Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Babies, Beans, and Beats

Henry enjoys a little "baby training" with cousin Matthew. It's a good thing Sloan was quick with the camera as this lasted all of three seconds.

Oh no! Anderson and Caleb realize that they've both purchased the same pair of jeans from Hollister. What to do, what to do! (And yes, like the water gun, these ripped up jeans were purchased by Gigi and Papa. Who else?)
Henry, Mommy, and Daddy discover that eating the corn on the cob is not as messy as they'd imagined. Of course, this photo was taken prior to him using the cob as a brush.
Henry's BFF, Nathan, has just recently become a big brother. Most people are cooking the family a meal. I hate cooking, so I'm giving a little childcare. And what is most easy is that Nathan narrates the entire playdate, so I'm actually able to get 4 loads of laundry washed, dried, and folded, my menu for next week planned, and lunch made! Thanks Nathan for babysitting my son!
Because one 2 year old playing the drums was not loud enough.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Seriously?

Henry just received a care package from his Gigi and Papa (my parents). These care packages are usually things I've left at their house that my mother believes us unable to operate with until our next trek to Greensboro. (As if we only have one sippy cup, bib, or pair of pajamas. Or for some reason are unable to go to Rite Aid and pick up more Children's Liquid Zyrtec.)

But sometimes the pickle receives gifts from Gigi and Papa. These care packages are my personal favorites because a)they usually arrive without a note. I simply open a box and find a toy, with absolutely no explanation or way to figure out who sent it save for the return address being a UPS store in Greensboro, NC, and b) often the toys are hysterically advanced or superfluous.

In short, they are items only a grandparent would purchase. As in finger paints for an 8 month old. (Gigi's response, Oh, he will just love it. My thoughts, are you planning on visiting to clean this up?) Or "glitter" crayons. (Mom, we have loads of crayons. Yes, dear, but do you have ones with glitter in them? No, mom. We do not.) Or perhaps you need a pair of pajamas with dogs all over them and the accompanying book that matches the pjs. Apparently the dog is named Fergus. (Actually, no complaints here. Free book. Free clothes. We like reading and not being naked here in the Phillips house.)

Today's care package?
The Super Soaker Max-D 2000. Apparently, this must be the appropriate toy for a 2 year old boy with glitter crayons. It can shoot water for up to 35 feet. Seriously, mom. You're arming my son? Great. Now I've got to go buy Sloan and I guns just to defend ourselves.




Thursday, June 25, 2009

I You, Jesus

I funny thing happened to me last night at VBS. I was standing off to the side, microphone in hand, backpack donned (it's a Hiking themed VBS), watching the kids sing Shelter. At the beginning, I was singing and doing the motions to spur on the kids. But the next thing I knew, I was simply singing. No Trail Guide Phillips. No audience but Jesus. I was humbled by the fact that here I've been telling all these kids that because of God's love they were accepted and loved and cherished. Because of Jesus' sacrifice, they were complete, and whole, and set right, all the while disbelieving it. (I mean, I'm the one still vying for the attention of high school boys. Wasn't I supposed to be done with this, oh, I don't know, 15 years ago?) And so I sung loudly--You have been a shelter, Lord. To every generation. A sanctuary from the storm...

And God was not content to leave me with just that one song. Just that one little picture of how He continues to draw me to Him. He wanted me to fully come to grips with my desperate need to be liked and loved by all those around me and how that interfered with my ability to see His love for me. (Seriously, I was considering cussing in front of the teen helpers at VBS just to get my "cool" back after having to play the heavy and tell them to stop flirting with one another and get back to their classes.) So I'm on Facebook (which is really just my 21st century popularity barometer) and put on my Ipod Shuffle.

I will leave you with the song that hit me. The song that caused me to shut my computer down early. The song that took me upstairs to get Henry out of bed to pray with, so I got to hear him say, "Ohmm. I you Jesus." (That's amen, I love you Jesus in 2 year old.)


True Story, Ginny Owens
I am a gifted artist
I've learned to paint this canvas well
I work until I've finished
An ideal image of myself
But you know better
I am a storyteller
Quite brilliant if I do say so
I tell them tales they want to hear
And they believe it's me they know
But you know better
Chorus:
You see my imperfections
Still you say I'm a masterpiece
A marvelous reflection
The image of Yourself in me
You paint with strokes of grace
Undoing my disguise
You say beauty lies in the true story
The world might think me foolish
If they could see beneath my mask
They might find my dreams laughable
Or be embarrassed by my past
But you know better
Of where I've been
And where you've brought me to
Of who I am
All because of you

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

The Bar is set low (Or why I need a pedicure)

My beloved seminary professor, Henry Simmons, taught me that saying No to one thing means saying Yes to something else. Saying No to a committee that meets at nights means saying Yes to quality family time at home. And that when we feel that should we say No to someones request that the world will cease to exist or a program fail to be run, we need to step back, recognize our arrogance, and embrace that while God loves us, He's not silly enough to leave His plans all up to us. There is much freedom in these wise words.
So in an effort to lower the incline on my ever moving treadmill, I've decided to lower the bar. To lower the expectations I have set for myself. To say No to all the silly rules I've made up about what it means to be good. To shift the definitions of good wife, mother, friend, sister, to fit the fact that Sloan has been out of town for thirteen days this month (so far--end of fiscal year and all), my sister has had a baby that I desperately want to get to see more of, and oh yeah, it's VBS.
This morning, I realized I set the bar so low I may be stubbing my toe on it.
For the past two nights, while at VBS, Henry's and my dinners have been what I like to call "Baggy meat plus" meals. As in deli meat in a baggy + some type of fruit + dairy product + some time of carb snack. As in pepperonis + fruit cup + cheese cubes + pretzels. Or turkey slices + strawberries + cheez-its (which in my mind perfectly combines carbs and dairy into one snack.)
And since we're not getting back from the church until around 9pm, Henry has been sleeping in his clothes from the night before. For the past few mornings, we've been sleeping in. And by we've been sleeping in, I mean to say that I've been ignoring the fact that I can plainly hear that Henry is awake at 7am and not going in to get him until 8 or so. He has books in his bed to read and Dog Dog and Hop Hop (the animal formally known as Mr. Bunny or Dog) to keep him company. This morning, "8 or so" meant 9:15. Henry was out of his bed, playing with blocks, completely naked with his wet diaper and madras shorts resting on top of his diaper pail. Ouch, I think my toe is bleeding and wait, what is that? Did I just step in a pee puddle in the middle of Henry's room?
Quite possibly, my real moment of toe stubbing glory came after swim lessons. Henry was eating lunch (feeling guilty about the whole naked play time, I fixed him a quasi-healthy lunch of apples and a cheese and black bean quesadilla), and I, too lazy to go upstairs to change, changed out of my wet bathing suit into clothes straight from the dryer. I've never been one to turn my nose up at getting dressed from the folded clothes in the hamper. But today's fishing for whatever turned up in the dryer is a first. Today's catch--pink and white polka dotted pajama shorts and a red T-shirt. Nice.
And I'm wanting to add a baby to the mix. Goodness, gracious, I need either my husband or Jesus to return. And pretty darn quick.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Treadmills and Roger Murtaugh

Life's been crazy as of late. My sister had a baby. My parents were in town. Sloan took a couple of days off. Father's Day. Henry has swim lessons this week (why did I sign up for these?). We're neck deep in adoption papers. And the bugger of all buggers, last night was the kick-off for my church's VBS and I'm the MC. Yes, I'm one of the few people who isn't afraid to talk in front of large groups of people and am pretty comfortable with a microphone in my hand, but geesh, I think it has been since Henry was a newborn that I've been this tired. And now Sloan is back on the road so I have to juggle swim lessons at lunch time and early naps to make it to the church on time for evening VBS all by myself.

I feel like I'm running on a treadmill, two steps away from flinging myself off and getting stuck so that the track just rips the skin off my knees and nose. Just chasing a stupid carrot that were I to finally catch, would leave me completely unsatisfied. In the midst of this hullabaloo, I've noticed two things (three if you count me noticing we have no milk, eggs, or butter in the fridge). First, like Ted on How I Met Your Mother, I need to compile a Murtaugh List. You know, a list of things that cause me to say, "I'm getting too old for this ship." (And yes, I know he doesn't say ship.) And second, I'm chasing all the wrong things. It is making me too tired to chase the right things.

Some running on the treadmill is just the everyday business of life. And that's okay. The adoption agency needs to know about our income and life insurance, so I've got to just buckle down and find out about all that stuff and get Sloan to call all the appropriate HR people at his job. There's nothing wrong with the swim class. Henry is the oldest kid in the class and so for once (because most of his friends are a good 6-8 months older than him), he gets to show everyone how it is done. Even one of his nurses from the NICU is in the class with her 13 month old. It's just that with VBS this week, it is cranking up the incline on my treadmill.

And even though I moan and groan about VBS, I love it. I love working with the teenagers in my skit group--bonus that I don't have to actually interact with the 10 and unders unless I want to. I like hanging out with the teens, talking about Facebook and Deadliest Catch. But, I may be getting too old for this ship. The other day I was faced with the following ethical dilemma--do I just stand here and nod, acting like I know who they are talking about, keeping intact the facade that I'm young, cool, and hip, or, do I fess up that I have absolutely no idea who Soldier Boy is. And who was that chick, other than someone inappropriately dressed, that sang last week on So You Think You Can Dance?

Moreover, these teenagers are making me see my 14 and 16 yr old nephews in a new light. When did Anderson and Caleb become people I actually enjoy hanging out with? When did it stop being disrespectful and become okay for them to jokingly make fun of me? And hold the phone, when did they get girlfriends who are models and look 24? Why am I sucking in around their girlfriends? I'm definitely too old for that ship.

I keep coming back to the ice cream truck. It came the other day during nap time so we missed it. But I still find myself listening for it, putting my change in the jar, and I am convicted by how much time and energy I put into prepping for the ice cream truck and how little time I put into waiting and listening out for the Lord. I'm just too busy navel-gazing and running on the treadmill to be aware of what He's doing. And most of this running I'm supposedly doing for him. The truth is He is at work--in my family, my heart, my little corner of the world. But I'm too busy running and saying, "Whoa is me, I've got too much on my plate and I'd really like a nap and maybe an hour to just sit down and finish my book" to see Him. I'm too busy chasing after all this other junk. (Seriously, how demented is it that I asked my husband if I was as pretty as my 14 year old nephew's model girlfriend? Literally, she is a model. I'm not just saying this because she is leggy and blond. Sloan's response, "What is wrong with you?") I am too old for this ship, and yet, here I am, dancing to the music, while all the other women and children are getting into the lifeboats.

The lesson of the the ice cream truck is that the truck comes to you with the ice cream. That you don't have to chase after it. That because of the Cross, Jesus says to us (over the whir and thump thump of the treadmill), "Hey, that thing you are running after, I'll give it to you. It's right here. Just get off that treadmill and come sit with me."

And yet.

Whir whir, thump thump.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Monkey Business

Sloan has taken a Stay-cation for the past few days. (Otherwise known as the "fiscal year is almost up and you've got some extra vacation days to take" vacation.) So we've made full use of his Father's Daycation going to the zoo, out to dinner, and to the pool. (It seems my declaring Mother's Days a weekend event has come back to bite me in the tail.) As I type this on Saturday morning it is 9:30am and the King is still asleep. (When is it my weekend again?)
The Richmond Zoo is a little ghetto. Well, they have lots of animals and Henry loved it, but NC has a great zoo and Sloan grew up near Philly, which has the oldest and one of the most beloved zoos in the country. We have been spoiled. There are lots of chain linked fences at the Richmond Metro Zoo, but you do get to get very close to the animals, ride a train through the animal yards, a ski lift over the animals, and even get to feed a few giraffes. Henry loved it and we upgraded our day passes to season passes since it is only 15 minutes from our house.
Feeding the giraffes.
Is it just me, or this photo a little obscene? What's grosser than gross it that this giant black tongue touched me on several occasions.
And oh yeah, the giraffe almost ate my kid. Which Henry thought was absolutely fantastic.
We told Henry we were going to take him on a train ride at the Zoo. But we were talking about the tram whose car that pulls it looks like a train and does, in fact, have a train whistle. A ride aptly named the Safari Train because it actually takes you through the Asian and African yards so you can see the gazelles and various other horned beasts up close. But Henry climbed up on this. Having no quarters (having cleaned out my purse for the ice cream truck jar), I had to honestly tell him, "Sorry, honey, Mommy doesn't have anything less than a fifty."
Feeding the Baas.Finally, on the train. Where Henry pointed to all the beasts and bleated "Baa" as unknown animals have apparently moved from the dog category to the sheep category (or maybe goat?). Between bleatings, he also provided the train with very accurate train sounds--Choo! Choo! Peep! Peep! Poop! Poop!

Matthew Gunning Pusey

Matthew Gunning Pusey,
aka "The Ocho".


He arrived at 2:25 am on Friday, June 19, 2009. He came quickly, with my sister progressing from 3 cm to 10 cm in an hour. Luckily the progression did not occur prior to receiving an epidural. He weighed 8 pounds and no one seems to be able to tell me how long he is. According to my dad, "long enough". According to his big brother Caleb, he will be a vampire, because he is "squishy, red, and has really long finger and toes and is kind of weird looking." According to his Gigi (my mother), he is "beautiful and cuddly."



Henry is no longer the youngest grandchild on my side, thereby no longer receiving the title of cutest grandchild by default. He will pass the torch to his yet to be disobedient cousin. We've labeled bunches of Henry's clothes, gathered up the swing and the Bumpo, and will be heading off to meet the little muchkin this afternoon at my sister's house. Yes, my sister has figured out that after her eighth kid, she really only needs to stay in the hospital one night.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Reality Television

Sloan has discovered the secret recipe for a successful reality judging show. And it is in the judges...

1 Black guy with a crazy vocabulary
+ 1 crazy Latina Woman
+ 1 British man
= Fox Hit Show.

And if you can't find these three people, just search NJ for a housewife. Preferably an Italian housewife with a penchant for flipping tables. (Oh. My. Gosh.)

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

31 Flavors and then some

The neighborhood I grew up in was not frequented by an ice cream truck. Therefore, it has been a lifelong dream of mine to live in a neighborhood with an ice cream truck. For thirty one years, I’ve longed to hear the familiar cling-clang bell of everyone’s favorite yellow and white truck, grab my change jar, run up the street yelling “Ice Cream”, and then counting out my dollar and receiving that creamy goodness on a stick. Maybe a bomb pop, maybe a chocolate éclair, maybe the Mickey Mouse head with gumballs for eyes.

Well, folks, I must find a new dream, for last night all my wildest dreams came true.

With Sloan in Orlando on business, my friend Robin came over for dinner. We were chatting in the family room while Henry played with trains, when we heard the ice cream truck music. We stopped our conversation. “Was that the ice cream truck?” I asked.

“I think so.”

“Come on, Henry. We’ve got to catch that truck!” With bare feet I grabbed the boy, threw him at Robin, saying, “Go catch that truck! I’m going to get change.” Armed with Sloan’s change jar, I ran into our driveway as the ice cream truck drove out of view, turning left about a block away.

“Come back, ice cream truck,” I yelled. Some neighbors in their yards looked at me. “Come back…”

I explained to Robin my theory on ice cream trucks and why I will always run screaming after it. And that my children will ALWAYS be allowed to buy ice cream from the truck no matter what. No matter if we’re sitting down for dinner, tests have been failed, angry words have been thrown, or siblings been hit. You see, the ice cream truck brings ice cream to your house. You haven’t asked for it. You weren’t even aware you wanted it. You didn’t prepare ahead by going to the store for it. You don’t even deserve to have the ice cream truck show up, and yet, it goes cling clanging its bell with the grace of ice cream on a stick. And so, in some weird sort of way, the ice cream truck is a lot like Jesus. We were all just going about our lives down here on earth, bungling it all up, trodding down the wrong paths, and then clang-clang-clang went the God-man, Jesus, bringing his love and grace to our doorsteps. We don’t deserve it. We don’t think we need it. We don’t even realize that there is a hunger deep inside us for His great love. And yet, clang-clang-clang.

And both the knocking of Jesus and the clanging of the ice cream truck demand a response.

So I continued to yell, “Hey, ice cream truck, come back!” Robin and I used our best sonar to locate the truck in our neighborhood, wondering if we could catch it on our side street. Some women walking told us it was now in the streets across from us and that it wouldn’t pass by again.

Robin and I looked at each other. “Wanna hunt down that truck?” I asked.

“It would be an adventure,” Robin answered.

“Grab the boy while I get shoes and keys.” And we were off. With windows rolled down to listen for the clanging, we found the truck. With our jar of change, Robin and Henry got sour bomb pops (Henry wasn’t too crazy about the sour, but it was the only single Popsicle he had), and I got the Strawberry Shortcake—you know the one, the pink version of the chocolate éclair. Yum, Yum, Yummy Goodness. We came and tasted, and boy was it good.

There is a scene in the book Gilead to which the narrator, John Ames, keeps coming back. He is resting beneath a wagon with his best friend, in the rain watching people pull down a church that had burned. The refined women with their hair hanging down singing “The Old Rugged Cross.” At the end of the scene, his father brings him a charred biscuit. In the book, the narrator sees this as a sort of communion feast. He sees a community of faith rising out of the ashes and recognizes that he is witnessing something very commonplace, yet eternal and profound.

And as Robin and I sat on our front porch eating our ice cream, each sticky from having “helped” Henry with his bomb pop, I thought of that scene. I prayed that Henry would grow to always, at the drop of a hat, go running after God’s grace when he hears Jesus go a-clanging.

I also decided that Sloan’s change jar would move from the top of his dresser to its new summer home—the table in the foyer. Because when you hear that truck a-ringing ‘round the bend, you’d better believe that the Phillips family is running out the door, ever ready to “Come and taste that the Lord is good.”

Monday, June 15, 2009

There's a lot more where I came from...

I come from a long line of awesome people. The kind of people who have awesome names like Houston, Coolidge, Gerline, and Gaines. The kind of people who know all the words to Rocky Top and can play a mean game of Corn Hole. We're the Johnsons. And we know how to have a good time.

This past weekend, we all gathered in Tennessee at my cousin's house for a good 'ol BBQ eating, family reunion. My great-grandparents, Willis and Hazel Johnson, had 6 kids, and this was the gathering of all of their descendants. Only one of the original children is still alive, my GREAT (and I mean GREAT) Uncle Coolidge and his wife Edna.
When I was in middle school, my best friend Meg and I visited Coolidge and Edna during Spring Break. (Note to self--ask my parents why they took me to a retirement community for spring break.) But while we were there, they let us drive their golf cart, toss all their pool furniture into the pool, and even took us to the fanciest French restaurant I've ever eaten in during my entire life. (Whether or not this is actually true, I'm not sure. My 13 yr old self's opinion may be a bit skewed. But they did give me a pillow for my feet and a rose.) And can I just say, that for a man in his eighties, Uncle Coolidge is still as good looking as ever. Aunt Edna is a lucky woman.
For my readers in Tennessee, you may recognize my cousin who hosted the Reunion. Let me take a moment to name drop and brag on my family. Pictured above is the Lt. Governor of the great state of Tennessee, and my 2nd cousin, Ron Ramsey. He is the first Republican Lt. Governor for Tennessee in 140 years. And also for my Tennessee readers, he is running for Governor in 2010. I don't know much about Tennessee politics, but I do know this--when Ron prayed for our meal, it was genuine. Yeah, I know he's a politician and trained to speak in front of people. But as someone who is an expert in judging people, I can tell you that this is a man who is comfortable talking to God. And I think that seems like something that is lacking in politicians.
This is my beloved cousin, Andy. He and Sloan have entered into a full blown bromance. In this photo, Andy is asking my opinion about whether or not giving his 20 month old son, Gaines (seriously! awesome name!), a Coke will make up for the fact that the reunion interfered with nap time. I suggested he stick with Sunny D and cookies.


Sloan chasing around Henry. Henry disrupted many games of Corn Hole, threw rocks into the little water feature fountain in Ron's backyard, upended a trough, had to be fetched out of a cow pasture no less than five times, and came three feet away from climbing a barbed wire fence. Where was I? Taking pictures and yelling, "Sloan, go get Henry! He's heading back into the pasture again" while chatting with my cousins. Because there is one thing we Johnsons know and that is this--pick a good spouse and you'll fall in love every day. Nothing is sexier than watching your two men run around the hills of Tennessee (talk about being alive with the sound of music!).

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Voices in my head

The following Gollum-esque conversation just occurred in my head.

Voice 1: Ugh. The floor is nasty. I hate mopping.

Voice 2: Yes. You need to mop. It seems it is that time of the quarter again.

V1: Has it really been that long since I've mopped?

V2: The last time you mopped was for Henry's birthday party.

V1: That's not so bad.

V2: That was April. It is now June. Do the math.

V1: Ugh. The floor is nasty. I hate mopping. Maybe I can get away with just vacuuming.

Vacuum kitchen floor. Twice.

V2: The floor is still pretty gross.

V1: I think if I had a better mop I'd enjoy this more. I saw a cool one on TV.

V2: You've used this argument before. And your problem does not lie with the mop.

V1: I wish I had a maid.

V2: People saving up for adoptions do not have maids.

V1: I know, I know. But maybe I could get someone who would clean our house in exchange for free room and board.

V2: You mean, like, oh, I don't know--a slave?

V1: Well...(Pauses) I don't like the term slave.

V2: But you are wanting someone who will work for you for free. That's called a slave.

V1: I'll be really nice and we have a brand new mattress in our guest room.

V2: Nice. So free room. I'm assuming by board you aim to feed this slave? With what? Leftover take out from Casa Grande?

V1: No. I was envisioning buying groceries with which this person could cook.

V2: So a maid and a cook.

V1: Yeah.

V2: What will you be doing?

V1: Taking Henry to the pool. Buying the groceries. Blogging about the voices in my head.

V2: You do know that in the time it has taken you to type this you could have already mopped the kitchen.

V1: Shut up.

V2: Don't tell me to shut up. You're the one who wants a slave...

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Looking to buy bon bons

If you are my facebook friend, then will have noticed one thing--I've been spending a lot of time at our pool. Specifically, I've been spending a lot of time poolside sans Henry. That's right, people, I drop my son off in our gym's childcare so I can lay out by the pool and read. I particularly like to call Sloan at while working on my tan. Mainly just to say, "Hey, I'm lolling about and you're not" which is usually met with the following reply, "So when you complain about how you slave away all day at the house cleaning and taking care of Henry, this is what you are referring to? Have you any bon bons to eat while you sit around and do nothing?"
In my defense, before I lay out by the pool, I do work out on the elliptical. This morning, however, during my work-out, I realized that I'm old. And to be truthful, I've never really thought of myself as old; I'm only 31. But as the college student working behind the programs desk handed me my towel, "Here you are m'am," it struck me--she obviously does not see me as the same age as her, like I do. And then, when I plunked my book down on the elliptical and cranked up my Ipod, I knew I was old. I did not turn on the TV, despite the fact that the middle aged (er, my aged) women next to me were watching VH1 and Bravo while flipping through magazines, Star and Rolling Stone. Me? Reading Girl With Pearl Earring. Listening to classical music. Who, except for old people and me, listens to classical music to work out? Perhaps I should look for an afghan to put around my shoulders while I'm out buying bon bons.
I do feel my lolling about poolside is well deserved. You see, once I'm aware that I'm closing in on my 2 hours and 15 minutes of free childcare per day that comes with my membership, I do go get the pickle and wrangle (and I do mean wrangle!) him into his swim diaper and trunks, sunscreen, hat and sunglasses. This task is made more difficult as the light switch for the bathroom is accessible from the changing table in the family bathroom, so half of this work is done in the dark as Henry likes to play with the switch.
But once Henry gets to the pool, there is no more lolling about. Many Mommies get to sit by the pool and casually talk to one another while their toddlers sit near them and splash about in the water or the fountains. Maybe once or twice their children venture into deeper waters, but they usually are frightened and so stay near Mommy.
Not the case with Henry. Henry likes to go the the edge of the pool and jump in. He counts "1,2,3" and then dunks his head under. He goes down on his belly and pretends he is a snake, hissing with his face in the water while I say, "Gross, Henry. Get your mouth out of the water." He does not get his mouth out of the water. He tosses his plastic truck ahead of him, laughing as he goes and gets it, essentially playing fetch with himself. He splashes me. I, in turn, show him what a real splash looks like. He laughs so hard I fear he'll throw up. We go stand under the water buckets and love it when the bucket dumps a lot of water on Mommy's head. He likes to show me how he can walk all the way across the pool (which has a beach entry and then goes to 3 feet). He goes up on his tippy toes and tilts back his head, laughing all the way across the pool. At which point he then pulls himself up out of the pool, Michael Phelps style. (No matter how many times I see him do this--it still amazes me. He is able to pull himself up out of the pool despite not really being tall enough to push off with his feet.) Then he proceeds to turn around, hop in, and begin again. Once he's done this four or five, or ten times, he then decides it is time to check out the perimeter of the pool grounds. He goes to play on the playground. Crawls under and climbs over lounge chairs, paying no mind as to whether there are people on them or not. He pulls out every toy from the lost and found and takes it to the water. Occasionally, he'll find one of the squat chairs right by the pool entry and sit in it. This excites me, so I sit next to him. He waits until I'm comfortable and then he is off again. He visits the lifeguard and gives him a fist bump. There are three lifeguards, so the fist bumping takes awhile.
This morning he even made a friend. His first friendship he has ever initiated himself. Sure, he's got loads of buddies--Isabel, Nathan, Anna, Loren, Colten--but all of these friends he has because I've basically just dropped him off at their house or they see each other at church. This friend, a 20 month old named Sam, Henry chose himself. This is how it happened. Henry has some toys for the pool--a couple of those squishy balls, some squirter animals, and a plastic truck. Well, Sam was playing in the fountain while his mom and grandma chatted to one another. Henry and I had just returned from our second round of "lifeguard fist bump" of the day and I pulled out our toys. Henry took one of his balls, looked at the boy, and said, "Hey, ball!" and then threw the ball at the boy. The boy did not really respond. So Henry took another ball, said, "Hey! Hey! Hey!" until the boy looked at Henry, and then Henry said, "Ball!" and threw another ball at the boy. The boy, in turn, looked at Henry and said, "Baseball" and threw the ball back. I told the boy's mom I wasn't quite sure what to be more shocked by--my son's friendliness or his sharing. I talked a bit with Sam's mom while our boys played with one another's toys. We're planning on meeting again at the pool later this week. The boys were very sweet waving bye bye to one another in the parking lot. I just hope I can remember Sam's Mom's name by the time we see them again.
Perhaps if I eat some bon bons it will jog my memory. Actually, I don't have bon bons. Do you think Skittles will help? I do so love to taste the rainbow, and I did work out today...

Friday, June 5, 2009

More Neighbor Drama (Or Why I'm so Tired)

Dear Cat Lady,
I understand that this letter should really be addressed to your grown daughter and son, both of whom seem to be living with you, and your grandson, whom I KNOW lives with you.

I suppose y'all had no way of knowing that we had our first meeting with the adoption agency yesterday and subsequently got no sleep Wednesday night. My bad.

As Sloan and I settled in with our books (me, Doris Betts, and Sloan, the last of the Twilight series) around 10 pm last night, we were startled to hear the thunderous bass of a car stereo. "Hmmm, the grandson must be getting home from celebrating the end of the college semester," I said, foolishly thinking that the noise would end when he turned off his car.

He didn't turn off his car. So when, at 11, the melodic guitar riffs of Smoke on The Water were disrupting my ability to fall asleep and made Henry begin to stir, I did what any reasonable wife would do. I turned to my husband and said, "Do you want me to go out in the rain and say something or are you going to?"

Three times Sloan went out in the rain, armed with an umbrella and flashlight. Once at 11, again at 11:30, and finally around 12:15. Apparently, the first two times of him waving the flashlight around and yelling from our side of their driveway (he was determined not to actually leave our yard), didn't work. And by this time, it was both the grandson's car booming bass and the daughter's SUV. Sloan flashed the light around and finally, the 50ish tatooed son stumbled out of his nephew's car, amidst a cloud of smoke.

"What do you need?" he said.

"I have a two year old son trying to sleep who is going to be awake again around 6:30 tomorrow. And some of us have to go to work in the morning. Could you keep it down?"

"You can really hear our music inside your house?"

"Yes. Even on the second floor."

"Oh."

Thankfully, they turned down their music and I was able to get back to sleep as we were determined to call the cops had they not responded.

Dearest, dearest cat lady, I may or may not actually send this letter. But I am considering paying you a visit to ask you to keep tabs on your offspring. Or at least tell me where you purchased your earplugs that you must've worn to bed last night. (I've even baked a loaf of banana bread to bring with me so I can visit under the guise of being neighborly.)

I'm not stupid. There are only two reasons I can think of to sit in a parked car with the music turned up--to get handsy or to get high. And since the parties in the car were related, I'm really hoping for the latter. But you see, this is a nice FAMILY neighborhood. We have sidewalks for strolling and two playgrounds within walking distance. Could you at least take the party inside? To the garage at least? If you were going for inconspicuous, blaring the stereo in two parked cars in your driveway was not the way to go. I'm just saying.

But who knows? Maybe the family that smokes a fatty together stays together.

Yours truly,
Your tired neighbor

P.S. In case you were wondering, the meeting with the adoption agency went well.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Night shining as day

In the margins of my Bible, next to Psalm 139, there is the following note--For Henry, March 2007. I do so wish I hadn't been upside down when I wrote this and had expanded upon that. But if my memory serves me correctly, I found this scripture particularly comforting for different reasons than you might expect.

You see, this is the classic go to "so you're pregnant let me write you a note and write a bit of scripture on the card" sentiment. Sometimes it even comes already printed on the cover of the card, embossed over a picture of a sunset on the beach, complete with sea gulls. For those of you too lazy to follow the above link, this is the Psalm that includes "You formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made." Good stuff for a pregnant lady, right?

And it is. Let me be clear that I am not dogging David's writing of this Psalm. But the fact that it is used so frequently next to those danged Precious Moments babies and half-hearted attempts to be deep, I generally gloss over that portion of the Psalm. From all accounts, I like to think that David would be offended when it is used half-heartedly as well. David was a man of passion, doing all things, both good and bad, whole-heartedly.

What struck me most about this Psalm during Henry's gestation, was the intimacy God shared with his servant, David, and subsequently with Henry and me. Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O LORD, you know it altogether. A little frightening that God knows ME that well, but as I reflect on it in terms of Henry, it assures me that even Henry's speech delay has not only not gone unnoticed by our Father, but is part of His loving plan. I was also stuck that God's eyes saw my unformed substance. So His plans for me and Henry did not start with our births, or even conceptions, but have been on His mind since before time began. So my going into labor at 23 weeks and almost dying was not an accident. It was God's plan for my pregnancy and God's plan for Henry.

This past weekend Sloan and I went to a memorial service for an infant, the daughter of a college friend who now goes to my church. (I am wishing we were closer now, but perhaps we aren't because, well, let's just say we are both different people than we were at UNC. Certainly there were hints of the man and woman we have evolved into, but oh, the stories we could tell...) But at this service, Psalm 139 was read. And it was discussed how this Psalm in particular was a balm to the child's parents. Maybe it was because I was already on my third tissue, but for the first time I understood all that knitting together mumbo jumbo and why David included it. It wasn't because he was making a case for when life actually begins, to be tacked on a bumper sticker, absentmindedly. But it was a statement of the depths of love and passion God takes with each of us. That His love for each of us goes into the darkest of places--our gestation, our lives, our grief. That in Genesis, with the very words, In the beginning, we were there, in our Father's heart.

And as we approach adoption, I cannot tell you how loudly that little girl whose life was seemingly too short was preaching to me. That even in our infertility, certainly a time when I can say along with David that the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night, it is a blessing to know that even the darkness is not dark to You; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light with You. And because God has had me on His heart from the very beginning, I know He has also had our second child on His heart as well. And as we fill out forms and set appointments, He is still knitting together our child, for us. That from our child's conception, though it is through another couple, God's intention is that he or she would be raised in our family. That he or she would be the one to pester Henry. That he or she would be acquainted with Elizabethtown. That he or she would call me Mommy.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high. I cannot attain it.