Marriage According to a Four-Year-Old

As we were riding along in the van on Sunday afternoon, I lazily closed my eyes and rested my head on my hand. I wasn’t really comfortable, propping my elbow against the window, but it was the best improvisation for a pillow that I could make.

In the back of the van, Caleb and Hannah Grace were having their own conversation, and I was pleased with the relative quiet for a van filled with five people. I hadn’t heard what started the conversation that caused me to sit up abruptly, but as I caught that first sentence, I focused my attention on every word that came out of the mouths of the two in the back:

Caleb: “Hannah Grace, you’re going to grow up and marry a boy someday.”

Hannah Grace: “Which one?”

Caleb: “I don’t know. You’ll just have to pick one, I guess.”

Hannah Grace: “I want to marry Daddy.”

Caleb: “You can’t marry Daddy; he’s already married.”

Hannah Grace: “But I want to marry Daddy!”

And my heart melted. I’ve heard that all girls want to marry their daddies when they’re young, but when those words came out of my daughter’s mouth, I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face.

That is, until my son continued:

Caleb: “You can’t marry Daddy! He’s already married, and one day you’re going to grow up, and Daddy and Mommy are going to die, so you have to marry somebody else.”

?!?!

And after that description of marriage, my heart froze back over.

Joining Mama Kat today for her Writer’s Workshop!

And don’t forget to come back tomorrow with your own post ready to link up for this week’s journey on Peace!

New Year’s Eve 2010

A simple contentment filled our home as the kids reveled in the extra time with their daddy. Every night during his break was family game night, and, of course, we broke out the Wii on New Year’s Eve. Matt and I smiled across the room at one another as our four-year-old threw strikes and made every spare on a game we had less than a week while we were still trying to figure out our own techniques. Then we all made the haul upstairs, and we proceeded with the routine of getting three little ones in bed.

Of course because we had plans to enjoy our New Year’s Eve together, alone on the couch, watching a movie and munching on snacks, Chloe decided she wasn’t going to fall asleep. Repeated trips to her room, the cushion in her rocking chair worn, finally proved successful, and our toddler drifted to sleep around ten that night.

My plan to make hors d’oeuvres and cinnamon rolls from scratch to share on New Year’s morning didn’t seem that important anymore given the lateness of the evening, so we proceeded to the couch, ripping open a box of crackers. We popped in our movie and snuggled under blankets, our own tiredness hanging heavy on our eyelids. Yet we were awake enough to stop the DVD at quarter ’til midnight, grab two glasses and our sparkling cider, and find Dick Clark on the TV to help us count down the seconds until the New Year. At midnight, we gave each other the obligatory kiss and watched as confetti danced over Time Square.

We resumed our positions under the blankets and returned to our movie, the first half of it behind us. And when it was over, we put our glasses in the sink and headed up the stairs, the first time in 2011. And once again, we snuggled under blankets.

Looking back over the night, if New Year’s Eve is any indication of this coming year, I think we’ll be all right. After all, we just might stay awake for movies now.

Don’t forget to come back tomorrow and link up for the first installment of Journeys!

Simple

I used to think ‘simple’ and ‘easy’ were synonymous–that test was ‘simple,’ a back-handspring is ‘simple’ for a gymnast–but I realize now that to attain simple, hard is required.

I look at my life filled with gadgets and ‘stuff’ meant to make my life easier, and yet, it’s never been more complicated. On more than one occasion, I’ve felt stranded in my own home. The printer was out of ink, the Microcell meant to give enough signal so that I could make a phone call from my house wasn’t working, the Internet was out, or I had dropped and killed my cell phone for the third time.

I don’t know anyone’s phone number anymore because they’re all stored in my cell, and I rely on the Internet for every bit of information I want to uncover. I need the reminder to flash on my phone so that I know when to take my kids to their doctor appointments, and I feel strange calling on a neighbor for help because most of them work, immediately entering their garages upon arriving at home, insulating themselves from the outside world.

I watch my husband work and am amazed how easily he can e-mail or fax or schedule meetings or set up conference calls all with a phone and laptop, and yet I bemoan the fact that his customers and employers think that they can reach him at any time. Work hours are not confined to the time in a building anymore, and our family has to find a way to set our own boundaries.

Having a simple life is hard, and all the gadgets and gizmos meant to make life easier tend to just complicate it. I now realize that ‘simple’ is synonymous with ‘peace’ and want desperately to find it. I read Little House in the Big Woods and Farmer Boy with the kids, and I was impressed with the hard work they all do day in and day out, but every bit of their work has purpose and meaning, and they have peace.

They aren’t rendered helpless as I when a lightning storm knocks out the Internet, and they aren’t brainstorming ideas for quality family time. Their days aren’t filled with running back and forth to the school or deciding how many extra-curricular activities are too much. They work hard to survive, and at the end of the day, they sleep soundly.

Perhaps getting rid of some of the ‘necessities’ meant to make life easier is the key. Perhaps walking down the road filled with hard is the path to lead me to simple.

This post is linked to Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.

Getting My Hands Dirty

I’ve spent a day thinking about my past–the joys, the regrets, the disappointments, and the everyday–and I’ve pondered which day I would relive if I could. As a result, I’ve re-experienced too many different emotions today, and I’m left sitting in a funk. Nonetheless, I continued on with this writing prompt.

My first instinct was to go back to my wedding day and experience a day of perfection one more time. I’ve never been happier than that day, holding the hand of Matt as my long white veil and train followed behind wherever we’d go. The smile didn’t leave my face from the moment I walked down the aisle, through our vows and countless pictures, to the night when we danced and celebrated and drove off together to never go home to different houses again. But in the end, I decided to hold on to that beautiful memory and pick another day. After all, the two leads in that perfect day are still co-starring in this story, and I’d rather focus on living more perfect days together than reliving one that had already passed.

So naturally, my mind wandered to a day I’d like to erase. I couldn’t actually remember the exact day, but I decided I should go back to when I said ‘yes’ to dating a certain boy. I don’t have many regrets, but I regret that entire overly-dramatic relationship for the time I wasted in it, and if I could do anything over in life, I would’ve said ‘no’ and taken back that time. However, even though thinking about that relationship left me depressed, I’m certain that I learned from my mistakes and now have an experience that will one day help me parent my daughters better.

My mind wandered over a few more events in my life, from gymnastics competitions to days when I blew it with my kids, but I ultimately decided on a day when I was three or four. On this particular day in nursery school, I was supposed to finger paint. Most children have no problem sliding their hands throughout the paint, making beautiful creations with their little fingers, but I would not participate. I didn’t want to get my hands dirty. The kind teachers got me popsicle sticks to rub around in the paint instead.

And while I know that God created me as a unique individual, I can’t help but wish that I were a little less afraid to get my hands dirty. How many times did I hold back from splashing in puddles or rolling around in the mud as a kid? And how many carefree moments did I miss out on as an adult?

Cleanliness and order an even inhibition have their places, but so does letting go. And if I could go back to when I was that timid little girl in nursery school, I would laugh and squeal as I squeezed those different colors of paint through my fingers and down my wrists.

I don’t want to change my life–every experience has made me the person that I am today–but I wish I lived some days more fully. Consequently, I’m getting my daughter finger paints for Christmas.

Linking up late to Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.

The Confession

I had decided last week that I was going to start participating in the Writer’s Workshop on Thursdays that Mama Kat hosts, but as I read over the writing prompts for this week, I drew a blank. I couldn’t’ think of a story to go along with any of her prompts. A time I stood up for a friend–nothing! A time I didn’t follow my intuition–nope. A time I put off something until the last minute–I’ll think about that one later. I know I have a story to go with each of these prompts, but I also have a bad memory. The bad memory was winning.

Then there was the prompt ‘my confessions’–umm, no. I mean, I’m already pretty transparent on my blog. Everyone knows more or less about my parenting failures, those days I’m a less than stellar wife, and areas of my faith in which I’d like to improve. Shouldn’t I have a little privacy? Besides, I really don’t have any deep dark secrets. The Jennifer V. Davis who blogs is essentially the same woman whether or not she’s typing on the computer.

And then I had a dream, a dream where I had to come face-to-face with the truth, a dream where I had to fess up.

In my dream, I was Jack Bauer’s wife. Not Kiefer Sutherland’s, but Jack Bauer, the character he played on 24. I was madly in love with him in my dream, but to complicate things, I was one of three wives. Even more awkward than being one of three was being one of three with a woman who attends the same church small group as I.

But I was his favorite, and he showed me his love by letting me share his bed. In my dream, ‘sharing a bed’ was not a euphemism for sex; I literally got to share the bed with Jack. The woman from small group slept on a mattress on the floor of the room, and the third nameless wife slept in the den.

I wasn’t comfortable in my status, however, and for a majority of the dream, I dealt with my insecurities, keeping my eye on Jack’s other two wives who were vying for my top position. But Jack assured me with his crooked smile that I was his Rachel, the other girls, Leah.*

When I woke up from this stupid dream, I immediately thought, “Why in the heck am I dreaming about Jack Bauer?” Part of the dream I can explain: The previous week at small group, the sister of the woman in my dream made some comment about the TV show Sister Wives of which I was not familiar and still have no intention of viewing, especially if the show will cause me to dream about being in a polygamous relationship.

But that fact doesn’t explain why I was married to Jack Bauer, and if I’m going to confess everything, why I have dreamed about him once (okay, twice) before. Or why each time I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. I didn’t even realize it at the time, but I have to face the facts. I have to confess: I have a huge crush on Jack Bauer.

I never realized my feelings. I’m not a fan of Kiefer Sutherland, and in all honesty, I was happy when 24 finally ended–I could have my Mondays back. But, obviously, Jack means more to me than even I knew.

Maybe the dreams aren’t about Jack. Maybe they represent the time that my husband and I spent together for the last seven seasons as we shared each ridiculously unbelievable episode together. They represent our weekly dates on the couch as we watched with bated breath to see how Jack would save the day again. They represent something we enjoyed as a couple, and I’m a little sad that the tradition has ended.

Or maybe I just have a huge crush on Jack Bauer.

Perhaps Matt could yell, “Jennifer, Get out of the car! GET OUT OF THE CAR!!” and take care of my longings.

*In Genesis 29 of the Bible, Jacob promises to work for seven years for Laban if he could marry Laban’s beautiful daughter Rachel. After seven years, Laban tricks Jacob and sneaks Leah, his firstborn, into Jacob’s tent on the wedding night. Jacob works another seven years in order to get Rachel, his true love.

The Hair Disaster

A few days ago I was faced with an ethical dilemma. A few days ago I sat down to write a letter of recommendation for my sister to enter a cosmetology school’s hair design program, and that still, small voice of my conscience asked this question: Is witholding information lying?

Typically, I am a patient person. Typically, I am under control. Until having three children in three years, typically, I never lost my temper. Well, almost never….

I had just graduated college and secured a job as a teacher at a local high school and was anxious to get started. The following day, the English department was hosting a cookout, and all of the new teachers were invited. I wanted to look responsible and professional since, at the ripe age of 22, I looked more like a student than the teachers. And even though we were only meeting for a cookout, this cookout would be the first time I had met most of the teachers who would be my colleagues, and I wanted to make a good first impression. Why I decided I needed to dye my hair for this occasion, I do not remember, and why I thought having my sister do it was a good idea, I will never know.

I should’ve pulled the plug on the operation when my sister whipped out a box that clearly said ‘black’ on it. I should’ve trusted my instincts, but for some strange reason, I put faith in the person who had a recent interest in cosmetology and not yet a license. I believed the claim that if we only let the dye sit on my head for five minutes, the color would look dark brown, not black. Even if I allowed the dye to sit on my head, I should’ve pulled the plug when I felt my sister massage my temples and my forehead and not my hair.

When the five minutes were up, I ran to my shower to rinse out the dye. As soon as the water hit my head, I noticed the black liquid running down my legs and down the drain, but I had faith. After all, if I couldn’t trust my sister, whom could I trust? I scrubbed and scrubbed shampoo throughout my hair until the water had begun to run clear, and then I got out of the shower.

As I wrapped the towel around my body, I noticed a problem–a big problem–in the mirror. I had a ring of black around my forehead, and my left cheek had at least a quarter-sized dye mark. On my cheek! I frantically grabbed the soap and started scrubbing my face but to no avail. She had dyed my freakin’ face! And while I was scrubbing my face, I couldn’t help but notice that my hair looked pretty darned dark.

I whipped out that hair dryer and prayed that the heat would reveal a different product. I prayed and prayed that as my hair dried it would turn into the dark brown that I wanted. Blue-black, everyone. That was the color of my hair. Have you ever seen a beautiful Asian woman with long, luscious locks flowing down her back, hair so dark that it looks like indigo ink? Yeah, that’s what color hair I had, except I’m not Asian, and my locks didn’t look quite so beautiful. I looked more like Wednesday Addams.

And now I know that out-of-body experiences are possible. I ran out of the bathroom in a state of absolute fury. Typically, I don’t yell. I yelled. Typically, I don’t curse. I cursed. Words left my mouth that I didn’t even know I knew. I couldn’t stop them; I wasn’t even thinking them, and they came out. They came out all over my sister and my grandmother and her friend who were visiting. The two older ladies decided to run to the staircase where the show was happening. The show where I cursed and I kicked and I punched. Not my proudest moment, but then again, I wasn’t in my body, so I couldn’t be held accountable.

After eight more hair washings and numerous applications of cold cream to my face, I went to meet the English department the next day with blue-black hair and a giant scab on my cheek from where I actually scrubbed off my skin.

I didn’t include any of this information in my sister’s letter of recommendation. I figure, she was probably just getting me back for all the times I tattled on her.

*This post published with my sister’s permission who, since this incident, has many times dyed my hair perfectly.

I’m linking this post for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. Click on over for other hair disasters and responses to her weekly writing prompts.