Payback

They thwarted my plans. I wanted us to get ready quickly and head out the door, but they wanted to play beauty shop. I’m always amazed at how quickly their little attention spans can get diverted, like a dog on a walk seeing a squirrel. I thought the instructions were clear enough–Go upstairs, and put on your shoes–but I realize now that I should have taped red arrows on the carpet leading up the stairs, into their bedrooms, and stopping at their closets.

But I didn’t. Instead, I buckled their sister in her car seat, and when I came back in the house to find that they were still upstairs, I knew the quest to find shoes had turned into another adventure.

I walked into my bathroom, and there Caleb was applying eyeshadow to his sister’s face, reminiscent of Tammy Faye. I ushered them downstairs, keeping my cool, and sent Caleb to the van where his sister was waiting.

And that’s how I found myself alone with Hannah Grace in the kitchen.

I had wet a paper towel and was doing my best to gently remove the pastel colors from her eyelids and cheeks, explaining to her again that little girls shouldn’t wear make-up. Hannah Grace countered with the natural follow-up question:

“When I grow up, will you be dead?”

I sighed as I swept the paper towel across her forehead. This was not the first time she had asked this question.

“I hope not, Hannah Grace. Only God knows when we’re going to die.”

And then she looked up at me and smiled her smile that makes her eyes twinkle.

“When I grow up, then I’ll take care of you!” she laughed.

I paused for a moment.

I thought of my thwarted plans and realized one day, in fact, it might be my turn to thwart plans. Yes, one day Hannah Grace would have to wipe off a too heavily applied rouge from my cheeks.

She would care for me, and it would be my turn to drive her crazy.

A slight smile formed on my lips as I finished cleaning up Hannah Grace. One day it would be my turn to pee on her kitchen floor. And that thought brought me great comfort.

Recognizing Full

Every night I sit down to dinner with my plate before me and I eat. If I liked the meal, I will get seconds. And I realize that I’ve trained myself to think I need more food than I really need–that I don’t even recognize what full feels like.

Every day I live my life the best I can; I play with my children, I clean the house, and I try my hardest to show my husband how much I love him. But every day I have thoughts that swim in my mind, showing me a future that’s a little better. The future when we’re out of debt, the future when the kids are a little older and slightly less crazy, the future when somehow Matt’s work/life balance is more manageable. And I realize that I’ve trained myself to think that the next stage will be a little better…I will feel full.

I fight this feeling because I know that I have everything I need right now to feel full. I’ve just stuffed my face so long with good things that I’ve stretched out my stomach, wanting to put one more bite in that will leave me feeling satisfied. Satisfaction is here. I have enough. I am full.

Linking up with the Gypsy Mama for her 5 Minute Friday where we write for 5 minutes straight without editing. I have to admit–I really want to cheat this week and edit this post, but I’ll stick to the rules.

Holden Caulfield and Me

It’s funny how a seemingly insignificant event can trigger memories that just won’t leave, memories that come back to visit over the course of weeks, perhaps months, with no particular reason why. For me, it all started with lemon pepper shrimp.

We first visited P.F. Chang’s when a cousin sent my mom coupons in the mail. One visit, and we were in love. Over the course of our marriage, Matt and I counted this restaurant as one of our favorites, and since it is located in front of the mall and movie theater, half of our dinner and a movie choice was always easy to make.

But while it was our favorite, we didn’t frequent the restaurant regularly. For a long stretch, date nights were rare, going out to eat an occasional treat, so when we did walk past the giant horse statues and pull open the large doors of P.F.Chang’s, I knew before we sat down what I would order for my meal: Lemon Pepper Shrimp

Who knew when I would get to come back, so why would I risk ordering a dish that I didn’t love, a dish that might sour my experience? I rarely deviated from my plan. In the spirit of compromise, I would agree to another dish if Matt and I wanted to share an entree, but nothing ever tasted as good as that shrimp.

And then we visited a few weeks ago. The hostess placed a menu in front of me with which I was not familiar. The layout was different. The prices were higher. And the shrimp was missing. I thought, perhaps, I overlooked my dish in the midst of new menu items and different fonts, but after inquiring, my fear was confirmed–no lemon pepper shrimp. In fact, all of the lemon dishes had been removed.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I sighed and hung my head low as I held onto that menu, searching for another dish that I’d even want to try. And a sadness crept into my belly.

I thought about that first dinner with a table full of food, sharing with my parents and sister, tasting a bite of Matt’s food, and the smiles and laughter on all of our faces. I thought about the celebratory meal Matt and I shared in our power suits, enjoying an early dinner on our way back from successful Air Force interviews. And I thought about our meal at the corner table with a new baby boy asleep in his car seat. I looked over the menu, the new look, and I thought to myself this isn’t the same place as it was then.

And then I thought of Holden Caulfield and the book I’ve read at least three or four times. Over the years, I’ve found so many truths from that depressed, rebellious boy in The Catcher in the Rye:

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. (Salinger, 121)

I understand him. I understand the comfort he found from that museum. And I understand that perhaps I disliked the Laser Show this year, not so much because they took out Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA,” but because it was different. After 25 years of nothing major being different except for me, the show had changed.

And after ten years of enjoying lemon pepper shrimp, I had to find a new favorite. But I really don’t want to. Perhaps I don’t like change–sure, I’ve moved across the country for a drastic career change and had my share of adventure–but there’s comfort in having those places in which to return that will always look the same, smell the same, taste the same. There’s comfort in knowing that I won’t be disappointed.

Maybe that’s why a different menu brought to mind so many memories. Maybe that’s why a different menu brought a tinge of sadness. I don’t want to be disappointed. I want comfort. (And, truthfully, I just really wanted that shrimp)

What My Parents Taught Me

It was late Sunday morning, and I took a break from packing and cleaning to meet Matt in the den. “Are we going to church?” We had planned to, but with the non-stop pace of vacation (is that an oxymoron?), we never made definitive plans. Matt whipped out the computer and began looking up local churches and church times.

And as Matt searched, I thought about my parents.

We never missed church. If we went on vacation, we found a church. If I had a gymnastics meet in another state, we’d catch up with the crew after Mass. There was never any question as to whether or not we would go–we always would.

One of the benefits of being Catholic was that we knew exactly where we were going and what to expect. We knew the dress code, the formalities, the length of the service; there weren’t any surprises. I can’t remember exactly what my feelings were toward church as a child–I’m sure I thought we should go–but I’m fairly certain I didn’t actually look forward to the idea of pausing vacation to go to Mass.

I did like noticing the differences between the church we were visiting and ours at home–whether or not the church was crowded or empty; if the church pews had cushions and if so, what color; from what country was the priest; did his homily have anything to do with the readings; and, if in the midst of tradition, the church had a relaxed feel or not. I would take in all these differences as we took the hand of the priest after Mass thanking him for letting us visit.

At that time, my parents didn’t understand that God desired an intimate relationship with them, but they did know that He was and is worthy of their awe and respect. I never had the sense that we were going to church to put a check in the box but because we should. God was God, and giving Him an hour of our lives every week to learn about Him was the right thing to do.

So that Sunday morning at the beach, Matt and I looked at all the church services we missed because they started at 10 a.m. (what happened to 11 a.m. being the church standard?). And then, doing something that my Catholic grandmother would have said didn’t count as church, we typed in the web address of a local church at home and watched their service live. We listened as the pastor taught that sometimes we don’t need a reason other than God. When He calls us to change jobs, adopt a child, move–whatever the call–we don’t always need to know why, just that God is God. And God can be trusted.

My parents knew part of that fact, and now they know His grace and the rest. And I am forever grateful for their example, an example that taught me that sometimes the questions are not necessary. Sometimes, we just need to take the time to do what’s right. Because God is God. And, really, that’s the only reasons we need.

I enjoyed our few days away, but it’s good to be home where we’re taking another ‘vacation’ day of lazily unpacking, a little writing while the kids watch T.V., and some relaxed cleaning. I’m linking up with Michelle and Jen today before we get back to business tomorrow!

Contrary to Popular Belief

Today I’m linking up with The Gypsy Mama for her ‘Five Minute Friday’–a chance to write for five minutes without editing or changing around my words. I’ll just write, and you should, too! Come play along!

The topic: Every day

GO:

Doctors will tell you that kids need a schedule. I know all about schedules–they’re how I survive. I cleaned better when I had a schedule, and I get more accomplished when every slot in my schedule is filled with a task or meeting that needs to be completed. But the last few weeks, I’ve proven the doctors wrong.

Contrary to popular belief, kids do not need a schedule, at least my kids.

Every day since summer started, I’ve heard a little boy crack open his door and sneak downstairs to catch a few minutes of Jake and the Never Land Pirates. Every day I’ve hit snooze on my alarm, got to reading my Bible a little later, writing blog posts and sometimes not finishing in one sitting, and so I’ve let my little man sneak down those stairs while I scurry to throw on a pair of shorts.

Every day we’ve eaten breakfast at an hour that would better serve brunch. Every day three little kids round the table in mis-matched outfits or wrinkled pajamas from the night before.

Every day we’ve thrown our schedule out the window. Shall we go to the gym? Sure! or maybe not today.

Every day is a surprise; every day is full of laughter; and these every days are perfect.

And I say schedules are very overrated.

STOP:

I could’ve kept going with that one! What about you? Do you typically operate better with a schedule as I, or are you a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of person? Have you ever found freedom or enjoyment in trying to operate the opposite of how you’re hard-wired?

The Stirring

I remember sitting in Spanish III, listening to the Army representative describe the most wonderful program I could imagine. They would take me to a school in Colorado, I believe, and I would learn another language. That would be my job–to become fluent–and every day under their instruction I would get closer and closer to that goal.

Looking around that room, I knew I wasn’t the only one who was excited. We all leaned forward in our chairs, smiles stretched across our faces; learning another language was exciting for this group of over-achievers.

Until someone asked the rather important question:

“But would we have to join the Army?”

“Yes, you would have to fulfill a commitment to the Army,” the young man explained.

We all groaned audibly, flung ourselves back in our seats, and the young man smiled, a smile showing his disappointment that the program he had described so beautifully, grabbing our interest, would not become a reality for anybody.

We weren’t going to join the Army; we were going to college.

Of course, no one ever really explained what joining the Army or any branch of the military would entail. In the community where I grew up, the military was reserved more for those who couldn’t get into college or for those rare few who participated in ROTC in high school.

I remember when the Marine ROTC program came to our school; I, actually, contemplated taking the classes, but I always found another course that I had to take instead, a reason ROTC wouldn’t work in my schedule.

So I never understood that the Army or any other branch of service was more was than the horrors of Basic Training I had seen in movies. I didn’t understand that not everyone would have to fire an M-16 at the enemy. I didn’t understand that I could still go to college and actually get money for college if I did ROTC at my university.

I was ignorant.

I did talk to a recruiter once, but I had no intention of joining the Army. I grabbed every bumper sticker and pamphlet from his table, put them all in a bag with the giant letters across it spelling ‘Army,’ and I convinced my friends I was going to join. My boyfriend whispered in fear, “If you join the Army, I’m going to have to break up with you,” and I remember thinking to myself You are so stupid. If I want to join the Army, I will whether or not you break up with me.

Of course, I was the stupid one as I continued to date him for another year and a half.

And I was the stupid one for having not sought out that hidden interest until a college degree had been under my belt for a few years.

But on days like the other day, as we celebrate as a community,

driving our old cars,

waving our American flags,

and remembering why we have gathered,

I find that familiar stirring again.

I don’t pray for my children to inherit the stirring, but if they have it, I will support them. And I will make sure that they understand.

Many, even within our own country, would like us to think that America is nothing special; we’re the same as any other country. I couldn’t disagree more. We have our periods in history that I wish we could go back and erase, but when I listen to the news and hear of the atrocities committed elsewhere, remember the reasons our young country was founded and the principles for which young men and woman continue to die in order to protect, I think we’re pretty darned special.

Special enough to catch the ears of some spoiled juniors in a Spanish III class.

Was joining the military presented as a realistic option to you growing up? Would you encourage your own children to join?

I’ll Never Trade

As my children take another step toward independence, I breathe a sigh of relief. I look back at pictures from just a year ago, and they each were noticeably chubbier, indelibly cute in their baby-like appearances, yet I can’t help but admit that I’d easily trade the cuteness for less craziness every day. I’d trade washing diapers for princess panties in a heartbeat, and I’d trade drawer and cabinet child-proof locks (which only seem to attract children) for the peace of mind that my new make-up will remain in its case or on my face.

But there are some things that I just can’t let go that easily….

His laugh. His most perfect laugh that starts in his belly and tickles him all the way up until he makes a sound of pure delight. I’ve never heard such a joyous noise, a sound that produces a smile on my own lips every time I hear it.

And their carefree spirits. Spirits that have them abandon their clothes before I have time to realize they’ve been summoned by the sprinkler watering the garden. Spirits that allow them to run through freezing water, screaming and laughing, compelling even me to run through a time or two fully-clothed.

And as I watch their play, I’m beginning to learn. I see my little girl, my child who wants to be in control, my child who causes me to pull out my hair every time she cuts her own, and I see that this spirit who compels her to cut hair and draw on walls and paint on carpet is the same spirit that allows her to run through fountains for hours without care for the coldness of water. A spirit that allows her to leap with abandon as screams and a never-ending smile come to her lips and water soaks her small body. A spirit that allows her to embrace life fully.

And, oh, how I hope she never trades that quality for anything.

I won’t miss tantrums and disobedience and time-outs and the knot in my stomach as the four of us venture out alone in public. But I know as they grow life will change; these times of craziness will become few and far between. But his laugh. Her spirit. Oh, how I pray I’ll never have to miss them.

What characteristics of your loved ones are the most charming? Have you ever had a moment of clarity when you realized the quality of your child or spouse that drives you crazy is the same one that makes him wonderful?

What They See

Sitting on the bleachers during a hot Saturday afternoon as the sun beams straight down on my head, or watching a group of five year olds from that same spot on a Wednesday evening as the sun hides her rays and permits a light breeze to tip-toe an appearance every now and again, I feel a dormant part of me wake up. I’m surprised at the butterflies dancing in the pit of my stomach, and I look down at the ragged nails giving up my secret to anyone who would happen to see.

I watch.

And I listen.

I watch the life-lessons that play out before me as little boys chase after a ball that’s rolled into the fence. Fair and unfair, good calls and bad; the ways games play out mirrors the ups and downs of life.

I listen to the cheers from parents celebrating a good hit, cries to Run! as growing feet round the bases. And I hear the shouts of disbelief exclaiming What are you doing?! to the six-year-old who sincerely does not know what he’s doing because, after all, he is only six.

I watch a coach who lets his frustration get the best of him, huffing and puffing, stamping his feet, yelling at a kid for a much longer time than it took to make the mistake. And I look as another coach brings one of his players aside at the end of the inning, teaching him what he did wrong and should do differently the next time.

I watch the faces who see the tantrums thrown by grown men when their little boys miss a play versus the self-control of their own father as he encourages number 21 with Good cut! even though number 21 plays for the other team. And I hope that even in their young age they notice the difference in character.

Because they do watch, and they do listen. I hope they see that hard work and discipline matter and that, more often than not, these qualities are rewarded, but they’re not always rewarded. I hope they hear how to model good sportsmanship with their words and see that how they play the game really is more important than who won the game. And I hope that they learn that now is the time to act like a child and not when they have one of their own. Because their children may learn more by what they see during Little League than by all the words their parents uttered at home.

Watching T-ball from the perspective of a parent, I was surprised to learn that I am not immune to the crazy feelings that can start to stir within during the course of a competitive game. However, I find it so important to quell those feelings and provide my children with a better example. How do you model good sportsmanship for the children around you? What other life-lessons have you learned from a sport?

My Ice Cream-Cold Heart

I’ve heard this story so many times that I’m not sure if the storage rooms in my weak memory are holding the details of the actual event or my father’s retelling. Nevertheless, I can picture myself perfectly in that bubblegum-pink shirt behind the Baskin Robbins counter as my parents walked through the door.

My dad walked up with a smile for his daughter working her first job, but before he had a chance to say anything, I laid out the rules for this lover of vanilla ice cream:

“I can’t give you any breaks, Dad.”

He hadn’t asked for a break, nor would he, yet I felt the need to make the policy of the owners of that little Baskin Robbins in Georgia known from the get-go.

But what kind of daughter doesn’t give her father a break, rounding out that ice cream cone with an extra-large scoop of vanilla?

Perhaps it was the influence of the ice cream-drill sergeant-owners. After all, they did have a scale on the counter so that we could measure our scoops. They did have a separate rate for their employees for that first week of training that was below minimum wage (although, in fairness, I got minimum wage for catching on so quickly). They did give me a surprise written test after I had been an employee for at least a month to ensure I knew the difference between a ‘float’ and a ‘soda’ and could list the ingredients in a ‘freeze,’ even though, had I forgotten, there were ingredient cards on the back counter.

And they did discourage us from taking our two free scoops each shift with their measuring stick and pay incentive. Yes, they actually measured the amount of ice cream left in the buckets versus the number of sales. If our profit margin lay within a certain amount, we would get an extra nickel per hour added to our hourly pay. If it were within the next level, a dime, and the next level a whole quarter! Obviously this kind of money really adds up when one works, at most, a four-hour shift, two to three days a week.

I was obviously thinking of my co-workers. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin the pay incentive by taking my free scoops. I didn’t want to deprive them of extra money for college by rounding out my dad’s ice cream cone. Think–they could buy an extra pillow for their futon by the end of the summer!

So before my dad even ordered, I told him ‘no.’ No, there would be no extra ice cream for him.

What kind of daughter does that to her own father? A daughter with a heart as cold as the Rocky Road she scoops.

And, yet, I went home every night with my chocolate-stained, bubblegum-pink shirt, proud that I rarely took my free scoops, and when I put in my two week’s notice, my boss’s voice cracked as he begged me to stay. Sure he wanted me to stay–think of all the nickels I saved him!

Now, as I relive that moment in my mind, I have to shake my head. What was wrong with me? Why didn’t I bring home a scoop of ice cream for my dad every shift I worked? Why didn’t I sit around the table with my mom while I told her about my day over a cup of ‘Quarterback Crunch’?

Because I was a rule-follower, an over-achiever, a goody-goody. Yet, I realize now that sometimes following the rules too closely is anything but good. When I look back over my life thus far, it’s not the rules that I broke that I regret the most.

It’s the ones that I didn’t.

Dad, you will get the biggest scoop of vanilla ice cream I can muster at Chloe’s birthday party this weekend.

What is a memory from your first job? Have you ever followed a rule that you wish you would have broken? Linking up with Mama Kat today. Come back with your own post for ‘Journeys’ tomorrow!

Rethinking My Thinking

It was 7:45 a.m., and I had already made three trips up and down the stairs. Little children, on a quest to find hidden Easter candy, would take turns sneaking downstairs while I was helping their brother or sister get ready for school. By the third time I pulled a toddler off the kitchen counter, my mood was wrecked for the day.

When is he going to install those baby gates?! If I can’t even change a diaper without a child climbing on top of the refrigerator, I certainly can’t do any tasks myself that would require power tools!

And with that thought I recalled every item on my husband’s ‘honey-do’ list. I began to organize the list into a book with chapters, and I wrote a mental preface explaining how hard my job as a stay-at-home mom to three crazies five and under was and how it was exponentially harder because my husband’s list had grown too long.

I know the power of thoughts. I can drive from 0 to 60 on the witch-mobile in two seconds flat.

So I really didn’t appreciate the sermon yesterday on Phillipians 4:8-9:

Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies. (The Message)

Think about the best not the worst? The beautiful not the ugly? Please! How can I not think about the four inches of hair my daughter clipped from her beautiful head?! And of course, if I think about that event, there’s no way I can stop myself from thinking about something on the ‘honey-do’ list that was the inevitable cause!

But then I realized that there was a time when I taught myself to think differently, to find thoughts full of praise instead of curses. For Lent, I decided to give up complaining about when Matt came home from work–and I didn’t plan on indulging in complaints once Easter arrived, either. I knew that my complaining was a sin, and every time I was tempted to do it, I wanted to remind myself that it was sins like this one that sent Jesus to the cross.

After all, Matt’s doing his job and providing for his family. He comes home right after work and can’t help it that he sits in traffic for an hour and half. We tried to move–it didn’t work–so now it was time for me to move on in my thoughts. I needed to provide a place of refuge in our home, not a storehouse for tension.

I don’t know if Matt noticed, but I learned to bite my tongue. And after biting my tongue enough times, I trained myself to not have the thoughts causing me to bite my tongue in the first place. I wasn’t perfect–I slipped right before Easter–but I saw how changing my overall thinking for 40 days changed my entire mood.

And I hate to admit it, but John Maxwell was right. In his sermon yesterday, he challenged us with the thought that “when we want to fix others, it’s normally we who need to be fixed.”

Ouch.

I don’t like thinking that way. I’d rather think about baby gates and cluttered attic spaces instead of the junk cluttering up my own mind.

The best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse.

But, perhaps, there just might be something to not thinking about the baby gates after all.

Linking up with Michelle

and Jen