As I sat down to breakfast this morning, I gazed with not a little wonder at the plate before me. It held one of my faves: egg-in-the-hole. Yes, a piece of wheat bread with a hole ripped in the middle and a lovely egg resting inside the empty space. Atop it were leftover roasted autumn veggies, tiny potatoes and Brussel sprouts, a few pepper slices, some hunks of carrot... Can you picture it? And then, the crowning jewel atop the veg—a sardine.
Scrumptious, yes? Aren't you jealous?
If you aren't, I won't take it personally. If you'd told me 30 years ago that I'd look upon this as a desirable dish, I would have laughed. I couldn't imagine eating something so savory and unsweet at that point in my life. It was beyond comprehension. I still inhaled ice cream most days, drank sweet tea, scarfed down Ho-Hos for lunch. I distinctly recall my splurge in college being Hostess brand raspberry-coconut coated Zingers.
(Not to say I wouldn't still enjoy those on a daily basis today. I mean, come on—those things are amazing.)
But thanks to sugar issues, changing metabolic rates, middle age, and a more sedentary lifestyle, I was forced to become much more health-conscious in the past decade, and it's been good for me. I've become a better and more creative cook, I've learned much more about our food supply, I actively seeking homegrown and local options for the kitchen... And my palate has expanded exponentially. As it should, since I'm a reluctant grownup now.
I described my breakfast meal only to preface the point of this post—that being, we as humans have an incredible capacity for change through growth. Most of us are constantly changing, and often not by choice; sometimes, however, through limitations or fear of consequences, the changes make us better people.
I've gotten better at budgets because of times when we lacked. I've grown more active lately because of the adopted dog who needs activity. Would I have chosen to go through tight financial periods? Heck, no. It was rough. But I'm wiser now because of it, and I have more faith in God's provision. Would I have picked out a high-energy dog intentionally so I'd be forced to exercise? Good grief, no—I wasn't eyeballing the purse-fitting dogs or anything, but I would likely have gravitated to a couch-loving breed of small beast, and we would probably have grown chubbier together... God knew I didn't need more relaxation.
So, what's the point? I guess what I'm saying is it's increasingly clear to me that what initially looks like suffering or denial will, in most cases, end up being a doorway to a good place that I would never have discovered otherwise.
And the big picture? We have the ability to be altered. We are capable of falling into bad habits, but equally capable of teaching ourselves (or being forced to learn) new, better habits. Our beliefs can shift, our behaviors can change, we can improve. We don't have to let life happen to us.
Isn't that empowering?
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 24, 2017
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Facing the front
I'm a light sleeper. I believe I've already written about that here, probably more than once.
For the past few days, I've been mulling a post about how frequently things change in our lives. It's the same kind of post that just about everyone in the world has read, usually penned by someone in the midst of personal upheaval. The gist of my thoughts is quite familiar: The only thing that's truly permanent is change. It's the one constant factor upon which we can rely.
It became crystal clear to me overnight, as I was awakened countless times by the noise of wind punishing the trees outside and rain trying determinedly to beat its way into our home. All those noises that woke me were the indicators of change coming—colder temperatures, precipitation where there had been none, wind rushing forth to usher in the new weather pattern. Each time the gusts blew with vehemence, I was reminded anew that I'd wake to a very different kind of day than the one that had preceded it.
My husband? My son? They slept through it peacefully, oblivious to the disturbances just a few feet away.
I think it must be nice to sleep through the approaching storm. I can't do it. I feel it, I hear it, I'm jerked awake over and over again with each new gust front. There are things swirling around me in my life, the lives of my family members, and I feel them full force: New patterns, difficulties and obstacles, unwelcome shifts in behavior and lifestyle.
I guess I am a person who directly faces the gust front in order to feel prepared to handle what's coming. I want to be ready each time a front nears... but is that even possible? Knowing that it's lurking doesn't really prepare you for what it's bringing. And yet, you can't spend your life waiting in an underground shelter. Sometimes I'd prefer to be like those folks who simply sleep through the oncoming storm, but I wonder how they do it. Are they standing sideways, weathering the blast without even realizing it's here? And what about those who never see it coming at all? Are their backs to the wind? Doesn't it blow them right over? How can they withstand the force without ending up on their faces?
I suppose there's a comfortable balance, of knowing but not dreading—preparing, but not suspending life during the prep. I have yet to achieve that balance. I face the front, and fret, and watch its swirling destruction. And yet, as someone recently reminded me, we humans are a resilient bunch for the most part. The changes wash over us, and we adjust our internal gauge to accommodate the "new normal." And happily, our stalks usually grow stronger when the wind is damaging. Sometimes we break, but far more often, we endure.
With help, we endure.
For the past few days, I've been mulling a post about how frequently things change in our lives. It's the same kind of post that just about everyone in the world has read, usually penned by someone in the midst of personal upheaval. The gist of my thoughts is quite familiar: The only thing that's truly permanent is change. It's the one constant factor upon which we can rely.
It became crystal clear to me overnight, as I was awakened countless times by the noise of wind punishing the trees outside and rain trying determinedly to beat its way into our home. All those noises that woke me were the indicators of change coming—colder temperatures, precipitation where there had been none, wind rushing forth to usher in the new weather pattern. Each time the gusts blew with vehemence, I was reminded anew that I'd wake to a very different kind of day than the one that had preceded it.
My husband? My son? They slept through it peacefully, oblivious to the disturbances just a few feet away.
I think it must be nice to sleep through the approaching storm. I can't do it. I feel it, I hear it, I'm jerked awake over and over again with each new gust front. There are things swirling around me in my life, the lives of my family members, and I feel them full force: New patterns, difficulties and obstacles, unwelcome shifts in behavior and lifestyle.
I guess I am a person who directly faces the gust front in order to feel prepared to handle what's coming. I want to be ready each time a front nears... but is that even possible? Knowing that it's lurking doesn't really prepare you for what it's bringing. And yet, you can't spend your life waiting in an underground shelter. Sometimes I'd prefer to be like those folks who simply sleep through the oncoming storm, but I wonder how they do it. Are they standing sideways, weathering the blast without even realizing it's here? And what about those who never see it coming at all? Are their backs to the wind? Doesn't it blow them right over? How can they withstand the force without ending up on their faces?
I suppose there's a comfortable balance, of knowing but not dreading—preparing, but not suspending life during the prep. I have yet to achieve that balance. I face the front, and fret, and watch its swirling destruction. And yet, as someone recently reminded me, we humans are a resilient bunch for the most part. The changes wash over us, and we adjust our internal gauge to accommodate the "new normal." And happily, our stalks usually grow stronger when the wind is damaging. Sometimes we break, but far more often, we endure.
With help, we endure.
The Lord is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble; he knows those who take refuge in him. -Nahum 1:7
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Hot, hot, hot
Have you noticed that the weather is unseemly, unseasonably, un-Godly hot? Especially for this early in the summer? What the h***???
On another note, we are now official residents of the South Hills of Pittsburgh.
It's different but good. The traffic is worse, but we knew that going in. The new street and neighborhood have been swell so far, with friendly folks and plenty of peace and quiet.
There have been, and will continue to be, some home repairs, yard fixes, adjustments and such. We knew that, too, although I don't know if we envisioned quite this many. Alas, the place is our little money pit now, so we'll grin, bear it, and prioritize long, long lists of projects.
We have no regrets. (The only things I've missed are a more flat backyard and the central A/C we left behind...) I do believe that this is the place God had in mind for us. And if it's possible for a house to feel, then this little house is content— happy to contain a permanent family again after years of solitude.
Stay cool and check back soon. I hope someday to resume painting, to actually complete unpacking and organizing tasks, and to write a meaningful entry about the trials of the sale/purchase/move/baseball playoffs/last days of school all within about a 48-hour period of time. (Although, I've noticed that already, my mind has begun to block the unpleasantness of the entire experience...)
**********
Please say a prayer for blessings on all our troops who daily defend the freedoms that many Americans take for granted. We celebrate Independence Day for more reasons than cook-outs and fireworks.
On another note, we are now official residents of the South Hills of Pittsburgh.
It's different but good. The traffic is worse, but we knew that going in. The new street and neighborhood have been swell so far, with friendly folks and plenty of peace and quiet.
There have been, and will continue to be, some home repairs, yard fixes, adjustments and such. We knew that, too, although I don't know if we envisioned quite this many. Alas, the place is our little money pit now, so we'll grin, bear it, and prioritize long, long lists of projects.
We have no regrets. (The only things I've missed are a more flat backyard and the central A/C we left behind...) I do believe that this is the place God had in mind for us. And if it's possible for a house to feel, then this little house is content— happy to contain a permanent family again after years of solitude.
Stay cool and check back soon. I hope someday to resume painting, to actually complete unpacking and organizing tasks, and to write a meaningful entry about the trials of the sale/purchase/move/baseball playoffs/last days of school all within about a 48-hour period of time. (Although, I've noticed that already, my mind has begun to block the unpleasantness of the entire experience...)
**********
Please say a prayer for blessings on all our troops who daily defend the freedoms that many Americans take for granted. We celebrate Independence Day for more reasons than cook-outs and fireworks.
Friday, April 27, 2012
The waiting...
The waiting truly is the hardest part.
Things might be brewing with our home sale attempt, but they also might not. We wait for more information, more details, more possible deal-breakers or deal-sealers. We wait.
All this waiting, and trusting, has me thinking more and more about how God grows faith in His people.
It's not a pleasant experience sometimes, at least not for me, because the helpless waiting forces me to realize and acknowledge that I control practically nothing in my little realm. I never did, but for many years, I thought I did. I happily meandered down the path of my life, believing that I had the final say and that I would determine my own destiny.
And I do have a say in what happens, I suppose; my decisions, my reactions, whether or not I pray fervently—all these factors play a part in what befalls me and my loved ones.
Yet, there is so very much that I cannot control. I can see only a miniscule section of the world around me, and I can't begin to understand most of what I see within that section. Not only can I not grasp it all, I am only able to imagine the visible, provable part: I believe there is also an entire reality that is invisible to us, where good forces and bad forces are always quite busy with conflicts. The more I see, the less I am able to see...
I can understand though, in hindsight, how these uncertain times have forced me to lean more heavily on God. When all is predictable and feels steady and easy, then my mind turns happily to things of little consequence: art and music, fun activities, worldly gossip. And when the rug feels as if it might be yanked out from under my hesitant feet, then I find it much more difficult to focus on even remotely shallow brain fodder. Suddenly, the stakes are higher and I feel somber. I think heavier thoughts. So, it's nice to have the advantage of memory in the midst of rickety circumstances. I look back at God's faithfulness, at how past issues have been resolved (often in ways I could never have dreamed). In this current trial, I can grasp with much more depth than I could in the past just how reliable God is, and how unpredictable, and how creative.
The older I get, the more I realize how limited is my earthly intellect in the face of the big stuff. Indeed, we are all severely limited. We can all study and ponder amino acids, but I don't know a soul who can fathom how they were initially combined to form proteins that became life. We know at how many weeks a baby's heart begins to beat, but no one can explain what causes that action to begin. Scientists guess the ages of mountain ranges, or ocean beds, try to pin histories on blobs of solidified lava, try to explain arctic ice layers, and really, their means are childish at times, their laws determined by their own manly methods. No one really knows very much, when you get right down to it. We suppose a lot, we hypothesize and educate ourselves, but I don't think most of it is certain. It's supported by more man-made data, and discussed and confirmed by people who are deeply invested in the truth of such data. That's just not good enough for me anymore.
I will admit that there appear to be some inarguable truths on this little blue orb, but I can also see that a great number of intellectuals are slapping that "truth" label onto statements at will. It's all expensive, government-funded guesswork inspired by the pursuits of a few.
Someone lent me a book recently, and I started to read it, really I did. I tried to give it a chance. But it attacked a lot of the very things by which I choose to define my role in this place. The writer tried to provide logical reasons for doubting Jesus's virgin birth, the miracles that the Bible claims He performed—that author attacked the very character of God Himself—because Jesus is God and man. If I'm going to believe the Bible, I have to believe it. Period. I can't make it logical. I can't dumb it down to fit this world's knowledge base. God told us right up front that His word would be nonsense to the nonbeliever. He didn't try to hide this from us.
So, I gave up finishing the book. I felt as if I were really getting somewhere in my faith, though, because I didn't even take offense at it. I was reading this fellow's charges, his many pompous words as he expounded on the inaccuracy of the Bible and tore it down, and I was just shaking my head as I read. He doesn't get it, I thought; he still thinks he has a clue, that author. He still thinks he can figure it all out.
We are itty, bitty fleas to this universe. We'll never wrap our little minds around it. And I'm increasingly at peace with that. How could I begin to dissect God's ways? They're not for me to comprehend.
All I know is that there's very little I know, that I am so small...but when I go to Him in prayer, He is there to meet me. I'm supposed to go as a child; I'm not to bring my childish, argumentative, proud manner. Those are not the same at all.
In the last few chapters of the book of Job, God sort of smacks down everyone who questions His decisions. He makes it clear Who is large and in charge. I know it's Old Testament, and that Jesus brought the gospel of love, but it still bears my consideration, this idea that I am "dust and ashes." There are far worse things to be.
Things might be brewing with our home sale attempt, but they also might not. We wait for more information, more details, more possible deal-breakers or deal-sealers. We wait.
All this waiting, and trusting, has me thinking more and more about how God grows faith in His people.
It's not a pleasant experience sometimes, at least not for me, because the helpless waiting forces me to realize and acknowledge that I control practically nothing in my little realm. I never did, but for many years, I thought I did. I happily meandered down the path of my life, believing that I had the final say and that I would determine my own destiny.
And I do have a say in what happens, I suppose; my decisions, my reactions, whether or not I pray fervently—all these factors play a part in what befalls me and my loved ones.
Yet, there is so very much that I cannot control. I can see only a miniscule section of the world around me, and I can't begin to understand most of what I see within that section. Not only can I not grasp it all, I am only able to imagine the visible, provable part: I believe there is also an entire reality that is invisible to us, where good forces and bad forces are always quite busy with conflicts. The more I see, the less I am able to see...
I can understand though, in hindsight, how these uncertain times have forced me to lean more heavily on God. When all is predictable and feels steady and easy, then my mind turns happily to things of little consequence: art and music, fun activities, worldly gossip. And when the rug feels as if it might be yanked out from under my hesitant feet, then I find it much more difficult to focus on even remotely shallow brain fodder. Suddenly, the stakes are higher and I feel somber. I think heavier thoughts. So, it's nice to have the advantage of memory in the midst of rickety circumstances. I look back at God's faithfulness, at how past issues have been resolved (often in ways I could never have dreamed). In this current trial, I can grasp with much more depth than I could in the past just how reliable God is, and how unpredictable, and how creative.
The older I get, the more I realize how limited is my earthly intellect in the face of the big stuff. Indeed, we are all severely limited. We can all study and ponder amino acids, but I don't know a soul who can fathom how they were initially combined to form proteins that became life. We know at how many weeks a baby's heart begins to beat, but no one can explain what causes that action to begin. Scientists guess the ages of mountain ranges, or ocean beds, try to pin histories on blobs of solidified lava, try to explain arctic ice layers, and really, their means are childish at times, their laws determined by their own manly methods. No one really knows very much, when you get right down to it. We suppose a lot, we hypothesize and educate ourselves, but I don't think most of it is certain. It's supported by more man-made data, and discussed and confirmed by people who are deeply invested in the truth of such data. That's just not good enough for me anymore.
I will admit that there appear to be some inarguable truths on this little blue orb, but I can also see that a great number of intellectuals are slapping that "truth" label onto statements at will. It's all expensive, government-funded guesswork inspired by the pursuits of a few.
Someone lent me a book recently, and I started to read it, really I did. I tried to give it a chance. But it attacked a lot of the very things by which I choose to define my role in this place. The writer tried to provide logical reasons for doubting Jesus's virgin birth, the miracles that the Bible claims He performed—that author attacked the very character of God Himself—because Jesus is God and man. If I'm going to believe the Bible, I have to believe it. Period. I can't make it logical. I can't dumb it down to fit this world's knowledge base. God told us right up front that His word would be nonsense to the nonbeliever. He didn't try to hide this from us.
So, I gave up finishing the book. I felt as if I were really getting somewhere in my faith, though, because I didn't even take offense at it. I was reading this fellow's charges, his many pompous words as he expounded on the inaccuracy of the Bible and tore it down, and I was just shaking my head as I read. He doesn't get it, I thought; he still thinks he has a clue, that author. He still thinks he can figure it all out.
We are itty, bitty fleas to this universe. We'll never wrap our little minds around it. And I'm increasingly at peace with that. How could I begin to dissect God's ways? They're not for me to comprehend.
All I know is that there's very little I know, that I am so small...but when I go to Him in prayer, He is there to meet me. I'm supposed to go as a child; I'm not to bring my childish, argumentative, proud manner. Those are not the same at all.
In the last few chapters of the book of Job, God sort of smacks down everyone who questions His decisions. He makes it clear Who is large and in charge. I know it's Old Testament, and that Jesus brought the gospel of love, but it still bears my consideration, this idea that I am "dust and ashes." There are far worse things to be.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Favorites, continued
Everywhere I look, I'm being asked to name favorites.
Our computer saves our favorite websites when we tell it to; those URLs get their own special billing across the top of the screen. The Etsy website wants me to select favorite shops and items to share with others. My cell phone encourages me to save my most-called numbers; those are favorites, I suppose. This blog, even, asks me about favorites on the profile page (favorite books, movies, music, etc.) and the blog design page encourages me to list my favorite blogs—other than this one, of course. I talked a few posts ago about my favorite color. I have an old pair of L. L. Bean gum boots, pull-ons without laces, that I've had for 20 years now...and they remain one of my favorite shoes. A wonderful, genuine fisherman's sweater from Cork, Ireland that I lucked into finding at a second-hand shop also ranks as a favorite item.
But the truth is, I've never been good at keeping things. Friends, apartments, careers, jobs. I bought those old L. L. Bean boots I love partly because the weather where I had moved was beyond intemperate, and partly because I'd always admired them on the feet of my first college crush, who wore them with a breezy air and kept his feet dry with timeless style. That fellow has long passed out of the "favorites" category; only his footwear remains, and the boots have stuck just because they're so darned practical and indestructible. How many other shoes have come and gone in my world that were once loved and now forgotten? Heck, how many boys came and went before one of them stuck? And my favorite color used to be teal. Teal? I wore teal clothes, teal eye makeup... it was hideous. No one told me that it was a terrible color for me. Today? I stay clear of it.
Even the favorite books and music categories stump me. Should I name the favorites of yesterday? Or the current flavor-of-the-month? We don't really know which favorites will stay with us, do we? I thought about favorite bands and musicians, and immediately Led Zeppelin came to mind. I love Led. Yet. How many months have passed since I dug out a Led CD and gave it a whirl? Perhaps years have passed? Is that possible? It's the same with authors. My favorite is John Steinbeck. Of course it is.
When did I last read anything by John Steinbeck?
The truth is, I'm fickle. I change my mind a lot. Favorites pass in and out of favor like seasonal throw pillows in my world. I like different things, styles, movements, people every day. I'm really liking the band Vampire Weekend lately, but last year it was James Hunter, who could not be less like the first group. I used to love Anne Tyler as an author, and I still like her style, but I find my mind wandering as I read her words these days because lately, all of her lovable, hapless characters are so alike and slightly annoying to me. Even the favorite websites are constantly shifting in that little line across the top of our computer monitor; KDKA weather, then the weather channel. Hockey websites, then football websites. Right now, there's a link to PBS Kids in that favorites list, but for how much longer?
The word "favorite" feels as if it's been hijacked by the fast-moving, ever-accessible techie world that has sucked us into its insatiable jaws. The very term has become trendy, changeable, watery in its meaninglessness.
I think, to keep my sanity, I'll have to redefine the word favorite. In my world, "favorite" will have an unspoken connotation with "current" or "of the moment." Those are favorites to me: possibly passing fancies, the sorts of things that catch our attention and make us take notice, but are always moving in and out of our focus.
Influences might be a better word for me when it comes to my old-school favorites. Which bands, styles, genres were most influential in teaching me about music and how we relate to it? Which books shaped my appreciation for characterization? for the flow of a well-written phrase? Which artist do I still, to this day, want to emulate? Which towns, apartments, people and jobs have most affected how I comprehend and make decisions about those very things from here on out?
Influential. Now there's a word that captures it better for me.
Am I alone? Does the rest of the world have stationary favorites? Don't judge me because I'm indecisive and prone to redirecting my affection. I beg you.
Our computer saves our favorite websites when we tell it to; those URLs get their own special billing across the top of the screen. The Etsy website wants me to select favorite shops and items to share with others. My cell phone encourages me to save my most-called numbers; those are favorites, I suppose. This blog, even, asks me about favorites on the profile page (favorite books, movies, music, etc.) and the blog design page encourages me to list my favorite blogs—other than this one, of course. I talked a few posts ago about my favorite color. I have an old pair of L. L. Bean gum boots, pull-ons without laces, that I've had for 20 years now...and they remain one of my favorite shoes. A wonderful, genuine fisherman's sweater from Cork, Ireland that I lucked into finding at a second-hand shop also ranks as a favorite item.
But the truth is, I've never been good at keeping things. Friends, apartments, careers, jobs. I bought those old L. L. Bean boots I love partly because the weather where I had moved was beyond intemperate, and partly because I'd always admired them on the feet of my first college crush, who wore them with a breezy air and kept his feet dry with timeless style. That fellow has long passed out of the "favorites" category; only his footwear remains, and the boots have stuck just because they're so darned practical and indestructible. How many other shoes have come and gone in my world that were once loved and now forgotten? Heck, how many boys came and went before one of them stuck? And my favorite color used to be teal. Teal? I wore teal clothes, teal eye makeup... it was hideous. No one told me that it was a terrible color for me. Today? I stay clear of it.
Even the favorite books and music categories stump me. Should I name the favorites of yesterday? Or the current flavor-of-the-month? We don't really know which favorites will stay with us, do we? I thought about favorite bands and musicians, and immediately Led Zeppelin came to mind. I love Led. Yet. How many months have passed since I dug out a Led CD and gave it a whirl? Perhaps years have passed? Is that possible? It's the same with authors. My favorite is John Steinbeck. Of course it is.
When did I last read anything by John Steinbeck?
The truth is, I'm fickle. I change my mind a lot. Favorites pass in and out of favor like seasonal throw pillows in my world. I like different things, styles, movements, people every day. I'm really liking the band Vampire Weekend lately, but last year it was James Hunter, who could not be less like the first group. I used to love Anne Tyler as an author, and I still like her style, but I find my mind wandering as I read her words these days because lately, all of her lovable, hapless characters are so alike and slightly annoying to me. Even the favorite websites are constantly shifting in that little line across the top of our computer monitor; KDKA weather, then the weather channel. Hockey websites, then football websites. Right now, there's a link to PBS Kids in that favorites list, but for how much longer?
The word "favorite" feels as if it's been hijacked by the fast-moving, ever-accessible techie world that has sucked us into its insatiable jaws. The very term has become trendy, changeable, watery in its meaninglessness.
I think, to keep my sanity, I'll have to redefine the word favorite. In my world, "favorite" will have an unspoken connotation with "current" or "of the moment." Those are favorites to me: possibly passing fancies, the sorts of things that catch our attention and make us take notice, but are always moving in and out of our focus.
Influences might be a better word for me when it comes to my old-school favorites. Which bands, styles, genres were most influential in teaching me about music and how we relate to it? Which books shaped my appreciation for characterization? for the flow of a well-written phrase? Which artist do I still, to this day, want to emulate? Which towns, apartments, people and jobs have most affected how I comprehend and make decisions about those very things from here on out?
Influential. Now there's a word that captures it better for me.
Am I alone? Does the rest of the world have stationary favorites? Don't judge me because I'm indecisive and prone to redirecting my affection. I beg you.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Creative fears
I'm hoping to finish this goat painting soon, and offer prints of it in my Etsy shop. I'm pleased overall with the way it's coming along, although the minute I look at it I see things that require fixing, features misplaced, collar too high, etc. Oh, well—in time. I'll let you know when it's done.
The last painting I completed was a Christmas cactus (it's already in the shop), and the final product turned out better than I'd expected. That sounds like it would be a good thing, but actually it can be rather intimidating.
Whenever I finish something that I like, I'm afraid to start the next thing. I want to rest on my own self-appointed laurels. I don't want to risk a potential failure with the next subject. I've read some art blogs, mostly done by more professional artists who spend time creating every day, and they all seem to be of the "paint through it" mentality. I know they're right, but I still find it challenging to make myself get down to business after a success. I suppose that's why there are so many "daily painter" and general artist support groups, so all those artsy people can talk amongst themselves and get each other motivated.
(I guess an online community will have to do, because it's snowy and slushy outside, and I am rather enjoying this period of my life in which I am permitted to rediscover the loner within.)
One cool thing about this sweet goat is that I got to meet him? her? when we visited the miniature goat farm near my sister's; it's always nice to meet your subject. Another cool thing is that an artist of any medium can take liberties and remove unsightly objects from his interpretation—say, for example, wire fences. That just doesn't belong in the painting.
Earlier this week, I made myself get a frightfully white canvas from the basement, and I arranged the easel in my "studio" (our bedroom, the only room in the house that features unhindered morning light). And I began.
I guess everyone has his own method. I sketch the whole thing out a bit per my favorite college art prof's style, and then I start to fill in the major features. Nothing permanent, just scruffy colors and general placement of picture components. It's a mess at first, like a little child's crazy brush strokes, and then it begins to take form. A nose here, an eye there, no horns yet...
In most of my animal paintings, there comes a moment when I know the painting is starting to arrive. It's a moment of recognition, and I had it right before I stopped working on this one. I was putting together this little goat's face, and I mixed a color on the palette and then glanced up—and the goat was looking at me! At that point, I knew he/she was going to be fine. I had a similar moment with the little pig painting I posted a few months ago. I caught the pig smiling at me while I rinsed a brush; after that, I didn't have to make myself work on him, because I wanted to.
I'm hoping this goat keeps urging me on; that makes the process so much easier. Either way, though, I hope you won't be afraid to start the next project in your life; that clean, new canvas is much too white.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
When old friends change teams
I've already mentioned here how you're likely to run into people you know in this city. It happens all the time, especially at events in the downtown area. Throngs of people are milling, milling, and the chances are always good that a familiar face will surface. I saw an old friend recently, one with whom I'd lost contact for several years. Last time I saw her, she was married with children. A dedicated mom and wife. Settled. Committed.
Well, I ran into her downtown, and this time, she was arm-in-arm with someone other than her husband. A woman, in fact.
I did a double-take, because surely, this person only looked like the person I had known. But no: closer inspection revealed that it was, indeed, my old friend. And there was no doubt that she was "with" the woman by her side. I could distinctly sense their partnership.
Now, I've worked at creative firms before. I've known some folks who made no effort to hide the fact that they preferred someone of the same sex. Some of those folks I've liked and respected, and some I've avoided... So, I've responded to them pretty much the same way I've responded to heterosexual people. Twenty years ago? This scene might have made me more uncomfortable. Now? I've seen it. It doesn't freak me out as much as it used to.
BUT. This person was married with a family. Was I to assume that she was meeting a gal-pal on the sly? That this downtown foray was covert? That she lived a double life? That I was the only one to know her secret? I pondered it as I watched the couple from behind the safety of my sunglasses. I used to know this person pretty well; she's not a secretive sort. That's why we got along well; we were both rather obtuse; straight shooters, if you will. Would I have the ability to lead a double life, let alone a lesbian double life? Hell, no. So, it was pretty unlikely that she was doing that.
Then I started to wonder whether not saying anything would bite me in the bum. Would she see me, recognize me, and wonder whether I avoided her because she was with a woman? I honestly liked her when I knew her, and I would feel bad if she thought I'd give her the cold shoulder even if I did feel a tad weird about her date.
In the end, I approached her and said hello. And she knew me in an instant, and was happy to see me. I met her girlfriend. We caught up on the past decade or two, on the events of our lives—both of us had much to share, although my story couldn't begin to compare with hers for sheer surprise factor... I was glad I'd spoken, but it was a bit awkward; she's divorced now. Her kids are pretty much grown. I wondered how they had reacted to all this change... but it's no use wondering, really. It is what it is.
Still. I just keep thinking about that brief interlude. People change, yes. People pursue different careers. People marry, and break up, and have children and lose children. But to change teams: that's big. It's a whole new level of change; it's sort of like meeting an old colleague who's found religion, or become a fanatic about a cure for some illness or a weight-loss plan, or emerged after a sad period to a whole new existence of possibilities. The person is fundamentally the same person you knew before, and yet. And yet. There's been such a serious shift in the person's priorities and interests that he or she is almost like a new person.
I'm truly not certain where I stand on the whole same-sex thing. Do I think people of the same sex can marry? No, I don't. The Bible states pretty clearly that marriage occurs between and man and woman. That said, I used to know two men who were better at being an "old married couple" than most heterosexual couples. Can people of the same sex love each other? I'm sure they can. Is being a couple always about the sex part? No, of course not; I'm certain almost any married couple who's been together for many years would agree that sex isn't the ultimate glue that holds the pair together.
To me, union with another person is about commitment, about sticking to that person even when you don't feel like it, about companionship when no one else will come near, about helping to lift heavy objects both literal and figurative. Union is sometimes as boring as going to the store for the other one who's sick, or being the voice of encouragement and affirmation during hurtful family occasions. It's sharing coffee and meals, or unloading on the other after a bad day and knowing that the someone will listen. And I feel pretty certain that same-sex couples can do all those things for each other just like married people can.
Yes, it's not biblical. I know that. It's not the way a union between two people was intended. I hate thinking about same-sex lifestyles being presented as a normal option, I do; however, I also balk at most of what's considered normal these days. There are plenty of really messy "normal" couples out there who are lousing up their kids and cheating on each other and making awful, destructive, and selfish decisions. I detest the idea of young, homosexual singles out looking for some fun; I also hate the idea of any young heterosexual person selling him- or herself short by participating in tawdry, meaningless flings. None of it is right; it's all sin, it all cheapens the human soul. I've seen it and was even part of it in my younger years, and none of it is pretty; it's all shameful. We all sin and fall short. Whose sin is worse doesn't seem worthy of argument.
Do I think people choose to be homosexual? I have no idea. I can honestly see how sometimes, consequences might lead a person down that path; abuse by someone of the opposite sex, encouragement in that direction by an influential adult, the confused hope that embracing something less standard will make the person feel more important and unique. But I honestly believe that most people who gravitate to that lifestyle and stay there are drawn to it because it's just part of their makeup. Perhaps it's genetic, perhaps it's determined by the brain, perhaps it's none of those things—but I can't imagine most people would choose to practice any lifestyle that pretty much ensures a tougher road for nearly everyone who takes it. Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know. I've never had any inclination in that direction. But it doesn't seem like an easy choice, and I don't think I would choose it.
Still, people do sometimes prefer someone of the same sex. Some animals, too, or so I've read. Occasionally, the person who prefers it is a person you know. I'm not sure what to make of the whole thing, except now I'm a bit more certain about one aspect: it's a whole lot easier to have opinions on things when you don't have any friends who practice those things.
P.S. It doesn't matter who. Please don't try to guess who—at least not here. Thanks.
Well, I ran into her downtown, and this time, she was arm-in-arm with someone other than her husband. A woman, in fact.
I did a double-take, because surely, this person only looked like the person I had known. But no: closer inspection revealed that it was, indeed, my old friend. And there was no doubt that she was "with" the woman by her side. I could distinctly sense their partnership.
Now, I've worked at creative firms before. I've known some folks who made no effort to hide the fact that they preferred someone of the same sex. Some of those folks I've liked and respected, and some I've avoided... So, I've responded to them pretty much the same way I've responded to heterosexual people. Twenty years ago? This scene might have made me more uncomfortable. Now? I've seen it. It doesn't freak me out as much as it used to.
BUT. This person was married with a family. Was I to assume that she was meeting a gal-pal on the sly? That this downtown foray was covert? That she lived a double life? That I was the only one to know her secret? I pondered it as I watched the couple from behind the safety of my sunglasses. I used to know this person pretty well; she's not a secretive sort. That's why we got along well; we were both rather obtuse; straight shooters, if you will. Would I have the ability to lead a double life, let alone a lesbian double life? Hell, no. So, it was pretty unlikely that she was doing that.
Then I started to wonder whether not saying anything would bite me in the bum. Would she see me, recognize me, and wonder whether I avoided her because she was with a woman? I honestly liked her when I knew her, and I would feel bad if she thought I'd give her the cold shoulder even if I did feel a tad weird about her date.
In the end, I approached her and said hello. And she knew me in an instant, and was happy to see me. I met her girlfriend. We caught up on the past decade or two, on the events of our lives—both of us had much to share, although my story couldn't begin to compare with hers for sheer surprise factor... I was glad I'd spoken, but it was a bit awkward; she's divorced now. Her kids are pretty much grown. I wondered how they had reacted to all this change... but it's no use wondering, really. It is what it is.
Still. I just keep thinking about that brief interlude. People change, yes. People pursue different careers. People marry, and break up, and have children and lose children. But to change teams: that's big. It's a whole new level of change; it's sort of like meeting an old colleague who's found religion, or become a fanatic about a cure for some illness or a weight-loss plan, or emerged after a sad period to a whole new existence of possibilities. The person is fundamentally the same person you knew before, and yet. And yet. There's been such a serious shift in the person's priorities and interests that he or she is almost like a new person.
I'm truly not certain where I stand on the whole same-sex thing. Do I think people of the same sex can marry? No, I don't. The Bible states pretty clearly that marriage occurs between and man and woman. That said, I used to know two men who were better at being an "old married couple" than most heterosexual couples. Can people of the same sex love each other? I'm sure they can. Is being a couple always about the sex part? No, of course not; I'm certain almost any married couple who's been together for many years would agree that sex isn't the ultimate glue that holds the pair together.
To me, union with another person is about commitment, about sticking to that person even when you don't feel like it, about companionship when no one else will come near, about helping to lift heavy objects both literal and figurative. Union is sometimes as boring as going to the store for the other one who's sick, or being the voice of encouragement and affirmation during hurtful family occasions. It's sharing coffee and meals, or unloading on the other after a bad day and knowing that the someone will listen. And I feel pretty certain that same-sex couples can do all those things for each other just like married people can.
Yes, it's not biblical. I know that. It's not the way a union between two people was intended. I hate thinking about same-sex lifestyles being presented as a normal option, I do; however, I also balk at most of what's considered normal these days. There are plenty of really messy "normal" couples out there who are lousing up their kids and cheating on each other and making awful, destructive, and selfish decisions. I detest the idea of young, homosexual singles out looking for some fun; I also hate the idea of any young heterosexual person selling him- or herself short by participating in tawdry, meaningless flings. None of it is right; it's all sin, it all cheapens the human soul. I've seen it and was even part of it in my younger years, and none of it is pretty; it's all shameful. We all sin and fall short. Whose sin is worse doesn't seem worthy of argument.
Do I think people choose to be homosexual? I have no idea. I can honestly see how sometimes, consequences might lead a person down that path; abuse by someone of the opposite sex, encouragement in that direction by an influential adult, the confused hope that embracing something less standard will make the person feel more important and unique. But I honestly believe that most people who gravitate to that lifestyle and stay there are drawn to it because it's just part of their makeup. Perhaps it's genetic, perhaps it's determined by the brain, perhaps it's none of those things—but I can't imagine most people would choose to practice any lifestyle that pretty much ensures a tougher road for nearly everyone who takes it. Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know. I've never had any inclination in that direction. But it doesn't seem like an easy choice, and I don't think I would choose it.
Still, people do sometimes prefer someone of the same sex. Some animals, too, or so I've read. Occasionally, the person who prefers it is a person you know. I'm not sure what to make of the whole thing, except now I'm a bit more certain about one aspect: it's a whole lot easier to have opinions on things when you don't have any friends who practice those things.
P.S. It doesn't matter who. Please don't try to guess who—at least not here. Thanks.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Transitional thoughts
I’ve been thinking a lot about transitions.
I’m sure this is related to the recent situation here at home, what with joblessness and job-searching and the [now-at-least-temporarily-eliminated] possibility of role reversals between Todd and me. And I’m certain that I’m still thinking about changes in part because Todd is still in the midst of transition, and will be for a while; he’s started a new job, at a new company, in a different field of work. He’s trying to absorb a lot of information as quickly as possible, and he talks about how overwhelming it is when he gets home—so I’m experiencing the transition vicariously, if you will.
I suppose I’m also thinking about it because of changes within our church, some long past, some recent, some current and upcoming. They all make me ponder what the future holds for this body of believers, many of whom have taught us much and have become friends on the journey.
And I’m faced with undeniable transitions in my son, of course—every day he grows, learns a skill, discovers a new pastime or toy or treat to embrace. He’s a walking change machine. And there are some changes in me, although not nearly so pleasant to observe: lines, droops, the occasional wiry gray hair…but enough about that.
I’ve always been one to scoff at people who fear change. I claim to love change, to accept it and even seek and encourage it when need be. And I still believe that is true. Change is healthy; as our pastor reminded us today, “Healthy things grow, and growing things change.” So true. But age and experience have added a new dimension to my comprehension of the side effects of change. Whereas I used to see transitions as refreshing and a little bit dizzying, now I also see the downside: transitions reveal fissures in the big picture—some tiny, some not so—and those fissures often grow and lead to more transition. It’s almost as if change is the catalyst for more change.
And why not? I recall my pregnancy (although I honestly try not to), and being diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The nurse likened pregnancy to an extended stress test of sorts, explaining that often, a pregnant state reveals other issues that are or will likely soon be amiss in the woman’s body. She recalled cases of pregnant woman uncovering not just diabetic tendencies, but beginning stages of heart problems and even multiple sclerosis. That huge change the expectant female body goes through is just the sort of stressful transition to cause other tiny cracks to grow and spread until they, too, are discernable, diagnosable concerns of their own. They weren’t really caused by pregnancy, they probably would have happened anyway at some point, but there it is—pregnancy can egg on other ailments until they all start showing up as an ugly package deal. Transition begets transition—at least in that case it does.
So, perhaps every change is a mini-stress test, and often it reveals the fissures that are hidden in the infrastructure but would have waited quietly until later if not forced into noticeable existence by the stress of the first change. Does it happen that way in relationships? In work situations? In neighborhoods, government, communities and culture? I think so.
Maybe that’s the way life is supposed to be. If transitions didn’t build on each other and didn’t happen in clusters, then there’d never be any down time between clusters where you could catch your breath and be comforted by the thought that you have a slight clue what tomorrow will bring. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself; maybe there is no such thing as down time, and probably none of us will ever have a clue what tomorrow will bring. Maybe when you stop transitioning, when change stops occurring in your life, then you’re done.
Could it be that simple? Change or stop living?
Wow. Too deep for me. I think the sudden heat outside has gone to my head.
I’m sure this is related to the recent situation here at home, what with joblessness and job-searching and the [now-at-least-temporarily-eliminated] possibility of role reversals between Todd and me. And I’m certain that I’m still thinking about changes in part because Todd is still in the midst of transition, and will be for a while; he’s started a new job, at a new company, in a different field of work. He’s trying to absorb a lot of information as quickly as possible, and he talks about how overwhelming it is when he gets home—so I’m experiencing the transition vicariously, if you will.
I suppose I’m also thinking about it because of changes within our church, some long past, some recent, some current and upcoming. They all make me ponder what the future holds for this body of believers, many of whom have taught us much and have become friends on the journey.
And I’m faced with undeniable transitions in my son, of course—every day he grows, learns a skill, discovers a new pastime or toy or treat to embrace. He’s a walking change machine. And there are some changes in me, although not nearly so pleasant to observe: lines, droops, the occasional wiry gray hair…but enough about that.
I’ve always been one to scoff at people who fear change. I claim to love change, to accept it and even seek and encourage it when need be. And I still believe that is true. Change is healthy; as our pastor reminded us today, “Healthy things grow, and growing things change.” So true. But age and experience have added a new dimension to my comprehension of the side effects of change. Whereas I used to see transitions as refreshing and a little bit dizzying, now I also see the downside: transitions reveal fissures in the big picture—some tiny, some not so—and those fissures often grow and lead to more transition. It’s almost as if change is the catalyst for more change.
And why not? I recall my pregnancy (although I honestly try not to), and being diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The nurse likened pregnancy to an extended stress test of sorts, explaining that often, a pregnant state reveals other issues that are or will likely soon be amiss in the woman’s body. She recalled cases of pregnant woman uncovering not just diabetic tendencies, but beginning stages of heart problems and even multiple sclerosis. That huge change the expectant female body goes through is just the sort of stressful transition to cause other tiny cracks to grow and spread until they, too, are discernable, diagnosable concerns of their own. They weren’t really caused by pregnancy, they probably would have happened anyway at some point, but there it is—pregnancy can egg on other ailments until they all start showing up as an ugly package deal. Transition begets transition—at least in that case it does.
So, perhaps every change is a mini-stress test, and often it reveals the fissures that are hidden in the infrastructure but would have waited quietly until later if not forced into noticeable existence by the stress of the first change. Does it happen that way in relationships? In work situations? In neighborhoods, government, communities and culture? I think so.
Maybe that’s the way life is supposed to be. If transitions didn’t build on each other and didn’t happen in clusters, then there’d never be any down time between clusters where you could catch your breath and be comforted by the thought that you have a slight clue what tomorrow will bring. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself; maybe there is no such thing as down time, and probably none of us will ever have a clue what tomorrow will bring. Maybe when you stop transitioning, when change stops occurring in your life, then you’re done.
Could it be that simple? Change or stop living?
Wow. Too deep for me. I think the sudden heat outside has gone to my head.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Change, change, blah, blah, blah
Well. Today marks a time for "change," or so I've heard. Repeatedly. What IS the change? Hmmmm. Wish I knew. I suspect it is not at all what the misled masses are expecting, but time will tell. I'm hoping I'm wrong about what the future holds for this country. The problem is this: in the matter of dire predictions, history has proven that I'm often dead-on.
Since other people can sometimes say it better than I can, I'll leave the rest of this post to a master. (I know, as a Christian I should find something hopeful from the Bible--and I will. Just not now. Permit me a cynical, disheartened moment, please. The next post will be more optimistic and inspiring.)
Mel's translation: "We the American people will not have to pay higher taxes, but we will somehow, inexplicably, be afforded better or free healthcare, financial benefits, handouts, cushy retirements, etc."
That's only one of many—I found a wealth of quotes from the wise and bitter George Orwell. Here are some more gems:
In the interest of keeping my chin up, I saved this quote for last:
Take that, all you celebratory socialists! You won't rule forever! I just hope there's something worth salvaging in this country by the time you've been tossed aside.
Since other people can sometimes say it better than I can, I'll leave the rest of this post to a master. (I know, as a Christian I should find something hopeful from the Bible--and I will. Just not now. Permit me a cynical, disheartened moment, please. The next post will be more optimistic and inspiring.)
Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one's mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them.
-George Orwell
Mel's translation: "We the American people will not have to pay higher taxes, but we will somehow, inexplicably, be afforded better or free healthcare, financial benefits, handouts, cushy retirements, etc."
That's only one of many—I found a wealth of quotes from the wise and bitter George Orwell. Here are some more gems:
Early in life I had noticed that no event is ever correctly reported in a newspaper.
George Orwell
Freedom is the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.
-George Orwell
In times of universal deceit, telling the truth will be a revolutionary act.
-George Orwell
Most people get a fair amount of fun out of their lives, but on balance life is suffering, and only the very young or the very foolish imagine otherwise.
-George Orwell
People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.
-George Orwell
The quickest way of ending a war is to lose it.
-George Orwell
In the interest of keeping my chin up, I saved this quote for last:
Whoever is winning at the moment will always seem to be invincible.
-George Orwell
Take that, all you celebratory socialists! You won't rule forever! I just hope there's something worth salvaging in this country by the time you've been tossed aside.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Transitions
This morning? It was much like any morn.
The boy and I, we ate our breakfast meal,
But something new was brewing on this day:
We dressed in nicer clothes, put on our shoes
And hurried out en route to a small school.
The place was bustling—squirmy kids, moms, dads,
And each one headed straight up to the door.
My sweetest boy and I walked hand in hand,
His steps uncertain, brave, determined, and—
A teacher saw us there, called him by name,
Applied a sticker to his little shirt,
And gently took his hand away from mine.
I called to him, “Your photo, don’t forget!”
He took the picture from me, one last look—
Then turned, climbed up the stairs, and went inside.
I swallowed back a big lump in my throat,
And made the long walk to the empty car.
The boy and I, we ate our breakfast meal,
But something new was brewing on this day:
We dressed in nicer clothes, put on our shoes
And hurried out en route to a small school.
The place was bustling—squirmy kids, moms, dads,
And each one headed straight up to the door.
My sweetest boy and I walked hand in hand,
His steps uncertain, brave, determined, and—
A teacher saw us there, called him by name,
Applied a sticker to his little shirt,
And gently took his hand away from mine.
I called to him, “Your photo, don’t forget!”
He took the picture from me, one last look—
Then turned, climbed up the stairs, and went inside.
I swallowed back a big lump in my throat,
And made the long walk to the empty car.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Evolution of a neighborhood
A flattering tribute to any street, I believe, is when folks move into the neighborhood and never move away. I am happy to say that our street is sort of like that—or has been for many years. We purchased our home from its original owner, an elderly woman who’d been here ever since she and her husband got married in the 50s, and our neighbor across the street is an original owner, too. A couple of other homes right around us are owned by single men—men who just happened to purchase the house from their grandmas. There is one rental nearby that I can’t quite figure out, but it’s a covert rental, and I suspect that the people in it are in the process of slowly buying the house from the landlord in one of those “rent to own” situations…so they’re likely not going anywhere, either.
However, when people love a neighborhood and stay long enough, they eventually begin to be forced from their homes by circumstance.
Earlier this week, Marcus looked out the window and asked me what the big fire truck was doing up there. Sure enough, a large red truck—paramedic rescue, not a fire truck after all—was parked at a neighbor’s home at the top of the hill. We know the woman’s last name just because it’s on a nameplate in the yard; we’ve never met her. But she is a neighbor. And she was coming out on a stretcher, looking not so good. It was big excitement for my son, because playing rescue is his favorite game—but a more sober moment for me. This is the third time I’ve seen an ambulance on our street, and each time someone was taken in one, it amounted to the last time I saw that person.
The original owner who remains across the way is the one who said it first: “Everyone who used to live here is dead.” And he should know: Until this week, his dear wife was the last person I saw carried out to an emergency vehicle—and she did not make it back home again.
It’s a bit unnerving to me, having grown up in a more rural area where you’d likely never notice an ambulance in someone else’s driveway because they’re a quarter-mile away. Perhaps many streets are like this, and I’ve just been protected from the harsh truth. But we’ve only lived here 2 years, and I even missed an ambulance farther down the street about a year ago; that means there have been 4 ambulances on our road taking people away. As in away, not to return. And this is not a long street. One of those ladies went to live in a nursing home, but she’s not coming back to her old ‘stead—because it’s been sold to a new gal with a little dog. And the woman who sold us this place? I hope she’s not planning to leave assisted living and move back, because she wouldn’t find anything the same—we’ve changed it all.
I like the fact that people don’t want to leave this little slip of a ‘hood…but it makes for some inevitable solemnity when you realize that slowly, surely, the face of this street is changing completely, and an entire founding generation will cease to exist here.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Getting so big…sort of
Last week was a long, painful one. It was potty training boot camp here at our home. It was not fun. It needed to happen, the time was right, but fun was not had. The whole experience has reminded me, though, of how we humans resist change—especially change that involves growth.
We played hardball with the boy, and simply talked about the merits of underpants for several days, warned him that there were no more diapers after Sunday, etc. And then, we started putting him in tiny tighty whities. Well, not whities, exactly—there were small Thomas the Trains emblazoned on them, so they weren’t all white. But you get the idea.
Of course, I did a lot of laundry during those days. I covered the upholstered furniture with sheets and blankets. We had an encore viewing of Elmo’s Potty Time, a lovely instructional DVD that a neighbor passed to us after their youngest had mastered the art. And we talked about potties. And pee. And the other. Endlessly. After a couple of days of being stuck at home in wet clothes, the kid’s incredibly strong, stubborn will began to break. There were touch-and-go successes, and then more successes than failures. And then, number 1 was accomplished. We haven’t slipped up with number 1 for almost a week. Number 2? Another story. He still prefers to sneak off somewhere and do what he shouldn’t. We’ll keep working on it.
But what was most difficult about the week, and continues to be difficult, is my son’s sudden and suffocating need for me. All the time. Constantly. I used to be able to run downstairs for a few minutes to do laundry, check email, clean cat litter, and he’d be fine, singing to himself, talking with his toys, whatever. No longer. Now, if I’m out of his sight for a moment, he starts calling for me. He finds reasons to “need” me:
“Mama, come see how cute my animals are. Mama. MAMA!”
“Mommy, help me build baseball stadium out of Duplos. Mama, come here!”
“Where are you, Mama? Come in my room! Please!?”
He’s suddenly incapable of entertaining himself, even for a minute. It’s been making me crazy. And I didn’t get it, couldn’t see why this is happening, why he’s regressing in this area. I only knew I wanted to poke my eyes out. Many times. More times than I had eyes.
And then I thought about it, and I think I understand. He’s made this giant step—a step toward bigness, a step that undeniably moves him away from babyhood. We keep talking up the big kid idea, trying to glamorize it. And he’s not stupid; kids are pretty good at reading between the lines. If we’re making such a big deal about it, then being a big kid must not be all good. There must be a price to pay for independence from diapers.
So, he’s clinging to his mom. He’s taking that big-boy step in one area, but he’s still holding tightly to Mom in other areas. Yeah, Thomas undies are cool, but being a little boy is cool, too. Going to the dinosaur museum was great! But staying home and snuggling on the couch watching “Arthur” is nothing to sneeze at.
And aren’t we the same way? Change?! What!? No! I like things the way they are! I like my dirty, stinky pants! I don’t want to be clean and dry and mature! What’s so great about growing up? If it’s so wonderful, then how come people are so crazy about babies and little kids? Aren’t they just jealous? You know it!
Change and growth are tough, even when they’re in our best interest. Thank goodness there are dinosaur museums, and carousels, and roller coasters to tempt little boys to use the potty. Thank goodness that as adults, we can look back over our biggest life changes and see how they’ve stretched us, expanded us, made us stronger and better than we used to be. If we choose to see things that way, perhaps we can begin to embrace change for the catalyst to improved conditions that it often is.
Perhaps. Or perhaps we'll just find a quiet corner and happily soil ourselves.
We played hardball with the boy, and simply talked about the merits of underpants for several days, warned him that there were no more diapers after Sunday, etc. And then, we started putting him in tiny tighty whities. Well, not whities, exactly—there were small Thomas the Trains emblazoned on them, so they weren’t all white. But you get the idea.
Of course, I did a lot of laundry during those days. I covered the upholstered furniture with sheets and blankets. We had an encore viewing of Elmo’s Potty Time, a lovely instructional DVD that a neighbor passed to us after their youngest had mastered the art. And we talked about potties. And pee. And the other. Endlessly. After a couple of days of being stuck at home in wet clothes, the kid’s incredibly strong, stubborn will began to break. There were touch-and-go successes, and then more successes than failures. And then, number 1 was accomplished. We haven’t slipped up with number 1 for almost a week. Number 2? Another story. He still prefers to sneak off somewhere and do what he shouldn’t. We’ll keep working on it.
But what was most difficult about the week, and continues to be difficult, is my son’s sudden and suffocating need for me. All the time. Constantly. I used to be able to run downstairs for a few minutes to do laundry, check email, clean cat litter, and he’d be fine, singing to himself, talking with his toys, whatever. No longer. Now, if I’m out of his sight for a moment, he starts calling for me. He finds reasons to “need” me:
“Mama, come see how cute my animals are. Mama. MAMA!”
“Mommy, help me build baseball stadium out of Duplos. Mama, come here!”
“Where are you, Mama? Come in my room! Please!?”
He’s suddenly incapable of entertaining himself, even for a minute. It’s been making me crazy. And I didn’t get it, couldn’t see why this is happening, why he’s regressing in this area. I only knew I wanted to poke my eyes out. Many times. More times than I had eyes.
And then I thought about it, and I think I understand. He’s made this giant step—a step toward bigness, a step that undeniably moves him away from babyhood. We keep talking up the big kid idea, trying to glamorize it. And he’s not stupid; kids are pretty good at reading between the lines. If we’re making such a big deal about it, then being a big kid must not be all good. There must be a price to pay for independence from diapers.
So, he’s clinging to his mom. He’s taking that big-boy step in one area, but he’s still holding tightly to Mom in other areas. Yeah, Thomas undies are cool, but being a little boy is cool, too. Going to the dinosaur museum was great! But staying home and snuggling on the couch watching “Arthur” is nothing to sneeze at.
And aren’t we the same way? Change?! What!? No! I like things the way they are! I like my dirty, stinky pants! I don’t want to be clean and dry and mature! What’s so great about growing up? If it’s so wonderful, then how come people are so crazy about babies and little kids? Aren’t they just jealous? You know it!
Change and growth are tough, even when they’re in our best interest. Thank goodness there are dinosaur museums, and carousels, and roller coasters to tempt little boys to use the potty. Thank goodness that as adults, we can look back over our biggest life changes and see how they’ve stretched us, expanded us, made us stronger and better than we used to be. If we choose to see things that way, perhaps we can begin to embrace change for the catalyst to improved conditions that it often is.
Perhaps. Or perhaps we'll just find a quiet corner and happily soil ourselves.
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