Bowl full of grace

This blue bowl.

There’s nothing special about it.  But don’t tell my kids that. To them, it’s the all coveted LIGHT BLUE BOWL.  It is THE bowl from which to eat cereal, goldfish, ice cream.  In the morning, the first words out of each of my kids’ mouths is “I want the light blue bowl!  I’m gonna get the light blue bowl!”  They scurry and flutter to be the first child dressed and down in the kitchen, skidding to the cupboard in their socks, to snag the coveted light blue bowl.

The winning child usually gloats and cuddles the bowl until its filled with Cheerios.  The loser usually falls in a puddle crying, shouting about the injustice of it all.  When the bowl is dirty, it is suddenly my fault that none of the other 15 bowls in the cupboard will do.  It doesn’t help that my response is usually one of complete impatience.

I’m so over the light blue bowl.

My knee jerk reaction was to get a 2^nd blue bowl.  $2 and problem solved, right?  Sloan wants to throw the bowl away.  After all, if your eye causes you to sin, you’re to cut it out, right? However, both solutions are insufficient.

We could make sure they each had their own light blue bowl.  Or we could toss it.  But sooner or later they’d find something else to throw elbows over.  Perhaps suddenly the Spiderman bowl would be all the rage.

But the problem isn’t the bowl.  It’s them.  It’s us.  It’s me.  At some point, we've all got to learn to handle someone else having that thing which we most want or how to be gracious to those waiting patiently.  And perhaps we need to learn that the blessings we have right at our fingertips is all that we really need.

We want a thing so much that we’re willing to fight for it.  Never mind that our having that thing makes our brother cry.  After all, he should not have doddled while getting dressed.  No matter that we promised him yesterday he could have it.  

Or maybe it’s me that is crying about how you have the bowl and I don’t.  Sure, I could get another bowl that’s just as good or maybe even better, but that fact that you want it makes me NEED it.  And to get it I will whine and complain and perhaps even pull you out of your chair to get it.

Most times, I treat God’s favor and blessing like that light blue bowl.  If you have it, then I do not.  Maybe I’ll get it if I just try harder.  Maybe I can guilt you into sharing your blessings with me.  Maybe I’ll just blame God for blessing you and not me.

But y’all, hear me when I say this:

GOD’S GRACE IS NOT A PIE.

We do not get less blessing because someone else seems to have more.  Grace isn’t doled out first come first serve.  It’s not reserved for the most eloquent, spiritual, best dressed, or level headed.  It cannot, in fact, be earned.  Nor is it something to be Lorded over others or clung to, white knuckled, for fear that we might lose it.  Grace is ours to keep.  No take backs.

In God’s economy, grace multiplies when shared.  Even the tiniest amount of grace, when lifted up in thanksgiving and poured out for others, can feed multitudes.  With buckets of leftovers.  

Because GOD’S GRACE IS NOT A PIE.

It’s a person.  And from His fullness we have all received grace upon grace.

So what’s  your blue bowl?

From the Request Line: This One goes Out to A

A friend and I were chatting on FB the other night about our disdain for laundry.  The conversation went something like this:  (ok, not something like…as in copied and pasted exactly like this):

A: Can you do me a favor? Can you write a super-tastic blog entry about doing laundry that will make me feel inspired, make me cry and laugh simultaneously, show me the gospel, and help me in general with that dreaded task? Top of Form

Thanks in advance ;)

Me: A. Clearly, you've missed the whole "I hate laundry" theme on the blog.
B. Have I mentioned how much I hate laundry?
C. I'll see what I can do.
D. By the way, what I hate most about laundry is the doing it.
E. I also hate putting it away. It's like the baskets full of clean, folded laundry just taunt me. Laughing, in their sweaters, saying. "You can't finish anything."

A:  A. I must be behind in my reading.

B. I haven’t heard that recently.

C. Thanks

D. giggle

E. Great big DITTO...this is where I'd like you to focus, the putting it away effort. Thanks again.

Around an hour and a half later, my friend got really sick.  Like “put you in the hospital and life is going to look drastically different for a good long while and possibly forever” sick.  

And because I’m a good friend, I sent her the following text yesterday afternoon, “So, you’re probably not so worried about your laundry now are you, huh?”

She called me back within seconds, laughing.  (Because she’s awesome like that.)  I told her, “So, to tell you how you being in the hospital is really all about me, it inspired me to put away three baskets of laundry.”  I know, you all wish I could be there for you in your darkest moments.

Thankfully, as I’ve mentioned before, my Bible Study group is studying Genesis.  (To give you some context, I've been in A's group since struggling with infertility.  I then co-lead the group with A for 3 years, before stepping down from leadership.  A still leads the group.)  And the morning before dreadful thing happened to A, we were studying the effects of the Fall.  The curse and Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the garden so that they couldn’t eat from the tree of Life in their fallen states.  

And so for you, my darling A who has pointed me to Jesus for so long, here is your Gospel according to my laundry basket moment:  Doing the laundry stinks.  

I could write about how we should all just but on our big girl panties and shut up and do the laundry without complaining.  I could remind you about how there are people who have to take their laundry to a Laundromat somewhere else and that’s gotta be a bigger pain in the butt than just seeing all that clean laundry piled up on your couch waiting to be folded.  And I could tell you that in terms of world problems, our mutual hatred of putting away the clean laundry ranks along par with “I’ve run out of Capri Suns and I’m too lazy to go to the store” and “my toddler only wants to eat cookies”.  And I could remind you of the simple truth that if you have laundry to do that means you have clothes.  And that if your laundry is sitting in baskets at the bottom of your stairs just waiting to be taken up and stared at for three days until you finally get around to putting it away, then that means you have a home and some people don’t.  And all of those kids who keep changing clothes 14 times a day?  Yeah, there are folks who ache to have that problem.  And there are kids who wish they had parents to clean their adorable teeny tiny socks.  And all of those things are true.

But what is also true is this:  sin affects EVERYTHING.  In Genesis 3, when God explains the consequences of the lie Adam and Eve believed, it basically tells us that we will not be in right relationship with our own bodies, with our families, with our work, with our identity, with all of creation.  There is no escaping it.  And we can couch all our attempts to escape the effects of the fall in Spiritual terms, and we should most certainly work towards bringing God’s image to bear in the midst of all the brokenness, but we can’t return to the garden.  We can’t use our faith to bypass the suffering surrounding us.  Our study’s notes say “We do not escape the suffering of the world by living a good life.  To believe this is to live with unbelievable pride and pressure.”  Pride and pressure that sometimes cascade off our couch and onto the family room floor. 

But here is another truth for you, dear laundry hater:  Jesus didn’t try to bypass the suffering.  Instead, he left the throne of heaven to enter into our suffering. And he didn’t just flip death off, he defeated it.

To speak of sin apart from the realities of creation and grace is to forget the resolve of God.  God wants shalom and will pay any price to get it back.  Human sin is stubborn, but not as stubborn as the grace of God and not half so persistent, not half so ready to suffer to win its way.”

-Cornelius Plantinga, Not The Way It’s Supposed to Be

Bottom of Form

I'm not dead (or Gilligan's Island Three hour tour Road trip)...

I've just been on vacation.  And reprioritizing my time (as in enjoying my last weeks of playtime with Henry before school starts). 

But the following will begin my recap of my most recent vacation...I wrote it en route to the beach. 
************************************************************************************

Still full from the previous night’s 6th Anniversary dinner extraordinaire—Fried Green Tomato Beignets, Filet Mignon wrapped in Applewood smoked bacon, Grilled asparagus, and Bananas Foster, and oh, yeah, a bottle of Veauve Cliquot—this morning began wonderfully. I awoke super excited about the summer’s last hurrah—our family vacation to Litchfield. Weren’t we just at the beach, you ask? Yes. But it was a last minute vacay planned with the in-laws and so Sloan had to work the week and was gone on business for three days of it. And let’s just say it’s not really a vacation if you can’t burp in front of your fellow vacationers. (I did not blog about that trip in order to protect the guilty, err, me.) And to add to the excitement (or insanity, depending upon how you look at it), we invited 2 of my sister’s kids to join in on the fun. That’s right, we intentionally added a seven year old and another 3 year to the mix. It is either pure genius or pure lunacy…I’ll let you know in a week.


I’ve spent the last week rewashing all our bathing suits and beach towels, packing snacks, making lists and checking them twice. Seriously. Lots of lists. On post-it notes. Typed and printed. On the backs of napkins and receipts as I thought of things. We’ve got snacks, games, sticker books, toys, stuffed animals, loveys, blankets, a mattress (for the pack and play), bottles, candy, formula, baby food, pull-ups, diapers, no less than 15 trains, sand toys, pillows, and sunscreen. I even packed it neatly so that it all fit into our car with the third row in without interfering with looking out the back window.

My sister arrived with Jonathan and Isabel around 8:45. Our goal was to leave around 9 so that we’d arrive at the beach around 3. Plenty of time to hit the grocery store, unpack, and still get to the pool and lazy river. As we were putting in the kids booster seats, we learned that 2 full back boosters and one backless booster seat do not fit into the third row of a Suburban. We needed to have all three of the big kids in the back row so that we could fold down one of the captain’s chairs for stuff. And for optimal movie viewing. So Sonya and I dashed off to the Target around the corner to get Isabel a backless booster, seeing as she’ll be 4 years old in two weeks anyhow. That’s cool, officer, right? But even with the backless booster, it still takes an act of God and Congress to get all three seats in and buckled. Which makes potty stops a bear. It literally takes fifteen minutes just to wedge the three kids in the back. We will be doing some rearranging once we get to beach. Anywho….

We were finally wheels up around 9:45. No biggie, still time to have a poolside picnic dinner. We decided we’d have lunch in Rocky Mount, NC around 11:45 or so.

Well, you know what they say, right…The best laid plans of mice and men and all that jazz…

We’re barreling down I-95, making pretty good time, the kids are watching Mary Poppins (which my niece Isabel knows all the words to every song, or at least the phonetic corresponding sounds to all the songs…BONUS). Sloan and I are talking about how wonderful the past 6 years have been (because it IS our anniversary), what we want to get at the grocery store, when Sloan suddenly asks, “Hey, did you get the keys?”

“What keys?” I ask.

“The keys to the beach house.”

Oh. My. Gosh.

“Mother Effer!!!!! Are you kidding me? I remembered to pack seven different types of chips and I didn’t pack the damn keys?”

“You really didn’t grab them?”

“No. I really didn’t grab them. Did you?”

“No. I thought about asking about them this morning but got sidetracked by a poopy diaper.”

I am pretty sure by this time my blood pressure was lethal. And the worst of it was that I had no one to blame but myself. And by this time, we’d just crossed into North Carolina. “We’ve got to go back. We’ll need the keys to the owner’s closets and the golf cart.”

We pulled into the nearest rest stop, took the kids in to go to the bathroom, and then struggled to get them strapped back in (a stop that took no less than an additional twenty minutes). I may or may not have told my child to stop whining about having to hold my hand as we crossed the street or I was really going to give him something to whine about. I may or may not have told my son that I just didn’t have the patience to deal with him wanting a juice box because I was the stupidest flipping person on the planet and causing us to have to drive three (really four) hours out of our way. I may or may not have told all three of the children that the week was probably going to be horrible as I had planned it and I am an idiot.

Sloan told me to go sit down as the giant cross on my back was making it difficult to strap the kids in.

So we turned around and headed back home. As we’re driving back to Richmond, the kids start with the how long is it going to be until we get there junk. And at this point, we literally aren’t even going in the direction of the beach. I thought I was going to lose it. Sloan claims that by this point I’d already lost it. Fortunately, Jonathan had an answer to this—“Isabel, don’t ask that. When you start seeing palm trees, then you’ll know we’re near the beach.” Sweet Jon-o-fun.

As we drove home, I stewed in my self-disappointment. Sloan seemed unphased, which honestly, pissed me off. I told him, “I don’t want you to be compassionate. I screwed up. Big time. I want you to be mad at me. I remembered to pack four books for myself, but couldn’t remember to grab the daggone keys.”

“For one, we both forgot the keys. Two, would my being mad at you help? I think you’re mad enough for the both of us. And I don’t think taking it out on the kids is helping the situation, either.”

“Don’t start on me for taking it out on the kids. Does it help you to take it out on us when you have a bad day at work?” I snapped back. Because it is much easier to point out someone else’s flaws instead of dealing with my own.

“Honey, it’s fine. We’re in no rush. We’ll get the keys. We’ll go through some drive thrus. It’ll all get done. Besides, didn’t you say that we forgot to grab Henry’s night-light?”

“Screw the night lights. I made all those dang lists and not once did I write down “Pack keys.” Packing the keys didn’t cross my mind once. What the heck is my problem? I’ve single handedly ruined the first day of our vacation. AND I’m going to have to go the grocery store by myself tonight once the kids are in bed.”

“Well,” Sloan said, “it is going to be difficult to push the cart while simultaneously flogging you. But that seems to be an adequate punishment.”

And this, my friends, is why I married him six years ago. He was able to a) point out my sin in a way that didn’t crush me, and b) make me laugh. Not many people can do this. Sure. I made a mistake. Because I am human. But what really was chapping my hide was the fact that God was serving me a heaping piece of humble pie. But having Sloan for a husband at least made the humble pie a la mode.

It was one o’clock when we pulled back into our driveway. We hit the McDonald’s drive thru on the way back and I climbed back in the back to give Gracie some food and a bottle. The children had already watched the entire movie Mary Poppins before we even left Richmond the second time. We made the kids stay in the car as we did the mad dash for the keys and night-lights.

The entire trip back, I said things like “oh look, there’s the rest stop we peed at when we’d first noticed I’m incompetent,” or “Hmmm, it is the second time today we’ve crossed into North Carolina at precisely the time the Magellan said we’d be getting to the beach the first time around,” or, when passing South of the Border, “Pedro sez who leaves for vacation and forgets the keys.”

The good news of the situation is that McDonald’s has pretty good happy meal toys—Marvel comic figurines for boys and Madame Alexander dolls for girls. And did you know you can buy extra toys for a dollar so your 3 year old girl doesn’t have to share her Dolly with your 10 month old who really only wants to gnaw on it?

So a 6 hour car trip with four kids turned into a ten hour car trip with five kids (I’m including myself in this count). Sloan would probably say that having him be the responsible adult in any situation is problematic, but this time it worked. In total, the kids watched Mary Poppins, Space Chimps, The Princess and the Frog, and G-Force. I rode shotgun in a pool of self-loathing pity typing furiously on my laptop.

It took all of Sunday for me to relax about what a boob I was for forgetting the keys. I probably won’t ever forget them again.

Next time, I’ll probably forget to pack my underwear.

Oh snap!

Sometimes motherhood is a bear.  It seems it is not enough to merely confess that I have no idea what I am doing.  I think it is more accurate to say that, indeed, I am part of the problem.  I know what to do and do not do it and leave undone the things which should be done.  (I'm pretty sure there is a prayer of confession that says just that.)  Were I to go to a deserted island, a perfect utopia, an Eden, upon my arrival chaos would insue.  Motherhood really is the blind leading the blind.  And folks, we are lost.  Lost, I tell you.  I am ever so grateful that God is far more concerned about the hearts of my kids than I am. And in fact, He has the power to do something about it and has done it.  It is not flippantly that I say "Hallelujah!" to this notion.  The big work of parenting, the dealing with sin and anger and selfishness, has been done and not by me.  Can I get an Amen?!?

I've come to this place by way of my son's mouth.  In typical 2 year old fashion, Henry is a biter.  In fact, last week at Bible Study, I saw a little girl in Henry's class with a big gash on her face and thought, "Whoa, dude, I'd hate to see the other guy."  Imagine my horror when upon picking him up, I find out that Henry is the other guy.  We explained to Henry that a)we don't bite, b)we especially don't bite girls, c) we especially don't bite on the face where everyone can see it, and d) we especially don't bite the daughters of Judges.  We laughed at the last two instructions, but as I did, I recognized that what was really troubling me, more than my son's own errant behavior, was my attaching my own value to it. The fact that I was more concerned about what people would think of me as a parent than I was the selfish heart of my son.  Because it is all about me, right?

Drat.  Double drat.

And so we are attempting to love him and discipline him through this phase without giving weight to our own embarrasment and shame that our kid is the biter.  This morning in class he pushed a kid.  I explained to the mom that I didn't mean to seem excited my son hit her son, but that at least we were moving in the right direction.  Apparently, in my mind, pushing is a more socially acceptable form of dealing with one's own anger, right?  I mean, he is two. 

It has not gone unnoticed that his temper arrived about the same time as Gracie.  And he does stuggle finding the right words sometimes.  I'd like to think that once he gets a better grasp on his language this will all go away.    I've even bandied about the idea teaching him to cuss, because let's face it, isn't that what I do?  I think I'm going to teach him to say, "Oh snap!" when he is mad.  Because it isn't crass and quite frankly, it would be down right hilarious.  I tried to tell him to say, "Oh man!" but then he told me he was going to act like Swiper the fox.  No, Henry, I don't want you to be a thief. 

Someone also suggested that perhaps Henry does not know he is hurting his friends and that I needed to "bite him back."  I understand the logic in this.  And I appreciate that you think my son will be loving once he knows he is hurting people.  The problem with this idea is that I've met his mother and I've seen the way she speaks to his father and his grandparents.  And if my own behavior is any indicator, education will not be my or my son's salvation.  The fact that my words hurt is one of the reasons I say them when I am mad or when you get in my way, or when perhaps, you are unaware that this is the portion of the day where you are to be worshipping me. 

The issue at hand is that my son and I both have a problem.  A problem SO big and grotesque that God Himself had to step in and do something about it.  We're sinners.  OK, let me just confess my own sins, here.  I am a sinner.  Not just because of what I say when I am mad, but because of who I am.  A fellow parent, trying to encourage me, said that I just need to teach him a way to accept not getting his own way and how to deal with his anger.  Are there classes where they teach this?  I need this class.  If I wait around for Henry to be okay with not getting his way, we'll still be waiting when I die.  I'm not okay with not getting my own way.  In fact, I've created this whole mythical place called Elizabethtown where I am Lord apparent. 

See my problem?  See why I am the blind leading the blind?

So I am coming at this from a different way.  Yes, I am his mother and authority figure.  This authority comes not from my own wisdom or deserving of it, but from God.  Yet, I also pray to be my son's Sister.  And it is with this freedom I am approaching the situation.  Every time Henry and I meet in a bathroom to repeat the phrase "No biting" and pray for a kind and gentle mouth, I am adding my name to the prayer.  That in as much as I list things that God gave us mouths for--laughing, singing, telling the truth, praising God, eating candy, I am preaching to myself these very things.  Every time I tell Henry to ask for forgiveness for biting, I ask for forgiveness as well.  I'm not a biter, it is just my own need to be God manifests itself in more social acceptable ways--sarcasm, silence, and some phrases far more caustic than "Oh, snap!".  And yet, as I'm finding out, these ways are not just unacceptable to God, but down right offensive. I don't think that God really cares if I change my words from four letter words to the faux curse words parents love--fudge, dagnabit, cheese and rice, WTF (or What the Kiffin in my Tennessee fan mode...)--because beneath these cutesy cuss words lies the bile in my heart.  And that bile is what is offensive.  I can wrap it in a pretty bow, but it still gift wrapped poo.

But, oh snap!  How great a thing it is to know that God is still forming His image in me.  That while I am not content to let Henry bite all his classmates, God is not content to let me bite either.  That His love for me and my son is so intense and passionate, He has provided a way, in Jesus, to receive ample mercy.  That we are not only forgiven, but made RIGHT!  (Because being right is sooooo much better than simply being forgiven.)

Dear Lord, Heal the mouths of the Phillips family.  Forgive us for wanting to be You.  Thank you that we are not. 

Let Reedom Fing! (Or What MLK day means to this white woman)

This afternoon, the Phillips family started a new tradition--The King Party. When I told Gracie we were having a party, she got so excited she pooped in her pants. She was really excited--there was poop up her back and even in her socks. And then she pooped again while I was changing her diaper. I think she just wanted to take a bath, do her hair, and put on something pretty for the party.  What a diva!  (Like mother like daughter...)

I told Henry, "This afternoon, we're going to have a party. A King Party."

"McQueen party?"

"No, Henry. KING. McQueen can come. All are welcome at the King party. But we will be having a birthday party to celebrate Martin Luther King's birthday."

"Presents?"

"No. There won't be presents?"

But what the heck would there be? I sort of came up with this idea while in a vomit induced haze over the weekend. Hmmmm. What does one do to celebrate MLK day?

Well, as everyone knows, a party must have some entertainment. Originally I envisioned me reading Henry the speech while he and his sister lovingly sat still, sitting cross legged on the family room floor. But then I woke up and knew that wasn't going to happen. Maybe someday, but not this year. Instead, I opted for reading a Martin Luther King, Jr. book and also a children's Bible story version of The Good Samaritan. I read the Good Samaritan because I want my children to know that King didn't come up with this idea himself. No, King was a spokesperson for the God he loved. A modern day prophet, called to speak God's truth that we are all created in God's image. That when we hurt another person for the color of their skin, we offend and hurt the very heart of God. God created men and women of all different shades of brown and white and yellow and red to reflect His nature. Even God is diverse in and of Himself--three in one and all that jazz. So it is only when we come together to work, play, serve, and worship can we reflect His glory.

(Can you tell that Henry was more interested in the jelly beans than having his photo taken?)

After reading the stories, we colored for awhile. Because there is usually a craft portion to children's parties. Then we watched King's speech on You Tube. This was managed by me slowly dolling out more jelly beans and popcorn while Gracie and Henry sat on my lap. (Because what is a party without candy and popcorn?) Henry would point to the screen and say "Martin! Martin!" (In the story book, they called him Martin. I tried to get him to call him Dr. King, but in Henry's mind there is only one Doctor and that is Doc Hudson.) When people would clap, Henry would cheer "Hooray!" and my personal favorite was toward the end of the speech when Henry chanted "Let Reedom Fing! Let Reedom Fing!"

So I think from now on we will have "Reedom Fing" parties. This will be particularly embarrassing for Henry when he is a teenager. Bonus for Mommy. We tried inviting some friends over for the party, but their Mommy politely declined coming over to the vomit house for at least another week. But next year I'm hoping to have over a couple of families and perhaps make cupcakes.

A good party also has good music. So we danced to Stevie Wonder, Sam Cooke, Michael Jackson, Jack Johnson, and John Denver. Because good music knows no color.

And we wore party hats. Just 'cause.

Ok. So this year's party was a little lame. Just me and the kids. But it is a start. I don't want my kids to see this holiday like I did growing up--just an excuse for a three day weekend.

You see, I realized, that if it weren't for King, and men and women like him, my family would be illegal. And so part of the purpose of the Reedom Fing party is simply to celebrate our family that God so beautifully knit together. I want my children to look up to Dr. King, not because he was a Civil Rights leader, but because he spoke the truth. Because he saw Sin in the world and chose to act against it. Because he did not let fear or other's people's lies rule his life.  Because he spoke for the disinherited.  Because he was a man after God's own heart.  And I want my children to dream big dreams that only God can cause to happen.

A lot of people don't know the Bible well enough to know that large chunks of King's speech are Scripture. That it is God King is invoking to exalt the valleys and make mountains low. Or that when he tells us that "we will not be satisfied until 'justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream" he is alluding to the prophet Amos who basically brings the hammer down on those who oppress the poor. That the life of Christ is the very picture of unearned suffering being redemptive, of "meeting physical force with soul force".

I am very thankful to not be able to imagine a world where it is okay to not let people eat in your restaurant because they are black. My friend was trying to explain the holiday to her 5 year old daughter, Anna. And Anna kept saying, "I don't understand. Why would people be so mean?" And all my friend could come up with was "I don't know. Isn't it crazy? We celebrate this man because he told them they were wrong and being mean and that they shouldn't do it anymore." Anna was very happy that Dr. King set things aright. And so are we.

Thank you, Dr. King for dreaming big. For dreaming that one day little black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys as sisters and brothers. The Phillips family, if ever so feebly, is living that dream.

Of course, I have a dream too--that one day my little white son will take the hand of my little black daughter and they will clean up after themselves...

No Statues this Year

It is day 10 of the New Year and I'm once again out of the running for Mother of the Year.

Yesterday, the words "If you don't stop whining, I'll give you something to whine about" came out of my mouth.  Because historically, yelling at someone who is upset calms them down, right?

As a special treat, we went to IHOP for breakfast.  Henry's whining began because he only had 2 slices of bacon.  Then continued when he found it difficult to eat his pancakes with a spoon.  We tried explaining to him that a fork would be the better tool for the job, but he would have none of it.  To top it off, two pieces of the aforementioned pancake fell onto the floor (because it was just in a spoon, mind you!) and we would not retrieve it for him to eat.  Literally, my son was crying because I would not let him eat off of the floor. 

People were staring at us.  And I know what they were thinking, A) Geez, I wonder how many days it has been since that lady has taken a shower, and B) why doesn't she have control of her kid?  To answer them--2 and I have no idea.  Before having children I knew EVERYTHING about how to control children.  Post parenting I am an idiot. 

After going all retro on Henry with the threat of "something to whine about" we went into the bathroom to settle down.  Praise Jesus for Safety Dance being on the stereo in the bathroom and my son's love of dancing.  Of course, once we did get settled down and back to the table, Henry would only remain calm if we completely ignored him.  If we complemented him on his manners and readjusting his attitude, he balked.  When I offered him more juice or my last slice of bacon, he hurled a fork at me (seeing as it wasn't being used and all...).  So literally, Sloan and I had to look the other way for 15 minutes, ignoring him and making sure our waitress ignored Henry too.

I was wondering where Henry gets this from--the freaking out for no good reason--chalking it up to the terrible two's and low blood sugar. And then later that afternoon I yelled at Sloan for standing in the wrong place while he put away laundry and cleaned out his drawers.  Apparently, he was standing in the only place in our bedroom that I was able to stand and fold laundry. 

So I'm out of the running for Wife of the Year as well. 

Pray for my family.  Elizabethtown can be a dangerous place to live.

Things you shouldn't say to a crazy person

1. Ugh. I just hate giving you shots.
2. I think the air conditioning may be broken. Again. (It's not. You just have to turn it on for it to work.)
3. It's your turn to change the poopy diaper.
4. If we have twin boys we should name them "Sir" and "Topham" and collectively call them "Hat."
5. Our next child should be named "Bandit Northwestern." Or if it is a girl, we should call her "Hillstrand." (Can you tell we're a little addicted to Deadliest Catch?)

And the worst thing ever to say to a crazy person all hepped up hormones with a sore heiny:

6. When are you going to get around to doing the laundry?

(The last is particularly annoying when the laundry has, in fact, been done. It's just this time I put it away instead of just letting it sit folded in the laundry basket for a week or so.)

All of these statements have been said to me. And all of them have made me cry, cuss, and drop on the floor in a puddle. I think I may have even thrown a hanger at Sloan when he asked about the laundry.

And then when at church the call to worship is the passage where Jesus says, "Come to me all who are weary and I will give you rest..." be prepared for the floodgates to open. Because people, I am weary and I'm what Sloan refers to as "primed to the pissed off position."

What is most difficult is that sometimes I am aware that I'm over-reacting, but once again, the knowledge of my own lunacy in no way stops me from being insane. In my mind, I may be thinking, "He's just not aware that I've hung up all his clothes," but instead, what spews out of my mouth is an attack on my dear husband's ability to take care of himself and oh yeah, his entire character. I think I even doubted that he knew who his father was, if you know what I mean. And I don't know how much of this can really be attributed to the hormones. I think maybe that deep down I'm just a mean person.

And let's talk about pregnesia, people. I'm not even pregnant yet and already I forget what I'm talking about mid-sentence. Which makes yelling at your husband pretty difficult. Okay, not difficult for me, the yeller, but for him, the yellee, to understand just what the heck I'm ranting about this time.

The sweet man apologized to me in regards to the laundry comment, saying, "Honey, I'm sorry I was such a jerk this morning. You're a wonderful wife and by the way, you are pretty."

My response? "That's not good enough. I want you to describe to me exactly the ways in which you are a jerk." WHAT?!? What rational woman poo-poos being told she's pretty?

I knew I needed more Valium. And Sloan could use some too.

It's a good thing he is out of town until Wednesday. I'm scared I might go all Liza Manelli on his ass.

Sucks to your asmar, Valentine's Day

I remember when I was single and I thought Valentine's Day sucked. And it did. But when you are single, it is like the world gives the right to raise your fist and yell "Sucks to your Asmar, Valentine's Day!"

But it kind of sucks when you're married sometimes too. Don't get me wrong. I love my husband. But my sinful nature has me wanting him to worship me and plan a romantic day centered around roses, chocolates, no messy diapers, and oodles of surprises that are too wonderful to even imagine. And let's face it, even if I were to have a day with all of those things, I would still be left unsatisfied.

And I know that.

Recently I've been convicted of the fact that I seek too much life from Sloan. That I expect him to be my source of joy, validation, identity. Apparently, he has not gotten this memo that he is to be my god. I have set him up to fail miserably. Yucko.

And so once again I'm repenting. Bluh. Repenting of seeking from others that which only God can provide. From polishing my golden calf of a husband and then getting angry when my idol does not behave as only God can. Bluh.

But...

Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on him and receive eternal life.

1 Timothy 1:15-16

Myself when I am real

I'm pretty open about things. This is no shock. But those of you who know me understand that there are things I hold close to my chest. There are things I hesitate to confess for fear of what you'll think of me. Things I hesitate to confess because of the ugly truth they reveal. And sometimes there is no point in putting your ugly out on front street. It's not a matter of keeping things a secret, it is a matter of , no--it is a matter of keeping things secret. And sometimes, the person I most want to keep things secret from is myself. (Strange, huh?)
But I'm going to share my ugly. Not because it is any of your business. Not even because it may be helpful to you in some way. But because I need to let go of it. I need to bring it out in the light, confess it, repent of it, and hopefully, turn from it. And I need this public domain to hold me accountable.

I find my identity in Henry. In being his mom.

On the surface, this seems natural. Healthy even. It is a part of my identity. But it is shameful that I place this burden on him. To derive my worth from his mood, behavior, actions, cuteness. I take great delight in myself when he clasps his hands to pray whenever someone says "Let's pray." I take pride in his laughter, because I tell you, hands down, he has the best laugh around. And for some reason, I also take pride in the fact that my son has giant feet. I mean feet so big that on a regular basis people comment on his big feet. (How I think I am even remotely responsible for this, I do not know.)

But the flip side of this is ugly. When he misbehaves, I'm more concerned about what you'll think of me as a parent than I am about the fact that my son is disobedient. And what is even more heartbreaking, is that this also causes me to constantly compare Henry to other kids. And so when he doesn't talk as much as other kids, I feel ashamed. And when he doesn't wave to everybody in the parking lot, I make excuses. Joking that he must be a snob, when really, I wonder why isn't he waving at people. And I feel embarrassed. I try to push this down, but the god awful truth is that I've allowed my identity to become so wrapped up in Henry that the only thing he can do is disappoint me. Identity giving just ain't a kids job, so how can he not fail at that? I'm setting my son up to fail. What sort of mother does this?

Henry, dear Henry. Please forgive me.
Lord, have mercy on me, a sinful mother.

8 Crazy Nights

They say time spent with family is like leftovers--after three days it just goes bad. Sloan and I spent a week in Greensboro with my family. Do the math. No, no--it wasn't that bad. Rather than like leftovers, it was a bit like bad reality television, except no one has being voted off to look forward to. You're just stuck with these people who know all your flaws, cooking and cleaning, sleeping somewhere strange, praying there's wine in the fridge. Or maybe it is like that show that used to be on MTV--The Real World. (Or maybe it is still on MTV. It's been roughly a decade since I've watched MTV.) Do you remember the tag line--"See what happens when people stop being polite and start being real." This sums up my past week. And I'm figuring that for every child under the age of 18, each day is multiplied by 2. So really, using this math, Sloan and I spent 6 days alone with my folks, roughly 8 days with Sloan's parents, brother and sister-in-law and their 3 kids, 10 days with my folks and brother's family of 4 kids, and then 24 days with my folks, brother's family and sister's family of 7 kids. So what is that? A total of 48 days with family. And it's mainly the fact that it is was us, my parents, and my siblings families and the noisy 12 grandchildren running around playing the piano and with every noisy toy on the planet that makes you nuts. Certifiably.

But even if you tally up the days to just be a week on the island, the reality of being with family is skewed. Skewed with a lifetime full of arguments, resentments, disappointments, miscommunication, burnt cranberry apple bakes, messy rooms, missed curfews, missed soccer games, driven under gates, backed into phone poles, lost keys, lost purses, and lost tempers. And it is just so danged hard to remember that since you are not the same person you were living under this roof so many moons ago, more than likely neither are your parents or your siblings. You return home and are treated like you're 12; you resent it. But by the end of the day, you're acting like you're 8. So when you lose your cell phone it becomes the perfect time for your siblings to rehash everything you've ever lost. Certainly the discussion about the vortex that is my (I mean your) life is in loving jest. But eventually, after 10 minutes of frantic walking around the house with the phone dialing my cell straining to see if I could hear my Stevie Wonder ring tone over the cacophony of laughing siblings and screaming children, I yank Sloan into the back hall of my parents' house and yell at him in hushed tones, "I hate this *%3!@ house. I hate my parents and I hate you most of all for bringing me here!"

But the truth is, I don't hate anybody. It's just that my family makes me crazy. I can't seem to remember that my identity is in Christ when I'm with these people. I take it as a personal affront when I make mac and cheese that no one says to me, "My God, Elizabeth. Did you make this mac and cheese? It is as if it were made by the Christ child Himself!"

I get together with my family, the people whom God has given me as a safe haven to be vulnerable with, and I spend most of the time defensive and pissed off. Mainly pissed off that my family isn't perfect. Which means I'm not perfect. And me not being perfect, well that just really gets me fuming. Particularly if you happen to notice. And if you dare to be imperfect near me I just might threaten to never come home again.

But you see, I have to keep coming home. Not because home is where the heart is or any other cheesy sentiment you learned while watching Christmas movies on the Hallmark channel. But because even though going home drives me bonkers--I would not know how to love were it not for these people. God has given them to me and me to them in order that we might know Him and reflect Him better. And sometimes, my childhood home is so full of His reflection that my heart breaks. I'll see my brother loving on Henry, my sister-in-law and Sloan crackin' jokes, my niece dancing like a maniac with her new Ipod, or maybe in the 20th round of Euchre, and for ever so briefly I catch a glimpse of the true meaning of Christmas.

That God took on flesh and entered into the insanity. That He left the peaceful throne room of heaven to be born in a barnfull of stinky animals so that He could live, love, and eventually die for all of our petty self-righteousness. So that one day, we might experience a REAL homecoming.

It just goes to show me that I still don't get what this whole Jesus dying for my sins and reconciling me to God and my fellow man thing is all about. If I did, I'd have a clearer picture of my own need for grace, compassion, and mercy and I'd be slower to declare my parents, siblings, and spouse as the roots of all evil. I'd see them as my allies rather than my enemies. And Jesus' actions would show me that to love someone, I have to go where it is noisy. And get dirty. And forgive. And forgive. And forgive. Until it hurts.

And forgiveness is death.

Death to being first. Death to correcting every little thing. Death to bringing up someone else's flaws when mine are mentioned. Death to my right to be right. Forgiveness doesn't mean that I have to say, "Oh, it's okay you hurt me." It means saying (and believing), "No. It is not okay. But this relationship means more to me than my right to justice. My love for you mandates I bear the pain without spewing it back at you. "

But FYI--it also means that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't bring up every little thing I've ever lost since I was 5 the next time I lose my cell phone. Maybe you should get off the couch and help me look for it. Maybe.

Uh-oh

Henry's new favorite phrase is "uh-oh." He knows that it is something you say when you fall or drop something, but like 'Aloha' means both hello and goodbye, Henry's "uh-oh" has many meanings.
It is a fun phrase to say over and over while you are waiting for Mommy or Daddy to rescue you from your crib in the morning. I'm taking this meaning to be: Don't press snooze again, Mommy. Get up. It's time to start the day.
He also likes to say it to get a response and a laugh--i.e. he says "uh-oh" I say "uh-oh" and this goes on for ten minutes. I'm taking this meaning to be: H: I'm cute. EJ: Yes you are.
But sometimes his uh-oh takes a darker turn. He'll throw his sippy cup across the room. Uh-oh. He'll throw goldfish in my face. Uh-oh. I'm trying to teach him the difference between accidents and just plain old bad behavior. That yes, we say uh-oh when something drops on the floor, but how it got to the floor makes a difference.
But I wonder, do I understand this?
Right now I am struggling with the cold hard truth that I'm a pretty self-righteous and judgemental person. I judge people to the point that the other night at Casa Grande I made a joke about a baby. I am struck with horror at this. I'd like to say, "Uh-oh," my sense of humor has got the best of me. But it is more than that. I'm so bogged down with everybody else's flaws that I fail to come to grips with my own. Uh-oh.
There are a thousand ways I judge you. I work out 5 days a week. If you don't, I'm better than you and let me tell you about how much healthier I am than you. But the truth is, I haven't lost a pound in like three weeks. And I make a million excuses as to why I just can't make that spin class my trainer keeps encouraging me to go to. And basically, all I really want to do now is eat Jello sugar free chocolate pudding. Uh-oh.
And I judge your parenting. Does your child sleep through the night? Mine does. And he is very easygoing and rarely whines or screams his head off when I drop him off at nursery. On some level, I am aware that this has nothing to do with me. That I'm just blessed with an even keeled little boy who loves Mr. Bunny, his crib, and his Zzzzs and that they have awesome trucks and a kitchen at nursery and he loves them too. But on a deeper, scarier level, I blame you for your child who doesn't sleep well or cries when you drop him off. Maybe if you stuck to a schedule, cut back on those sugary juices, and didn't let him watch TV your kid would be like mine. (But for the record, Henry set his own schedule, not me, this past weekend he drank probably a gallon of chocolate milk, and one of H's favorite things to do is play Duplos while watching Curious George.) Uh-oh.
And I judge your marriage. Which is totally a sham as I'm a shrew of a wife. I mean I'm a total bitch. This morning I confessed to my Bible study group that it'd be easier to be nice to my husband if he were perfect and never lost his temper or forgot to bring up the laundry. That I'm so consumed with what I want and think I need that I can't even consider for two seconds being compassionate or merciful to the man I love. That I'm so unaware of my own need for forgiveness that I'm just angry all the time. Double Uh-oh.
This is no accident. I'm no victim. Your actions should not determine mine. So when my sippy cup ends up across the room, I can't cry 'uh-oh' because we both know how it got there.