Henry has two Gigis. Little Gigi is his 4 yr old cousin. Big Gigi is my mom. At first, Big Gigi was not too thrilled about being labeled "big". I asked her if she preferred "old". She did not laugh. And my father gave me the look. But then she answered, "I guess big."
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
We are family...
At first this was going to be a post about my night last night. I had my first “gig” for Bethany where I talked about our adoption experience with Gracie at a local church. It was a praise and prayer service and typically they have various ministries from around the area come in order to share with their congregation their needs and how they can be praying. Cool, right? And since Saturday was the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, Sunday was Sanctity of Life day, having an adoption agency was a natural fit for the week. And trust me, I’ll get to that. I’ll tell you all about my speech and my reactions to the differences between their traditions and my own faith traditions. But as I’ve reflected on last night, I realize that I first must let you know something.
These people who I talked to, who prayed for me, are my family. And not just in some mambi-pambi metaphorical way because we all wear crosses and know the words to Kumbaya and Jesus Loves Me. As in, the basis of Christianity is that through Jesus’ death and resurrection, the Christian is adopted into a new family. A family where Jesus is not only Lord, but brother. Where we are taught to pray “Our Father.” Not just to remind us of who God is to us, but also to teach us who we are to one another. Brothers and Sisters. Flesh and blood. We belong to each other, permanently. Our liking one another or even agreeing with one another has nothing to do with it.
And because this is a family that resides here on earth in the fallen world, it can get hairy sometimes. And that is putting it nicely. Think of your family of origin: you have that one cousin who can’t seem to keep a job, the Aunt with the crazy hairdo, the nephew who insists on teaching your kids dirty words, the uncle with a drinking problem, the in-law with a million diplomas who talks like he’s hosting an NPR program, the grandma who wraps up her cat for Christmas. So it’s no wonder that when we, The Church, all get together, we find ourselves feeling like we’re in a National Lampoon’s movie. It’s no wonder that last night, at a Church different from mine, I channeled my inner Clark Griswold and thought, “Oh, Eddie. If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”
But like it or not, these folks are my folk. I fully plan on spending eternity with them. So if I use the term “they”, please note I am not meaning “THEY”. They are my people. They don’t look like me, worship like me, pray like me, but they are loved and redeemed by Jesus, JUST like me.
So please, as I relay to you some of the events from last night, be mindful of who you chuckle at. Because you ARE going to laugh. It was hilarious. But please don’t laugh at my family. Laugh at me. Laugh at the fact that at one point all I could do was pray in my brain, “Sweet Jesus, forgive me for feeling awkward and judging these people, and please don’t let me pee my pants.” Because peeing in my pants was a legitimate concern. Several times.
First off, I couldn’t find the church. It meets downtown in a building that sort of doesn’t look like a church. And my GPS told me I had arrived when obviously, I had not arrived. So I’m circling around, trying to make sure I’m not driving down a one way street incorrectly, trying to find a spot to parallel park my behemoth Suburban, while simultaneously fighting the butterflies in my stomach that are genuinely making me fear not just peeing on myself, but worse. As in, if I didn’t find the church soon, we’d have a real problem on our hands. And our tights. And perhaps, our shoes.
When I find the church, I start to consider what I’d learned about the Church and its congregation from my contact at Bethany and also the pastors at my church. Its members are diverse, hip, young, socially conscious, and they have a heart for adoption. They have a sizeable fund at their church just for helping its members finance adoptions. They have several families who’ve adopted from all over the world multiple times.
I was nervous about all the logistics—what to wear, would I talk too long (I don’t think I did), would I fidget (holding a microphone gave me something to do with my hands), would my new haircut drive me bonkers and be in my face the whole time (it wasn’t)? However, it would have been nice to know that this was a charismatic church. Had I known, I would not have fretted over whether I could wear jeans (I did not) or my Frye motorcycle boots (I did). I would not have spent 20 minutes in prayer that afternoon begging God to help me not sob uncontrollably the entire speech. (Bonus—I did not cry the entire time. Everyone else did. A lot. As in, at one point I actually said, “Wow! For a bunch of people gathered to praise God, we sure are doing a lot of crying!”)
It was a prayer service, so I figured that at a prayer service they would lay hands on me. I’m not crazy about strangers touching me, but seeing as the last time people layed hands on me and prayed over me I was in the hospital pregnant with Henry, I figured I was due. At least this time I’d bathed in 48 hours and was wearing underwear, right?
I was not expecting, however, for the lady next to me to be speaking in tongues.
It’s not uncommon when a group of people are in prayer and one person is praying aloud for others to quietly chime in their “Amens” and “Yes Lords”. Not really my bag, but whatever, I’ve come to expect and even find comfort in it. But not someone whispering in parseltongue next to me. At first I thought perhaps she was foreign and just praying in her native language. I peeked. Nope. She was shaking and speaking in tongues.
There was also a woman who softly sung "Holy Jesus, Hallelujah for Elizabeth" and things like that as though she were some weird Bat Mitzvah canter. This is when I began repenting of my own self-righteousness and begging for bladder control.
I was uncomfortable. And when I feel awkward, uncomfortable, or just don’t know what to do, I laugh. I laughed when Sloan first kissed me. (Not the reaction he was hoping for.) I laughed at a classmate’s mother’s funeral because my buddy Sarah had to hold hands with an elderly nun. So I also prayed they mistook my quaking body as those uncontrollable sobs I was so afraid of.
And at the end of the service, there was sort of a prayer altar call. Not an uncommon occurance, right? In fact, at the end of every service at my church, the Pastor invites those who would like to be personally prayed for to meet with an Elder at the side of the sanctuary. But these people were invited up to the front. And since I was a speaker at the service, I was sitting in the front row. So basically, the people seeking prayer were two feet in front of me.
And at one point a young man came up. And what I witnessed I really have no words for. I can only describe it as an exorcism of some sort as the gentleman was pounding the floor, yelling "F#*^ You Satan!"
I opened my eyes and looked around—in part to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, and also to be ready if Jesus showed up with snakes for us to wrangle. Perhaps the Frye boots were the right choice after all. Literally, I quoted Chevy Chase in my mind. “If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”
And while it was shocking, and different than what I am used to, I was moved by what was happening. This man was being freed. Any fool could see that he’d come to the service carrying around something. Guilt. Shame. Fear. Grief. Anger. All of the above. And though I didn’t understand the motions he was going through, I connected with him. I knew those burdens; I carry those burdens. And freedom? The freedom of having those things that strangle you, grip your chest so you can’t sleep at night, eat away at your selfhood, nailed to a tree and done away with forever? Well, that does (perhaps) merit shouting an F-bomb or two.
What was even more moving was how a trio of men came around him, held him, got down on the floor with him, cried with him, and assured him of Christ's power to forgive. Of him being a new creation. I heard them saying over and over, “You are loved. You are forgiven. God is for you. You are His. You are loved. You are forgiven. You are His.”
But yeah, as the service ended, I told the pregnancy counselor with me, "Yeah, I'm Presbyterian. We may have a few hand raisers here and there, but we. Do. Not. Do. This. It's cool, but wow."
But wow, indeed. How awesome and wack-a-doo my family is. Heaven is going to be a RIOT!
These people who I talked to, who prayed for me, are my family. And not just in some mambi-pambi metaphorical way because we all wear crosses and know the words to Kumbaya and Jesus Loves Me. As in, the basis of Christianity is that through Jesus’ death and resurrection, the Christian is adopted into a new family. A family where Jesus is not only Lord, but brother. Where we are taught to pray “Our Father.” Not just to remind us of who God is to us, but also to teach us who we are to one another. Brothers and Sisters. Flesh and blood. We belong to each other, permanently. Our liking one another or even agreeing with one another has nothing to do with it.
And because this is a family that resides here on earth in the fallen world, it can get hairy sometimes. And that is putting it nicely. Think of your family of origin: you have that one cousin who can’t seem to keep a job, the Aunt with the crazy hairdo, the nephew who insists on teaching your kids dirty words, the uncle with a drinking problem, the in-law with a million diplomas who talks like he’s hosting an NPR program, the grandma who wraps up her cat for Christmas. So it’s no wonder that when we, The Church, all get together, we find ourselves feeling like we’re in a National Lampoon’s movie. It’s no wonder that last night, at a Church different from mine, I channeled my inner Clark Griswold and thought, “Oh, Eddie. If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”
But like it or not, these folks are my folk. I fully plan on spending eternity with them. So if I use the term “they”, please note I am not meaning “THEY”. They are my people. They don’t look like me, worship like me, pray like me, but they are loved and redeemed by Jesus, JUST like me.
So please, as I relay to you some of the events from last night, be mindful of who you chuckle at. Because you ARE going to laugh. It was hilarious. But please don’t laugh at my family. Laugh at me. Laugh at the fact that at one point all I could do was pray in my brain, “Sweet Jesus, forgive me for feeling awkward and judging these people, and please don’t let me pee my pants.” Because peeing in my pants was a legitimate concern. Several times.
First off, I couldn’t find the church. It meets downtown in a building that sort of doesn’t look like a church. And my GPS told me I had arrived when obviously, I had not arrived. So I’m circling around, trying to make sure I’m not driving down a one way street incorrectly, trying to find a spot to parallel park my behemoth Suburban, while simultaneously fighting the butterflies in my stomach that are genuinely making me fear not just peeing on myself, but worse. As in, if I didn’t find the church soon, we’d have a real problem on our hands. And our tights. And perhaps, our shoes.
When I find the church, I start to consider what I’d learned about the Church and its congregation from my contact at Bethany and also the pastors at my church. Its members are diverse, hip, young, socially conscious, and they have a heart for adoption. They have a sizeable fund at their church just for helping its members finance adoptions. They have several families who’ve adopted from all over the world multiple times.
I was nervous about all the logistics—what to wear, would I talk too long (I don’t think I did), would I fidget (holding a microphone gave me something to do with my hands), would my new haircut drive me bonkers and be in my face the whole time (it wasn’t)? However, it would have been nice to know that this was a charismatic church. Had I known, I would not have fretted over whether I could wear jeans (I did not) or my Frye motorcycle boots (I did). I would not have spent 20 minutes in prayer that afternoon begging God to help me not sob uncontrollably the entire speech. (Bonus—I did not cry the entire time. Everyone else did. A lot. As in, at one point I actually said, “Wow! For a bunch of people gathered to praise God, we sure are doing a lot of crying!”)
It was a prayer service, so I figured that at a prayer service they would lay hands on me. I’m not crazy about strangers touching me, but seeing as the last time people layed hands on me and prayed over me I was in the hospital pregnant with Henry, I figured I was due. At least this time I’d bathed in 48 hours and was wearing underwear, right?
I was not expecting, however, for the lady next to me to be speaking in tongues.
It’s not uncommon when a group of people are in prayer and one person is praying aloud for others to quietly chime in their “Amens” and “Yes Lords”. Not really my bag, but whatever, I’ve come to expect and even find comfort in it. But not someone whispering in parseltongue next to me. At first I thought perhaps she was foreign and just praying in her native language. I peeked. Nope. She was shaking and speaking in tongues.
There was also a woman who softly sung "Holy Jesus, Hallelujah for Elizabeth" and things like that as though she were some weird Bat Mitzvah canter. This is when I began repenting of my own self-righteousness and begging for bladder control.
I was uncomfortable. And when I feel awkward, uncomfortable, or just don’t know what to do, I laugh. I laughed when Sloan first kissed me. (Not the reaction he was hoping for.) I laughed at a classmate’s mother’s funeral because my buddy Sarah had to hold hands with an elderly nun. So I also prayed they mistook my quaking body as those uncontrollable sobs I was so afraid of.
And at the end of the service, there was sort of a prayer altar call. Not an uncommon occurance, right? In fact, at the end of every service at my church, the Pastor invites those who would like to be personally prayed for to meet with an Elder at the side of the sanctuary. But these people were invited up to the front. And since I was a speaker at the service, I was sitting in the front row. So basically, the people seeking prayer were two feet in front of me.
And at one point a young man came up. And what I witnessed I really have no words for. I can only describe it as an exorcism of some sort as the gentleman was pounding the floor, yelling "F#*^ You Satan!"
I opened my eyes and looked around—in part to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, and also to be ready if Jesus showed up with snakes for us to wrangle. Perhaps the Frye boots were the right choice after all. Literally, I quoted Chevy Chase in my mind. “If I woke up tomorrow morning with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.”
And while it was shocking, and different than what I am used to, I was moved by what was happening. This man was being freed. Any fool could see that he’d come to the service carrying around something. Guilt. Shame. Fear. Grief. Anger. All of the above. And though I didn’t understand the motions he was going through, I connected with him. I knew those burdens; I carry those burdens. And freedom? The freedom of having those things that strangle you, grip your chest so you can’t sleep at night, eat away at your selfhood, nailed to a tree and done away with forever? Well, that does (perhaps) merit shouting an F-bomb or two.
What was even more moving was how a trio of men came around him, held him, got down on the floor with him, cried with him, and assured him of Christ's power to forgive. Of him being a new creation. I heard them saying over and over, “You are loved. You are forgiven. God is for you. You are His. You are loved. You are forgiven. You are His.”
But yeah, as the service ended, I told the pregnancy counselor with me, "Yeah, I'm Presbyterian. We may have a few hand raisers here and there, but we. Do. Not. Do. This. It's cool, but wow."
But wow, indeed. How awesome and wack-a-doo my family is. Heaven is going to be a RIOT!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
38 Years of choosing
Thank you C for choosing life. Thank you to your Mom and case workers for encouraging you to choose life and to make an adoption plan when many others do not. I am forever indebted to you for your bravery and selfless love.
I pray for you daily. That no matter what, you always know you were and are an answer to many, many prayers. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. Stronger than me.
I promise to love our daughter forever.
I pray for you daily. That no matter what, you always know you were and are an answer to many, many prayers. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. Stronger than me.
I promise to love our daughter forever.
Friday, January 21, 2011
I was not prepared...
to find my son splashing about in the toilet in the bathroom. Right after he'd peed in it.
Lesson of the day: Bathrooms are not for playing.
Lesson of the day: Bathrooms are not for playing.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
All Clear!!
It is with great news that I can report that Gracie passed her most recent blood tests with flying colors. All threats of lasting health issues posed by her birthmother are done with. There is not a trace of her birthmothers yucko immune system left in sweet Grace and we never again have to go to the clinic at MCV for blood draws. Which is a blessing as when we went in December they dug around in her chubby little arm four times without being able to get a vein. We went again this past Tuesday and thanks to the many prayers of my bible study ladies and orphan care community friends, they found a vein on the first try! Yes, she still cried the entire time and I had to literally lay across her, but we have been given the go ahead to never return again.
I still try and read as to whether the drugs sent through her system in utero will have a lasting effect on her development. For now, she shows no signs of any delays. She is easily soothed, quick to laugh with Henry, and is chatting up a storm. I can't remember what all she is supposed to be doing at 15 months as Henry did have a speech delay at this point and had just begun to walk.
But as for now, she can say the following...
Mama, Dada, Budda (for brother), baby, no, uh-oh (though like most toddlers, she has yet to discover hurling your sippy cup across the room does not warrant an uh-oh), yum yum yum (when she wants to be fed), banana (though, like her brother, and now her parents, she says buena), makes monkey noises whenever she sees a buena (thanks, Henry), and, of course, choo choo.
She loves to empty her kitchen cupboards. She loves to drag the broom and dustpan around the house. I'm thinking of getting her her own swiffer broom so it can actually be a useful habit. She loves to lunge towards people, so be prepared for big hugs. She loves to sit in her booster seat and often drags it to various places just to sit a spell. She loves to lunge and ping-pong between the two orange kids chairs we have. She prefers to look at regular books as opposed to board books and is surprisingly gentle with the pages. She does not, however, sit still for anyone to read her a book. This does not stop Henry from trying to "read" her Hop on Pop and Green Eggs and Ham. She enjoys climbing the stairs. She likes building with blocks, playing trains, and pushing baby dolls around in her grocery cart. It may be time for a baby doll stroller. Unlike Henry, Gracie will eat anything set before her, but especially loves avocado and bacon. Both of these foods make her shake with delight.She can find her nose and belly button and when I ask for a kiss, she attacks my face open mouthed. Her favorite person continues to be Henry. They roughouse and often roll around the floor, kissing one another and laughing. I am thankful that she is big enough to hold her own. She is all smiles when being watched by others, but when I return, she suddenly needs to be held by me STAT. Her favorite sitters are her Auntie Ann and Mrs. Scoggins.
At present, she currently uses more hair products than I do. Her daytime routine includes a hair moisturizer called "Curl Creme Brulee." So she now smells like Caramel. Because, you know, she wasn't delicious enough already! She loves bath time, in particular, splashing. Policeman Henry is quick to gently grab her hands and remind her "No splashing." We wash her hair once a week and co-wash it (wash it with just conditioner) once as well.
She has 14 teeth. 6 of which "erupted" last week. You know, when Daddy was out of town. Awesome.
Gracie continues to be beloved by all who meet her. And she is the apple of her big brother's eye. When someone else holds her, he is quick to let them know that she is his baby. Sometimes he will be playing with trains and just stop, get up, go give her kisses and then return to what he is doing. Yesterday he told me he needed to give her at least 16 kisses a day. On the mornings he does not climb into her crib to snuggle her, he empties her bookshelf into her bed. I am ever so thankful he loves her so dearly. It is why we have instated the following rule--
Gracie will never be allowed to date someone larger than her brother.
Monday, January 17, 2011
2nd Annual King Party
This morning we had our 2nd Annual 'Reedom Fing Party. Sloan took the day off (his is employed by an Australian company, so MLK wasn't a holiday for him) and we invited over some friends and their kids. Not a huge party--just Henry's bestie Nathan and some families from the orphan care community at our church. Sure, not the most ethnically or racially diverse crew, but we were a group of people who came together to chat, have fun, and praise God for the work He did through Martin Luther King, Jr. We served "integrated" foods--Oreos, yogurt covered pretzels and raisins, and Swiss Cake Rolls, and every family invited brought a snack to share. I wanted to make cracker candy--caramel topped graham crackers dotted with sesame seeds and almonds. Sloan told me I was already pushing it with the Oreos, but cracker candy would just be inappropriate. I was only joking with the themed food, but I guess he was right. (Honestly, I was just looking for an excuse to make the candy as we've eaten all I made for Christmas...)
After the kids had played for awhile and Henry had eaten roughly a dozen of my friend Tracy's Heath Chocolate Chip cookies, we gathered in the family room to read stories. I told the kids we were getting together to celebrate the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr. We celebrated his birthday because God used him to tell people that all of us were made in God's image. That Martin knew it wasn't right to be mean to people because of their skin color and he told people to stop it. (To which one of the 4 year olds commented, "Its not right to be mean to anybody." 2 points for him!) I read a board book about Martin Luther King, Jr and then Dr. Suess' The Sneetches. Because "I'm quite happy to say that the Sneetches got really quite smart on that day, the day they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches and no kind of Sneetch is the best on the beaches. That day, all the Sneetches forgot about stars and whether they had one, or not, upon thars."I thought about reading the speech or another one of our favorite books, Martin's Big Words, but with 7 kids ranging from 5 days old to 4, and our lone 12 year old, I knew I only had 5 minutes to work with. And even that was a bit chaotic. Sure, I envisioned us reading stories and then standing to hold hands and sing Jesus Loves the Little Children and We Shall Overcome and then sitting to watch the "I Have a Dream" speech.
Not so much. Most of these kids were on an Oreo and Swiss Cake Roll high. And in truth, they were playing together. Kids with heritages ranging from Germany, Japan, Africa, Sweden, Wales. White kids cuddling their biracial siblings and friends. A tween selling earrings she made to help the orphanage in which her Ethiopian brothers reside until they come home this Spring or Summer. And this, I think, is making Martin smile. To see children of all different backgrounds sharing their toys with one another. Playing together. Laughing together. Being told to "put that cookie back" together. "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. "
Martin Luther King, Jr.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
I'd like a digital upgrade
Parenting is like listening to an 8-track. Remember those? Those giant rectangles you pushed in and just listened to? If you didn't like the song that was playing, you just had to suffer through it and wait until it was over. There was no fast forward or DVD Fast Play option.
The current track we are stuck on in the Phillips house is the Hunger Strike. My sister assures me that this phase will end somewhere between 4 and 5, so it is apparently a LONG track.
At my dinner table, you are not allowed to whine about what is set in front of you. Not allowed to make faces or declare it is yucky. Should you do so, you will have to set in the "Collection Chair". The collection chair is just the extra dining chair in the corner of our dining room. Approximately 2 feet from Henry's actual chair at the table. It is where he goes to "collect" himself and change his mood. Or, if need be, he can just sit in the chair and cry. And if he wanted to spend the entire meal there, he could. We'd still talk to him. He'd just need to apologize for being rude prior to returning to the table. Most of the time, he sits himself in the chair, calms down, and then quietly returns to the dinner table, whispering "I'm sorry" in Sloan's ear. But mind you, he still doesn't touch his food. Sometimes he sits the entire meal with his hands over his eyes.
Because, you know, if he can't see us then we can't see him. (One of the many times I have to refrain from laughing at my child for the sake of discipline and decorum.)
He has gone to bed without dinner on numerous occasions and has even looked at his plate and said, "Mommy? Can I just not eat this and go to bed now?" On particularly long days, I have obliged him. He'll just eat three bowls of Cheerios, a yogurt, and a banana the next day for breakfast.
But it is difficult because his idea of the perfect meal changes. I do honestly try to make him something at every meal he enjoys. If we are having fish, I try to serve green beans and rice as sides. But then he'll go and decide he hates green beans. Or I'll make chicken and he'll say he doesn't want white chicken he wants brown chicken. (Whatever that is.)
For lunch he'd prefer to eat either pepperonis or little smokies every day with a Dora yogurt, some grapes, and an apple. Do not offer him a PB&J or grilled cheese or you will experience some major llama drama. I recently introduced the oh so healthy peanut butter crackers and those captain's wafers cream cheese and chive crackers and those were a hit. So at least we've ventured out of the meat in a baggy when I need to pack him a lunch for school.
He has also stated that all he really wants to eat is meat, specifically high quality beef. Here was our conversation this afternoon.
Me: You can have either sliced turkey or sliced ham for lunch. What do you want?
Henry: How 'bout steak?
Me: No. Turkey or ham.
Henry: How 'bout beef?
Me: No. That's steak too. Turkey or ham.
Henry: How 'bout fiwet?
Me: Geez. (laughing) That's steak too. Turkey or ham.
Henry: Tenderwoin?
Me: Good grief, sweet boy. That's steak too. Enough with the steak. You're having turkey.
Henry: And strawberry Dora yogurt?
Me: Yes, with strawberry Dora yogurt.
Henry: And steak too?
Me: You are your father's son.
Henry: Of course I am.
The current track we are stuck on in the Phillips house is the Hunger Strike. My sister assures me that this phase will end somewhere between 4 and 5, so it is apparently a LONG track.
At my dinner table, you are not allowed to whine about what is set in front of you. Not allowed to make faces or declare it is yucky. Should you do so, you will have to set in the "Collection Chair". The collection chair is just the extra dining chair in the corner of our dining room. Approximately 2 feet from Henry's actual chair at the table. It is where he goes to "collect" himself and change his mood. Or, if need be, he can just sit in the chair and cry. And if he wanted to spend the entire meal there, he could. We'd still talk to him. He'd just need to apologize for being rude prior to returning to the table. Most of the time, he sits himself in the chair, calms down, and then quietly returns to the dinner table, whispering "I'm sorry" in Sloan's ear. But mind you, he still doesn't touch his food. Sometimes he sits the entire meal with his hands over his eyes.
Because, you know, if he can't see us then we can't see him. (One of the many times I have to refrain from laughing at my child for the sake of discipline and decorum.)
He has gone to bed without dinner on numerous occasions and has even looked at his plate and said, "Mommy? Can I just not eat this and go to bed now?" On particularly long days, I have obliged him. He'll just eat three bowls of Cheerios, a yogurt, and a banana the next day for breakfast.
But it is difficult because his idea of the perfect meal changes. I do honestly try to make him something at every meal he enjoys. If we are having fish, I try to serve green beans and rice as sides. But then he'll go and decide he hates green beans. Or I'll make chicken and he'll say he doesn't want white chicken he wants brown chicken. (Whatever that is.)
For lunch he'd prefer to eat either pepperonis or little smokies every day with a Dora yogurt, some grapes, and an apple. Do not offer him a PB&J or grilled cheese or you will experience some major llama drama. I recently introduced the oh so healthy peanut butter crackers and those captain's wafers cream cheese and chive crackers and those were a hit. So at least we've ventured out of the meat in a baggy when I need to pack him a lunch for school.
He has also stated that all he really wants to eat is meat, specifically high quality beef. Here was our conversation this afternoon.
Me: You can have either sliced turkey or sliced ham for lunch. What do you want?
Henry: How 'bout steak?
Me: No. Turkey or ham.
Henry: How 'bout beef?
Me: No. That's steak too. Turkey or ham.
Henry: How 'bout fiwet?
Me: Geez. (laughing) That's steak too. Turkey or ham.
Henry: Tenderwoin?
Me: Good grief, sweet boy. That's steak too. Enough with the steak. You're having turkey.
Henry: And strawberry Dora yogurt?
Me: Yes, with strawberry Dora yogurt.
Henry: And steak too?
Me: You are your father's son.
Henry: Of course I am.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
White Woman rants about subtle racism...
Every month Henry's preschool hands out those wonderful Scholastic book club flyers. This month I was looking forward to ordering some kids books about Black History month and Martin Luther King, Jr. I thought for certain there would be a couple of board books.
There was one. ONE.
There were loads of books about Valentine's Day, President's Day, and even several for 100th day of School celebrations. First of all, is 100th day of school even a thing? Really? But only ONE book having to deal with Martin Luther King, Jr? Not even the President's book to his daughters?
Now let me say that I understand that every flyer has only so many books it features. (100 to be exact) And that having every book being about Black History month or Martin Luther King, Jr would niether be appropriate or good marketing for the book company. But I refuse to believe that preschool parents aren't interested in race relations. There are black kids in preschool. There are biracial kids in preschool. There are white kids in preschool with parents who want their kids to understand history and black culture. And certainly there are parents of every shade who want their kids to like the skin they are in.
So I went on Scholastic's facebook page and basically said, "What gives?" They pointed me to the fact that they have a catalog just for African American children's books and culture called Voices. So I countered back, "So you are telling me the book are segregated?" They quickly responded and sent me an email address to discuss it privately. (Also, I looked at the catelog and am soooo excited. There is a series of chapter books for 2-4th graders about these little AA ballerinas and they look super cute!)
Basically, I have to get my preschool director to request the Voices catalog so I can order from it and my school still get freebies. But still I say, "What gives?" Does that mean that somewhere there are teachers who only receive Voices for their predominately African American students? That doesn't seem quite right either. Certainly they deserve to celebrate the bogus holiday of 100th day of school like their white counterparts.
I think this is just one of the countless little things we white people don't get. The subtle racism of our culture. Yes, we are appalled by the obvious things. We teach our children what words to not say and to value all people. But saying the right words and believing the right things are two different things entirely.
Like have you heard they are publishing an edition of Huckleberry Finn that removes the n-word and replaces it with slave? What? The publisher said it repulsed him to read that word so many times. Correct if I am wrong, but wasn't that sort of the point? If Tom and Huck start out politically correct, how will their characters evolve? And how will teachers lead discussions about the use of that word to enlighten their students? And if you say that having kids read the n-word in Huckleberry Finn will only lead to intolerance, I say this--show me the hate crime that can be traced back to reading Mark Twain and I'll eat my shirt!
Before Christmas, I heard an African American mom complaining to customer service at WalMart that there was not a good selection of black baby dolls. And she's right. Sure, you can find them. But you have to look for them. Or pay an arm and a leg for them. In the American Girl franchise, they have a black doll. Her name is Addy and she is an escaped slave. And you can buy a doll with dark skin and curly hair or medium skin and curly hair. But she's $100. I also love that the 2010 American Girl doll of the year is named Kanini. She's Hawaiian. And by Hawaiian I mean to say she has light brown eyes, fair skin, and light brown hair. But she wears a lei, so I guess that makes her authentic.
Or just look at how much aisle space African American hair products get at your grocery store. And I've never even once seen a satin crib sheet even sold at a Babies R Us or Pottery Barn. Oh, what's that you say? Yeah. Most people don't even know that cotton can be killer to fragile tightly curled hair, so AA girls need to either use a satin pillowcase or wear a satin hair bonnet when they sleep to protect their hair and hair styles. Try finding a satin lined snow cap in a mainstream store. You can't. I've also looked for something to put in Gracie's car seat, but cannot find it. So I'm going to fashion something myself and maybe even set up shop on Etsy with my own little Satin Car Seat thingys. Because I'm guessing that the reason Gracie's hair is shorter in the back is from the car seat friction causing breakage.
And another thing white people don't know is what to say. I'm even at a loss here. I understand that race and ethnicity and culture are often interchangable in some people's minds, even though, in reality, they are three different things. I don't even know if it is wrong that I sometimes say black instead of African American. Actually, most of the time I say brown, as in my son is pink and my daughter is brown because her skin is that of a black person, but ethnically she is also Caucasian and Japanese. And culturally, she's the same as me. And her hair is silky but curly. Not tight coils, but loose curls. There is even a technical grading system for curly hair. I am a 3a--think Debra Messing and Taylor Swift. Gracie is a 3b--think Heather Headley or Alicia Keyes. (For comparison, Joss Stone is a 2 and Macy Gray is a 4a.) And if you have a couple of hours to kill, you should totally watch YouTube videos on how to style AA hair. Seriously. Addictive. Can't wait until Gracie's hair is long enough to rock some Bantu knots or two strand coils.
I try not too worry too much about political correctness. You can be politcally correct and still harbor hate in your heart. Perhaps the main thing is to simply think about what you say before you say it (admittedly, not a strength of mine). I figure when Gracie is old enough, knowing she's my daughter, she'll tell me what to call her. For now, I call her mine.
There was one. ONE.
There were loads of books about Valentine's Day, President's Day, and even several for 100th day of School celebrations. First of all, is 100th day of school even a thing? Really? But only ONE book having to deal with Martin Luther King, Jr? Not even the President's book to his daughters?
Now let me say that I understand that every flyer has only so many books it features. (100 to be exact) And that having every book being about Black History month or Martin Luther King, Jr would niether be appropriate or good marketing for the book company. But I refuse to believe that preschool parents aren't interested in race relations. There are black kids in preschool. There are biracial kids in preschool. There are white kids in preschool with parents who want their kids to understand history and black culture. And certainly there are parents of every shade who want their kids to like the skin they are in.
So I went on Scholastic's facebook page and basically said, "What gives?" They pointed me to the fact that they have a catalog just for African American children's books and culture called Voices. So I countered back, "So you are telling me the book are segregated?" They quickly responded and sent me an email address to discuss it privately. (Also, I looked at the catelog and am soooo excited. There is a series of chapter books for 2-4th graders about these little AA ballerinas and they look super cute!)
Basically, I have to get my preschool director to request the Voices catalog so I can order from it and my school still get freebies. But still I say, "What gives?" Does that mean that somewhere there are teachers who only receive Voices for their predominately African American students? That doesn't seem quite right either. Certainly they deserve to celebrate the bogus holiday of 100th day of school like their white counterparts.
I think this is just one of the countless little things we white people don't get. The subtle racism of our culture. Yes, we are appalled by the obvious things. We teach our children what words to not say and to value all people. But saying the right words and believing the right things are two different things entirely.
Like have you heard they are publishing an edition of Huckleberry Finn that removes the n-word and replaces it with slave? What? The publisher said it repulsed him to read that word so many times. Correct if I am wrong, but wasn't that sort of the point? If Tom and Huck start out politically correct, how will their characters evolve? And how will teachers lead discussions about the use of that word to enlighten their students? And if you say that having kids read the n-word in Huckleberry Finn will only lead to intolerance, I say this--show me the hate crime that can be traced back to reading Mark Twain and I'll eat my shirt!
Before Christmas, I heard an African American mom complaining to customer service at WalMart that there was not a good selection of black baby dolls. And she's right. Sure, you can find them. But you have to look for them. Or pay an arm and a leg for them. In the American Girl franchise, they have a black doll. Her name is Addy and she is an escaped slave. And you can buy a doll with dark skin and curly hair or medium skin and curly hair. But she's $100. I also love that the 2010 American Girl doll of the year is named Kanini. She's Hawaiian. And by Hawaiian I mean to say she has light brown eyes, fair skin, and light brown hair. But she wears a lei, so I guess that makes her authentic.
Or just look at how much aisle space African American hair products get at your grocery store. And I've never even once seen a satin crib sheet even sold at a Babies R Us or Pottery Barn. Oh, what's that you say? Yeah. Most people don't even know that cotton can be killer to fragile tightly curled hair, so AA girls need to either use a satin pillowcase or wear a satin hair bonnet when they sleep to protect their hair and hair styles. Try finding a satin lined snow cap in a mainstream store. You can't. I've also looked for something to put in Gracie's car seat, but cannot find it. So I'm going to fashion something myself and maybe even set up shop on Etsy with my own little Satin Car Seat thingys. Because I'm guessing that the reason Gracie's hair is shorter in the back is from the car seat friction causing breakage.
And another thing white people don't know is what to say. I'm even at a loss here. I understand that race and ethnicity and culture are often interchangable in some people's minds, even though, in reality, they are three different things. I don't even know if it is wrong that I sometimes say black instead of African American. Actually, most of the time I say brown, as in my son is pink and my daughter is brown because her skin is that of a black person, but ethnically she is also Caucasian and Japanese. And culturally, she's the same as me. And her hair is silky but curly. Not tight coils, but loose curls. There is even a technical grading system for curly hair. I am a 3a--think Debra Messing and Taylor Swift. Gracie is a 3b--think Heather Headley or Alicia Keyes. (For comparison, Joss Stone is a 2 and Macy Gray is a 4a.) And if you have a couple of hours to kill, you should totally watch YouTube videos on how to style AA hair. Seriously. Addictive. Can't wait until Gracie's hair is long enough to rock some Bantu knots or two strand coils.
I try not too worry too much about political correctness. You can be politcally correct and still harbor hate in your heart. Perhaps the main thing is to simply think about what you say before you say it (admittedly, not a strength of mine). I figure when Gracie is old enough, knowing she's my daughter, she'll tell me what to call her. For now, I call her mine.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
A Board...the Crazytown Express
Yesterday, I got a note from Henry's preschool teacher that they are beginning a new unit on family and would like each student to have a family member come share a gift or talent or talk about their job or whatever. An activity that would take 15-20 minutes. My first thought was to chastise myself about quitting guitar after only 1 lesson. Then it was to tell Sloan he'd be a better person if he could only play guitar. (Bonus wife points!) But as Sloan and I discussed it, and both agreed that 3 was a little too young to hear a boring treatise on supply chain logistics, I grew discouraged.
"But I got no skills," I whined.
"Yes, you do. You have many gifts and talents," my darling husband replied.
"Name three," I challenged.
"1. Fishing for compliments. 2. Writing and storytelling. 3. Throwing a child's birthday party."
"OOooh, that reminds me," I chimed in, "I have the BEST idea for Gracie's 2nd birthday party. The Hungriest Caterpillar. We'd eat fruit and chocolate cake and lollipops. I could make cupcakes and then display them to look like a wiggly caterpillar and then the kids could make coffee filter butterflies!"
"Nope," Sloan chuckled, "I stand corrected. Your greatest gift is CRAZY! But in a good way. Creative. But crazy, nonetheless."
"I'd agree that being able to completely remove myself from the boundaries imposed by reality is one of my better gifts. There is the Crazytown express that leaves from the Elizabethtown station every hour. But how would I share that with his class?"
And it was with THAT conversation playing in my head that I headed to my meeting this morning with the State Director of Bethany Christian Services. They are starting a local Board of Directors and have asked me to be on it. The Director shared how she hopes to put together a Board with people from all walks of life. With people each bringing to the table different gifts and talents and passions. Each with different spheres of influence. You know--a doctor, an attorney, a pastor, etc. A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker.
My response?
"And you want me on the board becauuuuuuuuse....?" (Literally. That was my response. I'm sure it inspired her."
Then the director proceeded to list off a list of gifts I guess I have but that help me in no way in Henry's preschool classroom--I'm a good public speaker; I have a passion for adoption; I am willing to be vulnerable; I am energetic and inspiring; I genuinely enjoy being a Mom and the company of my children; I love the Lord and am not afraid to talk about it; and I can write. In fact, that is what she is hoping my role will be. The writer in resident, if you will. Apparently, the last article I wrote for the newsletter made her laugh and cry at the same time.
She said, "We really want people to be able to serve in their passions and gifts. Yes, it is good to get out of your comfort zone, but we are really envisioning a board of people with so many diverse gifts that all compliment one another so if you can't do fundraising, you help somewhere else. If you are good with finances..."
"Oh," I piped up, "Let me stop you right there. I should not be allowed to count things. I have no background in business or accounting or finance, and that is by design. My degrees are in Film and Television, Creative Writing, and Children's Ministries. And I can talk in public until the cows come home. I get that it's weird that it doesn't make me nervous, so I see that as a sign God has empowered me that way. I also probably shouldn't talk to new people in small one on one settings. I'm horrible at small talk. I overshare. Sooner or later, all my conversations end up sounding like I'm a middle school boy. You know--body parts, body functions, and bowel movements. So you gotta know that up front. Have I mentioned that my son has already pooped on the potty three times this week? We're really proud."
But still they want me. And so even though I find it a bit hilarious, I am honored. Humbled even. But also thankful as it is an answer to prayer. With Sloan and I feeling like our family is complete, it has flummoxed me how I could continue to serve in the arena of Orphan Care when I feel so strongly about it. Here it is.
And I won't lie. It WAS nice to sit next to some lady and have her list off all the things she liked about me. Kind of like the last night of camp. But without the mosquitoes.
So I think I'm just gonna read a book to Henry's class. Perhaps, the Sneetches.
"But I got no skills," I whined.
"Yes, you do. You have many gifts and talents," my darling husband replied.
"Name three," I challenged.
"1. Fishing for compliments. 2. Writing and storytelling. 3. Throwing a child's birthday party."
"OOooh, that reminds me," I chimed in, "I have the BEST idea for Gracie's 2nd birthday party. The Hungriest Caterpillar. We'd eat fruit and chocolate cake and lollipops. I could make cupcakes and then display them to look like a wiggly caterpillar and then the kids could make coffee filter butterflies!"
"Nope," Sloan chuckled, "I stand corrected. Your greatest gift is CRAZY! But in a good way. Creative. But crazy, nonetheless."
"I'd agree that being able to completely remove myself from the boundaries imposed by reality is one of my better gifts. There is the Crazytown express that leaves from the Elizabethtown station every hour. But how would I share that with his class?"
And it was with THAT conversation playing in my head that I headed to my meeting this morning with the State Director of Bethany Christian Services. They are starting a local Board of Directors and have asked me to be on it. The Director shared how she hopes to put together a Board with people from all walks of life. With people each bringing to the table different gifts and talents and passions. Each with different spheres of influence. You know--a doctor, an attorney, a pastor, etc. A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker.
My response?
"And you want me on the board becauuuuuuuuse....?" (Literally. That was my response. I'm sure it inspired her."
Then the director proceeded to list off a list of gifts I guess I have but that help me in no way in Henry's preschool classroom--I'm a good public speaker; I have a passion for adoption; I am willing to be vulnerable; I am energetic and inspiring; I genuinely enjoy being a Mom and the company of my children; I love the Lord and am not afraid to talk about it; and I can write. In fact, that is what she is hoping my role will be. The writer in resident, if you will. Apparently, the last article I wrote for the newsletter made her laugh and cry at the same time.
She said, "We really want people to be able to serve in their passions and gifts. Yes, it is good to get out of your comfort zone, but we are really envisioning a board of people with so many diverse gifts that all compliment one another so if you can't do fundraising, you help somewhere else. If you are good with finances..."
"Oh," I piped up, "Let me stop you right there. I should not be allowed to count things. I have no background in business or accounting or finance, and that is by design. My degrees are in Film and Television, Creative Writing, and Children's Ministries. And I can talk in public until the cows come home. I get that it's weird that it doesn't make me nervous, so I see that as a sign God has empowered me that way. I also probably shouldn't talk to new people in small one on one settings. I'm horrible at small talk. I overshare. Sooner or later, all my conversations end up sounding like I'm a middle school boy. You know--body parts, body functions, and bowel movements. So you gotta know that up front. Have I mentioned that my son has already pooped on the potty three times this week? We're really proud."
But still they want me. And so even though I find it a bit hilarious, I am honored. Humbled even. But also thankful as it is an answer to prayer. With Sloan and I feeling like our family is complete, it has flummoxed me how I could continue to serve in the arena of Orphan Care when I feel so strongly about it. Here it is.
And I won't lie. It WAS nice to sit next to some lady and have her list off all the things she liked about me. Kind of like the last night of camp. But without the mosquitoes.
So I think I'm just gonna read a book to Henry's class. Perhaps, the Sneetches.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Resolutions...Smessolutions... (A Real Conversation)
I'm not too big on New Year's Resolutions. For a lot of reasons. In part because I mentally begin a new year every September, so January really seems like the middle to me. Also because morning by morning new mercies I see, and so I think we can begin anew each day. But mainly, if we're being honest, it's because I have the will power of a toddler.
That being said, I do want more for 2011. More for me, my marriage, my kids, and my community. And well, sing it with me, "I'm starting with the man in the mirror." (Insert high pitched hee-hee!)
I am going to listen to the words I say to my children. No, I'm not meaning I'll stop snapping at them. (Although I'm hoping that will be a byproduct.) But that I will actually listen and take to heart the lessons I try to teach them. Mainly, I'm going to start following my own rules.
And I invite you to join us.
What are The Phillips' family rules? To tell you, I will simply introduce the first Real Conversation post here. We have this conversation multiple times a day--before we leave the house, before we get out of the car to go to birthday parties, before we go to school. It is our personal version of the Shema--that essential prayer of belief in the one true God that we're to to teach our children when we're sitting at home, walking down the road, and bind to our foreheads and eyes. (Because God gets that His kids need constant reminders too!)
Me: Henry, we're going to church. How are we to treat people?
Henry: Show da wove of Jesus.
Me: That's right. You're to show your friends the love of Jesus. How do you show the love of Jesus?
Henry: I am kind.
Me: And?
Henry: I am gentle.
Me: And?
Henry: I am generwous.
Me: And?
Henry: (yelling) I TELL THE TRUTH!
Me: That's right, sweet boy.
Henry: NO! I not sweet boy. I'm cool boy.
Me: (Giant eye roll) Whatever, just show the love of Jesus...
So that's my heart's desire. To perpetually show the love of Jesus.
And I've got A LONG ways to go on being gentle. Apparently, telling the truth without being gentle isn't really speaking the truth in love...or so I'm told. ;)
That being said, I do want more for 2011. More for me, my marriage, my kids, and my community. And well, sing it with me, "I'm starting with the man in the mirror." (Insert high pitched hee-hee!)
I am going to listen to the words I say to my children. No, I'm not meaning I'll stop snapping at them. (Although I'm hoping that will be a byproduct.) But that I will actually listen and take to heart the lessons I try to teach them. Mainly, I'm going to start following my own rules.
And I invite you to join us.
What are The Phillips' family rules? To tell you, I will simply introduce the first Real Conversation post here. We have this conversation multiple times a day--before we leave the house, before we get out of the car to go to birthday parties, before we go to school. It is our personal version of the Shema--that essential prayer of belief in the one true God that we're to to teach our children when we're sitting at home, walking down the road, and bind to our foreheads and eyes. (Because God gets that His kids need constant reminders too!)
Me: Henry, we're going to church. How are we to treat people?
Henry: Show da wove of Jesus.
Me: That's right. You're to show your friends the love of Jesus. How do you show the love of Jesus?
Henry: I am kind.
Me: And?
Henry: I am gentle.
Me: And?
Henry: I am generwous.
Me: And?
Henry: (yelling) I TELL THE TRUTH!
Me: That's right, sweet boy.
Henry: NO! I not sweet boy. I'm cool boy.
Me: (Giant eye roll) Whatever, just show the love of Jesus...
So that's my heart's desire. To perpetually show the love of Jesus.
And I've got A LONG ways to go on being gentle. Apparently, telling the truth without being gentle isn't really speaking the truth in love...or so I'm told. ;)
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