From Seinfeld Episode 172 :"The Burning"
(Elaine enters and has a seat.)
ELAINE: Here's one. I borrowed Puddy's car and all the presets on his radio were Christian rock stations.
GEORGE: I like Christian rock. It's very positive. It's not like those real musicians who think they're so cool and hip.
ELAINE: So, you think that Puddy actually believes in something?
JERRY: It's a used car, he probably never changed the presets.
ELAINE: Yes, he is lazy.
JERRY: Plus he probably doesn't even know how to program the buttons.
ELAINE: Yes, he is dumb.
JERRY: So you prefer dumb and lazy to religious?
ELAINE: Dumb and lazy, I understand.
This summer, Jeff and I went to his 20-year high school reunion, and found ourselves hitting it off with the husband of one his classmates. Somehow, it came out in conversation that Hubby and I do not have smart phones. We have, in fact, phones we got four years ago that were somewhat outdated then. They have never been connected to the internet. They have keypads.
We pulled them from our pockets. People pointed and laughed.
"So," said our new friend, "explain to me why you have these. Get me to join your cult. Pretend you're trying to convert me."
It turned out that this man is a designer of hand-held technology and it is his job to make sure his apps are so good that once you get a taste, you can't live without them. So he respected our position in a weird way; he knows this stuff is addictive. We were also great market research; if he could get us to leave our compound, what a triumph it would be for him and the cause of technology in general.
But this is not flattering. I don't want to be a cult member.
My friend Pom's assessment of us isn't particularly palatable either. Pom says we are hipsters. He knows we don't have wi-fi, a tablet, an i-pod or TIVO (or any other kind of dvr); don't stream Netflix; and we only have one computer: our Sony laptop on which I am currently typing, while it is plugged into the wall. We have records and a turntable. And a VCR. (We also have a DVD player, but not blu-ray yet).
But hipsters are counter-cultural for the sake of being counter cultural. We aren't, as I recently told my friend Jana.
"No, you aren't hipsters," she said. "You're just cheap and lazy."
This, while not very flattering either, is more accurate. Like Elaine in the above dialogue, I would rather be cheap and lazy than a religious fanatic.
The most flattering way to describe our position: We like to live simply and frugally. We don't want to constantly get sucked into a screen when we would rather be present in the moment. We don't feel the need to have the world in the palm of our hand. We can thank (or blame, take your pick) our parents for this. We were raised in low-tech families: the last on the block to get call-waiting, cable television and a VCR. The result is our profound ability to delay gratification where technology is concerned.
But I can see we've gone too far. For one thing, our parents now have iphones.
For another, my phone drops calls constantly, and can't read group texts, and generally doesn't function as I try to communicate with other people who have moved to the 21st century.
The no-smart-phone thing has become a very extreme position. And extreme position doesn't flow with my values after all. Though I value my health, I eat sugar...in moderation. I drink alcohol...in moderation. I watch television...but I limit what and how much I watch.
I don't want to defy my values and become one of those mothers who never looks up during lunch with her kids because busy she's posting on facebook that she's having lunch with her kids. But nor do I want to teach my daughters that the only way to keep from abusing something is to stay away from it altogether.
It's what the apostle Paul in the New Testament called living in the world, but not being of the world; being able to stick to your convictions without needing to isolate yourself from everyone who thinks differently from you. That is the difference between legalism and freedom. The difference between having convictions of faith and joining a cult.
This summer, I took my kids on a 1500 mile road trip by myself this summer and Olivia got really sick, vomiting and with a 104 fever. As I was driving around a strange city looking for a Rite Aid in the dusk, I felt very afraid. What if I got lost, or needed a hospital? It suddenly seemed ridiculous to be so ill-equipped. Was I so afraid of abusing a smart phone that I would put myself in danger instead? Like someone who chose the inefficiency of a horse and buggy because they feared the danger of car accidents? It reminded me of the time a decade ago that I was lost in a seedy part of Santa Ana and searching frantically under my car seat for change so I could call someone for directions from a sticky pay phone. That weekend, I bought my first cell phone.
And this weekend, we're getting our iphones. We have already made a trip to the Verizon store, where a nice salesman laughed riotously when he saw our phones, but tried hard to speak kindly while delivering the bad news that they were worth zilch in recycle credit (no kidding). He also assured us that unlimited data wasn't necessarily as we wouldn't even know how to use it at first.
So watch me, friends, as I take a step into the 21st century, about 13 years late. I appreciate your patience with me. I also have appreciated your laughter every time I've pulled my little turquoise phone from my purse.
An in the future, here's what I would appreciate. If you see me at lunch with my kids playing with my phone instead of them, pull up this blog on your phone, smack me on the back of the head, and hand it to me. I promise to thank you for it. Face to face.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
Adventures in Skinny Jeans
When I am shopping with my mother, she often says she doesn't know what style of clothes she should wear because she's still attracted to the clothes and sizes she wore in her late teens and early twenties. She doesn't know how to shop for the current trends or her current body (which, frankly, sickeningly, isn't that different than it was in her early 20s, though she doesn't believe me when I tell her this).
When I was in my late teens and early twenties and started having this conversation with Mom, and I didn't get it. Now, at 36, I am starting to.
I can still technically fit into the clothes at Forever 21 and the juniors section in Target, and I can also still pull off a lot of it. There is one trend, however, that has thwarted me to date: the skinny jean.
I know that these pants are billed as "universally flattering." But you look around, friends. You know it's not true. There is no cut of jeans that looks good on everyone. And I do not think these look very good on me. Especially in the trendy bright colors. I don't like to draw attention to my bottom half as a general rule. Or more specifically, the top half of my bottom half. From the knee down, I'm fine.
Jeff and I have both been struggling with the new narrow pant. This summer, we bought him a blazer at H&M (he tried it on, it looked awesome). And then without trying them on, I talked him into the matching skinny trouser.
At home, he tried them on. They looked awesome. But he could not bend his knees -- like, at all. And his calves, still pretty darn muscular from decades of soccer playing, were pulling out the side stitches.
We were in stitches. We imagined out a conversation with his then-engaged sister about how he got a great new suit for her wedding, but he was sorry, he would not be able to sit down for the ceremony.
A week later, we were once again in stitches -- actually, laughter turned to tears -- as Jeff had to rescue me from my boyfriend-cut skinny leg cropped jeans. I had rolled the hem up one roll too many, and tried to hitch it up over my calf to put lotion on, and then I couldn't get them back down. In fact, they stuck on my calves halfway down like a tourniquet, even with the lotion.
"Stop flexing!" my husband yelled as he tried to pull them down for me. "I'm not flexing!" I yelled back. "But I have been working out!" More giggles (cause my calves are extremely small and I never work them out), howls of pain, and then I went out for a girls night feeling sweaty, sore, and not particularly trendy.
And yet, despite all these obstacles, last week I bought two pairs of Rock Star denim from Old Navy, where all skinny jeans were only $19. How could I resist? I checked with all the sales girls to make sure I wasn't too old to wear these. I got one indigo pair, one navy. Then I realized that indigo and navy are pretty much exactly the same. My sister in law came over wearing green skinny pants. I noticed a mom at school in red ones, another in robin-egg blue.
So I returned the navy ones and got teal instead, checking again with the sales girls to make sure I wasn't too old. I discovered that in bright colors it's best to go a size up, because if something is going to be buckling across your back thighs, it should be doing it in a subtle color. I came home and wore them immediately before I had a chance to lose my nerve.
(If my mom is reading this right now, she's probably cracking up and feeling great, since she credits me with a lot more certainty and self-confidence than I actually have and likes to see me be taken down a notch. In a loving way, of course.)
Jeff liked my bright, tight new jeans. But when I joyfully told him about the "one size up" discovery, he rather unsupportively said, "You bought a pair that is tighter than these?"
Dang it. Back to Old Navy for me. Apparently I'm going a size up in all colors. But I'm doing the exchange at another location so they don't put a picture of me up in the staff room of the Irvine location: "Warning: this Woman too Old and Indecisive for Trendy Denim. Do not help her. She will just bring her pants back."
Tune in next soon for more misadventures. My next fashion goal: learn to braid my own hair. I started today. It's not going well. But this wonky braid on my crown does take the focus of my thighs.
When I was in my late teens and early twenties and started having this conversation with Mom, and I didn't get it. Now, at 36, I am starting to.
I can still technically fit into the clothes at Forever 21 and the juniors section in Target, and I can also still pull off a lot of it. There is one trend, however, that has thwarted me to date: the skinny jean.
I know that these pants are billed as "universally flattering." But you look around, friends. You know it's not true. There is no cut of jeans that looks good on everyone. And I do not think these look very good on me. Especially in the trendy bright colors. I don't like to draw attention to my bottom half as a general rule. Or more specifically, the top half of my bottom half. From the knee down, I'm fine.
Jeff and I have both been struggling with the new narrow pant. This summer, we bought him a blazer at H&M (he tried it on, it looked awesome). And then without trying them on, I talked him into the matching skinny trouser.
At home, he tried them on. They looked awesome. But he could not bend his knees -- like, at all. And his calves, still pretty darn muscular from decades of soccer playing, were pulling out the side stitches.
We were in stitches. We imagined out a conversation with his then-engaged sister about how he got a great new suit for her wedding, but he was sorry, he would not be able to sit down for the ceremony.
A week later, we were once again in stitches -- actually, laughter turned to tears -- as Jeff had to rescue me from my boyfriend-cut skinny leg cropped jeans. I had rolled the hem up one roll too many, and tried to hitch it up over my calf to put lotion on, and then I couldn't get them back down. In fact, they stuck on my calves halfway down like a tourniquet, even with the lotion.
"Stop flexing!" my husband yelled as he tried to pull them down for me. "I'm not flexing!" I yelled back. "But I have been working out!" More giggles (cause my calves are extremely small and I never work them out), howls of pain, and then I went out for a girls night feeling sweaty, sore, and not particularly trendy.
And yet, despite all these obstacles, last week I bought two pairs of Rock Star denim from Old Navy, where all skinny jeans were only $19. How could I resist? I checked with all the sales girls to make sure I wasn't too old to wear these. I got one indigo pair, one navy. Then I realized that indigo and navy are pretty much exactly the same. My sister in law came over wearing green skinny pants. I noticed a mom at school in red ones, another in robin-egg blue.
So I returned the navy ones and got teal instead, checking again with the sales girls to make sure I wasn't too old. I discovered that in bright colors it's best to go a size up, because if something is going to be buckling across your back thighs, it should be doing it in a subtle color. I came home and wore them immediately before I had a chance to lose my nerve.
(If my mom is reading this right now, she's probably cracking up and feeling great, since she credits me with a lot more certainty and self-confidence than I actually have and likes to see me be taken down a notch. In a loving way, of course.)
Jeff liked my bright, tight new jeans. But when I joyfully told him about the "one size up" discovery, he rather unsupportively said, "You bought a pair that is tighter than these?"
Dang it. Back to Old Navy for me. Apparently I'm going a size up in all colors. But I'm doing the exchange at another location so they don't put a picture of me up in the staff room of the Irvine location: "Warning: this Woman too Old and Indecisive for Trendy Denim. Do not help her. She will just bring her pants back."
Tune in next soon for more misadventures. My next fashion goal: learn to braid my own hair. I started today. It's not going well. But this wonky braid on my crown does take the focus of my thighs.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Blessed Between a Rock and a Hard Place
The place on earth where I am happiest is a shallow stretch of the Big Sur river adjacent to river site 127. I lie in my inflatable boat in 12 inches of slowly-flowing water, a damp paperback in my hand, a cold drink tucked against one corner of the boat. The sycamores and redwoods are my walls and archways. The water on the stones is my music. The blue sky is my roof.
On our annual late-summer camping trip, I make it a point to get into my boat and find a sunny spot on the river as soon as we have camp set up. Sometimes the kids play around me. Sometimes they take off with their daddy for the rapids up the gorge, and float past me, bound for adventures downstream.
Last week, you could have found me in my boat in the late afternoon, drifting slowly; no need to tie my boat to a tree as in year's former, because the drought has lowered the water level. Late in the day, sunshine is scarce on the river, so I cherish the moments when I drift into a warm place, and hope I stick. One afternoon, after feeling a bit shivery as I floated through the shadows, I ran aground in just such a place. I took care to hold very still so as not to dislodge myself. I was happy, but a precarious kind of happiness, knowing all the time that one false move could send me downriver.
Five minutes into this delicate bliss, my band of merry boaters came loudly toward me: Jeff, our two girls, and our 10-year old friend Oceana. Oce was ahead of the others.
"Don't touch me!" I called out. "Nobody come near me! I am finally in the perfect sunny spot and I don't want to move." Oce looked at my curiously. Then came Sophia, my eldest. "Don't touch me! Don't dislodge me," I screeched as she held out her hands to me. Again, a curious look, slightly wounded. Down went the rest of the family. Peace was again restored to the river.
About 15 minutes later, the sun shifted and I began to shiver. So I lifted my head to get up and realized something. I was totally and completely wedged in my spot. On the downriver side of my raft, I has hemmed in by a rock and two big logs, forming a triangle-shaped dam. No matter how I had wiggled, no matter which of the kids had bumped into me, I wasn't going anywhere. No wonder the kids were looking at me funny.
Had I ever so much as lifted my head out of the bottom of the boat, I would have seen this, and felt secure. And I would have received the disruption of my family with open arms.
What a fascinating metaphor. How often do I become reactive and irrational because I let fear or insecurity rule over me?
* My husband makes a thoughtless remark (simply because he's distracted, trying to be funny, or just being, well, male), and I allow myself to question his affection and devotion.
* A friend fails to return a phone call and I imagine ill will on her behalf and fear the loss of the friendship.
* A week of high demands from my kids and I begin to imagine myself a slave, a drudge, a woman with no sense of self, no life of her own. The classic martyr.
* A flash of doubt runs through my mind and I fear the loss of my faith, and disqualification from my life work and ministry.
Were I to lift my head in any of these situations -- look at my Father, see the Big Picture of my life -- I would see that I am wedged tightly in a dam of goodness. It is built of solid stones and strong timbers.
My husband chose me and will keep his vows. I have solid friendships with safe women, not perfect, but built on the wise principles of the Bible, the best relationship manual there is. I am a competent, not perfect, mother, and my life is full and rich with mission and purpose both in the walls of my house and outside of them. And running under all of it is the strength of the faith handed to me by generations, which I've embraced since I was a little child. And under that, the love of God, which was mine before I breathed my first breath. He has promised nothing will shake it. He is the Rock I am blessed to be standing on, hemmed in by His love, goodness, and wisdom.
How much less reactive, how much kinder and happier I would be if I remembered how secure I truly am, and stopped treating small disruptions like earthquakes. This morning, I am tired. We are home from vacation and there is no more river to lie in. My girls had a sleepover last night during which the favored game was Musical Beds. There will be a lot of demands today, probably tears, definitely reactivity. I hope I manage it well.
So I lift my head today and look up. I say "Thank you, Father, for making me secure. Hem me in on all sides."
On our annual late-summer camping trip, I make it a point to get into my boat and find a sunny spot on the river as soon as we have camp set up. Sometimes the kids play around me. Sometimes they take off with their daddy for the rapids up the gorge, and float past me, bound for adventures downstream.
Last week, you could have found me in my boat in the late afternoon, drifting slowly; no need to tie my boat to a tree as in year's former, because the drought has lowered the water level. Late in the day, sunshine is scarce on the river, so I cherish the moments when I drift into a warm place, and hope I stick. One afternoon, after feeling a bit shivery as I floated through the shadows, I ran aground in just such a place. I took care to hold very still so as not to dislodge myself. I was happy, but a precarious kind of happiness, knowing all the time that one false move could send me downriver.
Five minutes into this delicate bliss, my band of merry boaters came loudly toward me: Jeff, our two girls, and our 10-year old friend Oceana. Oce was ahead of the others.
"Don't touch me!" I called out. "Nobody come near me! I am finally in the perfect sunny spot and I don't want to move." Oce looked at my curiously. Then came Sophia, my eldest. "Don't touch me! Don't dislodge me," I screeched as she held out her hands to me. Again, a curious look, slightly wounded. Down went the rest of the family. Peace was again restored to the river.
About 15 minutes later, the sun shifted and I began to shiver. So I lifted my head to get up and realized something. I was totally and completely wedged in my spot. On the downriver side of my raft, I has hemmed in by a rock and two big logs, forming a triangle-shaped dam. No matter how I had wiggled, no matter which of the kids had bumped into me, I wasn't going anywhere. No wonder the kids were looking at me funny.
Had I ever so much as lifted my head out of the bottom of the boat, I would have seen this, and felt secure. And I would have received the disruption of my family with open arms.
What a fascinating metaphor. How often do I become reactive and irrational because I let fear or insecurity rule over me?
* My husband makes a thoughtless remark (simply because he's distracted, trying to be funny, or just being, well, male), and I allow myself to question his affection and devotion.
* A friend fails to return a phone call and I imagine ill will on her behalf and fear the loss of the friendship.
* A week of high demands from my kids and I begin to imagine myself a slave, a drudge, a woman with no sense of self, no life of her own. The classic martyr.
* A flash of doubt runs through my mind and I fear the loss of my faith, and disqualification from my life work and ministry.
Were I to lift my head in any of these situations -- look at my Father, see the Big Picture of my life -- I would see that I am wedged tightly in a dam of goodness. It is built of solid stones and strong timbers.
My husband chose me and will keep his vows. I have solid friendships with safe women, not perfect, but built on the wise principles of the Bible, the best relationship manual there is. I am a competent, not perfect, mother, and my life is full and rich with mission and purpose both in the walls of my house and outside of them. And running under all of it is the strength of the faith handed to me by generations, which I've embraced since I was a little child. And under that, the love of God, which was mine before I breathed my first breath. He has promised nothing will shake it. He is the Rock I am blessed to be standing on, hemmed in by His love, goodness, and wisdom.
How much less reactive, how much kinder and happier I would be if I remembered how secure I truly am, and stopped treating small disruptions like earthquakes. This morning, I am tired. We are home from vacation and there is no more river to lie in. My girls had a sleepover last night during which the favored game was Musical Beds. There will be a lot of demands today, probably tears, definitely reactivity. I hope I manage it well.
So I lift my head today and look up. I say "Thank you, Father, for making me secure. Hem me in on all sides."
Friday, August 16, 2013
Bridal Joy
Hubby's sister is getting married tomorrow, and our family is pretty overjoyed about it. Even my nine year old cries happy tears when she encounters pictures of her aunt and almost-uncle together, or when she hears a romantic song that makes us think of them. It's pretty funny from a girl who still thinks boyfriends are yucky (thank you, Jesus).
My sis-in-law is the last one in her immediate family to get married, and we have all prayed for her to find a special man who will cherish her. I personally am so proud of all she has accomplished as a single woman -- leading small groups at our church, developing solid friendships with other women of integrity, putting herself through culinary school, having a successful career both as a pastry chef and now in design. I went from my father's house to my husband's like a girl from the 1950s and have never supported myself that way. I think we are most proud of her for holding out for the right one. But woven in my joy and pride for who she is and what she means to our family as sister, friend and amazing Auntie, I have felt her pain: she wanted a companion to share her life with, and she wanted to become a mother.
And so, we are very excited, and caught up in the romance of love fulfilled. The struggle of the search for love makes finding it all the sweeter. When she walks down the aisle to Van Morrison's "Someone Like You" (I've been waiting...for someone like you...) we will probably all bawl like babies.
I have felt a particularly sweetness over the last few weeks as I've watched the bride and groom laugh, plan and celebrate together. Because they are celebrating what I have had for 14 years (or 18 if you count when I first met my husband). I only had to wait until I was 21 to meet the love of my life, and marry him. We have traveled together and bought a house. We have two gorgeous, healthy children. And we are fulfilling our vows, as life fulfills it's promise to give us both sides of them (plenty and want, joy and sorrow, health and sickness).
It's so, so easy to take it all for granted. The romance in our marriage sometimes feels as faded as the sage green in our Ralph Lauren towels that we got for wedding gifts. (Side note, I would like to get married again just for loot. I really need new flatware. All my spoons have been eaten up by the garbage disposal and Crate and Barrel has discontinued them so I can't get more.)
But imagining what it would have been like without Jeff for the last 15 years is, well, unimaginable. I was spared so much struggle and heartache by being with my man of integrity early in my life, growing up with him, really. I am truly, still crazy about the man I married. I think it might even be safe to say that he adores me, too. I can't imagine a life I would rather have had. So though we may not make the other guests weep with joy when they see us cheek to cheek on the dance floor tomorrow, I just might weep with joy for myself.
So congratulations to the bride and groom. We're crazy happy for you, and thank you for reminding us how happy we are, too. May God bless all your years ahead, with peace, joy, babies, and the ability to be grateful for it all.
My sis-in-law is the last one in her immediate family to get married, and we have all prayed for her to find a special man who will cherish her. I personally am so proud of all she has accomplished as a single woman -- leading small groups at our church, developing solid friendships with other women of integrity, putting herself through culinary school, having a successful career both as a pastry chef and now in design. I went from my father's house to my husband's like a girl from the 1950s and have never supported myself that way. I think we are most proud of her for holding out for the right one. But woven in my joy and pride for who she is and what she means to our family as sister, friend and amazing Auntie, I have felt her pain: she wanted a companion to share her life with, and she wanted to become a mother.
I have felt a particularly sweetness over the last few weeks as I've watched the bride and groom laugh, plan and celebrate together. Because they are celebrating what I have had for 14 years (or 18 if you count when I first met my husband). I only had to wait until I was 21 to meet the love of my life, and marry him. We have traveled together and bought a house. We have two gorgeous, healthy children. And we are fulfilling our vows, as life fulfills it's promise to give us both sides of them (plenty and want, joy and sorrow, health and sickness).
It's so, so easy to take it all for granted. The romance in our marriage sometimes feels as faded as the sage green in our Ralph Lauren towels that we got for wedding gifts. (Side note, I would like to get married again just for loot. I really need new flatware. All my spoons have been eaten up by the garbage disposal and Crate and Barrel has discontinued them so I can't get more.)
But imagining what it would have been like without Jeff for the last 15 years is, well, unimaginable. I was spared so much struggle and heartache by being with my man of integrity early in my life, growing up with him, really. I am truly, still crazy about the man I married. I think it might even be safe to say that he adores me, too. I can't imagine a life I would rather have had. So though we may not make the other guests weep with joy when they see us cheek to cheek on the dance floor tomorrow, I just might weep with joy for myself.
So congratulations to the bride and groom. We're crazy happy for you, and thank you for reminding us how happy we are, too. May God bless all your years ahead, with peace, joy, babies, and the ability to be grateful for it all.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Adventures in the Mid-30s
Last month I celebrated my 36th birthday by being stung by a jellyfish and capsizing with my 9 year old daughter in an ocean kayak.
It was a great day.
Hubby and I took the kids for a five-day-long beach vacation in north San Diego, and we had big plans. We packed two surf boards, two kayaks, three boogie boards, four bicycles, my brand new black and hot pink wetsuit, half a bottle of gin and some limes. We chose hotel for it's location on what travelocity.com and Sunset magazine extolled as a great beach for beginner surfers. We called it Anderson Family Surf Safari.
We knew going in that the beach was famous for sting rays, so we taught the girls to do the Sting-ray Shuffle (dragging your feet in the sand thereby gently disturbing the rays rather than surprising them and incurring their wrath). We did not count on jellyfish.
In my first 45 minutes of attempting to surf the foam of what turned out to be slightly rougher waves than we planned on, a purple striped jellyfish drifted between my legs and gave me a sting the size of a human hand on the back of both my delicate little knees. I leaped from the water and did the Jelly-fish Trot up the long beach, past my watching daughters who thought perhaps Mommy had lost her marbles, to the lifeguard tower. Three unconcerned first aide professionals said, "You'll be fine. Get back in the water. Salt is the best thing."
When you've just been stung by an ocean animal you didn't even see, the last thing you want to do is get back in the ocean. But I obeyed, and it did help.
Concealing the sting from my five year old, we took a break for lunch.
Two hours later, we were back at it. My husband spend 30 minutes inflating our kayaks, and then ended up standing on the shore with our wailing five year old, who was not going over the waves in that bendy boat for anything. Smart girl. Meanwhile I pushed my precious eldest out through the surf, losing my cover-up, hat and snorkel mask from the front of the kayak in the third wave. But we made it out past the breakers and paddled around for about five minutes, then decided to rejoin the other half of our family.
Again, third time's the charm: in the third wave back we flipped over, resurfaced, scrambled for the remaining objects of clothing that were floating away from us, and made it back to the sand.
After that, we took a break for gin and tonics with lime.
What a great birthday! Even if I was taking Advil the next day for muscle aches. I may be slipping down the slope toward 40, people, but I am going down kicking. Any woman who tells me they don't see each decade birthday as a kind of watershed is either lying or has yet to turn 30. I know, because I used to say I didn't care about getting older until I turned 30. Maybe ocean kayaking and taking up surfing smacks a little of desperation -- and I did, literally get smacked around on my birthday -- but I'll take desperation over passivity any day.
Truthfully, I am really digging 36. This year, both my kids are going into full-day school, giving me a little more time for self discovery, and possibly even keeping a cleaner house. By the time I'm 46, one will be in college, and the other 16. I could start a whole new career in 10 years, and still have decades to do it. Meanwhile, I have a decade to dream up what that will be. I am so, so blessed. Also, my husband and I celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary just before my birthday. I look back and feel grateful to have spent my youth with a man I love so much.
Jeff and I are now dreaming up next year's vacation, this time without the kids, in honor of our 15th anniversary. I told him I don't want to just go sit on a beach somewhere; let's have another adventure. I'm thinking maybe cycling in the wine country. To date I have not proved highly skilled on a bicycle, but what the heck. I'll bring the Advil.
It was a great day.
Hubby and I took the kids for a five-day-long beach vacation in north San Diego, and we had big plans. We packed two surf boards, two kayaks, three boogie boards, four bicycles, my brand new black and hot pink wetsuit, half a bottle of gin and some limes. We chose hotel for it's location on what travelocity.com and Sunset magazine extolled as a great beach for beginner surfers. We called it Anderson Family Surf Safari.
We knew going in that the beach was famous for sting rays, so we taught the girls to do the Sting-ray Shuffle (dragging your feet in the sand thereby gently disturbing the rays rather than surprising them and incurring their wrath). We did not count on jellyfish.
In my first 45 minutes of attempting to surf the foam of what turned out to be slightly rougher waves than we planned on, a purple striped jellyfish drifted between my legs and gave me a sting the size of a human hand on the back of both my delicate little knees. I leaped from the water and did the Jelly-fish Trot up the long beach, past my watching daughters who thought perhaps Mommy had lost her marbles, to the lifeguard tower. Three unconcerned first aide professionals said, "You'll be fine. Get back in the water. Salt is the best thing."
When you've just been stung by an ocean animal you didn't even see, the last thing you want to do is get back in the ocean. But I obeyed, and it did help.
Concealing the sting from my five year old, we took a break for lunch.
Two hours later, we were back at it. My husband spend 30 minutes inflating our kayaks, and then ended up standing on the shore with our wailing five year old, who was not going over the waves in that bendy boat for anything. Smart girl. Meanwhile I pushed my precious eldest out through the surf, losing my cover-up, hat and snorkel mask from the front of the kayak in the third wave. But we made it out past the breakers and paddled around for about five minutes, then decided to rejoin the other half of our family.
Again, third time's the charm: in the third wave back we flipped over, resurfaced, scrambled for the remaining objects of clothing that were floating away from us, and made it back to the sand.
After that, we took a break for gin and tonics with lime.
What a great birthday! Even if I was taking Advil the next day for muscle aches. I may be slipping down the slope toward 40, people, but I am going down kicking. Any woman who tells me they don't see each decade birthday as a kind of watershed is either lying or has yet to turn 30. I know, because I used to say I didn't care about getting older until I turned 30. Maybe ocean kayaking and taking up surfing smacks a little of desperation -- and I did, literally get smacked around on my birthday -- but I'll take desperation over passivity any day.
Truthfully, I am really digging 36. This year, both my kids are going into full-day school, giving me a little more time for self discovery, and possibly even keeping a cleaner house. By the time I'm 46, one will be in college, and the other 16. I could start a whole new career in 10 years, and still have decades to do it. Meanwhile, I have a decade to dream up what that will be. I am so, so blessed. Also, my husband and I celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary just before my birthday. I look back and feel grateful to have spent my youth with a man I love so much.
Jeff and I are now dreaming up next year's vacation, this time without the kids, in honor of our 15th anniversary. I told him I don't want to just go sit on a beach somewhere; let's have another adventure. I'm thinking maybe cycling in the wine country. To date I have not proved highly skilled on a bicycle, but what the heck. I'll bring the Advil.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Be Good
Around the time I hit adolescence, my mom developed the practice of following me to the front door whenever I was leaving the house and calling after me, "Be good!" If I was departing on a date, she sometimes went so far as to follow me and the teenage boy I was with to the front gate and shouting, "Be good!" as we got into the car.
What she meant by this you can imagine. Don't drive too fast. Don't see a forbidden rated R movie. Don't make out in the back seat of the car. (Well, two out of three isn't bad, Mama.) I thought - and continue to believe - that it was pretty funny. But I also think it influenced me, that last desperate attempt my mom made to remind me who I was, what I knew was right and what was expected of me.
I find myself doing something similar now that I'm a mom. When I drop the kids off at a friend's house, or camp, or school, my version is, "Have fun and be good!" Or sometimes, "Learn something, have fun, remember your manners and be good!"
My girls, ages five and 9, already think it's funny when I do this, and not just because I often do it in E.T.'s voice with my finger outstretched. "Beeee goooood."
I want my girls to exhibit goodness: be kind, loving, honest, compassionate, just, generous. My instructions to them are always along these lines, and my prayers.
I find my prayers are also full of this odd request of God: I also say to God often, "Be good."
This sounds pretty ridiculous when I write it in black and white, but I'm concerned about God's goodness. Fundamental to my faith as a Christ-follower is that there is an almighty God who created the universe and told us about Himself through prophets who recorded what they heard. One of the main things God says about Himself that is that He is good. His goodness is His very nature, and also the way He acts: he does good. He is just, hating evil and righting wrongs. But also, abounding in love, compassionate, slow to anger, merciful.
But I wonder about all these things. Or perhaps more accurate and honest is that I doubt God's goodness. Because this world stinks in a lot of ways. God is good. The state of the world is not. The Bible's more eloquent way of saying this is that the world is fallen, broken and groaning as a woman in childbirth until the time when God puts all things to right again.So I dialogue with God about what He is up to, and why.
It turns out I am not alone in feeling this way. It's recorded in the book of Genesis that Abraham asked God the same thing. God was about to exercise judgement on a city, and Abraham was afraid God might go overboard, judging people who didn't deserve it. Abraham asked him, "Can the Lord of Heaven do wrong?" God promises to save the city if there is even one righteous man in it, reminding Abraham that He is just.
Moses has the same kinds of conversations with God, reminding Him of His promises to Israel. So does David in the Psalms, urging God to defend His people, protect the righteous, right wrongs, show all the world who He is. In other words, David tells God to be who He says He is.
I'm grateful that these conversations with God have been recorded for me, giving me permission to talk to my Father this way. I beg God to be not only just but merciful. I remind God that He calls himself a father to the fatherless, defender of orphans and widows. That He is not willing for anyone to perish, but all to be saved. He is a God so big that the sun and moon obey him, and yet so devoted to His creation that He sees every sparrow and knows the number of hairs on each of our heads.
But of course, He doesn't need to be reminded. I do. I need to feel in my heart and believe in my head that God can be trusted with the universe, because I certainly can't make sense of it. One of my friends posted this scripture on facebook today:
God, grant me that certainty. Be good.
What she meant by this you can imagine. Don't drive too fast. Don't see a forbidden rated R movie. Don't make out in the back seat of the car. (Well, two out of three isn't bad, Mama.) I thought - and continue to believe - that it was pretty funny. But I also think it influenced me, that last desperate attempt my mom made to remind me who I was, what I knew was right and what was expected of me.
I find myself doing something similar now that I'm a mom. When I drop the kids off at a friend's house, or camp, or school, my version is, "Have fun and be good!" Or sometimes, "Learn something, have fun, remember your manners and be good!"
My girls, ages five and 9, already think it's funny when I do this, and not just because I often do it in E.T.'s voice with my finger outstretched. "Beeee goooood."
I want my girls to exhibit goodness: be kind, loving, honest, compassionate, just, generous. My instructions to them are always along these lines, and my prayers.
I find my prayers are also full of this odd request of God: I also say to God often, "Be good."
This sounds pretty ridiculous when I write it in black and white, but I'm concerned about God's goodness. Fundamental to my faith as a Christ-follower is that there is an almighty God who created the universe and told us about Himself through prophets who recorded what they heard. One of the main things God says about Himself that is that He is good. His goodness is His very nature, and also the way He acts: he does good. He is just, hating evil and righting wrongs. But also, abounding in love, compassionate, slow to anger, merciful.
But I wonder about all these things. Or perhaps more accurate and honest is that I doubt God's goodness. Because this world stinks in a lot of ways. God is good. The state of the world is not. The Bible's more eloquent way of saying this is that the world is fallen, broken and groaning as a woman in childbirth until the time when God puts all things to right again.So I dialogue with God about what He is up to, and why.
It turns out I am not alone in feeling this way. It's recorded in the book of Genesis that Abraham asked God the same thing. God was about to exercise judgement on a city, and Abraham was afraid God might go overboard, judging people who didn't deserve it. Abraham asked him, "Can the Lord of Heaven do wrong?" God promises to save the city if there is even one righteous man in it, reminding Abraham that He is just.
Moses has the same kinds of conversations with God, reminding Him of His promises to Israel. So does David in the Psalms, urging God to defend His people, protect the righteous, right wrongs, show all the world who He is. In other words, David tells God to be who He says He is.
I'm grateful that these conversations with God have been recorded for me, giving me permission to talk to my Father this way. I beg God to be not only just but merciful. I remind God that He calls himself a father to the fatherless, defender of orphans and widows. That He is not willing for anyone to perish, but all to be saved. He is a God so big that the sun and moon obey him, and yet so devoted to His creation that He sees every sparrow and knows the number of hairs on each of our heads.
But of course, He doesn't need to be reminded. I do. I need to feel in my heart and believe in my head that God can be trusted with the universe, because I certainly can't make sense of it. One of my friends posted this scripture on facebook today:
Just as you don’t know the way of the wind
or how bones grow in a pregnant woman’s womb,
so you don’t know the work of God,
the maker of everything.
Ecclesiastes 11:5
or how bones grow in a pregnant woman’s womb,
so you don’t know the work of God,
the maker of everything.
Ecclesiastes 11:5
My understanding of how God's goodness is being played out in the universe is so limited, and won't be expanded much in the foreseeable future. So these conversations I'm having with are just about increasing my trust in God by giving Him the opportunity to reassure me. I may have quoted this passage in a blog before because I love it so much, but in Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little Town on the Prairie, Laura marvels at her blind sister Mary's confidence in the goodness of God. Her faith transcends circumstances and gives her real peace.
Everyone knows that God is good. But it seemed to Laura then that Mary must be sure of it in some special way.
"You're sure, aren't you?" Laura said.
"Yes, I am sure of it now all the time," Mary answered. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."
God, grant me that certainty. Be good.
Friday, June 14, 2013
What I Failed to Accomplish This Year
Well, my children have four days left in the school year, and I'm sure they have learned a lot. But when it comes to their mother, I can't say that she is really better off as a mother of elementary school students than she was in September. You may consider this entry as the follow up to one I wrote in September which began...
In it I detailed the ways in which I failed to be a responsible parent of a kindergartener the first time. I don't think I substantially improved. And yet I feel totally at peace with myself in this regard.
From where I sit now in the drop down desk in my sunny yellow kitchen, I can see the okra yellow reading log, on which I am supposed to date and chronicle every 20-minute reading period I do daily with Olivia, my kindergartner. It is June 14th. And it is still blank. I came up with a good system of keeping it on the fridge, down low where Olivia could reach it, and I didn't lose one the whole year. However, neither did I ever have one completed until the night before it was due; in fact, I falsified a lot of them by looking at the books on Olivia's shelf for ideas of book titles. I did read to her, as much as she wanted. But not 20 minutes a day. (I have a theory that forcing kids to be read to when they do not want to be read to and are creatively playing in their rooms makes them less likely to love books, not more likely.) And though Liv can reach her log, she didn't write on it once.
I never established a regular homework routine. And yet we did turn in her homework on time all but twice.
I never did start the habit of making the kids lunches the night before school, nor did I learn to enjoy preparing them in the morning. But I did write a catchy little song that goes "I hatey the lunchy but I make it, I make it," which I sing several mornings a week.
I didn't clean out the kids backpacks regularly. But I did train them (finally! in May!) to empty their lunch boxes and put them away every day. Almost.
I didn't always remember to pack Olivia her water bottle. And yet she has not suffered from dehydration once.
I sent Sophia to school a couple of times to buy her lunch and she didn't have money in her cafeteria account. But they let her eat anyway, and I paid it back fairly quickly.
I volunteered the classroom once a week. Kind of. I missed a whole month due to illness. I had to cancel several to go to doctor's appointments or speak at MOPS groups, and a few times I forgot to call ahead. But the reading groups seemed to continue and the teachers still smile at me and apparently don't think I'm the worst parent in the world.
All these things I have flubbed, failed at, and faked my way through and the glorious fact is that the world did not come to an end. My children are still alive and learning things. In fact, what both my girls' teachers tell me is that they are happy, confident, well-liked children; Olivia's teacher told me her love of learning has exploded this spring, despite not getting 20 minutes a day of reading (the teachers do not know this; again, I lied on the reading log).
It's wonderfully freeing to know that all the things I wish I was doing better are not actually essential to being a pretty good mom. And I'm not sure, but I think this attitude is good for my kids to observe.
Back when Sophia was in preschool, I forgot to show up to a kindergarten readiness assembly until it was almost over. I came flying through the door and the preschool director spotted me, sensed my distress and put her arm around me. "It's okay to make mistakes," she said. I was 30 years old and don't think anyone had ever said that to me; or perhaps I just never heard it. But I remember thinking "I'm glad my little girl goes to school here." And it was kind of a turning point for me. If I'm not trying to be the perfect mom, my kids are free from needing to be perfect too.
Not that I'm perfect at not trying to be perfect. I'm my own harshest critic in other ways, as just about every mother in the world is, or in my world at least.
But I've come a long way in my quest toward imperfectionism. I'm getting better at not always needing to get better.
Next year, I will have a first grader and a fourth grader. No more early childhood parenting for me. Homework is about to get crazy in fourth grade I hear. I may need to establish more routines. Perhaps next year I'll be more organized.
Or perhaps I won't. I'm looking forward to seeing how I do.
I flunked Kindergarten the first time so they are making me repeat it.
In it I detailed the ways in which I failed to be a responsible parent of a kindergartener the first time. I don't think I substantially improved. And yet I feel totally at peace with myself in this regard.
From where I sit now in the drop down desk in my sunny yellow kitchen, I can see the okra yellow reading log, on which I am supposed to date and chronicle every 20-minute reading period I do daily with Olivia, my kindergartner. It is June 14th. And it is still blank. I came up with a good system of keeping it on the fridge, down low where Olivia could reach it, and I didn't lose one the whole year. However, neither did I ever have one completed until the night before it was due; in fact, I falsified a lot of them by looking at the books on Olivia's shelf for ideas of book titles. I did read to her, as much as she wanted. But not 20 minutes a day. (I have a theory that forcing kids to be read to when they do not want to be read to and are creatively playing in their rooms makes them less likely to love books, not more likely.) And though Liv can reach her log, she didn't write on it once.
I never established a regular homework routine. And yet we did turn in her homework on time all but twice.
I never did start the habit of making the kids lunches the night before school, nor did I learn to enjoy preparing them in the morning. But I did write a catchy little song that goes "I hatey the lunchy but I make it, I make it," which I sing several mornings a week.
I didn't clean out the kids backpacks regularly. But I did train them (finally! in May!) to empty their lunch boxes and put them away every day. Almost.
I didn't always remember to pack Olivia her water bottle. And yet she has not suffered from dehydration once.
I sent Sophia to school a couple of times to buy her lunch and she didn't have money in her cafeteria account. But they let her eat anyway, and I paid it back fairly quickly.
I volunteered the classroom once a week. Kind of. I missed a whole month due to illness. I had to cancel several to go to doctor's appointments or speak at MOPS groups, and a few times I forgot to call ahead. But the reading groups seemed to continue and the teachers still smile at me and apparently don't think I'm the worst parent in the world.
All these things I have flubbed, failed at, and faked my way through and the glorious fact is that the world did not come to an end. My children are still alive and learning things. In fact, what both my girls' teachers tell me is that they are happy, confident, well-liked children; Olivia's teacher told me her love of learning has exploded this spring, despite not getting 20 minutes a day of reading (the teachers do not know this; again, I lied on the reading log).
It's wonderfully freeing to know that all the things I wish I was doing better are not actually essential to being a pretty good mom. And I'm not sure, but I think this attitude is good for my kids to observe.
Back when Sophia was in preschool, I forgot to show up to a kindergarten readiness assembly until it was almost over. I came flying through the door and the preschool director spotted me, sensed my distress and put her arm around me. "It's okay to make mistakes," she said. I was 30 years old and don't think anyone had ever said that to me; or perhaps I just never heard it. But I remember thinking "I'm glad my little girl goes to school here." And it was kind of a turning point for me. If I'm not trying to be the perfect mom, my kids are free from needing to be perfect too.
Not that I'm perfect at not trying to be perfect. I'm my own harshest critic in other ways, as just about every mother in the world is, or in my world at least.
But I've come a long way in my quest toward imperfectionism. I'm getting better at not always needing to get better.
Next year, I will have a first grader and a fourth grader. No more early childhood parenting for me. Homework is about to get crazy in fourth grade I hear. I may need to establish more routines. Perhaps next year I'll be more organized.
Or perhaps I won't. I'm looking forward to seeing how I do.
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