We make it to church frequently enough that the pastor knows our names--most Sundays--and R.J. knows his church manners. Asked before we leave, "What are you going to do in church?" he responds, "I gonna pway, and I gonna be quiet."
Actions speak louder than words. It was one of those Sundays. R.J. smelled this morning. Not in that cute little toddler boy way that makes a mother smile fondly and think about Johnson's baby soap. In that wet dog played in the rain and pooped itself before breakfast kind of way. Stink.
Lately, R.J. has decided he'll shower with me in the mornings. Someday this will be weird. Well, weird for him. It's already weird for me to shower with a three-foot tall man who talks about hot wheels and curiously inquires as to whether my boom-boom is stinky. I digress. This morning I decided he would shower with me. Note the change in subject. Mommy made the decision, not R.J. This was apparently the end of his world. He screamed. He hit. He scratched. And neither of us felt that cleanliness was anywhere near Godliness when we were done.
Against all odds, we made it to church on time. Church is right up R.J.'s alley. He greets people. He watches other little ones. He prays like his 'Sisa has taught him. He dances. Most days, when we get to church, we are relieved, and that peace that surpasses all human understanding does in fact set in.
R.J. wasn't bad today. He went potty. And told me about it. During the sermon. During the readings, he asked, "What's that?" while stretching the neck of my shirt two feet in front of me and reaching in with his other hand. (I nursed the kid WAY too long; we'll leave it at that).
Today was communion Sunday. The bread and wine. Just before we walked to the altar, R.J. reached into his backpack and pulled out...What is that?! A loaf of moldy bread. Furry. Like a tennis ball. For the ducks at one point, but even ducks won't eat a stinky tennis ball.
Why do they always find these things in church? And it's not like I can just jam it deep inside the bag. He wants to know what it is. And why it's there. And what we're going to do with it now.
I don't know what the sermon was about. I don't remember the readings. I do know the church bathroom has an automated soap dispenser that is endlessly entertaining. But, the peace that surpasses human understanding did come, and that is why when next Sunday comes, R.J. will tell you, "I pway, and I be quiet."
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
This One is Just Right
I am a mama bear. I know this for certain. I growl when anyone dares to hurt my cub (even though he's a biter himself). I have the softest pillows and the snuggliest blankets, with the exception of perhaps, Blankie. But, Blankie is an entity unto itself (himself, herself?).
I try to keep a nice house. Pretty things. Curtains that match the carpets that match the furniture that matches the towels, hand soaps, and dishrags. I have a rule: we do not have motion furniture in the house. It makes me nervous. It moves. Willingly. Furniture should not voluntarily disjoint itself only to recover hours later. It provides dangerous opportunities for smashed fingers and pinched kitty tails. And, most of the time, it's just ugly.
But.
We have a new addition. It's brown and cuddly. It's comforting. R.J. likes it, and I do too. A recliner in my living room?! How did this happen? (discount website, quality furniture, the rest is history--I can't resist a good bargain). The recliner isn't ugly. It's leather with nail head trim. It matches the carpet that matches the drapes that match the dishrags. It does make me nervous. It moves. And Boo and Ben are determined to have pinched tails.
Mama Bear is, however, content. Because, the circle is complete. [Our living room is a testament to only children: three chairs, all in a row, not one touching the other.]. Mama Bear's chair is light green with graceful lines. It is the perfect size to rock a toddler to sleep. Baby Bear has a chair too. (note: when in doubt, always buy the dark colored toddler furniture. I didn't. It shows everything). And now, Papa Bear has a recliner. And, we have decided, that this is just right.
I try to keep a nice house. Pretty things. Curtains that match the carpets that match the furniture that matches the towels, hand soaps, and dishrags. I have a rule: we do not have motion furniture in the house. It makes me nervous. It moves. Willingly. Furniture should not voluntarily disjoint itself only to recover hours later. It provides dangerous opportunities for smashed fingers and pinched kitty tails. And, most of the time, it's just ugly.
But.
We have a new addition. It's brown and cuddly. It's comforting. R.J. likes it, and I do too. A recliner in my living room?! How did this happen? (discount website, quality furniture, the rest is history--I can't resist a good bargain). The recliner isn't ugly. It's leather with nail head trim. It matches the carpet that matches the drapes that match the dishrags. It does make me nervous. It moves. And Boo and Ben are determined to have pinched tails.
Mama Bear is, however, content. Because, the circle is complete. [Our living room is a testament to only children: three chairs, all in a row, not one touching the other.]. Mama Bear's chair is light green with graceful lines. It is the perfect size to rock a toddler to sleep. Baby Bear has a chair too. (note: when in doubt, always buy the dark colored toddler furniture. I didn't. It shows everything). And now, Papa Bear has a recliner. And, we have decided, that this is just right.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
A Radiator on the Table?
We received notice of a key witness's declining health today. To say his health is declining is to say that the Mississippi River is a babbling brook. This man is dying. It's an ugly death, and even in litigation, I am human. And I grieve for his family. I grieve because my memories of my grandpa are marred by cancer's grip.
My grandpa was small--even to an eight-year old girl. He wore uniforms to work, with his name on some of them. I am mindful of this each time I interact with anyone who wears a uniform with his name on it. His hair was long-ish; he kept it that way to help keep his hats on (or so he claimed to us grandkids). His ball caps were handmade--by him. When he died, one of the most hotly claimed heirlooms was his hat making machine.
His fingernails were dirty, and he drank quarts of beer leaning back precariously in his aluminum-framed chair. One of my favorite pictures shows him leaning back in his chair, a radiator on the table (yes, really), and a smile on his face. Salads were served in Tupperware, and we used paper towels for napkins. Simple life. Easy joy.
I didn't know him well. I know his mealtime prayer: "Good bread, good meat, good God, let's eat!" I know he meant it all. He appreciated good bread and good meat; he loved to grocery shop--a fact noticed by his fellow shoppers. Fried bologna and popcorn made in a skillet. He appreciated the gifts God had given him in his too short life. He appreciated pretty: on sack sale day at the thrift stores, we'd gather around the dining room table to ooh and ahh over upholstery fabric he'd found--15 yards for a dollar. By the next week, the lawn furniture would have new covers--and so would the couch and a few footstools.
He had a sense of humor, though most of his jokes I've learned as an adult. He would have loved R.J. My little gassy one lives by his great grandpa's edict: "better out than in!"
There was art in his soul. He made stained glass windows. And lamps. As kids, my cousin and I would lay in the living room floor and try to find the skirted figures hiding abstractly in the front door glass.
Death was ugly. And it wasn't nearly quick enough--or so I understand. I was eight. And I don't remember much. I remember enough. And those memories are more than enough to make me remember my promise to work as a Christian lawyer. So tonight, I will pray for a witness's family. For peace. For acceptance. For memories.
My grandpa was small--even to an eight-year old girl. He wore uniforms to work, with his name on some of them. I am mindful of this each time I interact with anyone who wears a uniform with his name on it. His hair was long-ish; he kept it that way to help keep his hats on (or so he claimed to us grandkids). His ball caps were handmade--by him. When he died, one of the most hotly claimed heirlooms was his hat making machine.
His fingernails were dirty, and he drank quarts of beer leaning back precariously in his aluminum-framed chair. One of my favorite pictures shows him leaning back in his chair, a radiator on the table (yes, really), and a smile on his face. Salads were served in Tupperware, and we used paper towels for napkins. Simple life. Easy joy.
I didn't know him well. I know his mealtime prayer: "Good bread, good meat, good God, let's eat!" I know he meant it all. He appreciated good bread and good meat; he loved to grocery shop--a fact noticed by his fellow shoppers. Fried bologna and popcorn made in a skillet. He appreciated the gifts God had given him in his too short life. He appreciated pretty: on sack sale day at the thrift stores, we'd gather around the dining room table to ooh and ahh over upholstery fabric he'd found--15 yards for a dollar. By the next week, the lawn furniture would have new covers--and so would the couch and a few footstools.
He had a sense of humor, though most of his jokes I've learned as an adult. He would have loved R.J. My little gassy one lives by his great grandpa's edict: "better out than in!"
There was art in his soul. He made stained glass windows. And lamps. As kids, my cousin and I would lay in the living room floor and try to find the skirted figures hiding abstractly in the front door glass.
Death was ugly. And it wasn't nearly quick enough--or so I understand. I was eight. And I don't remember much. I remember enough. And those memories are more than enough to make me remember my promise to work as a Christian lawyer. So tonight, I will pray for a witness's family. For peace. For acceptance. For memories.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Candy Hearts and Cuteness Everywhere
It's Valentine's Day. Candy hearts, cards, flowers, cuteness everywhere. And, because it's Valentine's Day, I'm reflecting on my new definition of love. It is not candy hearts, cards, flowers, and cuteness everywhere.
Yesterday, R.J. tested me. And retested. He snuggled with me in bed for a nap. He sang. He clapped. He wrapped his entire body around my head. He put his knee in my face. He flipped. And flopped. He did not sleep. After an hour and a half, I snapped. I sent him to the kitchen to play with his grandma. He didn't go--at least not without mommy.
He fussed about lunch: "I don't like noodles a lot," he told us. This from the child who subsists on pasta.
We went back for the nap. Another 40 minutes. Finally, sleep. He is cuteness when he is sleeping. Unfortunately for me, the cuteness was short lived. He was up in half an hour. We packed our bags, and we made the drive home. He's a talker. Not just a talker--a talker who is genetically related to the Cartwrights. He does not stop. He talked about every. single. truck. He talked about every. single. song.
By the time we arrived home, I was done. Finished. Silence is not golden. It is platinum. With diamonds.
At night, R.J. winds down. He wants Mommy. "I love you," he starts off the nightly routine. "I love you too," I say. "I love Mommy," he clarifies. "And I love R.J.," I clarify right back. This goes on until finally, when he's had enough, he tells me, "Ok, you love me."
And I do. Love isn't candy hearts, cards, and cuteness everyone. It is the patience that only a mother's heart can hold. It is slobber toddler kisses and nose rubs. It is my R.J.
Yesterday, R.J. tested me. And retested. He snuggled with me in bed for a nap. He sang. He clapped. He wrapped his entire body around my head. He put his knee in my face. He flipped. And flopped. He did not sleep. After an hour and a half, I snapped. I sent him to the kitchen to play with his grandma. He didn't go--at least not without mommy.
He fussed about lunch: "I don't like noodles a lot," he told us. This from the child who subsists on pasta.
We went back for the nap. Another 40 minutes. Finally, sleep. He is cuteness when he is sleeping. Unfortunately for me, the cuteness was short lived. He was up in half an hour. We packed our bags, and we made the drive home. He's a talker. Not just a talker--a talker who is genetically related to the Cartwrights. He does not stop. He talked about every. single. truck. He talked about every. single. song.
By the time we arrived home, I was done. Finished. Silence is not golden. It is platinum. With diamonds.
At night, R.J. winds down. He wants Mommy. "I love you," he starts off the nightly routine. "I love you too," I say. "I love Mommy," he clarifies. "And I love R.J.," I clarify right back. This goes on until finally, when he's had enough, he tells me, "Ok, you love me."
And I do. Love isn't candy hearts, cards, and cuteness everyone. It is the patience that only a mother's heart can hold. It is slobber toddler kisses and nose rubs. It is my R.J.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Snow Day?!
Snow Day!!!! I remember listening to KLOR anxiously awaiting school closings. Snow days were just different. The air smelled crispier; my blankets were warmer; I had time to sit on top of the heat vent and read all morning--something that usually earned me the wrath of my mom who was desperately trying to keep me out of the "when you're late, you're late" club. [Members of the club would meet at the donut shop near school with their moms. After all, "when you're late, you're late, might as well enjoy the morning a little bit." I hope I remember to let R.J. be a member of the club someday too].
Snow Day???? Again!? Day one was fun. We painted. And we built a snowman. I cooked. I napped. I tried to work, but the whole city has been shut down. I read stories to R.J. We snuggled and rocked. (remind me again why I hate snow days?)
Has the living room always been this crowded? Why did we get such a big coffee table? My skin itches--is the heater set on 80? Can someone puh-lease get the cat off the table?! Have you ever really looked, I mean looked at how much dirt accumulates on top of the refrigerator? Snow Day Two.
Day three. R.J. stumbles out of bed: "It snowing!" he exclaims. "Nooooooo," I groan and bury my head. Perhaps I can hibernate through this. Bears have this figured out. Eat through the holidays; really pack on those pounds; then, when the first snow day hits, dig in, hit the snooze button, and wake me up when it's spring. I'll be bikini ready and lookin' for fun.
Unfortunately, the only bear in our house is named Cuddles, and R.J. wakes him up first thing: "Cuddles, you wake?" Cuddles has yet to shed those holiday pounds.
The weathermen predict another 6 to 8 inches tomorrow. The family truckster sits roughly 6 inches off the ground; I expect we'll miss gymnastics again. (R.J.'s third week to miss in a row--he'll be devastated).
I've had a break. I didn't hibernate. The family truckster slip-slided into downtown a few times last week. So, bring on the snow day. It's time to sit on the heat vent and dig into a new book (note to self, must make it to the library tonight).
Snow Day???? Again!? Day one was fun. We painted. And we built a snowman. I cooked. I napped. I tried to work, but the whole city has been shut down. I read stories to R.J. We snuggled and rocked. (remind me again why I hate snow days?)
Has the living room always been this crowded? Why did we get such a big coffee table? My skin itches--is the heater set on 80? Can someone puh-lease get the cat off the table?! Have you ever really looked, I mean looked at how much dirt accumulates on top of the refrigerator? Snow Day Two.
Day three. R.J. stumbles out of bed: "It snowing!" he exclaims. "Nooooooo," I groan and bury my head. Perhaps I can hibernate through this. Bears have this figured out. Eat through the holidays; really pack on those pounds; then, when the first snow day hits, dig in, hit the snooze button, and wake me up when it's spring. I'll be bikini ready and lookin' for fun.
Unfortunately, the only bear in our house is named Cuddles, and R.J. wakes him up first thing: "Cuddles, you wake?" Cuddles has yet to shed those holiday pounds.
The weathermen predict another 6 to 8 inches tomorrow. The family truckster sits roughly 6 inches off the ground; I expect we'll miss gymnastics again. (R.J.'s third week to miss in a row--he'll be devastated).
I've had a break. I didn't hibernate. The family truckster slip-slided into downtown a few times last week. So, bring on the snow day. It's time to sit on the heat vent and dig into a new book (note to self, must make it to the library tonight).
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Out on the Town
To say I'm not a party girl is an understatement. When I was in high school, I would sit in my mom's bedroom floor and cry because I was home on a Friday night while others were out having so much more fun. I love my mom; I love talking with her and trying on her clothes. We read passages from books and magazines aloud, and my favorite place in the world is at the kitchen table while she cooks. But, on Friday nights, I forgot that. I wanted to be "out."
I literally did not have a sip of wine (other than the communion stuff) until I was 21. I didn't go to parties. I "rebelled" when I was 22 and working on a master's degree. I went to Florida with my boyfriend (now husband). I didn't drink, and I didn't go crazy. I did buy and wear my first bikini (peer pressure). I came home tattoo free. I watched other girls share a bucket--yes a real bucket--of cheap margarita. I was grossed out--the germs!!!!!
I went to Vegas with my two best friends. Nothing happened that needs to stay in Vegas. I scrapbooked the entire trip.
I tried. I would go to clubs with my friends. I found myself awkwardly rejecting offers to dance and other advances. When other girls wore strapless mini-dresses and stiletto heels, I wore pedal pushers with ballet flats.
I am a nerd. A geek. A homebody.
Last Saturday, it was 75 degrees (as I write it is below zero and a blizzard rages, but I digress). We took R.J. to Bass Pro Shop to find a beach ball. He loves a good beach ball--just the right size, and he can kick it straight at the mantle with no risk to mommy's glassware. We ate cheap Italian food--cheese pizza and pasta with red sauce. Toddler fare. R.J. drove the boats at Bass Pro. We stopped and waved at people riding in horse drawn carriages in Bricktown. I wore jeans and a fleece jacket. When I passed girls my age going out to the steakhouse in their finest satin mini-dresses or girls (old and young) giggling in a herd headed to the clubs, I reached down and ruffled R.J.'s shag. He needs a haircut-always.
Next weekend, I'll find myself at my parents' kitchen table with R.J. at my side. I won't cry. I won't want to be "out." I will be content and know that I have found my place.
I literally did not have a sip of wine (other than the communion stuff) until I was 21. I didn't go to parties. I "rebelled" when I was 22 and working on a master's degree. I went to Florida with my boyfriend (now husband). I didn't drink, and I didn't go crazy. I did buy and wear my first bikini (peer pressure). I came home tattoo free. I watched other girls share a bucket--yes a real bucket--of cheap margarita. I was grossed out--the germs!!!!!
I went to Vegas with my two best friends. Nothing happened that needs to stay in Vegas. I scrapbooked the entire trip.
I tried. I would go to clubs with my friends. I found myself awkwardly rejecting offers to dance and other advances. When other girls wore strapless mini-dresses and stiletto heels, I wore pedal pushers with ballet flats.
I am a nerd. A geek. A homebody.
Last Saturday, it was 75 degrees (as I write it is below zero and a blizzard rages, but I digress). We took R.J. to Bass Pro Shop to find a beach ball. He loves a good beach ball--just the right size, and he can kick it straight at the mantle with no risk to mommy's glassware. We ate cheap Italian food--cheese pizza and pasta with red sauce. Toddler fare. R.J. drove the boats at Bass Pro. We stopped and waved at people riding in horse drawn carriages in Bricktown. I wore jeans and a fleece jacket. When I passed girls my age going out to the steakhouse in their finest satin mini-dresses or girls (old and young) giggling in a herd headed to the clubs, I reached down and ruffled R.J.'s shag. He needs a haircut-always.
Next weekend, I'll find myself at my parents' kitchen table with R.J. at my side. I won't cry. I won't want to be "out." I will be content and know that I have found my place.
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