Sick children are just so much fun

Aren’t they? Bee (7) is home with the flu, and she is unbelievably cantankerous.  She’s even tried to pick fights with everyone. It is simultaneously funny and enervating. It’s hard, because I genuinely feel bad for her, she has a fever and doesn’t feel well. But then there are moments like last night when we had to give her medicine. It was as if we were going to do an amputation with no anaesthetic. And we pulled out ALL the tricks, including a spoon-full of cinnamon sugar after the medicine. Still, some of it ended up on her neck, the floor and her shirt. Nice.

It makes me wonder how people with a passel of kids deal with this. I remember I used to read a blog of a mom with seven or eight kids, and they were incessantly ill. I guess those parents must develop parenting limbs that we don’t have to. Get well soon Bee!

Moving as a way of life

I live in a house that was once occupied by my husband, his former wife and their two children. I made the choice to live here with my eyes wide open, knowing it would be wierd & probably a little uncomfortable, but “worth it.” The kids experienced so much transition last year. I mean, imagine finding out your Mom is gay, your dad gets remarried, you get a step-mom, all of that. I figured anything we could keep constant would be good. Their address(es) and school were two areas where nothing changed last year.

But it has been REALLY wierd and uncomfortable for me to live here. In spite of “redecorating” three rooms (our bedroom, office and the dining room), I am not at home here. First of all, my husband’s ex-wife still owns half of the house. Ick, right? Then, there is the intensely creepy thought that she and he had sex in what is now my bedroom. That is just ICKY to think about. I thought maybe that by living here I could take the edge off of those realities, but that has not been the case. Add that to the fact that I freaking hate living in the SoCal burbs, and I’m ready to move. Again.

But damn. I have lived in nine homes since I was 24 (I’m 36 now). That number only includes places I lived for six months or more. If you added in all the “interim” places I stayed or visited (from between 3 weeks to 4 months) that number goes up to fourteen. Moving is practically a way of life for me. And those nine homes since 24 include two that were in Africa and South America. Packing and unpacking. . .although I dislike it as much as the next person, I have done it so much that it is nearly second nature.

But I’ve never moved “en famille.” I hope it’s not worse than normal moving. We are hopefully putting the house up for sale this spring. We are also praying that the housing market around here stays somewhat afloat. I just can’t believe after making this big move in June from my fabulous Eagle Rock digs out to the burbs, I’m gonna do it all over again. I don’t know what we’ll be able to afford or find, but it looks like moving again is in the cards. Pray for me, k?

Of Blogs and Bibles

Today I had a grumpy morning with the children. They were just being children – fussing about how much cinnamon and sugar goes on toast, clothing options, etc.

Sometimes we’re all, children and adult, just contrary. Well. To a degree. I guess none of us adults has thrown a complete crying, screaming fit because we couldn’t wear a striped shirt. Then again, probably very few adults have their wardrobe choices curtailed by an unimaginative dress code, either.

But I wasn’t feeling resilient this morning. I hadn’t had my tea. I just wanted to wake up and have normal conversations with everyone. No “discussions.” So, after a few minutes of testy discussions, I took my tea and went to my google reader to see what the blogs were up to. I was so happy, because my favorite blogger had a new post, and she hasn’t been posting much lately. I read it. It was nice. I read a few other posts here and there. Then, my google reader was empty.

I closed the browser and sighed. I said to my blank screen, “can’t you satisfy me?” I actually laughed out loud after I said that. I realized I was using blogs to distract me from how I was feeling. I knew I needed input from somewhere. I intuitively knew that I wanted some satisfaction from words. But I was looking to the wrong words. My little daisy Bible was sitting on the desk next to my monitor. I picked it up and read this week’s lectionary readings.

The Gospel reading is from the first chapter of John. John the Baptist says (v.29), “Look the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” Right there I was hooked again. The Bible for me is like a dynamic, strange, endlessly fascinating, illuminating conversation with the most interesting person I’ve ever known. Today, when I read that, my mind went immediately to that oft-repeated phrase – that Jesus somehow takes away sins. I find that thought so interesting and so strange. What does it mean exactly? I know the traditional, orthodox answer, which I hold as a gift from the past. But how can I deepen that understanding, know what it means for real, for me, for my friends? He takes away sin in general? From me? Where does he take it? How? And, what then? And why a Lamb, a reference to sacrifice and dependence, first? He’s a shepherd, too, right?

And then I read the Old Testament reading, which was from Isaiah 49. In verse 4, Isaiah has the Messiah say, “I have labored to no purpose; I have spent my strength in vain and for nothing. Yet what is due me is in the Lord’s hand, and my reward is with my God.”

Isn’t that outrageous? The Bible is incredible. It is full of this kind of despair and “FORGET IT!” kind of sentiment. When combined with an equally outrageous trust in God, it is a potent mix.

When I read the Bible, I know I will never be done plunging all of its mysteries. There will always be more for me to see, to learn and be amazed and baffled by in it. Already I feel pulled to spend more time researching and praying over those passages.

No one can rock it like God. No one has so much to say to me that is so encouraging, bizarre and wise. That is His job, to be loving and mysterious. The Bible kicks ass.

That said, let me affirm that I love reading good blogs. They can be a great blessing. Sometimes the rawest, most honest thing I “hear” all day is from a blogger – like this one from Melissa in Ohio. Sometimes the silliness of my fellow Christians just gives me a great laugh.

But nobody rocks it like God. Love you, God.

Christmas with the kids is over

Today was the day we celebrated Christmas with the kids.

We had low expectations.  Or at least I did.  My only hopes were that:

1. Nobody would have a meltdown.

2. We would talk about the birth of Jesus in a meaningful way at some point during the week.

3. Nobody would sulk.

We managed to accomplish #2 and #3.  The meltdown(s) of course, starred Bee (6).  They were small.  But they reveal the emotional underbelly of a kid who has so many issues I don’t even know where to begin to help her sometimes.  From the time she was born, according to my husband, she was born into a home of discord.  Since her mother has become a lesbian and is now living with her girlfriend, and I’ve married her dad and I’m living with them . . . she has even more to negotiate.  I feel for her.

She experiences so much shame when she is corrected.  Even when she is lovingly corrected, like this:

Parent: Bee, honey, you know, you might want to try cutting your crepe with . . .

Bee: I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW . . .waaaaahhhhh. <sobs>

Parent: ?

Or it could go like this:

Parent: Bee . . .

Bee: WHAT? WHAT? (in this tone of voice that is like she’s been accused of grand theft auto)

Parent: We asked you not to climb on the back of the couch, right?

Bee: <from the back of the couch> I DON’T CARE! I KNOW! LEAVE ME ALONE!

Parent: Seriously, ,you’re going to fall and crush the . . .

<the thing gets crushed>

Parent: Bee! Dang it!

Bee: WHAAAAAT??? Waaaaaahhhhhh. . ..

Etc.

The other day I was with my friend who has a three year old daughter.  She was more able to communicate her feelings and receive correction than Bee.  It was sobering to see a three year old explain to her mother why she didn’t want to do something.  She explained very carefully and slowly, like her mother was a recalcitrant, stupid employee.  It was funny and inspiring at the same time.

Having a kid who is unable to control herself or her reactions is draining in the same way that having an asshole boss is draining.  You know you aren’t going to influence the boss all that much in one or two conversations.  You know the boss isn’t going anywere.  You know that any change, if it comes, will be slow.  You know that you are all in the same company and somehow have to find a way to work together.  But you go home at the end of the day worn OUT.

I know that other parents have children with similar issues.  I know this is not some special, unheard of disorder.  But this is my shout out to all the parents and step-parents out there who feel slightly inadequate to the challenges laid before them.

Set low goals, people.  And have a three year calendar on the wall.

Baseball, drugs, parenting, presents and giving it away

I love baseball. My best friend loves baseball. My husband loves baseball. My step-son loves baseball. Baseball is a beautiful sport.

Yesterday, Senator Mitchell’s report on the use of performance enhancing drugs in baseball came out. The Mitchell report tells a story in detail, the broad strokes of which most of us already knew. Men in baseball use drugs to make themselves, as Kanye would say, “harder, better, stronger, faster.” The ever witty (and bitter) Dodger Blues has lots of funny things to say, as usual.

It bums me out that my very own culture and my favorite sport have created an environment where this kind of accepted cheating goes on. There is something in our culture that tells us “whatever the cost, get what you want.” I’m not saying we’re the first or the only culture to roll like this. Caligula and Nero didn’t live in a vacuum. But still. It’s a crappy and TOTALLY ungodly way to do life. I know, I know, a lot of those players who did that stuff probably have no relationship or knowledge of God.

The Mitchell report had its list, and my husband and I have ours:

Yes, those are the Christmas lists for Bee and the boy. And yes, the boy’s has a KEY to understand the priorities of the listed items. Good God. I know that kids are kids and that they angle for what they can get, not just at Christmas but every day. That’s the nature of kids. But I have to say, I started to feel kind of dirty that in my home live two more beings who are this into STUFF. Uh, cause I like STUFF too.

Slowly, slowly, Jesus is turning my heart into a heart that wants to give away a little more than it wants to get. Or that “gets to give to get to give” as John Wimber used to say. I know that I’ve only been in a position of any real influence on the kids’ lives for about six months, so they are just reflecting what their parents, freinds and culture have taught them. I’m hoping that Jesus rubs off on me more so that he can rub off on them some too.

When I read what Eugene Cho’s kid wanted to do with $100,000 (all of it altruistic, for those of you who don’t click through), it gave me a glimmer of hope. It is possible to raise kids that won’t keep writing lists like this, kids who could grow up to have the backbone to say “no, thanks” in a clubhouse where drugs were being offered. Maybe my step-kids can turn into adults who want to give away more than they want to get.

Maybe I can turn more into that adult too. Help me Jesus!

Dancing in the bedroom

Today I got home from tutoring in need of a bit of a release. (People! Get your minds out of the gutter! The children were still up!)

Bee and I went in the bedroom, turned on some crazy loud music and danced around like maniacs. It was awesome. There was some crazy heavy metal stuff, a little rap (“I got my drink and my two-step”. . .how can you resist that!), some Neo Encendio mixing, even a little classic rock. I love LA radio, I really do. We danced in our limited space, sometimes on our own and sometimes holding hands. It was great to have someone with whom to just go crazy. Her daddy is more of a contemplative, peaceful sort, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with her exuberance sometimes. I feel like God especially blessed Bee and me with each other.

At one point we were dancing to “Your momma don’t dance and your daddy don’t rock and roll” and she yelled to me over the music, “Well, MY momma dances like CRAZY!” It was a good party, y’all.

Don’t worry. She went to bed like an angel. I’ve gotten enough kids wound up in my day to know enough to PLAN a slow song at the end.

Christmas on the wrong day

This year, it looks like because of scheduling issues, we’re going to have to have Christmas with the kids on the 23rd. I realize that I am an adult and that in the scope of things this is not that big of a deal, but I had this whole picture in my head about how things would go. . .and none of that picture involved the 23rd of December. Especially for the kid’s sake, it seems significant that things take place on the 25th and 24th. Sigh. I’m starting to feel like I’m one of those parents who has given into the North American Fetishization of Childhood & Parenting Disorder. But I will not succumb!!

I feel like I have a choice. I can stay pissed off about this, or I can grow up, set it down, and have a NICE TIME on the 23rd, The Eve of Christmas Eve. I’m working on it, people, I’m working on it.

I celebrate Christmas with relish each year. I love seeing all my ornaments that my parents bequeathed to me when I moved out. Some of them are over 30 years old. I love thinking about past Christmases, even Christmases that involve people I don’t know anymore. I couldn’t tell you WHY I love the whole THING of Christmas so much, I just do. Even before I was a person who followed Jesus I loved it.

In the past, Christmas was a time for enjoying family, friends, traditions and excessive amounts of baked goods, but it’s not that anymore. Or, rather, I should say, it’s not JUST that anymore (excessive amounts of baked goods are still crucial).

Now, Christmas is a time for me and my family to ponder what on earth God was doing having Jesus be born the way he was. The enormity of that event can surely outweigh the fact that Christmas will be on the 23rd this year.

Sigh.

Stay tuned for my next post: Toxic Ornaments. You’re gonna love it. Really. It involves me smashing things.

Fall colors – even in SoCal

The other day, my step-daughter, my husband and I went for a walk and collected some (non-native) leaves for decorating.

Martha they are not, but I still like them.

Here’s mine:

And here’s Bee’s:

In spite of the vagaries of SoCal weather (more fires already!), creation down here can be beautiful.

My step-daughter, who had a fabulous time on the second half of the walk, was whining about having to walk uphill at the beginning. Her dad and I told her she could either keep going or we could go home. That was the first time she ever said, “You’re a mean mom!” to me. She apologized (after paternal prompting) and was holding my hand and chatting about why leaves turn red three minutes later. Even though I knew something like this would (will) happen, it was still hard to hear.

Pumpkins and authenticity

We bought pumpkins the other day. The idea was to make jack o’ lanterns* and, you know, celebrate fall.

I know that there are people, and by people I mean adults, who are freakishly in to Halloween. Apparently, many of these people live in my corner of the burbs. There is lawn after lawn covered in plastic Halloween decorations.

At our house, we just have these pumpkins:

 

 

You will note that only one pumpkin is carved, and there are four of us in the house. That is because we only bought three for decorating, as Dad wasn’t that into it. My pumpkin, stage left, is uncarved because I want to do something like this to it:

This is from Martha, of course. I wanted to do a spider or something. Not a monogram. But you get the idea.

However, I don’t have the right tools and I haven’t come up with any decent tool substitutes (potato peeler? too flat). This is so me, to overreach on a project and then leave it half done for a while. (See also, laundry.) I don’t know if I’ll figure out a way to make the pumpkin the way I want, or if I’ll just compromise and carve it the regular way, or if I won’t do anything at all.

Not do anything at all, you say? Well, that would be the pumpkin stage right. That is my step-son’s pumpkin. We were all on the porch working on digging out seeds, and when he came out, he said that pumpkin innards were sticky and gross and he wasn’t going to touch it. He’s eleven. That’s how eleven-year-olds roll sometimes. He’s well within his rights, in my opinion. He doesn’t want to make a jack o’ lantern, that is totally fine. A pumpkin in and of itself is still nice to look at. Ahem.

I know there are parents who would have been either a) pissed or b) disappointed that this kid didn’t want to carve a pumpkin. I think this has more to do with the North American Fetishization of Childhood Disorder (NAFCD) than anything else. I will write more about this disorder another day.

Please note the awesomeness of Bee’s pumpkin. She drew the design and Dad carved it. It really does look kind of freaky and scary, just like it should.

So, on our porch, we have a pumpkin representation of our family as it really is:

One motivated six-year old with an artistic bent and the ability to finish projects,

One slacker step-mom with overreaching tendencies,

One fastidious eleven year old,

One dad who feels no need to carve a pumpkin unless it’s for a kid.

———-

*just as an etymological geek aside – does that o’ stand for “of”? jack of lanterns? Time to bust out the OED.

Sucker-free countdown, what can I say? You were there for me.

I know this might sound funny coming from a girl who thinks Jesus is the best thing ever, but -

Dear MTV’s Sucker-free Countdown:

I want to thank you. I know you did not intend to bless me with your sucker-freeness, but you did.

Let’s just say you helped me through a strange patch in my life.

When I got married, I moved to the hardcore burbs. I am not talking semi-suburban. I’m talking full-on, white-picket-fence, cupcake-baking, trimmed-lawn, freak-show suburban. I capital-H hate suburbs. They made my skin crawl, just visiting them. Ick. Ick, ick, ick. I would take the dog for a walk and I would feel square just walking down the damn tree-lined suburban block.

But sucker-free countdown, you were there for me. You brought me Chamillionaire, Kanye West, Fifty Cent, and the indefatigable Dre, Snoop and Eminem. And Gorilla Zoe, who acted out every adolescent angry UNsuburban thought I was having. “Get like you? NAW, get like ME.” Oh, preach it, Gorilla Zoe! I won’t let the burbs change me! But really, sir, such language! And you know, your MOTHER will hear what you are saying about how you get to sleep every night. That is VERY naughty, Gorilla Zoe. But I appreciate your being bad on my behalf. Because the burbs, sir, were getting me down.

I guess you could say I felt, at times, uber-wifey and uber-step-mommy. Don’t get me wrong. I love my husband. I love my step-kids. All three of them are amazing people. But I was having long discussions about why broccoli was important. I would find myself thinking in the car about how to have a conversation about the importance of not hiding your vitamin in the bookshelf (true story), and then lying about it.

Sucker-free, YOU would never hide your vitamin in the bookshelf.

You would chew it up, spit it out, drink some Courvoisier and go buy yourself some new 24s for your 64. You would tell me what I could do with that vitamin. Because that is HOW YOU ROLL. Or as Kanye would reassure me, “Excuse me, is you saying something? Cause you can’t tell me NOTHIN, right?”

There is something so awesome about how nakedly self-pleasing Kanye and Gorilla Zoe and Fifty Cent and all the rest are, lyrically speaking. Their only lyrical concerns are money, rims, cars, sex, jewelry, shoes, bragging rights, freedom and parties.  Naughty, naughty, un-suburban frivolity. Half an hour pretending I had sucker-free values and I could go back to responsible living: praying instead of reaching for the champagne bottle, broccoli instead of caviar.

But you haven’t really lived until you’ve danced on the coffee table to “I’m in love with the bartender”** while your husband laughs from the couch.

—–

**Yes, this is really a song, by T-Pain. It uses “drunk” as an adjective and a verb in one single line.