Month: October 2010 (Page 2 of 5)

Every time I change the sheets in H’s crib, I find an impressive display of long-launched binkies below the mattress.We keep a rotation of 3 different binks in special hiding places so that in the middle of the night, if one goes astray, we have a go-to backup. After we’re down to zero, the cleanup must resume and the clock restarts. This morning as I was re-sheeting I wondered if H actually attempts to challenge my bink-radar by stuffing them away as a trinket prize. The kid loves to give a round of applause for a job well done.

I’ve been feeling a bit as if H and God have been ganging up in this regard. Not so much in the details of where to hide a binky, but as if it can be a game… “what will she do now? How will she react?” I can’t speak for the developmental stages of deities, but I’m positive all toddlers eventually give it a go.

In this, I’ve been attempting to practice my patience-exemplifying skills, but I’ve come to the realization that I’m much too selfish for that. However, this morning at Journey we asked the question that God could be asking us… “what do you want?” (or, “what are you looking for?” depending on translation). The discussion walked the path of knowing that Jesus didn’t necessarily come to solve the problems of the general population in the ways they looked for it: overthrowing the Roman government, restoring the nation as it was in the “good ol’ days”, etc etc.

Honestly, I had a tough time even getting to the question. I realized that in our consumerist society, we’re constantly being asked that question and then sold a product that will supposedly quench the thirst. Hungry much? Eat a snickers. Want to look nicer? Buy these clothes. Sex appeal? Try this cologne/cigarette/beer/car. We’re bombarded with solutions to our problems.

On this eve of husband quite likely loosing his job I realize that I don’t want a solution. I don’t want someone to sell me a problem-solver. Because come again next month, or year, he’ll be looking for employment again. I’m simply not interested in a god that only deals in immediate gratification, the way that he has be sold in the past.

I can legitimize all the offered consolation prize remarks: at least we both have our PT role where I work (and can make far more money); he can sub; at least we’re not pregnant; it was an awful situation to begin with, so this is kind of like freedom… but if I’m honest, there’s a part of me (probably located in my thighs, where all bitterness resides) that thinks, “yeah, but these things are typically spoken by people who have had health insurance for longer than 3 months at a time.” People who know the amount in their paychecks from week to week.

I don’t need a solution-god to find immediate employment and I don’t want cliche remembrances of how good we really do have it, even if we are fortunate in our misfortune. What I need is the woman who hugs me as I cry in church. The friends who show frustration on our behalf. I want to be disappointed without fear of coloring God unfaithful. I want to feel validated that no matter how great the opportunity that could lie ahead, it sucks monkey balls to be cast out of your current situation. Even when the students are a nightmare and the admin is a trainwreck, something still hurts deep inside to see a good man work extremely hard to do a thankless job and still not catch a break.

If I were following Jesus down that dusty path and he turned and asked, “what do you want?” I’m not sure I’d have an answer. I don’t want my husband to keep his job. I don’t even want or expect perfection for this life. I guess what I want is a bit of patience. Love. Nothing trite, but rather freedom to simply be and feel.

Soraya arrived only 4 short years ago, forever changing the landscape of her extended family, from everything to how we eat out, to regularly conversing about poop and skin fungus, and strategizing how we all might sleep in the same house and hope for more than 3 hours rest. She now stands as the ringleader and head cart-pusher of my parents’ 5 grandbabies.

I can’t begin to fathom H being able to do all that she can do now – hold normal conversations (well, about fictional characters and the correct spanish word for “ear”), create giftcards, eat at a normal sized table and chair and comprehend the value of a good chocolate chip cookie. She has grown up so fast. Watch out, soon we’ll be buying bras, homecoming dresses and the correct accessories for a wedding gown. Well, “we” as in my sister, who will give me the play-by-play later. Then I’ll have a full 3 years to mentally prepare myself for the same ordeals with Miss M.

This morning I watched the video I made of all the pictures from the day Raya was born. I started thinking back on that time, what life was like, how it’s now different…

• I wasn’t a part of facebook. I had shared the video on my Xanga. (I know! What’s that?! Does it even still exist?)
• I was a newlywed. 
• We were still living in our little love shack on the hill. 
• Husband was a funeral director, I was a youth director. Together we directed the young and old. Together we lacked a lot of direction. 
• Husband wore a suit nearly every day. He now claims he doesn’t have a decent suit (and his best one has a hole in an inappropriate area. Don’t tell Dean – he wore it to be an usher in his wedding). 
• I rarely got dressed before 9. And by “dressed” I mean jeans and a hoodie. Well… somethings never change. 
• In the time since Raya was born, husband and I have each earned a masters degree. 
• I had not yet met my friend Sarah. 
• I’d never grown a garden. Which means I didn’t like tomatoes. 
• KLR had not yet met her husband. 

Oh, how time flies. And I’ve decided that the more kids you have, and the older they get (or you get… tomato, to-MAH-to), the faster it goes. So perhaps birthdays serve as a simple reminder that we must enjoy the moments as they pass or we’ll blink and our baby girl will be in preschool. Or college. 

Happy birthday, Raya Boo.

My recent posts tend to be quite heavy, like homemade bread that wasn’t given enough time to rise. Mmmm… bread. Perhaps a goal for the afternoon… But I digress. Which is the whole point of this post. Aimless digression.

You know you’re too old for the clothes in a store when your stroller won’t fit between the racks. However, these new Maurices jeans fit so wonderfully (and they’re a size SMALLER than my regular numbers) that I’ll be ramming my children into racks of sweaters very soon. And I decided that the best way to break in a new pair is to wear them every day for a week. Every. Single. Day. Take that, tight waistband.

Now you can wrap me up and call me thrifty. Those chickens I bought a few weeks ago from a local farmer? Grandma Marj was so good to prep it up and toss it in the oven for me that we enjoyed it last night. We have at least 2 more meals of chicken left (quesedillas tonight, maybe a wrap of sorts for lunch. And why is spell check telling me that quesedillas is spelled wrong but not offering any options to rectify the problem?). And now I smell the broth simmering on the stove thanks to a well-seasoned carcass. Aww, what? You don’t like knowing your broth comes from a carcass? Sorry. Spoiler alert. But I just bought some broth the other day and it’s ex-pennnn-sive, especially at the rate that this house goes through soups. We’ve got to pinch a penny where we can.

Speaking of lack of pennypenching, tomorrow evening our intentions are to go out and enjoy a good Japanese hibachi with a friend crossing the line of 30. I might even put on my “going out shirt.” We all know what jeans I’ll be wearing. Still debating on babysitters as the hibachi might just be entertaining enough for the little guy to sit through. But can one really enjoy an evening in a going out shirt with 2 children astride? Surely there’s a rule about that somewhere.

Finally, a note about my most recent success in the laundry department: homemade soap. Husband was a bit apprehensive (when he got a tough stain on his pants he demanded “real” laundry detergent), but after a brief mishap of leaving wet clothes in the washer a few er, days, too long, I ran a load with said Miracle Detergent and pulled out the rewash with a fresh, clean scent. I’ve noticed at times that “real detergent” doesn’t always offer the same success. Not that I frequently leave my laundry wet in the washer for days at a time or anything.

Ok, I can’t get that bread off my mind. I’ve got at least one sleeping so I think this could be an achievable goal for the day.