The Law of Sowing and Reaping

I've been re-reading Cloud and Townsend's book Boundaries, and this week I had a first-hand illustration of what they call Law #1: The Law of Sowing and Reaping. 

I was putting breakfast on the table one morning and noticed that my son wasn't wearing his glasses.  (Those of you who are regular readers are already groaning!)  In response to my request to don his glasses, Ranita replied, "I don't know where they are."

This was a new one.  Broken I am accustomed to.  MIA?  At 6am?  How can such a thing even be possible?  Do we not put them on the dresser at bedtime?  How do you LOSE them between bedtime and breakfast???

All other thoughts are driven from my mind.  I must find the glasses.  (Not the $35 pair, by the way.  Oh no.  Has to be the $150 pair.  And something tells me my replacement policy discount does NOT include LOST.  Mangled?  Ok.  Lost?  Tough luck.) 

So I begin a modern re-imagining of the parable of the lost coin.  I search everywhere: under the beds, under the couch, in the bedding, in my room, in the bathroom, in the trash . . . you name it, I look.  With each failed attempt, I can feel my blood pressure rising. 

(Meanwhile, both kids are contentedly eating the breakfast I could not think of eating before finding the glasses!)  

In my search I stumble across the new pair of diving goggles Grammy and Pop bought for Ranita.  The goggles he adores.  The Law of Sowing and Reaping blazes across my eyes:  "Rescuing a person from the natural consequences of his behavior enables him to continue in irresponsible behavior." 

I take a calming breath.  "Ranita," I say in a conversational voice, "I am going to take your goggles and put them on the fridge until you find your glasses.  You can wear your spare pair until then.  I will not look for your others.  It is your responsibility to find them." 

If I expected a tantrum, I was mistaken.  He replies, "Okay." 

Suddenly all my frustration dissipates.  I am no longer carrying a burden I don't deserve.  The glasses are his, after all.  He always knows where his stuffed animals are . . . and definitely where his goggles are . . . he can keep track of his glasses.

The glasses--and goggles--are forgotten until after lunch when I announce, "Let's go swimming!"

Ranita wants his goggles.  (Aha!)

I quietly remind him of our agreement: glasses in exchange for goggles.  All at once he is in a dither, checking under furniture and amid toys and in every place he can consider.  He crawls under his bed to search when I remember that I hadn't pulled out the plastic bin with Chinchita's next-size-up hand-me-downs in it.  I do so.

Ranita squeals in delight.  He emerges with the glasses, sporting an ear-to-ear grin.  We high-five.  I review his success in responsibility and assert that it feels great to take care of your own business. 

He gets his goggles back.

That night I reflected on The Law of Sowing and Reaping.  When I was growing up, "You reap what you sow" usually came at the end of a tale of woe, reminding you that bad things follow poor decisions.  However, the reverse is also true: good things generally follow wise decisions.

When Ranita embraced his responsibility for locating his own possessions, he got more than his goggles as a reward.  He gained a sense of pride in his accomplishment, something he would never have experienced had I found the glasses for him.  (I also suspect he learned that keeping track of his glasses in the first place is easier than hunting them down after the fact!) 

As for Mommy, she learned how much more pleasant life is when you let other people shoulder their own responsibilities in their own way.  I enjoyed a pretty peaceful day while the glasses were missing because they weren't my problem.  When Ranita found them, it was one of the proudest moments of my life.  I was so impressed by his determination to locate them as well as his obvious pride in doing so.  (I was a bit proud of myself as well, for giving him the opportunity to succeed!) 

Not a bad harvest at all, if you ask me. 

Four Fortunes

I don't do fortunes.  There are some strong words in the Bible prohibiting the use of mediums and the like, so I generally avoid them like the plague.  With one exception. 

Fortune cookies. 

I have to admit I get a kick out of fortune cookies.  In fact, I have 3 taped to the bread box in my kitchen. 

The first I got over a year ago, when my then-husband and I were supposedly trying to save our marriage.  It says: "A new romance is in the future."  I still remember the feeling of panic when I read it.  I looked at him and said, "This had better be you."  He laughed.  I didn't.  I repeated, "I'm not kidding.  This had better be you." 

It wasn't. 

Since he's the one with the girlfriend and I'm the one scrambling to bring peace, stability, and tranquility to a tumultuous home front, I sometimes wonder if perhaps that one was meant for him.  But maybe not . . . so I hold onto it.

The second one came shortly after my divorce hearing.  It says: "A new environment makes all the difference."  This one was 100% accurate.  I had purchased new curtains for the living room and repotted some plants, only to find that my house felt like a completely different place.  Brighter.  Lighter.  More open.  More me. 

Good fortune cookie. 

The third arrived shortly after the finalization of the divorce.  It says: "Do not give up; the beginning is always the hardest."  Boy is that the truth!  I don't need to go into all the reasons it's true . . . you've been following my blog and know why! 

Sunday afternoon I received the fourth: "If you know what you're doing, you're not learning anything."

In the last week I have been thrown into a situation--again!--for which I was completely unprepared in every way.  The learning curve is hard and fast and extraordinarily painful.  (It makes going through a divorce look like a day at the beach.  When I feel free to share more, I most assuredly will.  Look for a book . . . or several!) 

I am suddenly navigating a world of new acronyms, procedures, personalities, and appointments.  Exhaustion--emotional as well as physical--is again my constant companion.  The progress that I had made toward a "new normal" seems to have been ripped to shreds. 

When I recall the words of that fortune, however, I tell myself that--at the very least--I am getting an education.  It is a cold comfort sometimes, but I'll take comfort at any temperature right now!

While it's nice to receive tailor-made fortune cookies, I don't think I'm ready for any more new romances or new environments or new beginnings or new lessons.  To that end, I'm swearing off Chinese food until after January 1st.  (I am looking forward to a new year.  It would have to be pretty darn awful to beat this one!) 

The next time I get the urge for an egg roll, I'm going to take a good long look at my bread box . . . and order a pizza. 

A Safe Place

I've been thinking about "safety" lately, particularly in terms of relationships.

For too long, I think I have had an operating definition of "safety" as the freedom from physical harm.  Obviously that is a key component, but I am realizing it is far from the only one. 

Almost as important as the freedom from physical harm is the freedom from emotional harm.  Everyone needs a place where their emotions are given space "to be," even if those emotions might strike someone else as irrational, excessive, or "wrong." 

(Emotions can't be "wrong," by the way.  They just are.  It is what we do with those emotions that earns the labels "right" or "wrong.") 

It is only recently that I have realized that denying a person emotional safety not only feels like abuse, it actually is abuse.  The pamphlet "Peace at Home" put out by the RI Coalition Against Domestic Violence identifies five areas of domestic violence: physical; sexual; emotional, verbal, and psychological; financial; and digital. 

The pamphlet describes emotional abuse in these terms:

Includes constant put-downs and criticisms; minimizing the abuse or blaming the partner for the abuse; isolating the partner from family, friends, and activities; excessive jealousy; accusing the partner of cheating; monitoring the partner's every move; using threats and intimidation, such as threats of violence, angry looks or gestures, using weapons, driving recklessly, threatening to self-harm, or threatening to report the partner to social service agencies (e.g. welfare, immigration, child protection).

Hopefully you have never been in a relationship characterized by any of these things.  Since the National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey reports 1 in 4 women and 1 in 7 men in America have, however, the odds are good that many of you out there know what this looks like first-hand.

For those of you in a relationship like this, it can be a lonely, desperate, miserable place.  There are some steps you can take, however.  The first is to talk to someone experienced in these issues.  A counselor/therapist and/or a local or national domestic violence agency would be a good first stop. 

The degree of the abuse and the degree to which it is negatively impacting your sense of self, your social interactions, your financial or emotional independence will impact whether you can or should remain in the relationship. 

I think it is important to remember, however, that any form of abuse is about power and control.  The fault for the abuse, all the time, is the abuser's.  It is never the victim's.  You don't make someone abuse you; they choose to abuse you. 

It is also important to remember that abuse can escalate.  Emotional abusers can turn into physical abusers . . . and you may not see it coming until it's too late. 

Oftentimes, the people in the relationship are the ones least likely to term it abuse . . . even as they are suffering intensely under the weight of it.  If you are a friend of someone in such a relationship, find a quiet time to gently and firmly describe what you see that concerns you.  Perhaps bring a resource like "Peace at Home" and cite concrete examples that illustrate your point. 

DO NOT PREACH, however.  If your friend cannot hear what you're saying or is unable/unwilling to act upon your words, that is okay.  Assert your support and love for them.  Remain close to them.  And let them know you are there for them if they ever want to talk. 

If they finally reach the point where they are ready to act, they will need you beside them more than you could possibly imagine.  It is okay to bring it up when you are concerned, but stop if they ask you to and refrain from judging them in any way. 

Getting into an abusive relationship is a thousand times easier than getting out. 

Everyone deserves a safe place, in every sense of the word.  Let's work together to make that a reality. 

The Cry of the Children

Although I am little, I am a person.

Sometimes you may not understand the words I say . . . sometimes I may have no words at all . . . but don't be deceived.

I am aware.  I am wise.  I am valuable. 

I am vulnerable. 

You hold my life in your hands before you are aware I even have life. 

What you eat, what you drink, what you breathe, what you do . . . I experience them all.  What you choose for yourself you choose for me also . . . and I have no choice in the matter at all.

When I finally enter your world, I enter your world.  You still make all the choices for me.  You choose to hold me . . . or not.  To feed me . . .  or not.  To protect me . . . or not. 

Sometimes you think that because you are big and vocal and assertive and strong and independent you are always right. 

You are wrong. 

You think that if it's okay for you it is okay for me. 

You are wrong. 

When I come into your world, you have an obligation to me.  A responsibility to me.  You chose to bring me here.  That was your choice. 

With that choice, comes other choices.  You must choose to respect me.  I am a person.  I see the world differently from you.  From the very day of my birth, my perceptions are not your perceptions.  They are mine. 

My needs are not yours.  They are mine. 

As the person who gave me life, your job is to see my needs, my wants, my personhood and to value them.  To cherish them.  To nurture them.  To make me as strong and happy and healthy and loving and independent as you think you are . . . and to pray that I become better than you could ever dream of being. 

You are not to worship me.  But you should find it hard not to sometimes when you see my fragility and discover that within lies such strength and beauty and determination and courage that you could only dream of possessing. 

Keep your hands of hate away from me. 

Touch me with kindness.  With respect. 

For God's sake, touch me with love. 

Boys and Bunk Beds

When I was a little girl, my brother, my sister and I all shared a bedroom.  My brother and I had a bunk bed; I had the top bunk.  I can't remember a time before my bunk bed.  I can remember lots of fun times after. 

One night my parents were papering the walls in my room and didn't want the bed up against the wall while the paper dried.  (I think, anyway . . . I can't really explain this to myself any other way!)  Being a roller, I rolled . . . right out of the bed and onto the floor.  I woke up crying, not sure how I got on the floor!  I was then kept awake--no easy feat!--until my parents were sure I hadn't suffered brain damage. 

My other big bunk bed memory is of my brother teaching us girls to jump from my top bunk to my sister's twin bed across the room.  Fortunately the room wasn't very wide, and we never missed . . . though the bruises on our legs from almost missing were enough to make our pediatrician ask my mother some pointed questions. 

With these as my touchstone memories, you may wonder why I love top bunks to this day.  I can't explain it; I just do. 

It is natural, therefore, that I would want a bunk bed for my kids.  (There is also the fact that their room is TINY and would never in a million years fit two twin beds and two dressers.)  We had tabled the bunk bed discussion because Ranita had been dealing with some severe anxiety.  Last week, however, he announced he was ready . . . so Grammy took us out and we bought a bunk bed . . . and scheduled delivery for this upcoming Tuesday. 

This evening, my son called to me long after he should have been asleep.  When I went in to him, he said he loved his toddler bed.  Uh oh.  He didn't want his toddler bed in the barn: it would get dirty.  Oh no.

I assured him I would wrap it up securely and it would remain clean until he grew up and was ready for a full-sized bed, at which time he would have it again.  Not good enough.  He doesn't want to move out of his toddler bed.  (Chinchita, on the other hand, is happy as a clam to bid farewell to her crib and get to sleep in a "big girl princess bed."  Kids!)

For a split second I was tempted to hold my head in my hands and scream in frustration, but I didn't.  Instead, I took a quick look at the room and estimated space.  His toddler bed is pretty low-profile, so I think we can fit both the new bed and the crib in the room if we don't expect to have any play space between the two.  I told him I would try that and he could stay in his toddler bed til he was ready for the bunk bed.  Good grief. 

I can guarantee you that my parents would NOT have handled this situation in this way.  I can hear my father now: You wanted the big kid bed.  You got the big kid bed.  Now you're going to sleep in the big kid bed whether you like it or not. 

Part of me wants to do it that way, to just get the beds switched, already.  We've been wrangling over this foolish bed for over 6 months now. 

The other part of me, the part I'm going to listen to, says that the bed isn't the issue.  Security is.  I have a little boy navigating a divorce, just returned from his first extended sleepover, looking ahead to a family trip to Maine (when he realizes we're no longer a family), and expecting to start school in a few weeks.  (I'm excited and nervous, Mommy.  A little nervous and a lot excited.) 

So, we'll keep the toddler bed and somehow find enough room for the bunk bed as well.  Worst case scenario I move some kids furniture into the living room where the turtle tank used to sit.  Not optimal, but what is optimal anyway? 

If it gives my little boy a sense of safety and security and continuity in this time of instability and change, it'll be worth it. 

Re-entry Sucks

Do you remember the scene in The Right Stuff where Gus Grissom re-enters Earth's atmosphere in the Mercury capsule?  He's shaking and rocking and bouncing and then crashes into the ocean.  He's supposed to wait for the retrieval team to secure the capsule before blowing the hatch.  Somehow the hatch blows early, and the very expensive piece of space hardware becomes flotsam.  The poor astronaut spends the rest of his life trying to convince the world that he didn't "screw the pooch" . . . the hatch "just blew."  

 

That's how I'm feeling right now.  

My kids and I always find "re-entry," the return from a pajama party sleepover, a challenge.  There's always a potty training regression.  There's always a day of short tempers and fatigue.  I usually salvage it by not too many outside activities and a movie or two.  

This week, my kids stayed on their first 2-night sleepover, and boy has it kicked our butts!  Mind you, included in their sleepover was the purchase of a bunk bed, new bedding, pajamas, and underwear PLUS a very fun trip to Boston to tour the aquarium AND take a duck boat ride.  Add the three dogs fighting and tearing Grammy and Pop's house apart, and you have an exciting couple of days!

The day I brought them home was unpredictably bad.  The 45-minute ride home was spent with my kids screaming at each other, hitting each other, and throwing things at one another.  (Once in a while I expect this.  This was the first time it lasted the WHOLE ride!) 

I sang lullabies.  It was not for their benefit.  

We had the potty debacle.  

I pulled out the movies.   

We survived day 1 of re-entry.  

I expected today to be a little better, but we had a busy day planned.  It started at 8 with an oil change, usually pretty fun.  Today, however, instead of playing with the toys, the kids fought over them.  Loudly.  Until I took them away and read from Highlights instead.  They got us out very quickly!

Then we needed to go to Benny's for new tires.  (Four, they said, because my car is all-wheel drive, even though one is practically new.)  Ok.  Except, they only have 3 in stock.  (Yippee!  I don't have to purchase the fourth after all!)  All the money I just earned in NH went to lube and shoe Cebu.  Oh well.  

While we wait for the tires, we shop for a present for my nephew's birthday party on Sunday.  Not good.  Kids want to touch everything, drop 5 boxes of Lego sets on the floor, fight over what to get him, and try to coerce me into buying something for my niece whose birthday is about 6 months away.  Joy.  

We purchase the gift.  The car still isn't done.  We wander around the store until the squabbling and touching does me in.  I buy Reese's Peanut Butter Cups which we consume outside (it's about 90 degrees) in the display chairs.  

I wipe up chocolate fingers with a tissue in my purse.  (Backpack with supplies?  In car, of course.)

I will skip ahead to the point where I am sitting in a chair in the sun wrapped around both of my screaming, kicking children being told by an old lady that it's too hot to have my kids outside, they should be in the air conditioning, and by no means should I take them to the beach.  (BEACH???  Are you crazy, Lady?  These kids are getting put to bed as soon as I can find wheels to get them there!  I may steal a car at this point!)  

I finally lost it.  I grabbed my kids by the hand, stalked up to the first employee I could see and said, "My car is getting new tires.  My kids have pushed me to the brink of insanity.  I need my car now, tires or no tires."  

The poor teenager just looked at me like I was a Martian and said, "Uh, okay."  A few minutes later the car was ready.  

We went to the bank drive-through next door.  Can I say no lollipops today?  

Or naps?  Because instead of sleeping my kids climbed into my daughter's crib and "rested" together, in Ranita's words.  

Best of all, Ranita and I were both supposed to go to counseling tonight while my daughter stayed with my sister-in-law.  

Can we say temper tantrum?  "I want to stay with my cousins!"  Never mind they'll be at a party together in a few days.  So I left them both and went myself.  

It was a vent session!  

I'm not sure why these re-entries are so difficult.  Is it the change in routine?  The extra energy Grammy and Pop exude?  A slight degree of separation anxiety?  Punishment for Mommy having a life without them?  A need to reestablish closeness with Mommy and being uncertain how to do it?  Fatigue?  All of the above?  

I don't know.  What I do know is that re-entry is much easier if Mommy has had some rest time.  (A work trip does NOT qualify!)  It also helps if we have a day or two at home . . . if nothing else there's a safe time-out place!  At this stage, it also seems that one night is better than two.  (When I picked him up and put him in the car my son said, "Mommy, you were gone a long time!"  I reminded him he had requested two nights.  He looked at me very solemnly and said, "But I meant one night!")  

Our next re-entry comes in a few weeks, after our first all-family trip to Maine since the divorce.  We'll have one day and then he starts school.  

Lord help us all! 

In Empathy

My sister-in-law just lost her grandmother.  After talking with her today, I am convicted about how I do or do not empathize with others.  I didn't send my sister-in-law a card or a fruit basket or a little card telling her I had donated to a worthy cause in her grandmother's name. 

Why not? 

Well, I saw her in person and hugged her and said I was sorry.  I have made plans to attend her grandmother's memorial service. 

I wonder, if it were my grandmother, would I feel like that was enough? 

Then there is one of my friends whose nephew was just killed in a car accident.  We were supposed to get together, and she had to cancel to fly home to be with her sister. 

I am shocked beyond words at what they are experiencing now.  I emailed my love and concern.  I am praying for them. 

If it were my nephew, would I feel like that was enough? 

English major that I am, I am pondering the difference between "empathy" and "sympathy."  "Sympathy" is to feel badly for someone.  "Empathy" is to actually feel the same emotions as the other person. 

I find it interesting that we say "In sympathy" on our cards.  Perhaps it is an unconscious truth we are expressing.  How many of us truly hear of a friend's tragedy and take the physical and emotional time to slide into their skin and truly grieve as they are grieving?  Or do we find it much easier to feel badly, to wish they weren't hurting, and then to go on our way? 

I am ashamed to admit I probably do the latter much more frequently than the former.  There are reasons for this, and some are good and valid.  After all, if we truly felt all the pain of all the people we know as they are experiencing it, we would explode.  And sometimes our own pain or trials can be so consuming that we have no capacity left for those of others. 

I've been in that place a time or two.  I am not quite in that place now. 

So tonight I am taking a moment to live in my sister-in-law's loneliness.  I am taking a moment to feel myself sitting with my own grieving sibling as we mourn one of my precious nephews.  And I am weeping for--weeping with--these two precious women and their families whom I love so dearly, and whose pain is so great. 

Love to you both.  And your families.  A prayer of strength and comfort for you both.  A knowledge that no words can assuage your pain. 

This is my love note to you.  In empathy. 

Commuting Complaints

I am so grateful that I generally work from home!  I am writing this from a recently-renovated (though still covered in plastic . . .?) hotel in New Hampshire for a training for one of my several part-time jobs. 

Before I could get here, I had a few things to deal with.  First, of course, there were my kids.  Grammy and Pop were more than happy to have an extended pajama party sleepover (as were my munchkins!).  Check. 

Dogs?  Grammy and Pop were willing to take them, too.  Check.

Fish.  My neighbor agreed to feed them.  Check. 


The difficulties started when my mother-in-law and I introduced my dogs to her newly-adopted dog who "likes dogs bigger than herself."  Apparently that does not yet include our dogs!  At one point she went after both of my dogs and got banned to the upstairs bedroom.  Not a good start!  (Although I have complete confidence that they will be getting along famously by the time I get back!)

Then there is the drive.  I know there are people who drive from Rhode Island to Boston (or New Hampshire) every day for work.  I cannot for the life of me figure out why. 

I don't usually mind driving.  In fact, after I stopped teaching I actually considered becoming an over-the-road truck driver.  (I blame it on too many viewings of Smokey and the Bandit as a kid!) 

Boy would that have been a bad career decision!

After 2-1/2 hours on the highway (at rush hour), I managed to get stuck in backups from 3 different accidents. 

Again, I don't usually get hung up on highway traffic, especially when I have plenty of time to get where I'm going.  I just find a good radio station, crank up the volume, sing at the top of my lungs, and life is good. 

But my radio still doesn't work.  And the portable one I have plugged into my cigarette would only get one station: a hip-hoppy thing that just wasn't working for me.  What about my CD collection?  Oh, yeah.  I left that in the hatchback . . . couldn't reach it.  All I had was The Bellamy Brothers CD already in the player. 

I like the Bellamys . . . well, I liked them more before psychotherapy, before I realized that a disproportionate number of their songs actually represented highly dysfunctional relationships . . . but by the second time through I was most definitely rejoicing to find the hotel and turn off the car! 

At least I have another day before I have to battle the commute again! 

Coming to Grips With Not Going Along

When my ex arrived to pick up the kids for Daddy Day today, I was ready to be cheerful and happy.  I was coming off the best week I've had in I can't remember when, I have been just loving being Mom to my kids, and I wanted to really put that forgiveness thing into practice. 

He looks at the kids and says, "Hey, guys!  Do you want to go to Edaville Railroad today?  Grammy and Pop want to take you there." 

Happy feelings gone like last winter's snow. 

I love Edaville.  I love the trains and the rides and the food . . . but most of all I love watching my kids enjoying every second of it.  I hated the thought that they were going to make a trainload of delightful memories . . . and I wasn't going to be a part of them. 

As my ex drove away with my kids, I signed "I love you" to them and sobbed hysterically.  I thought very unforgiving thoughts.  I raged anew at how he gets to be the "fun" dad, doing all kinds of once-in-a-lifetime stuff with them while I am the Mom who takes them to doctor appointments and corrects table manners and enforces time-outs for hitting and washes laundry and cooks meals and ... (I think you get the idea.) 

Let me admit here and now: my children probably did not miss me one iota.  They had a fabulous time, as I could tell as they prattled on about their adventures when they called me on the way home.  My sorrow was not that they were missing out.  It was sorrow because I was missing out. 

After my initial crying fit and two episodes of Zoo, I was able to take a deep breath and get some perspective.  No, I will not be able to take them to all the cool things their dad will.  For one thing, there is a very real time issue.  (While they went to Edaville, I mowed the lawn, cleaned the pool, and wrote an article, all of which needed to be done.) 

There is also a money issue.  I can't drop $90 just on admission to a theme park for one day. 

But there are lots of things that I get to do with them that are building more than a single memory, they are creating an ethos of childhood.  I want that to be an ethos of love, of safety, of reliability, of laughter, of God, of joy ... and also of godly discipline and responsibility and fortitude. 

What are those things?  Our pool times, our spontaneous picnics in the backyard, movie suppers, post-dentist ice creams, bad-day visits to the playground . . . and the 20 timeouts in the first 90 minutes of the day, the loss of a toy after leaving a bruise on a sibling, and the question, "Is that how you speak to your Mother?" 

I think it's working, too.  Because when my munchkins called me tonight and told me about the princesses and dinosaurs and roller coasters (about which my son was very "brave"), they asked me to read them their Bible story . . . and to pray with them . . . and to sing to them.  

It was beautiful. 

So I'm no longer angry with my ex.  I am at peace with the loss.  And I am so thankful for all I have . . . especially those two precious little ones asleep in the next room. 

Coffee's On

I am in the process of learning to take care of myself.  By that, I mean I am trying to take a step back and observe what my physical, spiritual, and emotional needs are and then fill them. 

Some people are good at that.  My mother recounts a story of her best friend sitting down to eat lunch while her kids were clamoring for her attention.  Rather than jumping up to wait on their every need, she calmly finished eating and then addressed their needs. 

At one time I would have thought that selfish of Mom.  Now I see that it was most likely very wise of Mom.  Providing for others requires that you have something of your own to give.  When we are overly hungry, tired, emotionally drained, we have nothing good to give.  Rather than giving bread to our children (spouses, friends, etc.), we are more likely to give a stone. 

Today I was blessed to have a day that met my need for girl time.  Two of my friends--one planned, one impromptu--shared a cup of coffee with me . . . as well as some delightful conversation. 

I don't know what it is about a coffee klatch that gives me a little extra "oomph."  There is, of course, the caffeine . . . although I usually brew decaf, so that doesn't really apply.  Maybe there's just something in the flavor of coffee that tricks my brain into thinking it's been given a shot of energy!

There's also the fact that I'm sitting.  We moms don't do that very often.  Laundry, dishes, meals, playtime . . . we do it all on our feet.  And the few things we do sit down for--eating, paying bills--end up feeling more like work as we train our youngsters in appropriate table manners and juggle the dollars and cents. 

Coffee break with the gals is a different kind of sitting--the restful kind!  Today we sat outside in the lawn chairs, watching the kids drive their dune buggy all over the yard (and occasionally each other!), lazing in the shade, watching the sun creep across the sky.  Talk about bliss!  I can't remember the last time I just sat in my yard visiting!  No wonder my great-grandparents' generation made it a regular part of their routine! 

What I think I enjoyed the most was the intimacy.  I learned things about both my friends that I hadn't known before.  Their backstories, their current struggles, their ups and downs were opened up to me, and I was honored by the gift. 

Social media can be a wonderful thing.  We can keep in touch with friends all over the world at little to no cost in either time or money.  If used judiciously, it can even help maintain friendships that were developed in person decades in the past. 

The danger with social media, as many have noted before I, is that it can create a false sense of intimacy.  You may know many personal details about a person, but you never actually communicate one on one with that individual. 

Not so over coffee.  Sharing done over java is as personal as can be.  You not only tell your story, you are at the mercy of the raised eyebrows, puzzled frowns, or unbidden laughter of the individual across the table. 

On the other hand, you are also blessed by the accepting nods, the empathetic giggles, and somber sympathy of that same person. 

I was so blessed today.  Twice.  I hope they were, too. 

Pearly Whites

Every Mom can admit that there are times when motherhood is just plain hard.  You know, the nights you sit up with a sick kid getting puked on and changing sheets three times and doing a load of laundry at 2am because you've changed your last set and the kid's still sick.

Or there's the trip to the grocery store with one kid screaming to see the lobsters, another screaming for a drink, and your head screaming for an Advil.

Those are the days when you earn your mother stripes. 

Every once in a while, however, there's another kind of day, a pat-on-the-back-from-God day, a day when being a mom is just plain fun.  

Today was the latter for me.  Like so many of those gift days, it was pretty ordinary.  The kids played with their cousins while I went to counseling.  We went to the dentist.  Kids had Daddy Day.  (I went to the family counselor to assist with the kids' emotional security during this time of tumult!) 

Bright spot #1:  We are eating lunch with my brother, sister-in-law, and my cousins.  My kids eat beautifully, even getting seconds and thirds of vegetables.  They become the example, "Your cousins are eating their vegetables . . ."  Mommy smiles.  

Bright spot #2:  The kids walk into Arrowhead Dental with their charm meter zipping through the roof despite having fallen into sound sleep in the car and being awakened at the dentist's office.  

Bright spot #3:  Ranita sits very bravely for his cleaning, exam, and fluoride treatment, inspiring his reluctant sister to do the same.  Both receive ample praise from the hygienist.  Chinchita also receives props from her brother: "That's my girl!" 

Bright spot #4: While I get my cleaning, my son chats up the pretty hygienist.  He says to her, "So, what are you doing after this?"  She almost drops the pick in my mouth and says, "That is the first time I've ever been asked that!  You are so sweet!"  Mom beams again, as well as possible with someone else's hands in her mouth.  

Bright spot #5:  While I settle up the bill (a much more expensive affair now that I no longer have dental insurance . . . thank goodness the kids are covered under their dad!), the kids unwrap their "sticky toys" from the treasure chest.  Ranita begins to disappear around the corner.  I say, "Where are you going?" in a very MOM voice.  

He responds, with a little edge in his tone, "There's a trash can over there; I'm throwing it away."  

I say, "Excuse me.  Is that how you speak to your mother?  Adjust your tone, please."  

He replies, "May I please throw the wrapper in the trash?"  

"Most certainly.  Thank you."  

The receptionist's eyes are bugging out: "They are so good!"  Mommy again brushes it off, but again shows off her newly-buffed smile.  

Bright spot #6:  Mommy has a stroke of genius and decides to treat her little angels to ice cream across the street at Holy Cow.  Lemon for Ranita, Rainbow Sherbet for Chinchita, and The Breakup for Mommy.  (I couldn't resist--chocolate ice cream with nuts and brownie chunks . . . and the name couldn't be more fitting!)  The kids eat nicely; the weather iss perfect; and the ice cream is delicious.  Ranita runs along the fence near the pond while Chinchita nurses her sherbet.  

I am happy. 

Guilty Pleasures

Have you ever been in one of those times of life when it seems like "it's nothing but work, work, work all the time," to quote Wesley in The Princess Bride?  I'm in one of those now.  While I don't mind the work per se, I do mind the sense of guilt I get when I take a break from work to  . . . take a break. 

I am learning to live with a bit of guilt, however, as I am prone to feeling guilty for things over which I ought not to feel guilty.  Here are a few of the things that I'm starting to enjoy, guilty feelings or no:

1. Naps.  Actually, naps were never high on my list of things to do until about 6 months ago.  I still don't indulge often, but the desire is there quite frequently!
2. Dunkin' Donuts Lattes.  Okay, not really a break from work, since I usually get them when driving to some form of work, but they're yummy anyway!
3. Sudokus.  I came to the party a little late on these, but I admit I'm a bit hooked.  I try to limit myself to one a day, chosen from http://www.websudoku.com/.  I tell myself I'm exercising my brain . . . !
4. Reading.  I really do love to read.  I really do wish I had time to do more of it.  And I admit to being a bathroom reader . . . it's the only time I have to myself!  
5. Music.  My church is celebrating its 150th anniversary this Sunday, and for the event our pastor's wife wrote a choral piece and arranged a fanfare for brass quartet.  I'm singing alto and playing 2nd trumpet, and it's so fun!  We are not the Wheaton College Concert Choir or the College Church Choir or anything remotely comparable, but that's okay.  I've missed making music and am delighted to be dabbling once again.  Having my kids at rehearsals on the other hand . . .
6.  Streaming TV Shows Online.  I am such a junkie for mindless entertainment.  Zoo is my current favorite.  It is always just on the edge of getting too scary/gory, but it never quite crosses the line for me.  
7. Fast Food.  This one is a comfort measure, I know it, and I indulge anyway.  I am limiting the amount I visit the drive-thru, because I am trying to lose weight and all, but I figure if a little Mickey Dee's is the worst vice I have right now, I'm doing okay!  
8. Home Improvements.  Okay, so this one strictly doesn't belong on the list because it falls into the work category more than the play category, but I am taking guilty pleasure in successfully tackling jobs that used to belong to my ex.  Today's was very silly, but it made me feel good anyway.  My tenant has needed a new mailbox for a while.  It fell off the post, and she ingeniously reattached it with duct tape, that magical product that can resolve almost any emergency.  My ex, before he was my ex, was going to replace it.  He didn't.  Since it was stable, it wasn't high on my priority list either.  The other day I received some of her mail and went to put it in her box only to realize the nasty thing was rusted shut!  Boy, did I feel like a bad landlord!  My last attempt to put up a mailbox ended with my ex (before he was my ex) and I having a verbal spat in the driveway, so I was not eager to try again.  (Trying to drill into pressure-treated lumber without pilot holes in the dark and an oak grove in my horse pasture were all contributing factors in that fight . . . one of the few real arguments we ever had!)  Anyway, because I try to be a good landlord, I bought a new mailbox, went out with my trust drill, three choices of screws (one of which guaranteed "no pre-drilling required), and my new set of drills and bits.  Ten minutes later, literally, the new mailbox was securely in place, and I felt proud as a peacock.  

Perhaps I'll take it to the next level and attempt gutters this fall . . . !
 

Celebrating Sisterhood

My sister is my best friend. 

If you call me at 8am and can't get me to pick up, chances are it's because I'm yakking with her.  Better not wait for me to call back; I could be tied up for an hour or more.  We can talk all day about everything and nothing.  Politics, religion, make-up, hairstyles, kitchen appliances, child rearing, herbal tea . . . nothing is off the table with us. 

Since my immersion into the texting world, we also send each other periodic updates on all kinds of things.  Example:

Me: "Water in basement.  (Frown face.  Wave imoji.)

Her: "Yuck!! (Bigger frown face with tongue sticking out.)  Need a hand?"  

Note: Sister lives 45 minutes away and has 3 kids on school vacation . . . and she's offering to help me?!  What a gal!

We were not always this tight.  When I was in middle school and she was in elementary, we shared a bedroom.  It was rarely a peaceful cohabitation.  I don't care what it was, we could turn it into a fight, but bedtime was the worst.

My sister and I shared different philosophies on sleeping environments.  I liked background noise; she wanted quiet.  I liked the dark; she wanted a light on.

Every night it would begin.  I'd put the country music station on. (Or worse, my tape recording of me reading my history notes so I could ace my weekly quizzes--what a nerd!)  She'd tell me to turn it off.  I'd refuse.  It seems to me I usually won that battle. 

(I have to say I finally see her perspective on this one.  My ex used to listen to sports radio EVERY NIGHT without fail.  I was okay with it falling asleep, but if I woke up in the middle of the night I COULD NOT fall asleep again.  Baseball season wasn't too bad, but football?!  I have not fallen asleep with the radio on ONCE since he moved out of the house 7-1/2 months ago!  I feel very bad for what I put my poor sister through!) 

After we'd fussed over sound, we'd start in on illumination.  She wanted the hall light on.  I wanted it off.  My bed was right by the door; hers was in the back corner.  I can't help but wonder why we didn't just swap our beds around . . . maybe we just needed to squabble over something. 

I don't know why we fought so much as kids.  What I do know is that our warring days started diminishing when I went to college.  Maturity?  Distance?  Don't know.  But by the time she got married and had my first delightful nephew, we were very close. 

Now, I count her one of the most important people in my life.  It's not just the free babysitting or the coupon apps she suggests or the way she listens to me say the same boring things over and over.  It's not just the unique and beautiful perspective she lends to every subject or her artistic nature or her sarcastic sense of humor. 

It's all of that.  Plus it's knowing that we have this shared lifetime of jokes and stories and dysfunctions and successes that nobody else (outside of our brother!) can touch. 

I look at my kids sometimes and hope that when they are older they also call each other far too often and text far too frequently and appreciate each other far more than any words can ever say. 

Top 6 Signs You are Beginning to Heal

So, I am NOT over my divorce.  Not by a long shot.  This weekend, however, I got some definite signs that the healing process has begun.  I find that awareness a little frightening, to be honest.  I am not a fickle person, and I take my commitments very seriously, so it seems too early to begin finding peace. 

On the other hand, I am seeing that this moment has actually been 8-1/2 years in the making, which takes much of the unfounded guilt away!  I suspect the healing process will be much like it is with any other wound.  It starts to heal and scab, then it starts to itch, then you scratch, then it oozes, then it scabs over, etc. 

This list is the equivalent of my first emotional scabbing over.  (Sounds kinda gross, doesn't it?!?)

1. You attend a family function and get an hour in before you realize you have not once thought, "I can't believe I'm doing this solo."
2. You get home late with two sleeping kids in the car and bring them in without once thinking, "This was so much easier when there were two of us."  
3. Your basement floods.  As you begin cleaning up the mess you think, "I am so glad he left the wet/dry vac!"  You do not think, "(!%*&&^ ex!  This was supposed to be his job!"  
4. You notice that your tenant's mailbox has rusted to the point it is virtually inoperable.  You do not call your ex who said he'd fix it before he moved out.  Instead, you buy a new box and smile thinking, "I am so glad I bought that new set of drill bits!"  
5. Your son has an emotional outburst on you, and you have no inclination to call your ex for backup. 
6. You hear about all the things your ex is doing with his girlfriend--all those things he once did with you--and, instead of wanting to throw up, you just laugh and think, "Déjà vu all over again!"  And you suddenly realize that you're glad it's not you.