Helping

Most mornings, I read my neighbor's blog.  She usually has something interesting to say and I'm always interested in what those around me think.  I'm still mulling her "Who's the Boss" column.

Last night, after my second suggestion for his upcoming workday in which he will be meeting the new boss of his boss, my husband told me to stop 'helping' him.

These are not unrelated.

I had been thinking pious thoughts for a couple of weeks after reading Pam's blog.  What woman can't relate to her list of the endless details that women attend to and keep stored in their internal rolodex?  But God's the boss of our marriage, I thought.  (Trust me, it sounded even more smug in my head than it does in print). Then Mr. Wonderful, then me.  When I have time, I thought, I will write a wonderful blog post explaining the God given hierarchy in marriage.  I will even pull out the verses we picked for our marriage ceremony:


Two are better than one, 
   because they have a good return for their labor: 
¹⁰ If either of them falls down, 
   one can help the other up. 
But pity anyone who falls 
   and has no one to help them up. 
¹¹ Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. 
   But how can one keep warm alone? 
¹² Though one may be overpowered, 
   two can defend themselves. 
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.  Eccl. 4:9-12

I will wrap that up with an elegant explanation of Who the third strand is and send my blog out into the cyberworld desperately in need of my wisdom and pontification.

Every so often--though not nearly as frequently as I would like--God stays my hand and prevents me from presenting myself as not only trite but also the pompous Hundred Acre Woods Owl that I am.

Because really, a lot of our marriage has been a struggle for me to get my rightly ordered head knowledge to be reflected in my actual actions.

Last night was but a small example.  When I am nervous, I often feel like I need to 'help.'  The more I don't have control over a situation, the more I need to help it.

Surprisingly(?), Mr. Wonderful isn't a fan of those times.  And I imagine God probably isn't either.   And you know what, I'm really not either.  I remind myself of Peter being an idiot in Matthew 17--uh, Pete?  They're transfigured--they don't a shelter built.  Every time I read that passage I think Peter is talking just to talk.

I understand.

So, the question remains Who's the Boss?  Wouldn't it be wonderful if my actions so reflected that answer as to make my blog post about it unnecessary?

Blessings,
Holly

Disney

It is a testament to the magic of Disney that even in a week when 5 of 7 family members come down with a stomach bug too gross to describe, when the worst undescribed bodily functions associated with such illness take place between midnight and 3am every night, when one gets stung by a jelly fish, when another cuts 4 teeth and sleeps very little, when 12 loads of laundry are done while on vacation--it is a testament that everyone is still glad we got to go.

A decade ago, I probably would have counted this vacation a disaster.  Lots of kids have a way of beating expectations out of you.  Now I know that with the exception of the jelly fish sting--uncommon in IL--all those same things would have added up to just another fairly typical week here.  Sitting in Animal Kingdom Lodge, watching giraffes and zebras and watusi cattle and ostrich, provides a much more pleasant back drop for the unpleasantries of life.

If one can't be prepared oneself, best to send kids to the beach with someone who is.  My sister, obsessed with every disaster which can befall common mortals, would never consider going to the beach without meat tenderizer.  Our stung son was only in pain for moments before the tenderizer worked its magic.  I'm sure he was far less traumatized than had he gone with his own family as we would not have had such foresight and would all have had to pee on him to remove the stinging pain (wasn't there a Friends episode about that?).

I don't know if my sister noticed the faraway look in my eyes as she waxed eloquent about her extensive jellyfish sting research, the need for updated tetanus, the possibility of infection, the antibiotics needed if instead of a common jelly the bite was from a Man O' War.  It's not that such knowledge isn't useful, it's more that I just don't have time or patience for it.  Each day brings enough actual disaster, however minor, of its own without me having to conjure even worse ones.  Let's hope for the best and move on.  Not a bad life motto.

Some family memories are etched in the best of happy times and some in shared mishaps that grow funny as time passes.  This week provided both for our family.  We returned home to learn that a well-liked pastor from our old church, out on a bike ride, had been killed by a hit and run driver.  There is nothing like the sudden, too soon, earthly finality of death to order one's world anew.  Every moment is precious--even those filled with puke, crying and stings.

Blessings,
Holly

Bulk Eating

We eat in bulk here.  If you have a teenager, particularly if you have a teenage boy, you know what I mean.

I have two teenage boys.

This inexpensive lentils and rice recipe gives nutritious bulk to our meals.  We even had just a smidgen left over when I served it as a side dish at lunch.  I like that the recipe is easy and simple and if you want to give it some pizazz, you could serve it with salsa.  If you double it, you could throw the leftovers into your next pot of chicken soup or use the extra in tortillas with cheese on top.

Blessings,
Holly

Duh Moment

Every so often I read something that is so obvious, I wonder why I didn't think
of it before.

Yesterday, I read that as kids move into high school, they should make their own
appointments--drs, dentists, etc. Give them the family calendar, remind them
that they can't be in two places at one time and let them have at it.

Duh.

I have such a tendency to infantilize my kids, often doing for them what
they are perfectly capable of doing for themselves. I fight this tendency all
the time.

So, I flipped the 15 year old the phone with some possible dates and an overview of what to
say and set him loose on the admissions tour lady of the college he's taking
Calc at this fall. And he politely and competently set up a campus tour for
himself (and us).

He was so pleased with himself when he got off the phone! For parents of
extroverts, this little vignette is completely unremarkable, but it's another
step toward competence and independence that can be intimidating for introverted
kids. The beloved firstborn himself commented that making the call "made him feel powerful."

Duh.

Guess who I intend to have greet the receptionist and state our purpose tomorrow
when we arrive for our tour?

Duh.



Blessings, Holly

Busy, Busy, Dreadfully Busy...

I try mightily to strike the word "busy" from my vocabulary.  It irks me to hear how busy folks are, though I could never fully articulate why.   This lady does a great job of capturing my feelings in a cogent way. 

One point from her blog that especially resonates is busy=important and therefore is a virtue.  That has always struck me as patently false.  I view self-reported busyness as a symptom of either insecurity or as the author points out, disorganization.

I've noticed, though, that the busiest amongst us rarely have time to tell us how busy they are.  They are just out there doing.  Those lamenting their busy-ness are often those loaded up with strictly voluntary commitments.  They usually are good things, but how often do we lose out on God's best for us, for our family because we settle for busy goodness?  Maybe it's not an either/or and I'm willing to concede that God's best for us at times can be that busy goodness, but I have a hunch that it's not nearly as often as we conflate the two.

Busyness also seems to be more a complaint of women.  Perhaps because we do not compartmentalize as well as men and tend to think of all our categories and commitments concomitantly whereas men can lock away their "work" and their "home" and the like into non-overlapping areas?  Women tend to operate smack in the center of the Venn diagram whereas men seem to move between the three circles without being sucked into the center.

I'd like to think on this more and expound further, but I'm, well, you know...

Blessings,
Holly

Ridiculous Recumbent

Back when I was about 12, Dad got that stupid bike.  My father is very Italian. Read that as as wide as he is tall. Rotund would be the kind description. Imagine him with big tall flag on his bike--to be seen, lest the rest of what I am about to describe go unnoticed--portable rear view mirror attached to his glasses' temple bar, dressed in black and yellow horizontal striped biking shirt, black shorts and weird little pointy shoes clipped into his pedals. Think John Belushi dressed up as a bumblebee, riding that bike.

Now imagine you're the 12 year old, self conscious daughter of that man. The horror, the horror. And he rode it ALL OVER our small little town.

Flash forward 30 years. 12 year old is now self conscious home educating mom, already aware that she and her children are charting a course bound to set them just a bit apart in the court of public opinion. I bring my 12 year old with me on the annual pilgrimage to my folks' place in upstate NY (why o why o why won't they retire to Florida like normal people???).

My dad asks said son if he wants to ride his bike, which Dad can no longer ride. Next thing I know, Dad has promised to ship my kid the bike. Dad and Nathan are both beside themselves with glee and Nathan makes me promise not to tell Mr. Wonderful until the bike arrives. He wants it to be a surprise.

Now, Mr. Wonderful has seen this bike before and is also acutely aware of the freak potential others may see in our children even before one throws a recumbent into the mix.

I keep quiet.

The bike arrives in two cartons. O, Frabjous day! Calloo callay! Mr. Wonderful dutifully puts the bike together for Nathan, who eagerly takes it out around the neighborhood. Later that night, when we were going to bed, Mr. Wonderful says to me, "I want you to know, I did not say anything negative to Nathan about that bike. But I hope the neighborhood kids don't pelt him with rocks."

So, there you have it.  I've come full circle with that blasted bike, right back around to the starting point.  Me, mortified. This time with a healthy sense of humor about it all.

Blessings,

Holly

Bumper Stickers

I like bumper stickers.  Several years ago, I pumped gas behind a fellow with the best bumper stickers ever.    I told him I was certain we wouldn't agree on politics, but he had awesome bumper stickers.  He seemed surprised that a conservative could have a sense of humor and compliment someone with whom they disagreed.  I don't remember what all his stickers said, but I got the biggest kick out of this one.

Yesterday, my son completed his volunteer hours at the Museum of Science and Industry.  That marks the 11th time since January that I've hauled five kids into and out of Chicago on a weekday.  That's even less fun than it sounds like.

When we left, we discovered a handwritten note under our windshield.  It read "From one homeschool mom to another, you have great bumper stickers!"

Are you into bumper stickers?  I shouldn't be.  I hate visual clutter.  But I have just enough kitsch in me to really love these.  So amuse me.  What do your bumper stickers say?  I used to have one promoting my cousin's kid that read "Life is Song.  Sing It!" I was sad when it disintegrated.

My current bumper crop:

Training Hearts and Minds: Christian Home Education

Break the Conventions, Keep the Commandments (GK Chesterton)

and my personal favorite, the ubiquitous yellow caution diamond which reads:

Caution:  Unsocialized Homeschoolers on Board

Blessings,
Holly