Irony, defined

In the event that you are unfamiliar with the definition of irony, here it is: "an event or result that is the opposite of what is expected" (Webster's New World Dictionary and Thesaurus). Need an example? How about this one:

I get these headaches when I haven't had enough sleep. They start in my neck and go all the way along the back of my head with very dull, persistent pain. There is nothing that can cure these headaches except, well, sleep. Thus I call them my tired headaches.

So this morning, at four, when I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, do you know it was that kept me awake? Yep. A tired headache. A throbbing, painful, cannot be ignored signal from my body that I need more sleep, asap. Huh huh. Joke's on you, body. You hurt me like that, I don't sleep. Or maybe the joke's on me. Actually, it's not really funny at all. But it is ironic.

Where's Emily Post when you need her?

If the women's restroom is closed for cleaning, and you take your daughter into the men's restroom out of "me pee now!"* desperation, should you put the toilet seat back up when you're finished?

*No, my English hasn't quite degraded that much. It's poor K, who is, yes, thinking about considering to maybe potty train. I have never met a kid who wanted so badly to put her pee pee and poo poo in the potty like all the other big kids. The actual putting of things in the potty is a little harder to come by. It reminds me of when she was crawling, the fierce desire in her nature to perfect this one act, and the perseverance and willfulness that finally got it done. I'm sure this will be the same way, eventually. Just with a whole lot more laundry.

Not fretless, but fretting less

Okay, there was one other thing that struck me at church yesterday. We were singing "In Christ Alone," which includes the following lyrics:

"There in the ground His body lay
Light of the world by darkness slain."

The realization hit me so hard that I started to cry. We had most beautiful, sinless, loving person living among us, and we killed him. The worst of the world--the darkness--conquered even him.

After just admitting that I'm a fretter, I'm honest in saying that one of the things I worry about most is something bad happening to our family--either my husband, myself, or our kids. There are a lot of bad things out there, natural or man made, that could take us down so quickly. It seems like everywhere I look, something dangerous could be waiting. The world has a lot of nice things in it, but I find myself, in my fret, thinking it's not a particularly safe place.

But then the next two lyrics:

"Then bursting forth in glorious Day
Up from the grave He rose again."

Yes, the world took down even the Son of God. But He had to let that happen to show us what God can do. Conquered by death, conquered by the world itself, He rose from death. He shows us that no matter what happens, we can have hope in Him.

I don't mean to be all spiritual/preachy here. But I could not believe how much this one little stanza affected me. There is so much to worry about, and yet, in the end, no matter what happens, I know that there is something more. It doesn't stop the worrying, honestly, but it gives me something with which to fight it back.

Meek matters

We managed to make it to church for the first time in October, what with all the sickness and travels we've had lately. Since both kids happily attend their own classes, it's much easier to focus on the songs and sermons, which in turn brings me so much closer to God and what He can say to me.

Today, though, I felt especially drawn to the sermon. See, we're going through the Beatitudes, and today was my week: "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth" (Matthew 5:5). Although I'm often told that I'm not meek, or that people can't imagine it, or that it's all in my head, I listened to the pastor's ensuing description of meekness, including what was meant in context, nodding my head.

I thought, then, that the best part about this sermon would be that I would feel empowered, that someday my meekness (and the shame, disappointment, struggles, etc. that come with it) would be greatly rewarded. But I instead found myself caught on the corresponding passage from Psalms 37, which talks about the rewards of the meek, who struggle under the more powerful people of the world. It was this line that struck me: "Fret not yourself; it tends only to evil" (Psalms 37:8b). In fact, the admonition against fretting appears three times in this relatively short passage.

As a meek person, I get this. In fact, I found my mind wandering during the sermon back to the whole mom group fiasco, thinking again that I had botched it and wondering if there was any way, still, that I could make amends. I fret a lot. I fret about frettting. I think that for someone who is sensitive, feeling left out or unliked or socially awkward, this line of thinking begins naturally. I believe that's why God put it into this passage, because meek people need to realize not only that their true worth will be rewarded not according to the world but to heavenly standards, but that they therefore should not waste their time worrying, whether it follows naturally or not.

Then the pastor said something that eased, at least somewhat, my fretful mind: "Wherever you are, God will make things right." If you have botched something, God will make it right. If you have missed something, God will make it right. If you are meek, God will make it right.

I don't believe that God fixes things for us. But I do believe that He is always there for me to take my hand and lead me to the right place, the better place, the point where I need to be. And that, usually, is forward. Which is why I see fretting as so useless. The initial beatitude--"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth"--looks to the far future reward. 'Keep your eye on the prize,' as I sometimes say. But in the meantime, it keeps you looking forward, moving forward, and experiencing what life has to offer instead of spending too much time focused on what life did or didn't do. Sometimes I think that if I could only do that, it would be like inheriting the earth, one little joyful fret-less moment at a time.

California Waking

We're back from visiting family. It's not really a vacation, per se, but we did manage to see almost everyone we needed to see. There was much hugging, small talk, and kid-appreciation. Not to mention sitting, video watching, and fried food. We are from the midwest, after all.

I feel fortunate that in a trip that included an emergency landing (note to pilots: if you decide to make said landing after we in the cabin smell smoke, pleasepleaseplease tell us before you turn the plane and head us downward. Communication is good) and the stomach flu (not ours, thankfully), we made it through without a scratch. Most significantly, we discovered that our little babies have become, quite under our noses, little people. They walked everywhere, spoke to everyone (politely, too!), listened to instructions and managed to follow it, ate all their meals, slept in all those strange hotel beds, and generally acted accordingly without one measurable tantrum. I even caught M using his little airplane napkin for a coaster. His sister had already leaned back and fallen asleep, absolutely on her own.

We made plenty of happy memories too. M had his first go-kart ride, and he discovered popcorn shrimp. K showed her Baby Jordan all around the airport like a doting mother, and she pooped in the big girl potty for the first time (for a potentially potty-training parent, this equals happy). And we all got to sample Kansas City barbecue, which, in my opinion, has nothing on Memphis barbecue (what? You didn't know there were different types of barbecue? You poor, poor soul).

Best part? You guessed it: being back home. In California. With all that blue sky, palm trees, and warmishness. Sigh.

Today's Parenting Strategy: Non-parenting

Forty-five minutes into K's nap--a very quiet, uneventful forty-five minutes--she calls me into her room. Surprised, I go in to become even more surprised. She's still in her bed, but she's now surrounded by about twenty different books. Naptime clearly does not mean the same thing to her as it does to me. "This book scary," she says as she hands me Where the Wild Things Are. I'm sure there are a lot of things I probably could or should have said in this situation, but instead I took the book from her, laid it aside, and said, "Well, you don't need to read it." And then I walked out. I can blame this on busyness or hump day or pre-vacation distraction, but the truth is, sometimes I'd just rather avoid parenting.

Preparedishness

We are quick approaching a trip to visit family, which will take us to somewhere coldish. This means somewhere cold to us, but pretty much average to the rest of the country. In final preparations for this coldishness, I've discovered a few things:

1) Elsewhere in the country, people have already bothered buying fall clothes. I have not. This means that although M's 3T highwater jeans will be very handy in the event of rain, they are not warmish anymore.

2) K has no shoes she can wear with socks. She does have six different types of shoes not suitable for socks, as well as flip flops that match the rest of the family. I'm so glad to live somewhere where this oversight is still not noticed come mid-October.

3) I don't have shoes I can wear with socks either. That's a lie. I have one pair. They're very not waterproof, which won't help for the inevitable rain. I also have running shoes, which are one size too small after being through a wet cave in Belize and then heat-dried on a generator (I didn't have to give you that reason, but I wanted to. The memory makes me smile). This doesn't bother me since I don't actually run.

4) I also don't have any sweaters, at least none that still fit. Didn't actually wear sweaters last year. I'd buy a new sweater, but all the ones I find have rabbit hair or wool, both of which make me itch. Badly. I find it ironic that in a place where you can make it through a whole winter without wearing a sweater, the only sweaters you can buy contain wool. Isn't that overkill?

4) Target is a lot less interesting when you go there twice a day every day buying various things to prepare for the coldishness of a trip you aren't really excited about and will only take you away from a resurgence of California warmishness.

5) I like the words coldishness and warmishness. I just much, much prefer the actuality of warmishness. Living in California rocks.

The swine flu solution

I really like this helpful hint on preventing the dreaded swine flu:

"Keep your children at least 6 feet away from people who are sick, including anyone in your household who is sick." (Babycenter.com)

Right. I better get on that protective bubble. And a bigger house. A lot bigger. Because I'm not sure where these people live, but in my house, it's rare that you can get a few feet in between us, let alone six.

When gum paste goes wrong

So instead of just throwing out the little people from K's birthday cake, I stuck them in a block of Styrofoam so that K could keep them in her room. They now stand on their little block right across from her bed, smiling at her when she wakes up.

Except the other day we noticed that the block had been turned around and put back in place with the people facing the wall. We'd never seen her do it, and neither kid confessed. Not that it was a big deal. It was just a little creepy to find them all facing the wall like that. And although I know that one of them must have moved them, I'd feel a lot better if they told me so.

What was even creepier was to come in last night and find them turned around again. And still no confession. We're trying to be very nonchalant about it, but I'm absolutely stricken with the willies. Something about it reminds me of the beginning to a horror movie, you know, where the unsuspecting parents notice little unusual things, and the next thing they know, the gum paste people have come to life and are stabbing them with their toothpick skeletons.

It can't really surprise you that someone who fashions little people out of gum paste would have the imagination to bring them to life via poltergeist. Let's just hope it's all in my (gum paste addled) head.

C-5 planes, you've seen 'em all

Yesterday was the second annual trip to the Miramar Air Show. It went a lot like the first annual trip: much interest in seeing planes, no interest in going in them. This time it was K who was absolutely sure that they would be moving at some point. "No go in airplanes," she insisted. "Too high." "Um, they stay on the ground, sweetie." "No go in airplane. Too high for K-K!" And no, we didn't tell her that she would be going in a airplane in less than two weeks time. Why cross that bridge until it's burning underneath us?

We settled for lots of looking and walking and pointing at the planes that were indeed high, but purposefully and well-piloted so. Again: arrive early, leave early, and throw in a little Hawaiian barbecue for lunch.

B insists, upon reading this, that I must appreciate that M was willing to go inside the C-5 this year, something he absolutely refused before. You'd think after two trips to the air show, I'd know what a C-5 is by now. I think it was the massive plane they march the big brass band through. Let's be honest--they all look like airplanes to me. Sure, some are bigger than others, some are clearly more aerodynamic. But they all fly, right? At least, when they're not sitting around for our perusal. So as far as I'm concerned, in or out, high or grounded, C-5 or F-16, if we managed to make it through without tantrums, traffic, or personal injury, and still managed to have a pleasant lunch, I'd say we made the most of our Sunday.

Quote of the week

M: That looks just like a camera! Could you make a real camera out of waffle?
Me: If I could make a real camera out of waffle, I'd no longer be the dead weight around this family's neck.
M: Oh. Could I have some syrup, then?

I'm a little punchy in the mornings. But I make awesome waffles, and they often look remarkably like whatever oddball object the kids request. It kind of balances out.

Now, if we could just get them to *sleep*...

We've had a couple big changes in our house. A week and a half ago, we bought and set up a loft bed for M. The advantage being that it was a great deal on Craig's List, perfectly matched our existing furniture, and allowed us to use our existing double mattress. The disadvantage being that it's so darn tall. Well, that's a disadvantage to me, who is not so tall and happens to be afraid of heights. Yes, even changing the sheets on a loft bed. But M sees the loft bed as the greatest thing in the world, because it's big and high and his own personal space. It surprised me a little, his scampering up without hesitation, but it shouldn't. I sometimes forget that just because he's a lot like me, it doesn't mean that he's me. And even better--he's only fallen off once. Of course, he laid on the ground all still and frightening and I burst into tears, but we survived unscathed (physically, at least).

The second change came last Saturday, when K began sleeping in the big girl bed (which, funnily enough, looks just like the old big boy bed, but with a pink comforter). She absolutely LOVES it, and she's so cute all little and tucked in and giggly about being so grown up. She's never fallen out, but she has escaped a few times. Still, when we found they were playing in her crib the other day, we dismantled it for safety's sake and committed to the bed.

The thing is, I've had that crib up for four and a half years--the entire duration of what I consider our new life. We used to slide Duck and friends up and down its slanted sides. I used to use it for light exercise while M woke up from his nap, my sweet cat lounging nearby. There are teeth marks on the front rail from both kids. I've cleaned all sorts of unpleasantness from it, started and ended countless sleep cycles, lifted small bodies in and out in all levels of happy and sad, asleep and awake. That crib marked the beginning and end of nearly every day.

And now we finish prayers and give hugs and then the kids scurry off to their respective spots. I know it will become the new norm, just one of the many shifts we learn to accept in a life where the only constant seems to be change. But the first time it happened, B and I sat a little perplexed, as though we couldn't quite figure out what to do with ourselves.

Of course, we are still needed, always always. There are sheets to fix and water cups to fill and animals to rearrange. And most nights we have to rearrange K too, who despite being a big girl still manages to spin herself around the bed like a scooting baby and wind up with her feet on the pillow. I guess with every change there's a little catch-up time, no matter how ready (or not) you are.

P.S. I'm thrilled to find we solved the Bunk Bed Challenge in less than two months. What? That's not fast to you? Well, see, I get to deduct time lost to sleeplessness. Turns out I managed it in negative three days.