Spouses.
They're so often great. And then they diagnosis your mental health using Wikipedia.
Good news:
There very well may be a reason why I'm so mental about noisy things.
Bad news:
The prognosis seems to be classical conditioning, which seems to be what I've been doing for 10 years now with this social experiment called "marriage."
The boy heard about this issue called misophonia on the radio the other day and promptly found out more about it on this snazzy little site (you may have heard of it?) called Wikipedia. In my line of work, this is something we call "not a valid source." However, we're functioning outside of the boundaries of my classroom here, so I guess all is fair in love and mental health.
Proof for diagnosis:
*I hate the sound of chewing and drinking, especially when I'm sitting there minding my own business and someone dares to join me at the kitchen table and chews.
*I hate the sound of breathing. This doesn't work well when you're married and have to endure sleeping in one bed. I cannot stress this enough. Sometimes, the breathing...it is too much. And then you feel like quite the horrible person asking the other person to stop breathing, thank you very much because good grief, you just want to go to sleep.
*Ticking clocks are horrid. If you put me in a strange room with a ticking clock and ask me to sleep, you are asking to see what insanity looks like up close.
*Twitching is enough to send me over the edge. The boy has this particular downfall when he is in a car. I'll take my car and you can twitch in yours. Please and thank you.
*Sniffing makes me want my own house, permanently. Colds are wretched, wretched, wretched. I'd rather be the only one who is sick rather than endure all of the sniffing, throat clearing and general hackiness of those who live with me. It's hard to muster up any sympathy when all you feel is loathing.
*Whistling and tapping drive me batty. And the boy is a whistler. He's so patient when I maybe snap at him to STOP THAT INFERNAL WHISTLING/TAPPING BEFORE I TEAR MY HAIR OUT AND I MEAN IT, and I realize now that he's far to generous with putting up with me.
So. Wikipedia - you may have something here. Noises are right at the top of my I-can't-stand-it list. As perfectly odd as this may sound, it's actually kinda nice to at least tangentially know that there's a reason why I feel downright nutso about inconsequential things. However, there's doesn't really seem to be a cure. Curses.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
I need more Mondays
Well I've been stuck in something of a perfect storm with lousy timing on assignments due and new classes starting. It's gotten to the point that once I can turn the computer off, I don't even want to doodle around. It's hard to blog when the computer is off, it seems.
It also turns out that it's downright difficult to turn in assignments for some people. The adult kind of people, that is.
(Yes, I know that my students have things like jobs and kids to distract them from school.)
(Yes, I wished my class took precedence over everything.)
(Yes, I'll give the extension. I'm not totally inhuman. I just think grumpy thoughts as I cheerfully smile when you tell me that you couldn't find even one minute in your week to turn in one assignment.)
So it turns out that my 30s have been quite the enlightening decade for me thus far. I've had some AHA moments.
1. It was just within the past couple of years as I was waxing poetic (ba-dum-ching) about Sylvia Plath that I realized that "Sticking your head in the oven" is not a gruesome burn-your-face-off kind of suicide as I guess I always thought but a turn-on-the-gas-and-go-to-sleep kind of suicide. I grew up with an electric oven in the house. This never occurred to me before.
2. I don't like weekends all that much.
3. I don't like Halloween at all.
4. I'm not even a fan of Christmas.
5. I'm obviously a cyborg.
That's right, folks. I'm not normal.
We were over at ye-olde-in-laws' house to celebrate my father-in-law's 60th birthday when my mother-in-law kind of sighed and said something to the effect of "I wish the weekend would just last longer." Being the dutiful little conversationalist, I quickly agreed before realizing I'm a downright LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE (gas stove, style, naturally).
I've known for a couple of years now that there's a reason the words "Saturday," "Sunday" and "weekend" don't do a single thing for me. But I've never up and admitted my apparent flaw to anyone else (except the boy, and he's, you know...the boy...so he knows everything already). It's hard to make such scandalous claims aloud in public for one and all to hear and react to.
It's those darn reactions that I just don't want to have to deal with.
MIL: I wish the weekend would just last longer.
ME: Oh, goodness, I don't. Bring on Monday!
MIL: [crickets] I don't understand you, but you're obviously wrong. Or a cyborg.
ME: Well, the truth had to come out some time, didn't it?
It's just like when I have the audacity to make such shocking claims as "I don't want any more children" while holding a snuggly little drooler. Do you know what the reaction is to that little stink-like-a-dirty-diaper bomb? "Oh, yes you do."
Really. Do tell.
Every time, folks.
So you just learn to keep little bits to yourself. But this here blog thing is mostly a one-sided conversation between me andmy one and only reader the Internet. So I'll state it here once more, loud and clear: I don't really like weekends. I despise Halloween. I don't really get all that excited about any holiday. And, I dread Christmas.
This is my truth, such as it is. Welcome back, Monday (I missed you).
It also turns out that it's downright difficult to turn in assignments for some people. The adult kind of people, that is.
(Yes, I know that my students have things like jobs and kids to distract them from school.)
(Yes, I wished my class took precedence over everything.)
(Yes, I'll give the extension. I'm not totally inhuman. I just think grumpy thoughts as I cheerfully smile when you tell me that you couldn't find even one minute in your week to turn in one assignment.)
So it turns out that my 30s have been quite the enlightening decade for me thus far. I've had some AHA moments.
1. It was just within the past couple of years as I was waxing poetic (ba-dum-ching) about Sylvia Plath that I realized that "Sticking your head in the oven" is not a gruesome burn-your-face-off kind of suicide as I guess I always thought but a turn-on-the-gas-and-go-to-sleep kind of suicide. I grew up with an electric oven in the house. This never occurred to me before.
2. I don't like weekends all that much.
3. I don't like Halloween at all.
4. I'm not even a fan of Christmas.
5. I'm obviously a cyborg.
That's right, folks. I'm not normal.
We were over at ye-olde-in-laws' house to celebrate my father-in-law's 60th birthday when my mother-in-law kind of sighed and said something to the effect of "I wish the weekend would just last longer." Being the dutiful little conversationalist, I quickly agreed before realizing I'm a downright LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE (gas stove, style, naturally).
I've known for a couple of years now that there's a reason the words "Saturday," "Sunday" and "weekend" don't do a single thing for me. But I've never up and admitted my apparent flaw to anyone else (except the boy, and he's, you know...the boy...so he knows everything already). It's hard to make such scandalous claims aloud in public for one and all to hear and react to.
It's those darn reactions that I just don't want to have to deal with.
MIL: I wish the weekend would just last longer.
ME: Oh, goodness, I don't. Bring on Monday!
MIL: [crickets] I don't understand you, but you're obviously wrong. Or a cyborg.
ME: Well, the truth had to come out some time, didn't it?
It's just like when I have the audacity to make such shocking claims as "I don't want any more children" while holding a snuggly little drooler. Do you know what the reaction is to that little stink-like-a-dirty-diaper bomb? "Oh, yes you do."
Really. Do tell.
Every time, folks.
So you just learn to keep little bits to yourself. But this here blog thing is mostly a one-sided conversation between me and
This is my truth, such as it is. Welcome back, Monday (I missed you).
Friday, October 9, 2015
The one with the dreams
This is when I'm finally going to admit that when I have a hard time falling asleep at night (which for me is about 5 minutes after turning the light out...if it's not instantaneous, then I get all irritated and irrational), I do this thing where I start writing a blog post in my head. Sometimes that helps me fall asleep. Let's all just chew on that for a hot minute. My "writing" puts me to sleep. Well.
This is also when I'm going to talk about a couple of dreams that I keep coming back to this week.
First: THAT ONE WHERE I DREAMED THERE WAS A SCHOOL SHOOTER
I went through all of this with the boy the other night, and he then paused and said "You're really bothered by this." I am.
You see, school shootings (yes, friends, there was another one after the one in Oregon already) bother me quite a bit. The boy is in a school. My daughters are in school settings. I work in a couple of schools. And, while this frequently occurring spate of school violence is not relative to just this very moment, I've also never dreamed about it before. I personally feel as if the pendulum of extreme violence in schools shifting to the collegiate landscape. The random classroom where the Oregon violence began was a college writing class. The first person shot was a college instructor. It was at a community college. Check...check...check.
In my dream, I was back in a high school setting, but not in any school that I have taught in before, nor with anyone whom I knew. The vivid aspect of the dream comes from the face-to-face encounter between those of us inside the school and the shooter, separated by a wall of glass. I don't know why he didn't try to come inside. I don't know why we were at that location in the school (and entrance/exit point).
I have never felt fearful that this situation would actually happen in any of our schools, but oh, my heart is increasingly heavy that this happens and often. In any context.
Second: THAT ONE WHERE I DREAMED WE STARTED OVER
The other night, the boy and I were chatting about a colleague/former colleague whose wife quit her job due to mounting frustration. The colleague then found himself awake somewhere in the realm of 4 a.m. and happened upon a temporary position, which he then applied for on behalf of his wife. She was hired within a day or two and is much happier for her new situation.
My stars. Sometimes, you have faith that is seemingly validated immediately. Sometimes, your faith seems to be nothing more than spitting in the wind.
That night, I dreamed that my spitting turned into validation. And it felt SO good in that fuzzy half-dream/half-wakefulness.
And then it was nothing, no more concrete than finding myself caged with a dozen students. There has been some melancholy hangover associated with both of these dreamscapes, but that (mercifully) is all.
I don't know how to finish this thought process, really. It's not a finished and done kind of a thing, no more than a scab indicates that a cut is fully healed. So, I'll just end with this: I so very much hope that you feel your purpose and are living it out, come what may. And if you need to act on faith, I hope that you have a hand to hold, too. That helps immensely, it turns out.
This is also when I'm going to talk about a couple of dreams that I keep coming back to this week.
First: THAT ONE WHERE I DREAMED THERE WAS A SCHOOL SHOOTER
I went through all of this with the boy the other night, and he then paused and said "You're really bothered by this." I am.
You see, school shootings (yes, friends, there was another one after the one in Oregon already) bother me quite a bit. The boy is in a school. My daughters are in school settings. I work in a couple of schools. And, while this frequently occurring spate of school violence is not relative to just this very moment, I've also never dreamed about it before. I personally feel as if the pendulum of extreme violence in schools shifting to the collegiate landscape. The random classroom where the Oregon violence began was a college writing class. The first person shot was a college instructor. It was at a community college. Check...check...check.
In my dream, I was back in a high school setting, but not in any school that I have taught in before, nor with anyone whom I knew. The vivid aspect of the dream comes from the face-to-face encounter between those of us inside the school and the shooter, separated by a wall of glass. I don't know why he didn't try to come inside. I don't know why we were at that location in the school (and entrance/exit point).
I have never felt fearful that this situation would actually happen in any of our schools, but oh, my heart is increasingly heavy that this happens and often. In any context.
Second: THAT ONE WHERE I DREAMED WE STARTED OVER
The other night, the boy and I were chatting about a colleague/former colleague whose wife quit her job due to mounting frustration. The colleague then found himself awake somewhere in the realm of 4 a.m. and happened upon a temporary position, which he then applied for on behalf of his wife. She was hired within a day or two and is much happier for her new situation.
My stars. Sometimes, you have faith that is seemingly validated immediately. Sometimes, your faith seems to be nothing more than spitting in the wind.
That night, I dreamed that my spitting turned into validation. And it felt SO good in that fuzzy half-dream/half-wakefulness.
And then it was nothing, no more concrete than finding myself caged with a dozen students. There has been some melancholy hangover associated with both of these dreamscapes, but that (mercifully) is all.
I don't know how to finish this thought process, really. It's not a finished and done kind of a thing, no more than a scab indicates that a cut is fully healed. So, I'll just end with this: I so very much hope that you feel your purpose and are living it out, come what may. And if you need to act on faith, I hope that you have a hand to hold, too. That helps immensely, it turns out.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
A little bit goes a long way, so I've been told
I'm just about ready to chuck my laptop out of the house and defy any more efforts of grading. I'm so very, very over it. And do you know what I least want to do after hours of grading? Blogging. I've been a drag anyway, so there hasn't been much to share.
But today, I'm celebrating something in my month, here on the last day of September: I've caught up with it all. The sun did come out today (I'm part cat, you know...the sun is very important to me), I'm luxuriating in a second cup of chocolate velvet for no other reason than it's delicious, I figured out a good amount of a crossword puzzle, and I have a purring furball keeping me company. I need these kinds of days to happen upon occasion. I'm also foreshadowing what I'll be writing about when I'm old and stodgy, I'm sure.
So it turns out that turning 32 has also given me an idea of what middle age is all about for me. This includes sore calves after bouncing my nephew to sleep and whacky hormones. It turns out that I'm out of putting-a-baby-to-sleep shape. Or else I need to give up chatting while bouncing cause I was downright winded for a few minutes.
Don't be suggesting any silly ideas like "Oh, you obviously need another one." I will hand you a bar of soap to go wash that mouth out.
Maybe you just need to produce something for me to rock. And then I'll hand it back to you. That's what I call a symbiotic relationship, baby nurturing style.
I could be this woman.
I could not happily be this woman.
(Why yes, I did Google that. And why don't we talk more about the proliferation of nouns-turned-verbs in our common parlance today?)
My two are quite enough. And I have it on record that the Younger will never stop hugging and kissing me. She's promised me. Under duress. But still...a promise is a promise. (I haven't forced this admission out of the Elder yet, but I'm still working on her.)
So it turns out that life doesn't work out well for every kid. Sometimes little munchkins are stuck in unfortunate or problematic situations. And it also just so happens that I'm fully capable of helping some kid somewhere, somehow, some way. So I'm going through the process of becoming a court appointed advocate for children who have been abused and/or neglected in order to be a voice on their behalf. I know that I'm coming into this with some serious self-imposed blinders on. But I've been struggling with the need for change in my life for quite a while now. I feel as if I've been trying to do so, but I've not found my for this moment calling yet. I'm thinking pretty hard that this is it.
I don't think that I'll have the chance to rock anyone to sleep (it's one of my best auntie skills), but I'm downright positive that there's many a way we can provide comfort and security for a child who needs it. And need is so prevalent around us. I have some time and the desire to help; I need to use that energy on someone other than myself. So I figure, it's just like what the Younger told me this morning as we were crafting at story time: "A yittle bit goes a yong way."
But today, I'm celebrating something in my month, here on the last day of September: I've caught up with it all. The sun did come out today (I'm part cat, you know...the sun is very important to me), I'm luxuriating in a second cup of chocolate velvet for no other reason than it's delicious, I figured out a good amount of a crossword puzzle, and I have a purring furball keeping me company. I need these kinds of days to happen upon occasion. I'm also foreshadowing what I'll be writing about when I'm old and stodgy, I'm sure.
So it turns out that turning 32 has also given me an idea of what middle age is all about for me. This includes sore calves after bouncing my nephew to sleep and whacky hormones. It turns out that I'm out of putting-a-baby-to-sleep shape. Or else I need to give up chatting while bouncing cause I was downright winded for a few minutes.
Don't be suggesting any silly ideas like "Oh, you obviously need another one." I will hand you a bar of soap to go wash that mouth out.
Maybe you just need to produce something for me to rock. And then I'll hand it back to you. That's what I call a symbiotic relationship, baby nurturing style.
I could be this woman.
I could not happily be this woman.
(Why yes, I did Google that. And why don't we talk more about the proliferation of nouns-turned-verbs in our common parlance today?)
My two are quite enough. And I have it on record that the Younger will never stop hugging and kissing me. She's promised me. Under duress. But still...a promise is a promise. (I haven't forced this admission out of the Elder yet, but I'm still working on her.)
So it turns out that life doesn't work out well for every kid. Sometimes little munchkins are stuck in unfortunate or problematic situations. And it also just so happens that I'm fully capable of helping some kid somewhere, somehow, some way. So I'm going through the process of becoming a court appointed advocate for children who have been abused and/or neglected in order to be a voice on their behalf. I know that I'm coming into this with some serious self-imposed blinders on. But I've been struggling with the need for change in my life for quite a while now. I feel as if I've been trying to do so, but I've not found my for this moment calling yet. I'm thinking pretty hard that this is it.
I don't think that I'll have the chance to rock anyone to sleep (it's one of my best auntie skills), but I'm downright positive that there's many a way we can provide comfort and security for a child who needs it. And need is so prevalent around us. I have some time and the desire to help; I need to use that energy on someone other than myself. So I figure, it's just like what the Younger told me this morning as we were crafting at story time: "A yittle bit goes a yong way."
Friday, September 18, 2015
Nothing "new" around here
Folks-
I feel like the stars are aligning and singing some melodic version of Kumbaya to me about this topic I'm going to continue harping on. Following my "wildly successful" post a few days ago, I just came across this write-up and new blog. Even if I stay home all the live long day, I do not escape consumerism, what with the prevalence of online shopping (of which I am quite the fan when those magical words "free shipping" are whispered in my ear). I think that I have somewhere around 4 or 5 shops, whether brick and mortar or online exclusively, that bombard my inbox with "15% off everything that is gray, a size small or will be out of date in two months!" and "You don't want to miss this because you always need more jeans!" sales. You know how it goes: Buy one thing one time from a company and you immediately get put on their email onslaught list.
I stay on a handful of these email lists just because every now and again, I need to slap a new size of clothes on my kids. So most days (let's say 98% of the time, which both sounds about right and sounds pretty good), I delete these before opening. However, since 7: An experimental mutiny against excess has entered my mind, I can't shake it. Just in these few weeks, I've been trying to be even more conscious of not just how I'm spending my dollars but more importantly WHY I'm spending them.
Experience trumps stuff for me, always (other than a good bar of chocolate, which is always some stuff that I can demonstrate some genuine joy to receive). And when my daughter was lamenting the choices in her dresser drawer just the other day and said "There just needs to be more options!" we had what you might call a teachable moment right there (which we all know is called a lecture again in 6-year old parlance).
Right now, I don't really know how to wrap this up, and I have a sweet little something all warm and snuggly from her afternoon nap asking me to watch some Jake and the Neverland Pirates with her (which BEST THEME MUSIC OF ANY KID'S SHOW THAT WE WATCH), so I'm just going to drop this bunch of possibility in your lap and leave it there to chew on. Wrestle with it, perhaps. Think about how this may be not only a possibility but even more importantly a necessity in your life. Two hundred days is a big old length of time, but who's to say that 2 weeks isn't feasible? We never know until we try, right?
I feel like the stars are aligning and singing some melodic version of Kumbaya to me about this topic I'm going to continue harping on. Following my "wildly successful" post a few days ago, I just came across this write-up and new blog. Even if I stay home all the live long day, I do not escape consumerism, what with the prevalence of online shopping (of which I am quite the fan when those magical words "free shipping" are whispered in my ear). I think that I have somewhere around 4 or 5 shops, whether brick and mortar or online exclusively, that bombard my inbox with "15% off everything that is gray, a size small or will be out of date in two months!" and "You don't want to miss this because you always need more jeans!" sales. You know how it goes: Buy one thing one time from a company and you immediately get put on their email onslaught list.
I stay on a handful of these email lists just because every now and again, I need to slap a new size of clothes on my kids. So most days (let's say 98% of the time, which both sounds about right and sounds pretty good), I delete these before opening. However, since 7: An experimental mutiny against excess has entered my mind, I can't shake it. Just in these few weeks, I've been trying to be even more conscious of not just how I'm spending my dollars but more importantly WHY I'm spending them.
Experience trumps stuff for me, always (other than a good bar of chocolate, which is always some stuff that I can demonstrate some genuine joy to receive). And when my daughter was lamenting the choices in her dresser drawer just the other day and said "There just needs to be more options!" we had what you might call a teachable moment right there (which we all know is called a lecture again in 6-year old parlance).
Right now, I don't really know how to wrap this up, and I have a sweet little something all warm and snuggly from her afternoon nap asking me to watch some Jake and the Neverland Pirates with her (which BEST THEME MUSIC OF ANY KID'S SHOW THAT WE WATCH), so I'm just going to drop this bunch of possibility in your lap and leave it there to chew on. Wrestle with it, perhaps. Think about how this may be not only a possibility but even more importantly a necessity in your life. Two hundred days is a big old length of time, but who's to say that 2 weeks isn't feasible? We never know until we try, right?
Monday, September 14, 2015
Thoughts on 7
Before I get all soap-boxy (hopefully not too much) and introspective with some thoughts about Jen Hatmaker's 7: An experimental mutiny against excess, here are a few things that I do know.
1. The weather is getting cooler. In the drop-off line this morning, I watched two elementary aged kids hop out of their mom's car wearing jeans, regular shoes, long sleeved shirts (maybe jackets), and gloves. The temperature gauge on my car said that we were enjoying some crisp, almost fall, and delightfully sunny 56-degree weather. I looked at those (obviously) smart girls and then watched my own knuckle-head skip around the front of my car wearing her standard fare: flip-flops and a skirt. The only concession to the cooler morning was a long-sleeved t-shirt. We need to move to a warmer climate, and it needs to happen NOW, if only so that I don't have to wrestle a reluctant 6-year old into clothing that touches her skin for the next 9 months.
2. That same 6-year old has been creating page after page of gems with a new set of metallic markers over this past weekend. She's branched out beyond her standard fare of suns, flowers, stick figures, and buildings. Friends, she has started to write poetry. This stuff is SO GOOD that I have share one with you (reproduced verbatim, though I can't figure out how to emulate the fancy squiggles & stars decorating the page).
LISN!!!
I Like
to LISN!
Lisn to me
Lisn to me
sis and [scribble scribble scribble]
and mom and
Dad I am a
Qeen!!!!!!!!!!!
That's some solid work for a kid who knows that she's the oldest. The good news: We still have a few years to work on that understanding of "self" versus "others." The better news: She's just the spittin' image of her father, from what I hear and witness myself; he's a pretty solid individual now, so we have high hopes that she's going to figure it out eventually.
3. The BMV isn't open on Mondays. That's another reason to loathe you, BMV.
And, now - 7: An experimental mutiny against excess. I came across this at the recommendation of one of my favorite bloggers (and since I read everything she writes, we're basically best buds), and oh, but I was not disappointed. So much of this idea mirrors that which I admire but don't often have the guts to go through with myself. 'Cause here's the thing, folks: Jen Hatmaker's premise of giving up things in our lives is the SUB-PLOT, the minor point throughout the narrative. What's really going on is her experiment with chucking all of that materialism and inward focus, which is what society (largely driven by advertising, naturally) tells us we SHOULD do. When's the last time we've questioned why we're buying from a certain store or what it means to feed ourselves (to excess) first before we moan and moan about feeding our neighbors? There's some amount of strength right there to challenge just about all of our daily habits in order to figure out the why of it all in order to understand the reality of consuming as we do.
The premise of Jen's book is that she challenged herself primarily, though her family did participate quite a bit, to fast from seven different areas of consumption in their "normal," middle-class, suburban lifestyle. She fasted in regards to each category for one month at a time. Some of these areas really caused me to question my/our own levels of consumption, namely that which pertains to clothing, food, and spending habits.
Clothing: Jen chose just 7 articles of clothing out of the 300+ that she had in her closet to wear for one month. Would it shock us into truly considering our needs if we each counted every article of clothing (socks & underwear notwithstanding)? Would that cause us to adjust our consumption of clothes for the sake of having more/cuter/better clothes?
Food: Jen chose just 7 foods to eat for one month. Who among us would be able to withstand this choice for more than two or three days? Consider how variety has become such a necessity in our lives.
Spending habits: Jen's family chose just 7 places to spend money (with an emphasis on local) for one month. Honestly, I think that this would be the easiest of the three to contend with for an entire month. And, for that matter, I could spend at just five places for an entire month pretty happily. But if I were to adjust my spending to shop more locally, eschewing the box store in favor of spending power, then a pinch that would be.
The 7 fast corresponded with the timeline that Jen's family was living as they began an adoption process for two children from Ethiopia, so quite a bit of what Jen was learning about her family was contrasted against the changes that were coming for them, a diet of sorts before they were face-to-face with some of the physical reason for why Jen was feeling the disgust of the circumstances of her family's living.
Her work also has begun a thought process for me (and us as I've shared a lot of what was impressed upon me with the boy) about how do we give until it pinches? Should we do so? How can we do so? And, most importantly, why should we do so?
I feel the intense pressure to conform when sitting through a kid's birthday party, walking into the local Target for "one or two things" and even flipping through the newspaper. Consumerism drives our lives in sometimes unexpected ways. It is a jealous mistress and a controlling one. We don't have this all reckoned with yet for how we want our family to actually engage with consumerism, for how we should be consumers, but I think that we're working on it. We don't have to wholly fast (though I can truly believe that there's a whole lot of power in this act) in order to still understand ways that we an and should be more responsible and in control of our own consumption.
1. The weather is getting cooler. In the drop-off line this morning, I watched two elementary aged kids hop out of their mom's car wearing jeans, regular shoes, long sleeved shirts (maybe jackets), and gloves. The temperature gauge on my car said that we were enjoying some crisp, almost fall, and delightfully sunny 56-degree weather. I looked at those (obviously) smart girls and then watched my own knuckle-head skip around the front of my car wearing her standard fare: flip-flops and a skirt. The only concession to the cooler morning was a long-sleeved t-shirt. We need to move to a warmer climate, and it needs to happen NOW, if only so that I don't have to wrestle a reluctant 6-year old into clothing that touches her skin for the next 9 months.
2. That same 6-year old has been creating page after page of gems with a new set of metallic markers over this past weekend. She's branched out beyond her standard fare of suns, flowers, stick figures, and buildings. Friends, she has started to write poetry. This stuff is SO GOOD that I have share one with you (reproduced verbatim, though I can't figure out how to emulate the fancy squiggles & stars decorating the page).
LISN!!!
I Like
to LISN!
Lisn to me
Lisn to me
sis and [scribble scribble scribble]
and mom and
Dad I am a
Qeen!!!!!!!!!!!
That's some solid work for a kid who knows that she's the oldest. The good news: We still have a few years to work on that understanding of "self" versus "others." The better news: She's just the spittin' image of her father, from what I hear and witness myself; he's a pretty solid individual now, so we have high hopes that she's going to figure it out eventually.
3. The BMV isn't open on Mondays. That's another reason to loathe you, BMV.
And, now - 7: An experimental mutiny against excess. I came across this at the recommendation of one of my favorite bloggers (and since I read everything she writes, we're basically best buds), and oh, but I was not disappointed. So much of this idea mirrors that which I admire but don't often have the guts to go through with myself. 'Cause here's the thing, folks: Jen Hatmaker's premise of giving up things in our lives is the SUB-PLOT, the minor point throughout the narrative. What's really going on is her experiment with chucking all of that materialism and inward focus, which is what society (largely driven by advertising, naturally) tells us we SHOULD do. When's the last time we've questioned why we're buying from a certain store or what it means to feed ourselves (to excess) first before we moan and moan about feeding our neighbors? There's some amount of strength right there to challenge just about all of our daily habits in order to figure out the why of it all in order to understand the reality of consuming as we do.
The premise of Jen's book is that she challenged herself primarily, though her family did participate quite a bit, to fast from seven different areas of consumption in their "normal," middle-class, suburban lifestyle. She fasted in regards to each category for one month at a time. Some of these areas really caused me to question my/our own levels of consumption, namely that which pertains to clothing, food, and spending habits.
Clothing: Jen chose just 7 articles of clothing out of the 300+ that she had in her closet to wear for one month. Would it shock us into truly considering our needs if we each counted every article of clothing (socks & underwear notwithstanding)? Would that cause us to adjust our consumption of clothes for the sake of having more/cuter/better clothes?
Food: Jen chose just 7 foods to eat for one month. Who among us would be able to withstand this choice for more than two or three days? Consider how variety has become such a necessity in our lives.
Spending habits: Jen's family chose just 7 places to spend money (with an emphasis on local) for one month. Honestly, I think that this would be the easiest of the three to contend with for an entire month. And, for that matter, I could spend at just five places for an entire month pretty happily. But if I were to adjust my spending to shop more locally, eschewing the box store in favor of spending power, then a pinch that would be.
The 7 fast corresponded with the timeline that Jen's family was living as they began an adoption process for two children from Ethiopia, so quite a bit of what Jen was learning about her family was contrasted against the changes that were coming for them, a diet of sorts before they were face-to-face with some of the physical reason for why Jen was feeling the disgust of the circumstances of her family's living.
Her work also has begun a thought process for me (and us as I've shared a lot of what was impressed upon me with the boy) about how do we give until it pinches? Should we do so? How can we do so? And, most importantly, why should we do so?
I feel the intense pressure to conform when sitting through a kid's birthday party, walking into the local Target for "one or two things" and even flipping through the newspaper. Consumerism drives our lives in sometimes unexpected ways. It is a jealous mistress and a controlling one. We don't have this all reckoned with yet for how we want our family to actually engage with consumerism, for how we should be consumers, but I think that we're working on it. We don't have to wholly fast (though I can truly believe that there's a whole lot of power in this act) in order to still understand ways that we an and should be more responsible and in control of our own consumption.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Crawling out from under my rock
Well the last couple of weeks have not been my favorite ones ever. My ear finally decided to cooperate and return to normal, thankyouverymuchfornothingear. My boys of summer finally pulled out of a 12-game losing streak, whichbitthebigoneeverynight. And, I've been fighting the "we're heading toward fall and therefore toward winter and we're still here here here here and we're never going to leave woe is me" pity party, andthatmakesmelessthanhappytobearoundoflate.
So I've decided that you can be perfectly content with life in general while also feeling wretched wretched wretched about a specific part of your life. And that's confusing for me. It's not hard to put on a smile and talk with friends and generally enjoy moments out of my day, but then I can fall into an abyss quicker than I've ever thought possible just by thinking about what I'm most dreadfully failing at (and we're going on a few years worth of failing...it gets old).
One minute I'm diving into somthing gooey and chocolatey, all warm and fuzzy inside. And the next minute, I remember "Hold on there, girl. No one wants you." And just like that, I'm snivveling into Les Miserables, which, yes, irony (if only in title).
By the way, I'm reading Les Miserables for the first time ever, and it's as if A Tale of Two Cities turned French and about three times longer. I'm also readily admitting that I just glossed over about 8 chapters detailing the battle of Waterloo last night. At this point, that information was expendable. But otherwise, it's a worthwhile read.
Also by the way, do do do do read 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess by Jen Hatmaker. I forsee throwing down some thoughts about this soon. This is a book that should leave a lasting impression, unless you're bound and determined to live under your little consumerism-driven rock. And if so, then carry on. (But please reconsider. Thankyousomuch.)
And as a period on this rambling blabbing, I'm packing up two 3-year olds for our weekly gymanstics/tumbling trip. I go with crossword puzzle in hand; it is very much one of my favorite times of the whole widey week. I get a front-row view of 3-year olds tumbling around the gym like little nutballs, and I work to counteract the early-onset Alzheimer's that I feel plagues me at times.
I may have left my purse, keys and iPad at my parents' over the weekend. I was a solid hour down the road before I thought of them. That spells winner.
So I've decided that you can be perfectly content with life in general while also feeling wretched wretched wretched about a specific part of your life. And that's confusing for me. It's not hard to put on a smile and talk with friends and generally enjoy moments out of my day, but then I can fall into an abyss quicker than I've ever thought possible just by thinking about what I'm most dreadfully failing at (and we're going on a few years worth of failing...it gets old).
One minute I'm diving into somthing gooey and chocolatey, all warm and fuzzy inside. And the next minute, I remember "Hold on there, girl. No one wants you." And just like that, I'm snivveling into Les Miserables, which, yes, irony (if only in title).
By the way, I'm reading Les Miserables for the first time ever, and it's as if A Tale of Two Cities turned French and about three times longer. I'm also readily admitting that I just glossed over about 8 chapters detailing the battle of Waterloo last night. At this point, that information was expendable. But otherwise, it's a worthwhile read.
Also by the way, do do do do read 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess by Jen Hatmaker. I forsee throwing down some thoughts about this soon. This is a book that should leave a lasting impression, unless you're bound and determined to live under your little consumerism-driven rock. And if so, then carry on. (But please reconsider. Thankyousomuch.)
And as a period on this rambling blabbing, I'm packing up two 3-year olds for our weekly gymanstics/tumbling trip. I go with crossword puzzle in hand; it is very much one of my favorite times of the whole widey week. I get a front-row view of 3-year olds tumbling around the gym like little nutballs, and I work to counteract the early-onset Alzheimer's that I feel plagues me at times.
I may have left my purse, keys and iPad at my parents' over the weekend. I was a solid hour down the road before I thought of them. That spells winner.
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