Be Calm and Keep Your Perspective

by Cathy

Life is a lot like that proverbial half glass of water: you can view it as half empty or half full. It's all in your perspective.

Perspective is such a key component to life; how we view things in relation to something else. You can get lost in your own world of seemingly gargantuan problems until you hear about the problems of others and suddenly, yours don't seem so big. You can feel like you don't have enough, or feel lucky enough to have a lot, depending on how you look at things based on what others have/don't have. The same logic can be applied to the size of the house you live in, the job you are lucky to have and in this case, the age of your children and how fast they are growing.

This past year has been a milestone of sorts for my girls. This was the first year they attended the same school together as Ari started kindergarten; this coming school year will be a huge deal for Bella as she takes on middle school (or junior high as she pointedly refers to it); and last week, Ari turned six.

Since the 1st of July she has been excited about her birthday. "Mommy! It's July! It's my birthday!" I've heard since July 1st. She's requested to hold meetings on how we will celebrate her birthday, who will be invited, what will be on her cake and in the goody bags. I even received gift requests: "Mommy, let me tell you what I want for my birthday," she mused as she crossed her little arms behind her head contemplatively at bedtime, her mind drifting.

I would lie if I said that I wasn't sad that my girls are growing up. MIDDLE SCHOOL?! Attitude. More serious conversations and issues. Essays on the The Illiad and The Odyssey for homework. Hormones. Bigger kids = bigger problems. On the other hand, it could be worse...they could be off to college.

So, I just keep my perspective to help me through these milestones: they are getting older but they are not "old" yet; compared to the feather-weight size of my five-month old niece, they look "old" and giant and adult-like and heavy when I carry them, with lanky limbs and long arms that don't fit as perfectly around my neck anymore, but when I compare them to other people's grown kids with braces and pimples and drivers licenses and proms and college, they are still babies.

Bella, my 11-year old who still sleeps with her favorite stuffed animals tells me all the time as she sighs towards the direction of her goofy, carefree sister, "I wish I was still little."

"What do you mean?!" I practically shriek. "You ARE still little!"
"No, I mean little like Ari, you know...little."
I decided to throw some perspective her way. "Honey, one day when Ari will be 11 and you will be 16, you will look at her and say, 'I wish I was still little like Ari.'"

She paused as she took that in, my conviction registering just enough for her approval, and she cocks her head to the side and nods, mouth turned downward in that 'you may be right' sort of way.
"So enjoy your years now!!" I finish her off with a cheer.

The night before Ari's birthday, I cuddled up close to her and held my little five-year old for the last time, for tomorrow, she would be six - an age that can no longer be counted on one hand, an age where she's not a toddler but not yet a girl, an age where she is still in limbo enough for me to balance the scales backwards towards my preference.

I tucked her in as a toddler and the next morning, she woke up a little girl. They literally do grow overnight - in a series of nights that meld into days and into months and into years. But if I keep my perspective, I'll see that they will always be my little girls.

How Does a Smile Become an Eye Roll?

by Cathy


I loooove babies.

They coo and goo and gah and smell delicious. Yes, they also pooh and spit up and scream and fart and yell and are a blubbery mushy mess. But when those babies are able to control some of those bodily functions and can sit up by themselves and become aware of the people around them - that is when they get to be the most fun.

I'm fortunate to have the option of being around not one but TWO babies these days. One is the little girl of my sister, my one and only niece. The other is the baby boy of my daughter's dance instructor. I say that I am fortunate because some baby-loving people aren't always lucky enough to personally know someone who has a baby they can sit comfortably with and hold and play with and spend some quality time with. For this, I feel fortunate.

One day as we were sitting at the dance studio passing around that little baby boy like a hot, smoochable potato between all the moms who are gushing over it and clearly, getting their baby fix on, the baby's dad brings a blanket and lays him down on it in the hopes of getting him to go to sleep. (Yeah, in a room full of baby-lovin' moms, good luck with that buddy.) But even HE got carried away with the baby's cuteness as he huddled over that slobbering, mushy pile of heaven on all fours babbling baby words and throwing big, teethy smiles his way. (Again, way to get him to get some shut eye, dad.) As he did his little daddy show, the baby looked him squarely in the face and acknowledged his dad's efforts by returning an ear-to-ear grin with every word and smile. And with such a smile came a chorus of "Awwwww" from the gaggle of moms watching and longing.

How does this...

Then one of those moms quickly brought us back to reality.
"Remember how easy that was? I remember when they used to smile at every little thing you said and did. Now, all I get is an eye roll."

All of us let out a collective YESSSS!! Riiight???

...turn into this?!?

What happened between the smile years and the eye roll years? Their friends? The Disney Channel? What could make these sweet, gullible, innocent little creatures turn into annoyed, attitude-riddled beings? Why can't they just smile when they are spoken to or when asked to do something like they did when they were little? Why CAN'T it be THAT EASY??

I think it was Phyllis Diller who was credited with some variation of the following genius line:

"We spend twelve months trying to get our kids to walk and talk and the rest of their lives telling them to sit down and shut up."

Now if we could just get them to keep that smile from turning into a look that is the visual equivalent of listening to nails on a chalkboard - THAT would be a parenting accomplishment that even Phyllis Diller wouldn't scoff at.

Why Can't We All Just Eat Along?

by Cathy

Eating is so overrated.

Do you realize how easygoing life would be if every living animal (including us) didn't require food to survive? There would be no vicious slaughter scenes to watch on the National Geographic channel, animals wouldn't go extinct, and as for us humans? We'd have waaaaaaay less to worry about.

When I was young, I would watch my mother stand in front of a gaping freezer door, completely beaten down and underwhelmed at the prospect of having to think about dinner for the next night, just minutes after cleaning up the dinner from that night. Like clockwork, she would always say,  "Now, what should I make for dinner tomorrow night again?! Goodness this whole food thing...what a nuisance!" I used to watch her, equally unmoved at the nightly scene because I knew I didn't have to worry about it. Until I had kids and they grew up.

I quietly muse to myself almost daily about how great it is that I don't have more than two kids, simply because of the fact that each one of those two kids has the exact opposite taste in food. As hard as I've tried to "make them eat what we eat" or what each other eats for that matter, it ends with the outcast family member staying hungry and then whipping up a late night dinner of Cheerios, bagel and cream cheese or oatmeal at all hours of the night.

Bella prefers chicken nuggets only with BBQ sauce; Ari prefers fish sticks only with ketchup.
Bella prefers pepperoni pizza; Ari prefers cheese.
Bella prefers Pasta Roni; Ari prefers mac n' cheese.
Bella prefers homecooked chicken; Ari prefers red meat.
Ari eats lentil soup but only if she has sliced bread to dip into it. Bella will go nowhere near it.

Ari eats apples, carrots, tomatoes, olives, grapes, strawberries and cherries. Bella? I'll be lucky if she takes a bite of one of these, and the veggies MUST be accompanied by ranch dip to even be considered for consumption.


Then we have the required food accoutrements that need to be on hand in order to eat a specific homecooked meal. For instance:

- Bella will not eat my Greek pan-fried potatoes and scrambled egg "frittata" unless she can have it with Greek feta cheese.
- She will opt out of having pasta unless we have Greek mitzithra (salty, shredded sheep's milk cheese) to sprinkle atop. Absolutely no smelly-feet-Parmesan cheese for her.
- The jam has to be strawberry and has to be jam. Jelly is too watery and preserves are too chunky.
- The sliced bread has to be fresh and not dried out or "smell weird".

Sometimes, I start to feel a little like Mrs. Peters in The Seven Silly Eaters.

"Mrs. Peters was a wreck." I LOL at this every time I read it.

By the time I crank out a daily breakfast, lunch and dinner item that will make everyone happy, I am too tired to cook anything for myself. "I wish I didn't have to eat. What a bother this whole food thing is," I always say to myself as I think of my mother. So instead, because we, as humans, HAVE to eat, I end up eating the leftovers of the kiddie food my kids don't finish. So for lunch today, I had some neon mac n' cheese with a half-bitten watermelon slice I bribed my kids (mainly Bella), to eat.

This is why I say that if we took food out of the human survival equation altogether, mothers would never have to roadrunner back home after work to prepare food for their family; we'd all save hundreds of thousands of dollars because there would be no grocery shopping to do; we'd all have more free time to spend with our families since we don't need to take time to do said grocery shopping, shlepping, shuffling, unpacking, repacking, refrigerator and cabinet organizing, food preparation, clean-up and dishwashing; and last but not least, we'd cut down on waste consumption enough to make the planet turn green overnight. Win-Win!

Sigh...but since we gotta eat to survive, I am now leaving it up to my kids to prepare what they like or at least, tell me what they prefer to eat so it prevents me from going into Mrs. Peters Wreck Mode. On the other hand, a bowl of Cheerios, a bagel and cream cheese and some oatmeal now and then doesn't sound like a bad dinner after all.

1-800-MOTHERS

by Patti

S "forgets" a lot of things. She "forgets" to brush her teeth, take a shower, comb her hair, use deodorant. She "forgets" to clear her plate, put her cup in the sink, put away the milk. She "forgets" to feed the dog, where she put her glasses, where that library book went. But the one thing she never, ever forgets? MY NUMBER. My cell phone number is permanently programmed on speed dial in her brain, and she uses it frequently and without pause. I'll admit: I've "screened" my kid. It's just that, after the fourth phone call to tell me that her pants are too short, or that Gaucho won't stop licking her, or that she is bored, well....

The best is when I'm at work, surrounded by co-workers, and she calls me to ask me where her left shoe is. Never mind that her father is home. Apparently his shoe-finding skills pale in comparison to mine, especially since, you know, he's RIGHT THERE, and I am 20 minutes away AT WORK.
"Honey, I don't know. You wore them last, not me."
"But, Mo-OM! Where ARE they? I KNOW I put them in my closet."
That right there I know is a lie since she puts NOTHING in her closet except for things that are not supposed to go into her closet, like scraps of paper and thumb tacks and stuffed animals that are coming un-stuffed.
"Honey, I don't know because I'm not there and I can't help you look for them. Ask Papi to help you."
I hear the blender in the backround, and I know M is making a smoothie and so not helping her, and I feel a slice of white hot rage go through  me because, really? Then, as if my white hot rage somehow found his neck and choked it a little, I hear him tell S to "deja mama que trabaje" (let mommy work), and then I hear S's whines grow to outstanding proportions, and then, I can't help it: I hang up on her.

But because my number is on speed dial in her brain, my phone rings again almost instantly, and I, with a stab of guilt in my gut, simply slide away her call.

When my brother and I were young, we were latch-key kids for three hours a day after school. I remember loudly tumbling into the house, tossing our bags and books haphazardly here and there, and immediately calling my mom at work to let her know we'd made it home. Then we'd get to preparing ourselves after-school snacks, so we'd call my mom again to ask where the mayonnaise was. Then we'd eat and get into some sort of fight, so we'd call her to tattle on one another. Then we'd be fine and then call her to ask her to bring home ice cream or maybe a puppy, PLEASE? Then we'd call her to ask her a question about our homework.  Back then they didn't have the lovely "ignore" feature on phones; they didn't have caller ID; they most certainly did not have cell phones, so, since we were calling her at work and she had no way of knowing whether or not it was a Real Person or just her annoying kids, she had to answer the phone. Honestly, I'm surpised she was never booted.

What amazes me is that we never thought to call my dad. I mean, like M is to S, he was a hands-on dad to us. So why, when we needed something or wanted to vent or were bored, did we only think to call my mom? Much like S has my number imprinted in her brain, my brother and I had our mother's imprinted in ours. Hers was the only number that provided results, and, it appears, S feels the same about my number.

But now? Ah, yes! I have technology on my side. And I can press ignore; I can slide away that call; I can choose not to answer.

But I do. Almost every time.

When cliches come true

by Patti


So we're back from vacation.

Yes, it was amazing.

Yes, it was the kind of relaxing that leaves the limbs all jello-y and loose and totally useless, but hey - tan!

Yes, it ended too soon.

But at least we had it, right?

I mean, I can't really complain; I was here:

And it was crazy beautiful, especially when this kind of stuff just happens to be casually hanging out all over the place like it's no big deal:

And how could I possibly forget the day we visited the boys and girls at the orphanage to deliver the bats, balls and jerseys we had collected to donate to them? There is nothing like seeing these grateful little faces to put it all into perspective.

The nights of our vacation were no less wonderful. After all, night swimming next to the Caribbean sea is kind of magical.

Although I have absolutely no problem saying that this business right here? IS SO NOT MAGICAL.

Despite that one small snafu of a tarantula the size of my head, it was magical.

Until: I started feeling a little weird the day before we left, and I spent most of that day all (TMI ALERT) diarrhea-ish, body ache-ish, and generally blah-ish. I let M twist my achy arm into going to the beach since it was our last full day in paradise, and even the water hurt my skin. So we headed back to the house, all burned and sandy, and after a quick shower, I hit the bed. At 4 pm. And slept until 7 pm. I felt slightly better, so I had my arm twisted once more into heading out - this time to eat ice cream at the marina, and to people watch. I went to bed that night and sweated out whatever weird bug had invaded my body, and woke the day we were going to leave feeling much better. 

That afternoon, we hopped a flight to Miami, a contrast of tanned yet long-faced, and just like that, we landed and it was time to go through the whole hoopla of customs and "follow the yellow dots" and can I just say how much I loathe the Miami airport? It is a veritable hell hole of international crazy is what it is.

But we got through it and made it to our connecting flight to Chicago with 15 minutes to spare. Home. Almost Home.

The moment we boarded the plane, it started to POUR outside. The rain slammed horizontally against the giant airport windows, and I could see ominous black clouds swirling overhead. Lighting danced dangerously over the runway, and all I could think was, "Really? We are going fly in THIS?" So I asked the flight attendant as she glanced at our boarding passes, "Really? We are going fly in THIS?" and she smiled reassuringly at me, telling me in that soothing Flight Attendant Voice that HELL NO we were not going to fly in this. I turned to M as we shuffled down the narrow aisle. "Watch. We are going to sit in this plane for hours now."

Three hours and two screaming babies and five restless kids and  nine shushing moms and 200 cramped and sweaty and annoyed passengers later, we were finally given clearance to take the skies.

By the time we landed in Chicago, it was well after midnight, and we seemed to be the only people in the airport. We wandered, ghost-like, to the baggage claim, and waited with the few other delirious passengers seeking out their luggage. We finally had our bags in hand, and headed for the taxi stand to hop a cab home. We were in line a good 10 minutes when S almost politely tapped my arm. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I feel throw-uppy."

I know S well enough to know that her "I feel throw-uppy" proclomations very rarely provide enough time to get to a toilet. They usually  mean, "I'm about to blow - RIGHT NOW!" So I plucked her from the cab line, leaving M with all of our luggage, and rushed S to the nearest cigarette ash-rimmed garbage can. As travelers wandered by, she leaned her gagging head into the abyss, and between hurls, she looked up at me, her eyes watery and pathetic, and cried out, "IT STINKS IN HERE!" 

A random passerby kindly handed me some paper towels, and I splashed water on them from a water bottle I'd been holding. I used one to mop S's sweaty face, and cleaned the rim of the garbage can with the other while simultaneously rubbing her heaving back with my spare hand. Yes! I spontaneously sprouted a third hand out of sheer necessity! I occasionally looked over at M, who was doggedly holding our place in line and guarding our luggage. Teamwork! S finally got it all out, but then she looked at me, her eyes urgent. "MOM! IT'S COMING OUT THE OTHER END!" So we rushed into the airport, past the zombied-out late-night stragglers, and high-tailed it into the bathroom. She made it to the toilet, where she shivered violently on the seat as she de-bugged her poor little body. 

Nearly an hour after her "I feel throw-uppy", we were finally in a cab. I met the cab driver's eyes in the rearview mirror, and I could see him suspiciously eyeing the plastic bag I was holding near S's face as she leaned weakly against me. "She car sick?" 

"No...she has a stomach bug."

"$50 fine if she throw up in car."

"Isn't that just for drunk people?" M asked, as if trying to negotiate.

"No. $50 if anybody throw up in car."

I held the bag closer to S's face and kissed the top of her head, praying I would be an effective vomit catcher.

Miraculously, we made it home with nary a vomit or a poop, and we wearily unloaded our bags from the cab, standing wobbily in front of our house, unbelieving that we were actually home. M had parked his car in front of our house, and he opened it to throw in a duffel bag. "SOMEBODY STOLE MY STEREO!" 

Of course. OF COURSE. After a stormy three hours stuck on a plane on a tarmac, and a violent vomit and poop festival at the airport, why wouldn't M find that his car had been broken into?

At that very moment, I felt my entire week of vacation leak out of me, right there on the street.  After all, when it rains... it pours.

Nightclub Shopping

by Cathy

We've all been there:You can hear the music thumping and smell the sensual scents of youthful fragrances even before you reach the big, sleek doors. A buzz of excitement courses through your body in anticipation of the fun you will have once you're inside. You will see and be seen. You look your best; you feel your best. It's time to get this party started.

With a big swoosh, the doors bow open upon your entry. Immediately, your senses heighten as you take in the scene. Those smells are stronger now - musky men's cologne and floral women's perfumes battle for the rights to the air you breathe. Quasi-provocative, black-and-white photos of dewy, fresh-faced, pubescent youths adorn the walls, enticing and luring you through the joint.

As you snake your way through the dimly lit environment, the music beats bounce off your chest and reverberate against your sternum. The music loud enough to discourage conversation, so your body starts to let go as you surrender to the melodies overtaking your ears.  Your hips start to swing and before you know it, you are singing along, snapping your fingers and bobbing your head.

Feelin' good, you head towards the back...all the way in the back...you know, where all the smart, cool, V.I.P.s hang out. You turn the corner, fully expecting a dazzling display of glossy liquor bottles, swanky martini glasses and more beautiful people lounging around the bar area. Instead...you find a cashier's desk. Yes, my fellow clubshopper, you have entered Club Abercrombie.

As children (or should I say, girls) mature, so does their taste in clothes and accessories. They become socially and self aware. They observe fashions, styles, trends, and the outfits and brands their friends and favorite Disney characters are wearing and putting together. They read magazines, browse online pop culture sites and are tapped into several forms of social media via several forms of gadgetry. They are more conscious of the way they present themselves to the world - namely, this world being their peers. On some level, they all want to fit in, be in the know, and fear becoming ostracized in any capacity.

So, here's the thing I love about my Bella: She has never, ever whined about, cried over, complained about or demanded anything she covets or wants. She is very subtle about mentioning what she likes and how nice it would be if she had (blank) or how some of the girls at school have (blank). She has never come right out and directly asked for anything, but rather nonchalantly stated that it would be nice if she had (blank) or (blank) is so cool!!

In such a way, came about our first ever shopping excursion to abercrombie kids this past weekend. We decided to treat Bella to some cute abercrombie tees she's been hinting at for quite some. And what better timing than to hit a sale??

Come here girl. Come to the back. V.I.P. Drinks on me. Get your sexy on.

Now if I were in a real club, ya know, in Da Cluuuuub, I wouldn't mind the loud ass music, the darkly lit alcoves and even the nauseating colognes. But we were here for a reason - to shop with an 11-year old, headstrong, indecisive girl. And with that comes a lot of negotiating, cajoling, suggesting, bickering and a LOT of time. Mix all of these elements up and you have some pretty frustrated, annoyed parents, who, guess what marketing gurus? Have the money that will pay for the overly full-priced clothing in your store club, so while it's important to target the consumer age group, you must also cater to the ones dishing out the Benjamins.

Finally, while in the checkout line, with the music now slowly bumping the clothing off the shelves with each beat, other customers' kids whining about what they want, the pimple-faced cashier losing her fitting room keys while her cohort bangs a roll of quarters open in the cash drawer, the perfumes being sprayed by a gaggle of girls just inches from my face, I looked over at Bella and yelled, "It's sensory overload in here!"

Magically, as if I've said Abracadabra!, the mom behind me in line transforms into a Gushing Gertrude and finds the opportunity to exasperatingly agree with me yelling in my ear, club style: "If they could turn the music down just a notch, my God! It's not like we're in a club!"

Oh, but we are, thanks to those marketing gurus straight out of college. Oh how I wish I could Abracadabra!  the cashier's desk into that shiny bar so I could get my drink on to deal with all this madness. But hey, if my daughter wants it and likes it, I'll put up with it and try in vain to relive my youth via the club machine that is abercrombie.

Who knows? Maybe I can find something in my size...

True Wealth

by Patti

I am in the Dominican Republic right this very second. It is certain that by the time you read this, I will have survived a very annoying plane ride, but I do not take lightly that the key word in all of this is "survived". It is also quite certain that as you read this, I am sitting by the pool, sipping on a suitable summer cocktail, trying to ignore the roll of fat mocking me through my bathing suit. "You think I'm hidden, but I'm not! Ha ha ha ha!"

This trip to the DR is one that we have taken many times. The first one was for S's fifth birthday. How many five-year olds get to celebrate turning five with a stamp on their passport and an an infinity pool overlooking the Caribbean? Not many, that's how many. Unless you're a Jolie-Pitt, or something. But for Skokie shack people like us, it's a treat and a treasure and most definitely not a way of life. We've been fortunate to have been able to go back many times since, thanks to a generous "house donation" by one of M's clients. This house? I can't even begin to properly describe it. Let's just say it has 14 bathrooms. Is that enough of a description?


Hi, House with 14 bathrooms that is not ours and will never be.

Yeah. Imagine people like us, Skokie shack dwellers, who were, at the time of the first visit, completely accustomed to having only ONE bathroom (we've since upgraded to TWO bathrooms, living the highlife, we are), suddenly having 14 at their disposal? I'm not too embarassed to admit that we still pounded on the bathroom door and yelled "hurry up!" to one another the entire vacation. We simply could not compute that there could possibly be more than one bathroom available at the same time.
So, yes: We are very much looking forward to seeing our temporary house once again, and food like this:

But mostly, what I am looking forward to is seeing the kids again. Several years ago, before one of our visits to the DR, M did a "baseball bat drive" to collect as many bats and balls and gloves as he could to donate to an orphange with which his client was connected. Once there, attired in bathing suits and cover-ups, we lugged the goods to the orphanage, and were immediately surrounded by a gaggle of smiling, grateful faces. They gathered around, excited about the bats, but even more excited that we came from the United States and might possibly know Justin Beiber. So of course, I belted out my old lady version of "Baby, Baby". And they loved it.

S lovin' on one of the babies as I sang "Baby, Baby" in the background

S completely fell in love with one of the little girls. Her name was Lady, and S talked about her for a full year after meeting her. Because this particular orphanage actually mentors and raises the children through 18 years of age, we are hoping we will get to see Lady again this trip.

Mr. Personality and Lady with S

And M? Was completely smitten.

It was impossible not to be. These kids were bright and full of energy and smiles and light. And they had nothing. Not even parents. Yet, they still managed to be happy.

Humbled, we headed back to the 14-bathroom house and its stunning backyard.

I couldn't stop thinking about those kids - how each and every one of them was motherless. I wanted to save them all, but I couldn't. Yet, somehow, they saved me in just one visit. I'm not going to lie: I had been feeling poor and sorry for myself that something like this incredible house would never be mine. But now, it was amazing to sit there and see and smell the ocean, and be served cocktails, and feel the breeze and know that, although this house with this view was not mine and I would probably never be rich enough to ever make it mine, I was acutally rich beyond measure.

Freedom

by Cathy

I took the above picture while driving down the alley from my house yesterday. A small American flag on a splintered piece of wood is slid precariously through some intertwined television cables running alongside a large multi-unit building. At first, I thought it almost sacrilege that an American flag was placed seemingly carelessly above a huge, smelly dumpster. I scoffed at the imaginary person who thought it appropriate to display our Stars and Stripes in such a place and angrily chalked it up as a mockery of our symbol of freedom.

On the return drive home, I passed through this same alley but from the other direction. I had forgotten the flag was there until it took me by powerful surprise when my eye caught it after passing the dumpster. It was completely unexpected and it made me stop.  I reversed the car and took a picture of it, because now, I get it. I get why someone chose to express their patriotism by placing the flag there.

The place where one chooses to display our flag does not matter. The size of the flag does not matter. The only thing that matters is the intention behind displaying it. If this person meant to be sacrilegious with that flag, it would have been sitting on top of the dumpster, or worse, thrown inside of it. But someone wanted to express their patriotism in this small way, which contrarily, makes a much bigger impact than if found in a more expected place. The juxtaposition of such a strong, powerful and symbolic representation of our country against the imperfect, realistically gritty urban setting of the alley, makes one take notice of the unexpectedness of the presentation. It doesn't give any less meaning to our flag, in fact, it brings it more to light - and what it represents for us:

Fighting for and maintaining our right to be free
Respect for the country we are privileged to live in; the country that so many die trying to enter
Expressing our right to freedom of speech
Enduring civil and international wars
Declaring our independence over oppression, occupancy and tyranny
Ousting known terrorists and thwarting their plots
Military: our freedom is not possible without you

Tick, tock, 

our country's locked 

and nobody else can claim it; 

and if they do 

I'll take my shoe 

and beat them 'til they're red, white and blue

 

Happy Independence Day to everyone from sea to shining sea

Goin' to Church!

by Patti

I went to church yesterday for the first time since, well, last time I went to church. Which, I'll be honest since we're talking about church, was a loooooooooooooooooong time ago.

Me and church? It's not that we hate each other; it's just that... I have mixed feelings about it. I think church doesn't mind me; in fact, I'm sure it would welcome me with open arms should I actually decide to darken a church's door on a regular basis. It's just that , for me, church isn't just a place where you have to sit/stand/sit/stand/sit/stand/sit/stand/kneel/sit/stand/kneel/sit/stand for a good hour - it's a place of worship, a place where you are kind of suppposed to mean it if you are there. I'm not a halfway type of person; I'm either all in, or all out. And I just feel like until I can truly commit to being all in, there's no point in church for me.

S, on the other hand? Loves church. Her first, tender years in school meant weekly chapel and daily "Jesus Time", as she attended a little Lutheran preschool in our neighborhood. When she started pelting me with questions about Jesus and the bible, I started feeling like a big, fat hypocrite. Here were M and I, practically heathens in our non-attendance of church and all things religious; yet we were sending our developing, learning, curious little girl off into the world of church and religion, with absolutely no basis to back it all up.
S attended that preschool for five years, and now, six years later, she still misses the whole ritual of church and asks me to take her to church on regular basis. I mean, does that qualify for me for an express train to hell, or what?

The service I attended yesterday was for the baptism of my dear friend's little boy. It was a full mass cumulnating in his baptism, and I have to admit: it was kind of cool. Sure, it was an old school church with no air conditioning, and it was so damned hot one actually had to wonder if we were actually in hell instead of church (yes, I KNOW I'm going to be struck by lightning), but I have to say: despite the heat and the neverending sit/stand/kneel/sit/stand/kneel of it all, it wasn't bad. I made myself really listen to the pastor rather than cave to my tendency to let my mind wander and is it just me or does the pastor's assistant look like a muppet? And I found that in really listening, I actually took away a few little nuggets of stuff to think about. And the best part was looking over to S, all dressed up in her Sunday Best, and watching her listen. At one point, I leaned into her and whispered, "Do you miss this?" She smiled up at me and gave a little nod.

I looked to the back of the church, where M had found a seat since he came in a little late (of COURSE), and caught his eye. M  has a very complicated relationship with church - much worse than mine. He grew up with church a not once, not twice, but thrice-weekly part of his life. He had church for breakfast lunch and dinner. And then, once he was able to, he purged it and swore off of it for good. M believes in a higher power; he just does not believe in the institute of church, religion, and the guys who wear $3,000 suits while they preach to the "sheep".  The fact his married pastor was bedding nubile, wide-eyed teens while preaching to his flock about the sanctity of marrige didn't help matters. To M, church is a shady "business" that has millions fooled.

Take a bowl and throw in S, who longs for the ritual and community of church, mix that up with the anti-church M, who is fiercely rolling his eyes as the hymnal books are being passed down the pews, and toss in me, the cusses-like-a-truckdriver mother who has impure thoughts about Adam Levine WHILE IN CHURCH, and that is one fucked-up cake.

I'm still thinking about what to do for S. I have very strong feelings about teaching children to believe things you don't 100% commit to yourself. It just feels hypocritical to me. I also have very strong feelings about doing things just because everyone else does them, especially when often times they don't even know the real why of why they are doing it.

But I also have very strong feelings about my daughter. And since I have taken the stance from the moment I found out she would come to be that, while I intended to provide as much guidance and wisdom as my still-learning self could muster up, she would only pass through me - not be my property. This means I also have strong feelings about respecting who she is and wants to be, and if that means church, then I guess it means church.

At the end of the service, the childhood memory of my church-going years came back to me as all of the strangers became friends, hugging one another and shaking hands, wishing one another peace. S wrapped her arms around my waist. "Peace be with you, mommy."
I'm working on it, honey.