . praying . . . breathing . . ." Such is my Type A logic.
We didn't really do "nothing" this weekend. Saturday morning, we did a family photo shoot with our friend Maria (another post with those photos forthcoming) and then rushed off to a birthday party for one of Kate's school friends. By 1:00, we were back home and totally exhausted, but of course the kids did not let us rest. Claire napped for maybe 40 minutes, Kate and I played Memory, I made tuna macaroni salad for dinner . . . I don't really know what we did.
I kept thinking, "We should go to the pool. We should go to the zoo. We should go outside and swing. We should go outside and blow bubbles. We should do a Pinteresting piece of handprint art. . ."
Even in my "doing nothing," I have to be "doing something."
I love Family Fun. The Fs are capitalized because only certain things seem to qualify as Family Fun. They typically involve going somewhere and spending at least a few dollars. (Oh, yeah, I remember now that we went out for frozen yogurt after dinner—probably from my guilt over doing "nothing" all afternoon.) Or creating something that can be scrapbooked.
I'm always amazed how easily my body relaxes when I remind it to. We watched "Hangover Part 2" the other night, and the scene when they go to the Buddhist monastery (before the guy starts beating everybody up) I felt my body immediately relax, my breathing regulate, and my pulse slow down, just watching the monks meditate silently. But I too often forget to consciously do that. It's much easier to fill the time with somethings (like puttering around online) that turn out to be nothings.
I enjoy prayer and meditation, intentionally being silent and still. (and I definitely enjoy naps!) I enjoy going places and making things with my family. It's the in between parts that I have trouble with—the just laying around. But that's exactly what I craved this weekend, and it's exactly what I got. Time just to be with my girls doing their ordinary thing of playing with toys on the floor, fussing and hitting one another occasionally (okay, the hitting was just one-way), enjoying life. That is something.
But last night, as Mad Men was ending (our Sunday night ritual to unwind after a day full of church), I told Matt, "I feel like we didn't do anything this weekend. Just a lot of laying around and playing."
"That is doing something," Matt told me. He's much better at doing nothing than I am. Or seeing the value in it, at least.
Usually, the conversation is Matt telling me, "You don't always have to be doing something, you know." And I retort, "Well, it's impossible to do nothing. Even if you're just relaxing, you're reading a book . . . praying . . . breathing . . ." Such is my Type A logic.
We didn't really do "nothing" this weekend. Saturday morning, we did a family photo shoot with our friend Maria (another post with those photos forthcoming) and then rushed off to a birthday party for one of Kate's school friends. By 1:00, we were back home and totally exhausted, but of course the kids did not let us rest. Claire napped for maybe 40 minutes, Kate and I played Memory, I made tuna macaroni salad for dinner . . . I don't really know what we did.
I kept thinking, "We should go to the pool. We should go to the zoo. We should go outside and swing. We should go outside and blow bubbles. We should do a Pinteresting piece of handprint art. . ."
Even in my "doing nothing," I have to be "doing something."
I love Family Fun. The Fs are capitalized because only certain things seem to qualify as Family Fun. They typically involve going somewhere and spending at least a few dollars. (Oh, yeah, I remember now that we went out for frozen yogurt after dinner—probably from my guilt over doing "nothing" all afternoon.) Or creating something that can be scrapbooked.
I'm always amazed how easily my body relaxes when I remind it to. We watched "Hangover Part 2" the other night, and the scene when they go to the Buddhist monastery (before the guy starts beating everybody up) I felt my body immediately relax, my breathing regulate, and my pulse slow down, just watching the monks meditate silently. But I too often forget to consciously do that. It's much easier to fill the time with somethings (like puttering around online) that turn out to be nothings.
I enjoy prayer and meditation, intentionally being silent and still. (and I definitely enjoy naps!) I enjoy going places and making things with my family. It's the in between parts that I have trouble with—the just laying around. But that's exactly what I craved this weekend, and it's exactly what I got. Time just to be with my girls doing their ordinary thing of playing with toys on the floor, fussing and hitting one another occasionally (okay, the hitting was just one-way), enjoying life. That is something.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Motherhood and Mortality
Most any parent will tell you, "I would gladly die for my child." It's true. I remember in my earliest months of motherhood, not wanting to leave Kate with anyone but grandparents. My criteria was that no one who would not jump in front of a bus for my baby would be entrusted with her care.
I had to get over that, for the sake of a date night now and again (we lived in Clarksville at the time, so grandparents weren't quite so close at hand) if not going back to work, which of course I did. But the anxiety and fear of something happening to your child never goes away. I remember describing it as "almost debilitating" during Kate's first few months, and it was renewed with Claire's infancy.
That fear of losing a child is perfectly natural and to be expected, even if I certainly didn't understand the magnitude of this new definition of "worst thing that could ever happen to me" before having kids. Who does?
What I didn't expect, though, was to view my own mortality differently. I've never been more willing to lay down my life for someone—and yet, at the same time, I've never wanted to live more.
I do not fear my own death. I would wish for preparation time to write letters and buy gifts and those sorts of things, rather than an unexpected death, but I don't fear "what comes next." Before parenthood, if I had been diagnosed with a terrible disease, I think I would have chosen quality over quantity, forgoing any treatment that would have been too risky or drastically reduced my quality of life. Not that I wouldn't fight at all, but when things were looking truly bleak, I think I would have peacefully accepted it.
A couple years ago, a guy I knew in college was diagnosed with cancer. It was bad, and round after round of chemo did not help. "Why does he keep fighting it?" I wondered. "Wouldn't he rather enjoy what time he has at home with his wife and son, rather than enduring debilitating treatments and traveling for clinical trials?"
Similarly, I used to take an "I'd rather just die" approach to debilitating injuries like paralysis, amputations, etc., they now would certainly not stand in the way of my being there for my kids, seeing them grow up, knowing my grandchildren, and so on. And if it were my child enduring such a trial, by God I'd just be thankful they were alive, whatever physical ailment they may face.
I think parenthood makes the difference.
If there was any chance of beating the cancer, to live to see your child grow up, you would strive for that. Reason might say that there is no chance, but the desire to live would make you keep trying. My friend from college died almost a year ago, and he fought right up to the end. He died mere days after the doctors told him there was absolutely nothing more they could do. That girl in Atlanta right now losing limbs and organs to a raging infection—she might say "just let me go" if she were conscious, but her parents are fighting for her, wanting to know her and be with her as long as they can.
I want to be there for my girls. They'd be fine without me (I tell Matt he'd have no trouble attracting a new wife, with daughters as adorable as ours :0) but I want to be there to experience all the conversations and consolations of growing up. I want to hug them through childhood's boo-boos and talk them through the trials of adolescence, to take them to college, be there for their weddings and know my grandchildren.
It's such a scary world. Stories of freak infections, children and young adults with cancer, massive accidents, kidnappings, and so on hit me harder than ever these days. It's hard to watch the news. I can only assuage the fear of losing a child with the resurrection promise that Life has the last word, and I can trust in the one iota of selflessness I have in that I would do anything in my power, even give up my own life, to save my child if ever in such a situation. But even with those comforts, I just want to live, to live life together and love my children for as long as I can.
I had to get over that, for the sake of a date night now and again (we lived in Clarksville at the time, so grandparents weren't quite so close at hand) if not going back to work, which of course I did. But the anxiety and fear of something happening to your child never goes away. I remember describing it as "almost debilitating" during Kate's first few months, and it was renewed with Claire's infancy.
That fear of losing a child is perfectly natural and to be expected, even if I certainly didn't understand the magnitude of this new definition of "worst thing that could ever happen to me" before having kids. Who does?
What I didn't expect, though, was to view my own mortality differently. I've never been more willing to lay down my life for someone—and yet, at the same time, I've never wanted to live more.
I do not fear my own death. I would wish for preparation time to write letters and buy gifts and those sorts of things, rather than an unexpected death, but I don't fear "what comes next." Before parenthood, if I had been diagnosed with a terrible disease, I think I would have chosen quality over quantity, forgoing any treatment that would have been too risky or drastically reduced my quality of life. Not that I wouldn't fight at all, but when things were looking truly bleak, I think I would have peacefully accepted it.
A couple years ago, a guy I knew in college was diagnosed with cancer. It was bad, and round after round of chemo did not help. "Why does he keep fighting it?" I wondered. "Wouldn't he rather enjoy what time he has at home with his wife and son, rather than enduring debilitating treatments and traveling for clinical trials?"
Similarly, I used to take an "I'd rather just die" approach to debilitating injuries like paralysis, amputations, etc., they now would certainly not stand in the way of my being there for my kids, seeing them grow up, knowing my grandchildren, and so on. And if it were my child enduring such a trial, by God I'd just be thankful they were alive, whatever physical ailment they may face.
I think parenthood makes the difference.
If there was any chance of beating the cancer, to live to see your child grow up, you would strive for that. Reason might say that there is no chance, but the desire to live would make you keep trying. My friend from college died almost a year ago, and he fought right up to the end. He died mere days after the doctors told him there was absolutely nothing more they could do. That girl in Atlanta right now losing limbs and organs to a raging infection—she might say "just let me go" if she were conscious, but her parents are fighting for her, wanting to know her and be with her as long as they can.
I want to be there for my girls. They'd be fine without me (I tell Matt he'd have no trouble attracting a new wife, with daughters as adorable as ours :0) but I want to be there to experience all the conversations and consolations of growing up. I want to hug them through childhood's boo-boos and talk them through the trials of adolescence, to take them to college, be there for their weddings and know my grandchildren.
It's such a scary world. Stories of freak infections, children and young adults with cancer, massive accidents, kidnappings, and so on hit me harder than ever these days. It's hard to watch the news. I can only assuage the fear of losing a child with the resurrection promise that Life has the last word, and I can trust in the one iota of selflessness I have in that I would do anything in my power, even give up my own life, to save my child if ever in such a situation. But even with those comforts, I just want to live, to live life together and love my children for as long as I can.
Friday, December 16, 2011
A Real Baby
My best friend and roommate in college did a lot of interfaith studies, and I remember her telling me about a visit she made to a Hindu temple for their celebration of a certain deity's birth. Like many churches during Advent and Christmas, they had a display featuring the infant deity on which to focus their attention and celebration. But unlike the beautiful crèches that have the fancy Jesus-dolly laying in a manger lined with gold lamé, the the Hindu worshipers had the figurine in a swing.
Like an actual, metal and plastic Graco swing. Like many of us have in our living rooms to rock our actual, human, 21st-century-born babies.
It struck us as a fascinating choice and raised interesting questions about the way we think about Baby Jesus. Those manger scenes that we display on our mantles and that people fight to keep on courthouse lawns are so beautiful (well, maybe not those cheap plastic light-up ones) but I wonder if they paint too quaint an image of a pretty, peaceful birth and infancy, and one very distant from our own experience with babyhood. We picture Mary kneeling glowingly beside the makeshift cradle and even if we recognize the roughness and filth of the stable (animal waste—hello!) we probably still don't think about the bodily functions and things that Mary—like any new mom—would have been dealing with. Breastfeeding, spit up, pee and poop...
Three years ago, when I was eight months pregnant with Kate at Christmastime, I reflected a lot on Mary's experience of expectation, feeling the baby move within her, etc. This year, with a newborn at Christmastime, I've thought more about these basic things of infant care that we often never think about Mary doing. I've sat there feeding Claire and thought about Mary nursing the Son of God at her breast, staring into his eyes and wishing her sweet baby a life of health and happiness . . . before he spits up all over her or her other boob leaks milk through that nice blue robe she's always shown wearing.
Kate—like most small children—doesn't see Jesus or the nativity with the unearthly glow that we do, though. She knows that Christmas is Jesus' birthday and that our depictions of Jesus at Christmastime are of him as a baby, and having watched me with her baby sister these last six weeks, she knows what babies do. She demonstrated for us at dinnertime last night, bringing the figures from our "nice" nativity (i.e. not her wooden Melissa & Doug one or the wooden Advent calendar with its rudimentary nativity scene) to the table and playing with them. Not wanting to perpetuate the idea that Jesus is untouchable (even if it meant the figures might get broken, which they didn't) I let her keep playing with them throughout the meal.
And what did she do? She put the tiny, two-inch Baby Jesus figurine on her shoulder, patted him, and said "Jesus needs to burp." She laid him down on the table, lifted his bottom, and said, "I need a wipe. I need a diaper." She even held his little mouth up to Mary's chest so he could eat.
She got it. The nativity means that the Messiah was born as a real, human baby, and all the stuff that brings with it. It was the beginning of a life through which God experienced the roughness of life on this earth. Through which God was with us. Immanuel—God with us. Immanuel doesn't just mean glowing, awe-struck wonder. It also means wet burp rags and dirty diapers.
Like an actual, metal and plastic Graco swing. Like many of us have in our living rooms to rock our actual, human, 21st-century-born babies.
It struck us as a fascinating choice and raised interesting questions about the way we think about Baby Jesus. Those manger scenes that we display on our mantles and that people fight to keep on courthouse lawns are so beautiful (well, maybe not those cheap plastic light-up ones) but I wonder if they paint too quaint an image of a pretty, peaceful birth and infancy, and one very distant from our own experience with babyhood. We picture Mary kneeling glowingly beside the makeshift cradle and even if we recognize the roughness and filth of the stable (animal waste—hello!) we probably still don't think about the bodily functions and things that Mary—like any new mom—would have been dealing with. Breastfeeding, spit up, pee and poop...
Three years ago, when I was eight months pregnant with Kate at Christmastime, I reflected a lot on Mary's experience of expectation, feeling the baby move within her, etc. This year, with a newborn at Christmastime, I've thought more about these basic things of infant care that we often never think about Mary doing. I've sat there feeding Claire and thought about Mary nursing the Son of God at her breast, staring into his eyes and wishing her sweet baby a life of health and happiness . . . before he spits up all over her or her other boob leaks milk through that nice blue robe she's always shown wearing.
Kate—like most small children—doesn't see Jesus or the nativity with the unearthly glow that we do, though. She knows that Christmas is Jesus' birthday and that our depictions of Jesus at Christmastime are of him as a baby, and having watched me with her baby sister these last six weeks, she knows what babies do. She demonstrated for us at dinnertime last night, bringing the figures from our "nice" nativity (i.e. not her wooden Melissa & Doug one or the wooden Advent calendar with its rudimentary nativity scene) to the table and playing with them. Not wanting to perpetuate the idea that Jesus is untouchable (even if it meant the figures might get broken, which they didn't) I let her keep playing with them throughout the meal.
And what did she do? She put the tiny, two-inch Baby Jesus figurine on her shoulder, patted him, and said "Jesus needs to burp." She laid him down on the table, lifted his bottom, and said, "I need a wipe. I need a diaper." She even held his little mouth up to Mary's chest so he could eat.
She got it. The nativity means that the Messiah was born as a real, human baby, and all the stuff that brings with it. It was the beginning of a life through which God experienced the roughness of life on this earth. Through which God was with us. Immanuel—God with us. Immanuel doesn't just mean glowing, awe-struck wonder. It also means wet burp rags and dirty diapers.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Mommy Moments
There are moments in and sights around our house that fill me with such contentment. Things that make me say, "wow, this is the life I've always dreamed of." Things like:
A refrigerator covered in kids' artwork
Random craft projects hanging around
A child playing dress-up
Doing fingerprint art and other crafty things with my kids
My daughter sitting at the counter while I'm fixing dinner
(a fond memory of my own growing up with my mom and the primary reason I wanted a house with a sit-at counter)
Going to school programs where it may be hard to understand what the kids are singing, and half the kids are crying or not paying attention, but they're still oh-so-cute!
And the very fact of having two little girls! I always wanted lots of kids, especially daughters.
Life's not perfect. There are definitely the times that try moms' souls (just had one, actually, which is why I decided to write this heartwarming post rather than have a breakdown or break out the Jack Daniels at two in the afternoon—and indeed, I do feel better after writing this!) but in between those moments when it feels like my head is going to explode in frustration (please tell me you have them too), there are the moments when I am just so happy and thankful for my sweet children and this beautiful life.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Phases
Kate is now asleep. After protesting my final goodnight with some mild bellowing and a headlock. After begging for "one more book" several times. After insisting on putting on big girl panties over her nighttime pull-up, and getting nasty with me when I tried to help. After literally running circles around me to avoid letting me unbutton her shirt. And I didn't even try to brush her teeth tonight.
Toddlerhood brings some tough moments, and bedtime is usually one of them. Where, oh where, is my super-sleeper baby, who slept through the night at two months, went down with no trouble at all, and made us the envy of family and friends?
Long gone. But she could come back. Who knows?
If there's one thing parenthood will teach you, it's that everything is a phase. You may take this for granted the first year or two, especially with an easy baby who makes it easy to assume she's just naturally good-natured and you've got this parenting thing down. But nothing lasts forever. Good or bad.
We like the song by Darius Rucker (AKA Hootie of Blowfish fame, turned country singer), It Won't Be Like This for Long, which describes a father's experiences through phases of his daughter's growing up, good (it won't be like this for long, so cherish it) and bad (it won't be like this for long, so hang in there). There are days I just have to take a deep breath and sing it to myself, sometimes from the upside and sometimes the downside.
Battling to get her in her carseat? It won't last long.
Spitting and licking for fun? It won't last long.
Sleeping on the floor every night, rather than in her bed? It won't last long.
Having conniptions over completely random little things? It won't last long.
Refusal to brush her teeth? It won't last long (I hope).
Sweet girl saying, "I wanna hold you, Mommy!"? That won't last long, either.
Everything's a phase. Survive it. Cherish it. It won't be like this for long.
Toddlerhood brings some tough moments, and bedtime is usually one of them. Where, oh where, is my super-sleeper baby, who slept through the night at two months, went down with no trouble at all, and made us the envy of family and friends?
Long gone. But she could come back. Who knows?
If there's one thing parenthood will teach you, it's that everything is a phase. You may take this for granted the first year or two, especially with an easy baby who makes it easy to assume she's just naturally good-natured and you've got this parenting thing down. But nothing lasts forever. Good or bad.
We like the song by Darius Rucker (AKA Hootie of Blowfish fame, turned country singer), It Won't Be Like This for Long, which describes a father's experiences through phases of his daughter's growing up, good (it won't be like this for long, so cherish it) and bad (it won't be like this for long, so hang in there). There are days I just have to take a deep breath and sing it to myself, sometimes from the upside and sometimes the downside.
Battling to get her in her carseat? It won't last long.
Spitting and licking for fun? It won't last long.
Sleeping on the floor every night, rather than in her bed? It won't last long.
Having conniptions over completely random little things? It won't last long.
Refusal to brush her teeth? It won't last long (I hope).
Sweet girl saying, "I wanna hold you, Mommy!"? That won't last long, either.
Everything's a phase. Survive it. Cherish it. It won't be like this for long.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Christmas is the New Advent
Newly purchased plastic storage bins with red and green lids are waiting eagerly in the garage to replace the falling-apart cardboard boxes that have held our Christmas decor for the better part of a decade. I meant to start putting our decorations away last night, but I didn't. . . and it may be more than laziness that kept me perusing my Google Reader rather than plucking ornaments from our increasingly brittle tree.
Christmas is not over.
Not in a "Christ lives in our hearts" sort of way, but literally--liturgically--Christmas doesn't end until January 6! It's not over yet! Today is the twelfth day of Christmas, so (as of this writing) there are still four hours left in the Christmas season. Though it's a common misunderstanding (that, as a child, often got me small presents from Dec. 13 onward), the Twelve Days of Christmas are the twelve days between Christmas Day and Epiphany (Jan. 6). It's not just a song, but a season of the traditional Christian calendar.
Christmas is not over.
Not in a "Christ lives in our hearts" sort of way, but literally--liturgically--Christmas doesn't end until January 6! It's not over yet! Today is the twelfth day of Christmas, so (as of this writing) there are still four hours left in the Christmas season. Though it's a common misunderstanding (that, as a child, often got me small presents from Dec. 13 onward), the Twelve Days of Christmas are the twelve days between Christmas Day and Epiphany (Jan. 6). It's not just a song, but a season of the traditional Christian calendar. We are all so excited for Christmas to arrive, and then we quickly--if reluctantly--move on.
When Mom and I went out on December 26, I told a store clerk, "Merry Christmas," and Mom said, "it's 'Happy New Year' now!" No... it's not. I was thrilled that my holiday XM stations continued to play Christmas music beyond the 25th, but even they stopped on January 2. The gorgeous tree at Kate's day care is down, and mommy bloggers are lamenting their "delinquency" at still having their tree up on the 4th.
I remember in college, catching up with a friend upon our return to campus in January. She told me how her new boyfriend's family still had their tree up. "They keep it up till January 6. . . Epiphany. What religion is that?"
"Ours!" I told her.
In my efforts to celebrate Christmas for its full duration, I've found that--in a way--Christmas is the new Advent. While it has always been part of the Christian calendar, I think Advent has regained popularity in the last few years as many Christians try to embrace the season of preparation and expectation that lead up to Christmas. It's hard, though, as the world is going nuts from Halloween onward with Christmas festivities and marketing, not so much spiritual preparation as home- and gift-preparation. I love the way Matt Appling phrased it: "There’s food to make and cards to mail, and gifts to wrap, and trees to kill, and sweaters to wear, and decorations to decorate and eggnog to drink and places to be. . . And somewhere in there, I’m supposed to find the time for some solemn reflection on the real meaning of the holiday."
So I'm wondering if maybe Christmas itself--the latter eleven days of it, at least--is an even better time for reflection on the meaning of Christ's coming. Once society as a whole has opened its gifts, taken down the tree, and moved on, we can rest and reflect on the hope and peace Jesus' birth and life brings to the world and to our lives.
Christmas is not just one day. There's no need to pack the celebration away so quickly. In fact, if your nativity scene is still out, take a look at those wise men. Epiphany--January 6--is the day we celebrate their arrival in Bethlehem. They took their time on the journey, and we can too. Merry Christmas.
Friday, December 31, 2010
The Tyranny of "Should"
I should buy something since I used their bathroom.
I should attend that event, even though I don't feel like it.
I should spend more on his Christmas gift.
I should wake up at 5am so I can pray/exercise/get to work early.
I should wear sunscreen and floss daily.
Sometimes "should" is rooted in etiquette or social convention. Sometimes it's about health and safety. Sometimes it comes from others' expectations placed on you (rightly or wrongly). And sometimes it is your own expectations for yourself (again, rightly or wrongly).
Sometimes I feel bombarded and burdened by "shoulds." Whenever I say or think the word, it's like a weight coming down over my shoulders. And it makes sense that the word just plain feels bad. When we say we should do something, rather than "I want to" or "I get to," it basically means "I don't really want to," and we are burdened with the pressure of unwanted obligations. In the past tense--"I should have..."--it means guilt, and we are burdened with regret.
I want to escape from the tyranny of "should." This means not agreeing to things I don't really want to do. This means letting go of self-imposed pressures. This means deciding if other-imposed obligations or expectations are valid and important to me, or not.
My new year's resolution this year is not to blog if I don't feel like it. I love having this blog to share funny stories, memories, thoughts, etc., and interacting with the wider community of bloggers and readers. But a certain schedule or weekly quota for my blogging is a self-imposed pressure that I am choosing to free myself from.
Blogger and literary agent Rachelle Gardner had a great post the other day about new year's resolutions and how we all make them and break them, and she's gotten to the point of not even caring about it. She realized that our resolutions are really less about things we want to do (or should do) and more about what we want to be. To use her example, when we say "I want to lose ten pounds this year," what we are really saying is "I want to feel better about myself" or "I want to look good to other people." So why not focus more on the root desire in the first place? You might find that there are many things you can do to embody that desire, and that it doesn't come down to one action that you can cross off a list or mark "pass" or "fail" next Dec. 31.
Last year, my resolution was to read the Bible more. Since "more" is a very loose criterion, I guess it could be said that I succeeded technically, but not really. The root desire behind that resolution was to be more authentic and personal in my faith. I work in Christian publishing, I go to church weekly, and my beliefs and values are often at the forefront of my mind and conversation in our home. But to be honest, I haven't invested a lot of time over the past few years in quiet, personal, deep devotion--and I miss that, because whenever I do, I really do feel closer to God and strengthened as a disciple. I might be more successful in that desire if I focus on the value of faith and discipleship, rather than on the "should" of "I should read the Bible more."
Rachelle suggested asking yourself, "How do I want to feel?" and thinking in terms of adjectives, rather than verbs or nouns. I want to feel calm and unburdened, not filling up my time and draining my mental/emotional tank with things I don't really care about. I want to focus on what really matters to me. This will probably (hopefully) involve blogging, scrapbooking, picture-taking, Bible-reading, volunteering, giving, etc. But because I want to. Not because I should.
I should attend that event, even though I don't feel like it.
I should spend more on his Christmas gift.
I should wake up at 5am so I can pray/exercise/get to work early.
I should wear sunscreen and floss daily.
Sometimes "should" is rooted in etiquette or social convention. Sometimes it's about health and safety. Sometimes it comes from others' expectations placed on you (rightly or wrongly). And sometimes it is your own expectations for yourself (again, rightly or wrongly).
Sometimes I feel bombarded and burdened by "shoulds." Whenever I say or think the word, it's like a weight coming down over my shoulders. And it makes sense that the word just plain feels bad. When we say we should do something, rather than "I want to" or "I get to," it basically means "I don't really want to," and we are burdened with the pressure of unwanted obligations. In the past tense--"I should have..."--it means guilt, and we are burdened with regret.
I want to escape from the tyranny of "should." This means not agreeing to things I don't really want to do. This means letting go of self-imposed pressures. This means deciding if other-imposed obligations or expectations are valid and important to me, or not.
My new year's resolution this year is not to blog if I don't feel like it. I love having this blog to share funny stories, memories, thoughts, etc., and interacting with the wider community of bloggers and readers. But a certain schedule or weekly quota for my blogging is a self-imposed pressure that I am choosing to free myself from.
Blogger and literary agent Rachelle Gardner had a great post the other day about new year's resolutions and how we all make them and break them, and she's gotten to the point of not even caring about it. She realized that our resolutions are really less about things we want to do (or should do) and more about what we want to be. To use her example, when we say "I want to lose ten pounds this year," what we are really saying is "I want to feel better about myself" or "I want to look good to other people." So why not focus more on the root desire in the first place? You might find that there are many things you can do to embody that desire, and that it doesn't come down to one action that you can cross off a list or mark "pass" or "fail" next Dec. 31.
Last year, my resolution was to read the Bible more. Since "more" is a very loose criterion, I guess it could be said that I succeeded technically, but not really. The root desire behind that resolution was to be more authentic and personal in my faith. I work in Christian publishing, I go to church weekly, and my beliefs and values are often at the forefront of my mind and conversation in our home. But to be honest, I haven't invested a lot of time over the past few years in quiet, personal, deep devotion--and I miss that, because whenever I do, I really do feel closer to God and strengthened as a disciple. I might be more successful in that desire if I focus on the value of faith and discipleship, rather than on the "should" of "I should read the Bible more."
Rachelle suggested asking yourself, "How do I want to feel?" and thinking in terms of adjectives, rather than verbs or nouns. I want to feel calm and unburdened, not filling up my time and draining my mental/emotional tank with things I don't really care about. I want to focus on what really matters to me. This will probably (hopefully) involve blogging, scrapbooking, picture-taking, Bible-reading, volunteering, giving, etc. But because I want to. Not because I should.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Gift of Peace
The worship music ended, and the pastor walked out and sat on his stool, from which he usually did his preaching. He folded his hands on his lap, and just looked out at the congregation.
People grew uncomfortable, and quickly felt compelled to fill the silence.
“Good morning!” one said, thinking maybe the pastor wanted the congregation to greet him first. Others chimed in, but the pastor said nothing.
“You feelin’ alright, Preach?” someone asked with a chuckle.
“Short sermon today?” another person quipped. The laughter and chatter of the congregation filled the pastor's silence.
Personally, I was grateful for the silence, which was being marred by the good-natured heckling of the crowd. It had been a crazy morning. I was sick and stressed. My daredevil toddler was getting rowdy in the bathroom and fell hard on her cheek. I considered just staying home, at least until time for worship at the church my husband pastors. But I needed this time to myself, where I could worship anonymously and unselfconsciously.
I craved a moment of peace, to relax the tension in my body and mind, and bring my thoughts to God. The pastor gave us just the gift I needed (as a sermon illustration to demonstrate the difficulty of waiting patiently), but many did not recognize the silence as a gift. They felt uncomfortable and sought to fill the time with words, jokes, and nervous laughter.
Quiet moments can be rare between all the responsibilities and distractions of life, but they are even rarer because we don’t recognize them when they do happen and cherish them for the gifts they are. When we find ourselves having to wait somewhere or somehow stuck with “nothing to do,” we fill the time with chatter or a game of Sudoku on our iPhones, rather than simply resting and allowing God’s peace to rest within us and renew us.
While many people have to work on Christmas Eve or the day after Christmas (and some on Christmas Day itself), and you may be bustling between family members' homes, hopefully today will offer some quiet rest for you. Even if the Christmas music is playing and the children are wearing out the batteries on their noisiest new toys, the pace of life will be slower and hopefully you'll have time to just sit and be.
Take time for solitude. Take a moment to step back and be still, be silent. Watch your family play and let the joy wash over you. Welcome the Prince of Peace into your home and cherish the gift of peace that he brings on Christmas Day and always. Merry Christmas.
This post is adapted from my post this week on The Pastor's Wife Speaks.
Friday, November 26, 2010
The Idol of Choice
Hope you all had a happy Thanksgiving!
BTW, This is not a post about abortion or socialism, though you might get that idea from the title and/or my first paragraph!
In January and February of 2001, I went on a college foreign study trip to Russia and Central Europe (mainly because I had always dreamt of going to Russia, not because I was a History or Political Science major, the course subjects for the trip). One of the major themes of the trip was “democratization,” mainly how difficult it is for a different political and economic system to really take hold in former Soviet bloc countries.
Old habits die hard, it seems. I saw evidence of that firsthand in a museum gift shop in St. Petersburg. They kept most of the big, full-color, coffee-table style books behind the counter, displayed face-out on some nice shelving. Using gestures and the few Russian phrases I’d memorized, I got the shop’s sole sales lady to take down a book so I could skim through the beautiful photographs of Russian architecture and landscapes, and their (English) captions. . . .
. . . for the rest of the story—why the sales lady got irritated with me and what that teaches me about pastor’s wifery—visit The Pastor’s Wife Speaks.
BTW, This is not a post about abortion or socialism, though you might get that idea from the title and/or my first paragraph!
In January and February of 2001, I went on a college foreign study trip to Russia and Central Europe (mainly because I had always dreamt of going to Russia, not because I was a History or Political Science major, the course subjects for the trip). One of the major themes of the trip was “democratization,” mainly how difficult it is for a different political and economic system to really take hold in former Soviet bloc countries.
Old habits die hard, it seems. I saw evidence of that firsthand in a museum gift shop in St. Petersburg. They kept most of the big, full-color, coffee-table style books behind the counter, displayed face-out on some nice shelving. Using gestures and the few Russian phrases I’d memorized, I got the shop’s sole sales lady to take down a book so I could skim through the beautiful photographs of Russian architecture and landscapes, and their (English) captions. . . .
. . . for the rest of the story—why the sales lady got irritated with me and what that teaches me about pastor’s wifery—visit The Pastor’s Wife Speaks.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Spiritual Self-Discipline
I've always really admired those people who can get up at 4am and get a lot of stuff done before the sun even rises. I remember a girl in college who would rise at 4:30 in order to practice flute for an hour, do homework, exercise, eat a real breakfast, etc. Holy cow.
I really, really wish I could do that. When I express this desire to Matt, he takes the opportunity to remind me how (ever-reluctantly) Wesleyan I am. John Wesley rose early in order to spend hours in prayer and study, and said something to the effect of "keep a faithful account of every productive thing you do all day." I think of that whenever I write something on my planner after it has already happened. Yes, in that we share a crazy Type-A love of organization and control, I am Wesleyan.
I think all the time about how I want to set the alarm for 5:00 and get out of bed promptly when it goes off. I would make coffee and sit on the back patio, reading scripture and communing with God. Then I would shower and get Kate up and make my lunch and leave the house with enough time to drive breezily for 40 minutes and then sit in gridlock for 20 more, getting to work before 8:00. But I can’t do it.
I consider myself a morning person, in that I could never sleep till noon (or even 10) and once I am up, I am chipper and active. Nonetheless, my natural, unassisted waking time is still about 7:15 (on the rare occasion I get to sleep until rising "naturally"). So, I hit snooze several times when my alarm goes off at 5:45 or 6:00 each morning. I get confused when it's the baby monitor making noise, rather than the radio, and yet I still instinctively reach for the snooze button.
I feel frustrated with myself, because I really admire self-discipline, and wish I had more of it. I'm a big multi-tasker, and I love productivity, but multitasking is actually less productive, so I've read. While busyness feels productive, one really wastes time by shifting gears frequently. I need to focus, but that feels hard to do. I have to fight the urge to switch tasks, to click on other windows open on my desktop, editing a page before checking email and then planning a layout and then looking at my to-do list to see if I've completed any one thing yet! Over the course of the day, I get a lot done, but all in bits and pieces! What could I do if I stopped all the multitasking?
I find that I even multitask my prayer life. I chat with God while driving home, read a scripture or written prayer in passing, etc. But when I actually stop. . . to read, pray, ponder my surroundings… my blood pressure immediately drops. My body relaxes, my mind slows down. It's not so much about what I say. . . even better if I say nothing at all. I notice little things like the way an ant crawls or the way the sun rises so gradually that you barely notice it happening. I can connect with God in a way I can't while being so busy with other things.
I don't have to get up at 4am to do it, but I do have to be intentional about it. I have to choose to stop everything else so that I can focus on God, just sit . . . and be.
I really, really wish I could do that. When I express this desire to Matt, he takes the opportunity to remind me how (ever-reluctantly) Wesleyan I am. John Wesley rose early in order to spend hours in prayer and study, and said something to the effect of "keep a faithful account of every productive thing you do all day." I think of that whenever I write something on my planner after it has already happened. Yes, in that we share a crazy Type-A love of organization and control, I am Wesleyan.
I think all the time about how I want to set the alarm for 5:00 and get out of bed promptly when it goes off. I would make coffee and sit on the back patio, reading scripture and communing with God. Then I would shower and get Kate up and make my lunch and leave the house with enough time to drive breezily for 40 minutes and then sit in gridlock for 20 more, getting to work before 8:00. But I can’t do it.
I consider myself a morning person, in that I could never sleep till noon (or even 10) and once I am up, I am chipper and active. Nonetheless, my natural, unassisted waking time is still about 7:15 (on the rare occasion I get to sleep until rising "naturally"). So, I hit snooze several times when my alarm goes off at 5:45 or 6:00 each morning. I get confused when it's the baby monitor making noise, rather than the radio, and yet I still instinctively reach for the snooze button.
I feel frustrated with myself, because I really admire self-discipline, and wish I had more of it. I'm a big multi-tasker, and I love productivity, but multitasking is actually less productive, so I've read. While busyness feels productive, one really wastes time by shifting gears frequently. I need to focus, but that feels hard to do. I have to fight the urge to switch tasks, to click on other windows open on my desktop, editing a page before checking email and then planning a layout and then looking at my to-do list to see if I've completed any one thing yet! Over the course of the day, I get a lot done, but all in bits and pieces! What could I do if I stopped all the multitasking?
I find that I even multitask my prayer life. I chat with God while driving home, read a scripture or written prayer in passing, etc. But when I actually stop. . . to read, pray, ponder my surroundings… my blood pressure immediately drops. My body relaxes, my mind slows down. It's not so much about what I say. . . even better if I say nothing at all. I notice little things like the way an ant crawls or the way the sun rises so gradually that you barely notice it happening. I can connect with God in a way I can't while being so busy with other things.
I don't have to get up at 4am to do it, but I do have to be intentional about it. I have to choose to stop everything else so that I can focus on God, just sit . . . and be.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Mommy God
"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Even these may forget, but I will not forget you!" --Isaiah 49:15
I reflected on this verse last weekend, and was reminded yet again of all the ways motherhood has helped me understand God's parental love. As Isaiah says, God's love and faithfulness is even beyond what an earthy parent feels for his or her child. When Kate was just a few months old, I wrote about the things I'd learned about God from motherhood already, and now that she's in an entirely different stage of development (hello demanding and impatient toddlerdom!) I'm learning about this divine love in new ways.
The most profound of these is something that I absolutely love about this stage of her development: When she's upset--even when she's upset with me--she runs to me for comfort. She's yanking on the refrigerator door handle, begging for me to open it so she can pull the carton of strawberries down or eat grapes straight out of the bag before I can even wash them. I say "no, you've had enough of a snack already." Her face crumples and she lets out a pathetic wail. I crouch down, and she runs to me and throws her arms around my neck, burying her despair in my shoulder. She's mad at me--but she knows where the comfort is.
I love the thought that even when we are upset, angry at life--at God--we can take it straight to him. Being mad at God doesn't mean we have to run away. We can be angry and seek comfort at the same time.
The spiritual director leading our retreat urged me also to reflect on the notion of God "delighting" in me. I struggle with pride even as I strive for humility, and often settle for self-flagellation. It was a difficult excercise for me to think of God delighting in my face. I mugged at the sky, teasing the God who supposedly loves to gaze at my face. I thought, however, of the way I glance during the workday at one of the many framed pictures of Kate on my desk. I'll stop, pick up the frame, and just stare at her, delighting in her sweet face. Could God see me the same way?
I love this divine sort of SAT equation. God : Me :: Me : Kate
(If you're rusty on your standardized test jargon, that's "God is to me as I am to Kate.")
On a test question, one of those items would be blank. "A is to B as B is to ____." It's strange to say, but it seems that God is the blank here. God is beyond our comprehension, and while we read and hear about the magnitude of God's love for us, it is hard to grasp. But I know how much I love Kate, and I cherish the glimpse that relationship gives of how much God loves me. It's not a perfect equation, because even I will fail. Even the mother who bears a child can "forget" or abandon her offspring. But it offers some small glimpse, some way of comprehending what an infinite, ever-loving God might feel for me. And you.
Even these may forget, but I will not forget you!" --Isaiah 49:15
I reflected on this verse last weekend, and was reminded yet again of all the ways motherhood has helped me understand God's parental love. As Isaiah says, God's love and faithfulness is even beyond what an earthy parent feels for his or her child. When Kate was just a few months old, I wrote about the things I'd learned about God from motherhood already, and now that she's in an entirely different stage of development (hello demanding and impatient toddlerdom!) I'm learning about this divine love in new ways.
The most profound of these is something that I absolutely love about this stage of her development: When she's upset--even when she's upset with me--she runs to me for comfort. She's yanking on the refrigerator door handle, begging for me to open it so she can pull the carton of strawberries down or eat grapes straight out of the bag before I can even wash them. I say "no, you've had enough of a snack already." Her face crumples and she lets out a pathetic wail. I crouch down, and she runs to me and throws her arms around my neck, burying her despair in my shoulder. She's mad at me--but she knows where the comfort is.
I love the thought that even when we are upset, angry at life--at God--we can take it straight to him. Being mad at God doesn't mean we have to run away. We can be angry and seek comfort at the same time.
The spiritual director leading our retreat urged me also to reflect on the notion of God "delighting" in me. I struggle with pride even as I strive for humility, and often settle for self-flagellation. It was a difficult excercise for me to think of God delighting in my face. I mugged at the sky, teasing the God who supposedly loves to gaze at my face. I thought, however, of the way I glance during the workday at one of the many framed pictures of Kate on my desk. I'll stop, pick up the frame, and just stare at her, delighting in her sweet face. Could God see me the same way?
I love this divine sort of SAT equation. God : Me :: Me : Kate
(If you're rusty on your standardized test jargon, that's "God is to me as I am to Kate.")
On a test question, one of those items would be blank. "A is to B as B is to ____." It's strange to say, but it seems that God is the blank here. God is beyond our comprehension, and while we read and hear about the magnitude of God's love for us, it is hard to grasp. But I know how much I love Kate, and I cherish the glimpse that relationship gives of how much God loves me. It's not a perfect equation, because even I will fail. Even the mother who bears a child can "forget" or abandon her offspring. But it offers some small glimpse, some way of comprehending what an infinite, ever-loving God might feel for me. And you.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Thinking of Fall
And, of course. . . by July, I am looking forward to fall.
It started today because I am feeling the itch to buy some cute new clothes for Kate, and she already has enough for summer. Kate had some of the cutest outfits last fall (most of which I bought all in one lot on eBay--$280 worth of clothes for only $32, including shipping!) I'm dreaming of school supplies and pumpkins. I'm thinking of the cool, crisp air and picturing myself in a long, chunky sweater with toggle-buttons, eating chili to the soundtrack of football on Sunday afternoon.
For a long time, I not only looked a season ahead on the calendar, but in life. I couldn't wait to get married, to get a house, to have babies. . . I once doodled an abstract rendering of things I love, things that define me. Amidst the pencil, the palette, the cross, the book, I drew an arrow going backward and an arrow going forward--symbolizing the past and the future, things I invested much mental energy daydreaming about. My friend with whom I shared the doodle had to ask: "What about the present?"
I hadn't even thought of that. I loved to reminisce about special times, and I loved to imagine things I hoped for in the future. But living in the present I was not so good at. It's something I've worked to do better at--just enjoying the moment and celebrating the stage of life that I am currently in, rather than always focusing on the receding horizon. Having Kate has helped me break this habit to some extent. I don't want to wish away a moment with her, much less half a season, or a whole season of life.
Monday, June 14, 2010
American Girl Power
If you're a child of the late eighties, you may remember the advent of the American Girl phenomenon. I'll never forget receiving my first catalog when I was seven years old. There were only three dolls (and accompanying book series) at that time--pioneer girl Kirsten, Victorian Samantha, and WWII-era Molly. I instantly loved Samantha, and begged to receive her for my eighth birthday, which I did. A year or so later, they added a fourth girl, Felicity, from Colonial Williamsburg, and I got her for Christmas that year.
When my mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and I went to Chicago in April, we just had to go in the American Girl Store, and I was reminded again how wonderful the American Girl concept is. Expensive and highly commercialized, yes, but really awesome too. I loved history even as a child, and really learned a lot from the American Girl books. They each had (and I hope, still have) a historical appendix with real photos from the era and deeper explanations of the events and issues touched on in the book. Through the fictional characters and their stories, children learn about real, important issues in American history. From Kirsten's stories, the difficulty of immigrant assimilation and harsh life on the frontier. From Felicity (pictured below), how Patriot and Loyalist neighbors turned against one another in the Revolutionary War. From Samantha, girls learn about child labor and women's suffrage.
In the years since I grew out of dolls, they added diversity with Addy, Kaya, and Josefina--African American, Native American, and Mexican American characters, respectively, as well as Depression-era Kit Kittredge, whose movie
is awesome.* I think the historical doll and book concept is fabulous. It is a great way to learn history and culture, and to give kids great examples of smart, brave, compassionate, resourceful girls.
During our visit to the American Girl store, I discovered the newest doll and was absolutely enamored. Rebecca Rubin is a Russian-Jewish immigrant living in New York in 1914. If there are four things I love, they are Russia, Judaica, New York, and the Edwardian Era. Isn't she gorgeous?! (I need to make sure Kate has seen Titanic enough by the time she is eight years old that Rebecca will be the doll she wants! j/k... sort of.)
I'm personally not as into the American Girls' "Just Like You" dolls--mainly because I just love the historical dolls so much--but the modern collection encourages the same sort of go-getter girlhood as the historical dolls, with accessories for every hobby and activity a 21st century American girl could want. I was drawn to the doll who--like me!--broke her leg playing softball.
------------
*Ok, now for my aside about Kit Kittredge. The Kit movie will forever be wrapped up for me in the "thinking Kate was a boy" story. I took the Intelligender
test on my birthday in 2008, at about 12 weeks pregnant. The test--which claims to detect gender from 10 weeks on--clearly said "boy." Mom and I were planning to go see the Kit Kittredge movie that day, but I was so depressed about not having a little girl, I couldn't bear to go see the American Girl movie, and instead moped around and totally ruined my own birthday. If you weren't reading this blog then, seriously, check out our wild ride of taking the test (there's a video!) and then seeing the ultrasound two months later. Crazy times. And for the record, Matt and I are both thrilled Kate is a girl, and I promise I will adore any sons that come along.
When my mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and I went to Chicago in April, we just had to go in the American Girl Store, and I was reminded again how wonderful the American Girl concept is. Expensive and highly commercialized, yes, but really awesome too. I loved history even as a child, and really learned a lot from the American Girl books. They each had (and I hope, still have) a historical appendix with real photos from the era and deeper explanations of the events and issues touched on in the book. Through the fictional characters and their stories, children learn about real, important issues in American history. From Kirsten's stories, the difficulty of immigrant assimilation and harsh life on the frontier. From Felicity (pictured below), how Patriot and Loyalist neighbors turned against one another in the Revolutionary War. From Samantha, girls learn about child labor and women's suffrage.
is awesome.* I think the historical doll and book concept is fabulous. It is a great way to learn history and culture, and to give kids great examples of smart, brave, compassionate, resourceful girls.During our visit to the American Girl store, I discovered the newest doll and was absolutely enamored. Rebecca Rubin is a Russian-Jewish immigrant living in New York in 1914. If there are four things I love, they are Russia, Judaica, New York, and the Edwardian Era. Isn't she gorgeous?! (I need to make sure Kate has seen Titanic enough by the time she is eight years old that Rebecca will be the doll she wants! j/k... sort of.)
My sister-in-law was a little creeped out by the "clones"--the display of basic "Just Like You" dolls to choose from, according to your eye, hair, and skin tone.
Clones aside, I was just reminded during our visit how awesome and empowering American Girls are. Yes, it's fun to dress up the dolls and go nuts over the adorable accessories, but there's something valuable underneath. "This is so much better for girls than the whole princess thing!" I gushed as I blubbered over Kit's typewriter and Felicity's horse and riding habit. As I mentioned in my posts about marriage last week, I'm not into the "princess" thing for little girls (promotes this "happily ever after" notion of romance, and general superficiality) but neither do I consider myself much of a feminist (Matt calls me a "post-feminist," meaning I take my equality with men as a given). I really feel that--aside from the consumerism, which I should probably not dismiss so quickly--American Girl promotes great values for young girls, and especially with the turn that its publishing line has taken in the last couple years really encourages smart, healthy behavior in girls. Their "Smart Girl's Guide
" series is really impressive. They have books on how to handle middle school, boys, parents' divorce, money, manners, body care, etc.
" series is really impressive. They have books on how to handle middle school, boys, parents' divorce, money, manners, body care, etc. I ordered a book today called The Lolita Effect: The Media Sexualization of Young Girls and What We Can Do About It
. I definitely worry about this sort of thing, seeing the way trends for little girls are going. I remember reading a blog post a couple years ago from a mom complaining she couldn't find normal underwear for her six-year-old because everything was low-riding, bikini-cut, or had suggestive words written on them. And this isn't even the tween stuff! I'm not the sort to flip out about the "degradation of society" or whatnot, but seriously--have you seen Miley Cyrus' new video?
. I definitely worry about this sort of thing, seeing the way trends for little girls are going. I remember reading a blog post a couple years ago from a mom complaining she couldn't find normal underwear for her six-year-old because everything was low-riding, bikini-cut, or had suggestive words written on them. And this isn't even the tween stuff! I'm not the sort to flip out about the "degradation of society" or whatnot, but seriously--have you seen Miley Cyrus' new video? Kate may or may not like to play with dolls. Whatever. But you can bet I'll be getting those historical fiction and Smart Girl's books for her, and praying she'll have the good sense to follow her own dreams and stand up for what she believes is right.
------------
*Ok, now for my aside about Kit Kittredge. The Kit movie will forever be wrapped up for me in the "thinking Kate was a boy" story. I took the Intelligender
test on my birthday in 2008, at about 12 weeks pregnant. The test--which claims to detect gender from 10 weeks on--clearly said "boy." Mom and I were planning to go see the Kit Kittredge movie that day, but I was so depressed about not having a little girl, I couldn't bear to go see the American Girl movie, and instead moped around and totally ruined my own birthday. If you weren't reading this blog then, seriously, check out our wild ride of taking the test (there's a video!) and then seeing the ultrasound two months later. Crazy times. And for the record, Matt and I are both thrilled Kate is a girl, and I promise I will adore any sons that come along.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Why Get Married? (part 2)
Yesterday, I broached the complicated question "Why get married?" in response to my friend and my impromptu book club meeting regarding Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage
. I confessed how embarrassingly marriage-obsessed I was in my early twenties and how I have a much more practical perspective on marriage now. Strangely, I find that confession of practicality somewhat embarrassing too, since I feel like we're supposed to maintain the illusion that marriage is just sunshiny, candles-and-violins, hearts-and-flowers romance.
Most of us who have been married any period of time know it is hard work and that commitment is often more of a decision than a feeling. We've chosen to create a family unit, and we choose daily to invest in that family unit. As Lori Gottleib says, "Marriage isn’t a passion-fest; it’s more like a partnership formed to run a very small, mundane, and often boring nonprofit business. And I mean this in a good way."
Matt and I began this morning with a matter-of-fact assessment of Kate's bowel movements in the last 24 hours. It's not romantic, but it's part of the "family business," so to speak. The most heartwarming moments for Matt and I these days are when we're snuggling Kate between us; we smile and sigh and say sentimentally, "We're a family." We are a bonded--if boring--family unit, with our own values and priorities.
Interestingly, it is this "family unit" concept that eventually convinces Gilbert of the value of marriage--or at least of why marriage doesn't mean you are becoming a suburban clone in the service of the state. She picks up a book called Subversive Family
, by Ferdinand Mount, which she assumes will be about couples who legally wed and yet maintain their hippie, anti-establishment lifestyle. As it turns out, Mount asserts that every married couple is subversive, in that the secret, intimate family unit is the most threatening thing there can be to a government that seeks to control its people.
This reminded me of Neil Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business
. Postman says that while most apocalyptic conspiracy-theorists think the world will go the way of 1984
, with a totalitarian Big Brother regime limiting all free thought and action, we are more likely to go the way of Brave New World
. (flashbacks to high school English class, anyone?) In Brave New World, the authorities aim to distract everyone with sex and entertainment, and to break down any private, personal attachments. Promiscuity and birth control are encouraged, and what children do result are raised communally. All this to break down personal loyalties and the possibility of an intimate, committed couple sharing their own ideas and their own values in the privacy of their own bedroom--a possibility that Mount considers the most subversive act of all.
So it is this that helps Gilbert make peace with her inevitable marriage. She feels forced to marry by the government, and assumes that marriage is the government's way of controlling people. Through all her studies, though, she realizes that marriage isn't something the government (or religion--another fear of Gilbert's) forces on people. Rather, people have always been inclined to create intimate family units--to marry, whether affirmed by the state or not--and the church and state adapt along the way, making rules and regulations about who can and can't get married, what papers you must sign, how long you must wait, etc., so they can feel like they have some element of control.
Always a fan of marriage as I've been, I never worried about the government trying to control me through marriage or whatnot, but I still agree that the private circle cultivated in marriage is the most alluring and valuable part of the institution. I think of the close bond Matt and I share, and I know that the most painful part of any breaking of that marital bond would not be the the sharing of passion with someone else, but the opening of that closed circle of trust. We share the best and worst parts of ourselves, and rest assured we will still be loved and accepted, for better or for worse.
. I confessed how embarrassingly marriage-obsessed I was in my early twenties and how I have a much more practical perspective on marriage now. Strangely, I find that confession of practicality somewhat embarrassing too, since I feel like we're supposed to maintain the illusion that marriage is just sunshiny, candles-and-violins, hearts-and-flowers romance. Most of us who have been married any period of time know it is hard work and that commitment is often more of a decision than a feeling. We've chosen to create a family unit, and we choose daily to invest in that family unit. As Lori Gottleib says, "Marriage isn’t a passion-fest; it’s more like a partnership formed to run a very small, mundane, and often boring nonprofit business. And I mean this in a good way."
Matt and I began this morning with a matter-of-fact assessment of Kate's bowel movements in the last 24 hours. It's not romantic, but it's part of the "family business," so to speak. The most heartwarming moments for Matt and I these days are when we're snuggling Kate between us; we smile and sigh and say sentimentally, "We're a family." We are a bonded--if boring--family unit, with our own values and priorities.
Interestingly, it is this "family unit" concept that eventually convinces Gilbert of the value of marriage--or at least of why marriage doesn't mean you are becoming a suburban clone in the service of the state. She picks up a book called Subversive Family
, by Ferdinand Mount, which she assumes will be about couples who legally wed and yet maintain their hippie, anti-establishment lifestyle. As it turns out, Mount asserts that every married couple is subversive, in that the secret, intimate family unit is the most threatening thing there can be to a government that seeks to control its people. This reminded me of Neil Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business
. Postman says that while most apocalyptic conspiracy-theorists think the world will go the way of 1984, with a totalitarian Big Brother regime limiting all free thought and action, we are more likely to go the way of Brave New World. (flashbacks to high school English class, anyone?) In Brave New World, the authorities aim to distract everyone with sex and entertainment, and to break down any private, personal attachments. Promiscuity and birth control are encouraged, and what children do result are raised communally. All this to break down personal loyalties and the possibility of an intimate, committed couple sharing their own ideas and their own values in the privacy of their own bedroom--a possibility that Mount considers the most subversive act of all.So it is this that helps Gilbert make peace with her inevitable marriage. She feels forced to marry by the government, and assumes that marriage is the government's way of controlling people. Through all her studies, though, she realizes that marriage isn't something the government (or religion--another fear of Gilbert's) forces on people. Rather, people have always been inclined to create intimate family units--to marry, whether affirmed by the state or not--and the church and state adapt along the way, making rules and regulations about who can and can't get married, what papers you must sign, how long you must wait, etc., so they can feel like they have some element of control.
Always a fan of marriage as I've been, I never worried about the government trying to control me through marriage or whatnot, but I still agree that the private circle cultivated in marriage is the most alluring and valuable part of the institution. I think of the close bond Matt and I share, and I know that the most painful part of any breaking of that marital bond would not be the the sharing of passion with someone else, but the opening of that closed circle of trust. We share the best and worst parts of ourselves, and rest assured we will still be loved and accepted, for better or for worse.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Why Get Married? (part 1)
I recently read Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage at the suggestion of a single friend of mine who has been pondering the question "Why get married?"
Committed is a sort of follow-up to NYT bestseller Eat, Pray, Love
. I never actually read that one, but apparently, at the end of her trek across Italy, India, and Indonesia, Elizabeth Gilbert met a Brazilian man of Australian citizenship and fell in love. Both divorced, the pair agreed they never wanted to get legally married again. But, when U.S. Immigration catches onto his frequent, long-term visits to the U.S., they are told that they better get married if her man wishes to live in America. So, knowing they must tie the knot, Gilbert spends the nine months or so of their exile (while hiring immigration lawyers, etc.) studying the institution of marriage from a historical and cultural perspective, trying to come to terms with matrimony.
Gilbert, in the end, was convinced because she wanted to be. She had to be. My friend, with no legal pressure to wed, was not convinced. And me? Married for 3 1/2 years as I had always wished to be? I read the book with great curiosity and deep self-analysis.
Years ago, another confirmed-bachelorette friend asked me a similar question: "Why do you want to get married so badly?" I answered her, "because I want to have children, and marriage is a precursor to that." (The countless single parents out there could prove otherwise, but I was raised pretty traditionally, and never questioned the notion that marriage should precede childbearing.) I have ALWAYS wanted children. Lots of them. In elementary school (back when I still thought they had to cut you open to get babies out) I wanted twelve. I think there was a set of twins and a set of triplets in there. By high school, it was down to six, then four, and now three... or four, but only if we win the lottery or something.
I have always wanted to get married and have children. And I always assumed I would get married straight out of college, like my parents did. I was that super-annoying girlfriend who assumed every boyfriend was The One. And I know I put Matt through hell with my frustration over being 24 with a bare left hand. He still teases me over my most desperate lament: "You're trying to destroy all my dreams!" (Yes, I just admitted that in front of the whole Internet.)
It's embarrassing to admit that now, but I was extremely hung up on getting married. One of the single friends Gilbert interviewed in her study of marriage actually articulated my feelings quite well. Marriage would be validation, she said. A man's proposal would prove she was worthy of love. She was good enough. Good enough to be chosen. I recall wailing to Matt (in the same "dream-destroying" conversation, as I recall) "Why is [so-and-so] married? Is she prettier than me or better than me?"
(Ugh. This is why Kate will be raised with an anti-princess mentality.)
It's less embarrassing to go with the marriage=babies train of thought. And that actually is pretty wise, I think. There is an article from The Atlantic that I love and that I have sent at least three single friends the link to. It's called "Marry Him! The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough." I read and fell in love with this article years after marrying Matt, so I am in no way saying I "settled" for the world's greatest husband and daddy. But Lori Gottleib--the writer of that article--makes a great point in saying that when deciding whether or not to marry--or who to marry--one should consider not physical passion or even emotional chemistry, but rather the lifestyle one wants.
Ok, I wanted kids, and I married a man who also wanted kids. Great! But Gottleib's point about practicality goes beyond that.
I certainly wasn't thinking of this back in 2005, but the really cool thing--even "God thing"--that I honestly never anticipated, is that the details of our "lifestyle" have worked out perfectly, even without my planning. When Matt and I married, I wanted to quit working when I had kids. If I were marrying for "lifestyle" at that point, I should have chosen someone with a salary that could support a stay-at-home-mom and three kids. Instead, I married a pastor. For love. We couldn't live on just his salary (not if we still want CNN and Comedy Central, that is) but it turns out I love my job and want to keep working. As it turns out, the "practical" benefit to my choice of husband is his flexible career that allows for two Daddy-Daughter-Days a week.
The practical side of marriage is a good thing. Elizabeth Gilbert interviewed indigenous South Asian women about their marriages, and they had no romantic notions about chemistry or their own "worthiness." Gilbert asked them, "Is your husband a good husband?" and they laughed at her. He is what he is. Marriage is what it is. It is part of their lifestyle, and--since we do have so much freedom of choice these says--it is a choice of lifestyle for us today.
..... I don't like long blog posts, so I'm going to break this into two since I haven't really even gotten to the argument that finally convinced Gilbert in the end of her book. In the meantime, though, tell me (and my friend): why did you choose to get married? If you're not married, why do you want (or not want) to be?
at the suggestion of a single friend of mine who has been pondering the question "Why get married?" Committed is a sort of follow-up to NYT bestseller Eat, Pray, Love
. I never actually read that one, but apparently, at the end of her trek across Italy, India, and Indonesia, Elizabeth Gilbert met a Brazilian man of Australian citizenship and fell in love. Both divorced, the pair agreed they never wanted to get legally married again. But, when U.S. Immigration catches onto his frequent, long-term visits to the U.S., they are told that they better get married if her man wishes to live in America. So, knowing they must tie the knot, Gilbert spends the nine months or so of their exile (while hiring immigration lawyers, etc.) studying the institution of marriage from a historical and cultural perspective, trying to come to terms with matrimony. Gilbert, in the end, was convinced because she wanted to be. She had to be. My friend, with no legal pressure to wed, was not convinced. And me? Married for 3 1/2 years as I had always wished to be? I read the book with great curiosity and deep self-analysis.
Years ago, another confirmed-bachelorette friend asked me a similar question: "Why do you want to get married so badly?" I answered her, "because I want to have children, and marriage is a precursor to that." (The countless single parents out there could prove otherwise, but I was raised pretty traditionally, and never questioned the notion that marriage should precede childbearing.) I have ALWAYS wanted children. Lots of them. In elementary school (back when I still thought they had to cut you open to get babies out) I wanted twelve. I think there was a set of twins and a set of triplets in there. By high school, it was down to six, then four, and now three... or four, but only if we win the lottery or something.
I have always wanted to get married and have children. And I always assumed I would get married straight out of college, like my parents did. I was that super-annoying girlfriend who assumed every boyfriend was The One. And I know I put Matt through hell with my frustration over being 24 with a bare left hand. He still teases me over my most desperate lament: "You're trying to destroy all my dreams!" (Yes, I just admitted that in front of the whole Internet.)
It's embarrassing to admit that now, but I was extremely hung up on getting married. One of the single friends Gilbert interviewed in her study of marriage actually articulated my feelings quite well. Marriage would be validation, she said. A man's proposal would prove she was worthy of love. She was good enough. Good enough to be chosen. I recall wailing to Matt (in the same "dream-destroying" conversation, as I recall) "Why is [so-and-so] married? Is she prettier than me or better than me?"
(Ugh. This is why Kate will be raised with an anti-princess mentality.)
It's less embarrassing to go with the marriage=babies train of thought. And that actually is pretty wise, I think. There is an article from The Atlantic that I love and that I have sent at least three single friends the link to. It's called "Marry Him! The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough." I read and fell in love with this article years after marrying Matt, so I am in no way saying I "settled" for the world's greatest husband and daddy. But Lori Gottleib--the writer of that article--makes a great point in saying that when deciding whether or not to marry--or who to marry--one should consider not physical passion or even emotional chemistry, but rather the lifestyle one wants.
Ok, I wanted kids, and I married a man who also wanted kids. Great! But Gottleib's point about practicality goes beyond that.
I certainly wasn't thinking of this back in 2005, but the really cool thing--even "God thing"--that I honestly never anticipated, is that the details of our "lifestyle" have worked out perfectly, even without my planning. When Matt and I married, I wanted to quit working when I had kids. If I were marrying for "lifestyle" at that point, I should have chosen someone with a salary that could support a stay-at-home-mom and three kids. Instead, I married a pastor. For love. We couldn't live on just his salary (not if we still want CNN and Comedy Central, that is) but it turns out I love my job and want to keep working. As it turns out, the "practical" benefit to my choice of husband is his flexible career that allows for two Daddy-Daughter-Days a week.
The practical side of marriage is a good thing. Elizabeth Gilbert interviewed indigenous South Asian women about their marriages, and they had no romantic notions about chemistry or their own "worthiness." Gilbert asked them, "Is your husband a good husband?" and they laughed at her. He is what he is. Marriage is what it is. It is part of their lifestyle, and--since we do have so much freedom of choice these says--it is a choice of lifestyle for us today.
..... I don't like long blog posts, so I'm going to break this into two since I haven't really even gotten to the argument that finally convinced Gilbert in the end of her book. In the meantime, though, tell me (and my friend): why did you choose to get married? If you're not married, why do you want (or not want) to be?
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Turning off the camera
Do you ever find it hard to just put down the camera?
I love taking pictures of Kate, even though they are not super-high quality or anything (that might change after my b-day, since I'm getting THIS
!) and obviously the whole Project Life thing encourages me to pick up the camera even when nothing major is going on. But sometimes I notice that I am snapping and snapping away, trying so hard to capture the moment, that I am not enjoying it as much as I could if I just PUT DOWN THE CAMERA!
I thought about this on Mother's Day, when Kate was cranky and didn't want to hold still for a photo. I stayed in my uncomfortable church clothes for hours while she took a nap so that we could try again when she was rested. Even then, she just wanted to run and play, not be held and posed! I tried again and again to get a good picture to commemorate our second Mother's Day (it didn't help that Matt was napping by this time and I was just trying to take arm-length shots of Kate and myself)! Finally, I realized that enough was enough, and I was not actually ENJOYING this special mommy-daughter day because I was so focused on photographing it. So, we came inside, changed into comfy clothes, and just ran around the yard having fun.
I thought about this again when Kate and I were up visiting my parents in Louisville a couple weeks ago. At the nursing home where my grandmother was staying (she came home today--wahoo!), we went out to look at the ducks in the courtyard, and Kate loved chasing them around. She was having a blast. I took three different video segments of her chasing those ducks, trying to get one that showed her and the ducks well and didn't have any long lulls in it. (I would post one here, but I don't feel like waiting forever for an embedded video to load. I'd rather relax with my husband than stress over videography--isn't that the whole point of this post?) After the third video, I just knew I was not enjoying the sweet moments of my daughter's animal-loving enthusiasm as much as I could. I needed to capture the memory in my mind, not on film (er--pixels, whatever).
Hopefully having a fancy camera (which I am definitely excited about!) will enable me to get a good shot the first time, and not obsess with taking fifteen just so I can get one good one. I love to record my memories. I love to blog. I love to scrapbook. But most of all, I love my loved ones, and I want to be fully present with them, enjoying the special moments we have together.
Do you ever find you need to be disciplined about turning off the camera?
I love taking pictures of Kate, even though they are not super-high quality or anything (that might change after my b-day, since I'm getting THIS
!) and obviously the whole Project Life thing encourages me to pick up the camera even when nothing major is going on. But sometimes I notice that I am snapping and snapping away, trying so hard to capture the moment, that I am not enjoying it as much as I could if I just PUT DOWN THE CAMERA! I thought about this on Mother's Day, when Kate was cranky and didn't want to hold still for a photo. I stayed in my uncomfortable church clothes for hours while she took a nap so that we could try again when she was rested. Even then, she just wanted to run and play, not be held and posed! I tried again and again to get a good picture to commemorate our second Mother's Day (it didn't help that Matt was napping by this time and I was just trying to take arm-length shots of Kate and myself)! Finally, I realized that enough was enough, and I was not actually ENJOYING this special mommy-daughter day because I was so focused on photographing it. So, we came inside, changed into comfy clothes, and just ran around the yard having fun.
I thought about this again when Kate and I were up visiting my parents in Louisville a couple weeks ago. At the nursing home where my grandmother was staying (she came home today--wahoo!), we went out to look at the ducks in the courtyard, and Kate loved chasing them around. She was having a blast. I took three different video segments of her chasing those ducks, trying to get one that showed her and the ducks well and didn't have any long lulls in it. (I would post one here, but I don't feel like waiting forever for an embedded video to load. I'd rather relax with my husband than stress over videography--isn't that the whole point of this post?) After the third video, I just knew I was not enjoying the sweet moments of my daughter's animal-loving enthusiasm as much as I could. I needed to capture the memory in my mind, not on film (er--pixels, whatever).
Hopefully having a fancy camera (which I am definitely excited about!) will enable me to get a good shot the first time, and not obsess with taking fifteen just so I can get one good one. I love to record my memories. I love to blog. I love to scrapbook. But most of all, I love my loved ones, and I want to be fully present with them, enjoying the special moments we have together.
Do you ever find you need to be disciplined about turning off the camera?
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