"Nancy, you're a lot of things. Good things. But, you're not creative." A friend of mine said this at the tail end of one of those spontaneous dorm room gatherings that makes college college.
At the time, I had nodded my head. In my mind, she was right. Back then, I had a pretty narrow definition of "creative." Creative people sculpted, painted, wrote poetry, or made films. They went to performance art installations or poetry slams.
They certainly did not attend state universities, major in English Education, and work at parking services. They were not active in Lutheran Campus Ministry, nor did they watch Melrose Place.
Simply put, creative people didn't do any of the things I did.
Or so I thought.
I realize now, though, that I'm a balloon, and I stay aloft by my creative outlets. If I do not have a chance to express myself, I wilt and wrinkle.
For many years, I flexed my creative muscles in the classroom. When a project or lesson took flight in "real life" the way it did in my mind, I floated for the rest of the day. It was a genuine rush. With the advent of testing and standards (which, by the way, are not necessarily bad things), teaching became less fun. I felt like a parody of my younger, more enthusiastic self.
Now, my outlet is this writing deal. If I don't post, I feel off, a bit achy. But when I write something that resonates with others, I feel a keen satisfaction, an awareness that my words, my life, my experiences...matter.
I know that my life is significant without writing, but with this daily discipline at the keyboard, I am able to observe the world with just more. More joy. More absurdity. More grace. More humility. More gratitude. Just more.
And because of that, I am so grateful that I am creative enough to see past my friend's sincere, but misguided words. God made me creative. And because of that, I see more of His world.
Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Monday, July 13, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
F-O-O-L-I-S-H-N-E-S-S
I will never be a homeschooling mom. Here's why:
I received a thank-you note from my sister-in-law, and it was thoughtful and gracious. My nephew had taken the time to write a N, P, O, and J on it. My sister-in-law assured me that he did this without help. She wasn't being braggy, but rather was bursting with Mommy Pride.
I understand this impulse. You may notice that I write about my children from time to time.
However, since William is several months younger than Owen, it occurred to me that it was high time Owen started writing letters, too. Because I'm not competitive. Not. One. Bit.
We got out the paper and I asked Owen if he wanted to write his name. "Sure," he responded. So far, so good.
I wrote out the letters of his name, writing it in little lines so that he could trace it. "What does that say?" I asked, pointing to the letters.
"O-W-E-N, Owen!" he said. "That's me!"
"Do you want to trace the lines?" He nodded his head and picked up the pen.
And then, he proceeded to scribble until his name was a dark, black streak.
"That's a nice drawing," I said, being a patient, child-friendly educator. "What are you making?"
"Oh, Mommy," he said, laughing, "I wasn't making anything. I was scribbling over my name."
"Why did you do that?"
"For fun."
I took a deep breath and asked, "Would it be fun to write your name?"
"Yes, yes it would! Yes it would!"
Once again, I wrote his name, spelling out the letters. "Do you want to write your name or do you want to trace it?"
"Oh, I just want to write my name by myself."
Do you see how I gave the lad choices, thus empowering him?
My son was empowered to, once again, scribble his name into oblivion.
"Owen," I said, "Do you want to do this or not?" I felt a slight tingle of irritation.
Owen looked at me, burst into laughter and said, "You're wazzaliy," which is Owen's go-to silly word.
And.....that was the end of that lesson.
We went on to make a collage of Owen's favorite things (if you're curious, it includes: Nemo fish, baseball, cake, ice cream, mixers, vegetables, dogs, trees, and kitchens. And yes, the ONLY magazine we have in the house is Bon Appetit. I know. We suck.)
Everything was fine. I'm sure that despite this incident, Owen will, at a minimum, make it to the state college of his choice.
Nevertheless, I will leave the majority of his schooling to trained professionals who, while caring individuals, have a bit of necessary detachment.
I think everybody will be a lot more wazzaily as a result.
I received a thank-you note from my sister-in-law, and it was thoughtful and gracious. My nephew had taken the time to write a N, P, O, and J on it. My sister-in-law assured me that he did this without help. She wasn't being braggy, but rather was bursting with Mommy Pride.
I understand this impulse. You may notice that I write about my children from time to time.
However, since William is several months younger than Owen, it occurred to me that it was high time Owen started writing letters, too. Because I'm not competitive. Not. One. Bit.
We got out the paper and I asked Owen if he wanted to write his name. "Sure," he responded. So far, so good.
I wrote out the letters of his name, writing it in little lines so that he could trace it. "What does that say?" I asked, pointing to the letters.
"O-W-E-N, Owen!" he said. "That's me!"
"Do you want to trace the lines?" He nodded his head and picked up the pen.
And then, he proceeded to scribble until his name was a dark, black streak.
"That's a nice drawing," I said, being a patient, child-friendly educator. "What are you making?"
"Oh, Mommy," he said, laughing, "I wasn't making anything. I was scribbling over my name."
"Why did you do that?"
"For fun."
I took a deep breath and asked, "Would it be fun to write your name?"
"Yes, yes it would! Yes it would!"
Once again, I wrote his name, spelling out the letters. "Do you want to write your name or do you want to trace it?"
"Oh, I just want to write my name by myself."
Do you see how I gave the lad choices, thus empowering him?
My son was empowered to, once again, scribble his name into oblivion.
"Owen," I said, "Do you want to do this or not?" I felt a slight tingle of irritation.
Owen looked at me, burst into laughter and said, "You're wazzaliy," which is Owen's go-to silly word.
And.....that was the end of that lesson.
We went on to make a collage of Owen's favorite things (if you're curious, it includes: Nemo fish, baseball, cake, ice cream, mixers, vegetables, dogs, trees, and kitchens. And yes, the ONLY magazine we have in the house is Bon Appetit. I know. We suck.)
Everything was fine. I'm sure that despite this incident, Owen will, at a minimum, make it to the state college of his choice.
Nevertheless, I will leave the majority of his schooling to trained professionals who, while caring individuals, have a bit of necessary detachment.
I think everybody will be a lot more wazzaily as a result.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Ghost of Teaching Past
I went to a conference today to earn continuing education credits. I need to get six credits in the next year or so to keep my teaching certificate current. I've been told again and again that letting my certification lapse would be The Biggest Mistake of My Life.
Since I have no idea what the future will bring, I agree that it would be stupid to lose my teaching license due to sloth and avoidance. So, I'm re-entering the world of education, already feeling like Rip Van Winkle. I've only been "out" three years, and by "out," I mean I've been teaching at the community college level for most of that time.
Nevertheless, technology has apparently exploded in my absence. There are things called "clickers" and "Smart Boards," that are used with regularity. Do people use overhead projectors anymore? Or have they gone the way of reel-to-reel filmstrips and flannelboards?
I. Don't. Know.
It's an uncomfortable feeling, because I am never as comfortable with myself and my talents than when I am in front of my own class of middle schoolers, teaching writing. Everybody has their niche, and that happens to be mine. But now, having been away from my comfort zone, I'm not sure that it will remain comfortable.
It's like the old, green flannel shirt that I wore every weekend in college. It felt like a second skin. I found it buried in a duffel bag recently, when I was clearing out some old clothes. I tried it on, and found the sleeves to be a bit too short, the collar a little scratchy. How did that happen?
I wonder if my teaching shirt will still fit.
At the conference, the subject was disruptive students. It was very affirming, because so much of the advice made sense to me, and validated the things that I already do. Educational gimmicks come and go, but the bottom line has always been the same: if you show the students that you care, they will generally go along for the ride, even if they hate your content.
I know that the technological jargon and other trends will be quickly learned, if and when I return to the classroom. So much of education is "what is old is new again."
Yet, being a non-practicing teacher, surrounded by working professionals, felt odd. I felt like Scrooge, looking at my past, watching the younger me argue passionately about books and learning and children. The younger me cared so much about being a teacher and being a professional. It nearly did me in.
Presently, I still think I could be a good teacher. But I don't know if that passionate twenty-something who dreamed of changing lives is still there.
I want to make a difference for Owen and Joel more than I want to make a difference for other people's children.
And so, I wonder: should I even bother returning to teaching? The answer is: I don't know--yet.
I guess all I can do for the moment is continue to earn my credits, learn what I can, and decide, by how the spirit(s) move me.
Since I have no idea what the future will bring, I agree that it would be stupid to lose my teaching license due to sloth and avoidance. So, I'm re-entering the world of education, already feeling like Rip Van Winkle. I've only been "out" three years, and by "out," I mean I've been teaching at the community college level for most of that time.
Nevertheless, technology has apparently exploded in my absence. There are things called "clickers" and "Smart Boards," that are used with regularity. Do people use overhead projectors anymore? Or have they gone the way of reel-to-reel filmstrips and flannelboards?
I. Don't. Know.
It's an uncomfortable feeling, because I am never as comfortable with myself and my talents than when I am in front of my own class of middle schoolers, teaching writing. Everybody has their niche, and that happens to be mine. But now, having been away from my comfort zone, I'm not sure that it will remain comfortable.
It's like the old, green flannel shirt that I wore every weekend in college. It felt like a second skin. I found it buried in a duffel bag recently, when I was clearing out some old clothes. I tried it on, and found the sleeves to be a bit too short, the collar a little scratchy. How did that happen?
I wonder if my teaching shirt will still fit.
At the conference, the subject was disruptive students. It was very affirming, because so much of the advice made sense to me, and validated the things that I already do. Educational gimmicks come and go, but the bottom line has always been the same: if you show the students that you care, they will generally go along for the ride, even if they hate your content.
I know that the technological jargon and other trends will be quickly learned, if and when I return to the classroom. So much of education is "what is old is new again."
Yet, being a non-practicing teacher, surrounded by working professionals, felt odd. I felt like Scrooge, looking at my past, watching the younger me argue passionately about books and learning and children. The younger me cared so much about being a teacher and being a professional. It nearly did me in.
Presently, I still think I could be a good teacher. But I don't know if that passionate twenty-something who dreamed of changing lives is still there.
I want to make a difference for Owen and Joel more than I want to make a difference for other people's children.
And so, I wonder: should I even bother returning to teaching? The answer is: I don't know--yet.
I guess all I can do for the moment is continue to earn my credits, learn what I can, and decide, by how the spirit(s) move me.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
No time to blog, Dr. Jones.
Grading a stack of community college research papers. At least three of them advocate for the legalization of marijuana. So far.
I wonder if I was that creative when I was nineteen, too.
I wonder if I was that creative when I was nineteen, too.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Dollars and Cents
I decided last week that I wasn't going to teach at the college next semester so I could focus on writing and this webbity-bloggity thing I've got going. I figure: this is the one time in my life that I have the luxury to explore my options---to pursue writing or underwater Pilates, or whatever. Paul and I live simply enough that we're making this one-income thing work...not forever, but for the time being. I figure that teaching will be there...but the time to pursue other dreams will not.
So, I decide this, and feel good--that way it feels to finally have settled something. Then, the fear creeps in. The holy-shit-I-do-not-make-any-money fear. Really, when all is said and done, my present job brings home about $150 every two weeks. A week's worth of groceries, plus change to buy Starbucks and a Netflix.
Yet, it's a check that has my name on it, and that makes me feel like a functional adult. When the checks only have Paul's name on them, I feel dependent. Itchy. I feel the need to ask permission to get my nails done, and feel guilty when I go wild and buy the out-of-season cherries.
This is all me, because Paul understands that watching the boys is a job, albeit an unpaid job. He doesn't second-guess my purchases, and rolls his eyes when I talk about "his money," and "my money."
It just nice to see a tangible proof that my work is valuable. I can cash or deposit a check. I can use the money to buy plane tickets, to pay off the mortgage, to replace the tires on the Honda.
With the boys, I "deposit" lessons, hugs, kisses, conversations, activities, attention, love. I don't know how my investments will mature; I just have to hope and trust that my decisions are sound.
In light of today's economy, perhaps these investments---Owen, Joel---are the only the only investments I can trust.
Maybe so---but I still like earning my own money.
So, I decide this, and feel good--that way it feels to finally have settled something. Then, the fear creeps in. The holy-shit-I-do-not-make-any-money fear. Really, when all is said and done, my present job brings home about $150 every two weeks. A week's worth of groceries, plus change to buy Starbucks and a Netflix.
Yet, it's a check that has my name on it, and that makes me feel like a functional adult. When the checks only have Paul's name on them, I feel dependent. Itchy. I feel the need to ask permission to get my nails done, and feel guilty when I go wild and buy the out-of-season cherries.
This is all me, because Paul understands that watching the boys is a job, albeit an unpaid job. He doesn't second-guess my purchases, and rolls his eyes when I talk about "his money," and "my money."
It just nice to see a tangible proof that my work is valuable. I can cash or deposit a check. I can use the money to buy plane tickets, to pay off the mortgage, to replace the tires on the Honda.
With the boys, I "deposit" lessons, hugs, kisses, conversations, activities, attention, love. I don't know how my investments will mature; I just have to hope and trust that my decisions are sound.
In light of today's economy, perhaps these investments---Owen, Joel---are the only the only investments I can trust.
Maybe so---but I still like earning my own money.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Persistant Voices
So, today in church the pastor was talking about using your talents and gifts for the good of others. This hit me at just the right time because I've been thinking about the future a lot recently, and what I'm going to be When I Grow Up.
The idea of being a teacher again leaves me cold. I liked it, and I'm good at it, but I'm just not excited about it. I'm not sure if this is because my attention is temporarily diverted by the boys, or if my passion for teaching has just fizzled out. I confess, I was already looking out the door when I was pregnant with Owen, and I transitioned to stay-at-home-mothering without any major hiccups.
Yes, I do teach at the community college two nights a week. And honestly, even that isn't getting me too excited. It's hard to believe that thesis statements and parenthetical citation isn't getting my motor running, but there it is...
This puts me in a bit of a quandary because there are a limited number of things that I am good at. I'm quite good at chit-chatting with strangers at the park. I can really clean a sink, so that it is shiny and smells vaguely of lavender. I do a great job of selecting books from the library. People aren't going to pay me the salary I desire, plus benefits, to do such things.
I know I can teach; I know I can write. I know I can teach about writing. I know I can write about teaching. I know that I've suddenly channelled Dr. Seuss, please forgive me.
If I teach, I cannot resent the job, or else I will resent my students, who will in turn resent me. That's no good. If I return to the classroom, I need to return with my passion and standards intact, or else I should just go home.
I really feel like I want to be a writer. I Just. Don't. Know. How. This blog, while fun, is not going to make my fortune. So, what is? How am I going to do this?
I believe that when random things keep happening, they are not random. In the past month, through a variety of people, events, circumstances, and encounters, I've heard the same message: "Serve God. Use your talents when you are asked." So, again, I'm sitting here, wondering, "How?"
Does anybody out there know? I'm still looking. I'll tell you the answers someday, when I am All Grown Up.
The idea of being a teacher again leaves me cold. I liked it, and I'm good at it, but I'm just not excited about it. I'm not sure if this is because my attention is temporarily diverted by the boys, or if my passion for teaching has just fizzled out. I confess, I was already looking out the door when I was pregnant with Owen, and I transitioned to stay-at-home-mothering without any major hiccups.
Yes, I do teach at the community college two nights a week. And honestly, even that isn't getting me too excited. It's hard to believe that thesis statements and parenthetical citation isn't getting my motor running, but there it is...
This puts me in a bit of a quandary because there are a limited number of things that I am good at. I'm quite good at chit-chatting with strangers at the park. I can really clean a sink, so that it is shiny and smells vaguely of lavender. I do a great job of selecting books from the library. People aren't going to pay me the salary I desire, plus benefits, to do such things.
I know I can teach; I know I can write. I know I can teach about writing. I know I can write about teaching. I know that I've suddenly channelled Dr. Seuss, please forgive me.
If I teach, I cannot resent the job, or else I will resent my students, who will in turn resent me. That's no good. If I return to the classroom, I need to return with my passion and standards intact, or else I should just go home.
I really feel like I want to be a writer. I Just. Don't. Know. How. This blog, while fun, is not going to make my fortune. So, what is? How am I going to do this?
I believe that when random things keep happening, they are not random. In the past month, through a variety of people, events, circumstances, and encounters, I've heard the same message: "Serve God. Use your talents when you are asked." So, again, I'm sitting here, wondering, "How?"
Does anybody out there know? I'm still looking. I'll tell you the answers someday, when I am All Grown Up.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Working Girl
I think my life is about to get a bit more complicated. This is a good thing, because I got a job--- again.
Let's back up. Last fall, I started teaching English Composition at the local community college. I really, really liked it. Community college students are, generally, good folk. Yes, there were some knuckleheads, but that is the case anywhere, anytime. Most of my students fall into the "not knucklehead" category. They're single moms, immigrants, "mature students," and young people that learned (or are still learning) from their mistakes in high school.
It feels nice to work with students that truly don't have to be there. It changes the entire dynamic. If a student is being a knucklehead, or doesn't turn in work, or has a laundry list of excuses, it's not my problem. I get to say things like, "You're paying for this class. It's your choice."
It's a breath of fresh air.
I took the fall off, because I just had Joel. Then, I missed the deadline to sign up for spring courses (I blame mommy brain). Later on, I find out that classes are available because some other teacher flaked. Now, here I am, with a class to teach two days a week.
Of course, teaching does create some problems. I told Paul about the job opportunity and his response was, "You better start pumping." You may recall how much I love pumping. I hate it so much that I tried to introduce formula last week when I took Owen to church. Wouldn't you know, Joel would have nothing to do with it. I'll keep trying, but I better, like Paul said, get pumping. Ugggghhhhhhhhh.
By accepting this job, I'm accepting the fact that lesson planning and grading will always be there to suck up my extra time. I may spend more evenings (after the boys are down) getting organized instead of relaxing or (gulp) writing this blog. I'll still find ways to make it work---especially with Paul taking on the bulk of boycare two evenings a week.
I'll also have my own money. I don't care how liberated and equal our partnership is, it feels good to get a paycheck with my name on it. I feel less guilty when I get a pedicure or buy something goofy when I know that it's my money that I'm wasting.
So, this is mostly a good thing. I hope. I just feel like I've achieved a sense of equilibrium with the two boys. I'm starting to feel normal again. Do I really need this in my life?
I guess I'll find out. Stay tuned.
Let's back up. Last fall, I started teaching English Composition at the local community college. I really, really liked it. Community college students are, generally, good folk. Yes, there were some knuckleheads, but that is the case anywhere, anytime. Most of my students fall into the "not knucklehead" category. They're single moms, immigrants, "mature students," and young people that learned (or are still learning) from their mistakes in high school.
It feels nice to work with students that truly don't have to be there. It changes the entire dynamic. If a student is being a knucklehead, or doesn't turn in work, or has a laundry list of excuses, it's not my problem. I get to say things like, "You're paying for this class. It's your choice."
It's a breath of fresh air.
I took the fall off, because I just had Joel. Then, I missed the deadline to sign up for spring courses (I blame mommy brain). Later on, I find out that classes are available because some other teacher flaked. Now, here I am, with a class to teach two days a week.
Of course, teaching does create some problems. I told Paul about the job opportunity and his response was, "You better start pumping." You may recall how much I love pumping. I hate it so much that I tried to introduce formula last week when I took Owen to church. Wouldn't you know, Joel would have nothing to do with it. I'll keep trying, but I better, like Paul said, get pumping. Ugggghhhhhhhhh.
By accepting this job, I'm accepting the fact that lesson planning and grading will always be there to suck up my extra time. I may spend more evenings (after the boys are down) getting organized instead of relaxing or (gulp) writing this blog. I'll still find ways to make it work---especially with Paul taking on the bulk of boycare two evenings a week.
I'll also have my own money. I don't care how liberated and equal our partnership is, it feels good to get a paycheck with my name on it. I feel less guilty when I get a pedicure or buy something goofy when I know that it's my money that I'm wasting.
So, this is mostly a good thing. I hope. I just feel like I've achieved a sense of equilibrium with the two boys. I'm starting to feel normal again. Do I really need this in my life?
I guess I'll find out. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Editing
I'm taking a break from editing my friend's dissertation. I'm so impressed with people that use their minds all day long. I've never had a job where I had to sit at a desk and think think think. It's exhausting.
Don't get me wrong. When I was a teacher, I had to think---How do I craft this lesson? What can I do to help Child X move ahead when Child Z is still five steps behind? Is there a homoerotic subtext between Romeo and Mercutio? But, it was an easy thinking. So much of teaching is just instinct---you know what needs to be done, and you do it.
At least it was that way for me. But editing somebody else's work---holding another person's baby in my cold, unflinching hands, is a responsibility I don't take lightly. If I don't do my job, then the writing will not do the job it's meant to do.
And it all come back to parenting. Each day, I'm editing Owen and Joel's life. I'm deleting the behaviors I don't care for---such as Owen's need to bark orders at me: "Mommy--Get Milk NOW!!" I'm writing in the margins, "More--expand!" when Owen is telling a story about the imaginary fish he caught in the bathtub. When Owen has a moment of clarity, "Christmas IS Jesus's birthday," I'm scrawling, "This is fantastic," adding smiley faces and exclamation points.
Joel's composition is a little easier and a little harder. I find that my most frequent comment is "Unclear." Is he squawking because he is exhausted or really happy? It's a fine line with this one. However, I'm already starting to write new things...a "good job" when he rolls over, and a "Me too!" when we find something mutually amusing. I'm looking forward to the day when Joel inspires exclamation points and gold stars all of his own.
Don't get me wrong. When I was a teacher, I had to think---How do I craft this lesson? What can I do to help Child X move ahead when Child Z is still five steps behind? Is there a homoerotic subtext between Romeo and Mercutio? But, it was an easy thinking. So much of teaching is just instinct---you know what needs to be done, and you do it.
At least it was that way for me. But editing somebody else's work---holding another person's baby in my cold, unflinching hands, is a responsibility I don't take lightly. If I don't do my job, then the writing will not do the job it's meant to do.
And it all come back to parenting. Each day, I'm editing Owen and Joel's life. I'm deleting the behaviors I don't care for---such as Owen's need to bark orders at me: "Mommy--Get Milk NOW!!" I'm writing in the margins, "More--expand!" when Owen is telling a story about the imaginary fish he caught in the bathtub. When Owen has a moment of clarity, "Christmas IS Jesus's birthday," I'm scrawling, "This is fantastic," adding smiley faces and exclamation points.
Joel's composition is a little easier and a little harder. I find that my most frequent comment is "Unclear." Is he squawking because he is exhausted or really happy? It's a fine line with this one. However, I'm already starting to write new things...a "good job" when he rolls over, and a "Me too!" when we find something mutually amusing. I'm looking forward to the day when Joel inspires exclamation points and gold stars all of his own.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Grace Notes and Green Gooey Geysers
Due to circumstances too tedious to relate, I find myself suddenly unemployed this spring. I've taught English at the local community college for two semesters, then took off this fall semester due to Joel's arrival. I always intended to return in the spring, but, it looks like it's not going to happen.
So, I feel a bit of relief (no papers to grade, no lessons to prepare, less bottles to pump), a bit of despair (my only job involves wiping asses and negotiating with toddlers), a bit of fear (we're paying for preschool next year how?) and a bit of joy. If I've learned anything about God and grace, it is that He uses opportunities. What is in store for me now? Will I do more with writing? Will I do a different type of teaching? Will I focus my energy in a completely different, exciting way? What is in store for me? Anne Lamott says, "I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us." Thank God for that.
Now, for something completely different, it's today's POOP REPORT
I was holding Joel in my lap. He was sitting, facing out, because he likes to see what's going on. He was wearing a cute gray sweatshirt, a detail which will be significant in just a moment...
I hear a gurgle, look down, and see a geyser of green baby shit gurgle up over his diaper, shooting up his back, and on my lap. Because he was not wearing a onesie, there was no line of defense. Just a green Old Faithful of ca-ca, everywhere.
I squeal, then place him on his tummy so I can clean off his back. This isn't the worst I've seen. I've had times when I've just cut the onesie off with scissors and thrown the whole thing away, because nothing's cleaning that mess.
Anyway, I'm working on cleaning his back. As I do this, Joel takes it upon himself to spit up about a gallon of milk. So, I'm working on both sides, using wipes by the ton. Finally, he's clean, newly dressed, and the trash can is bursting.
Then, with a giggle and that tell-tale gushing, my youngest decides to finish the job (and his brand new onesie).
So, I feel a bit of relief (no papers to grade, no lessons to prepare, less bottles to pump), a bit of despair (my only job involves wiping asses and negotiating with toddlers), a bit of fear (we're paying for preschool next year how?) and a bit of joy. If I've learned anything about God and grace, it is that He uses opportunities. What is in store for me now? Will I do more with writing? Will I do a different type of teaching? Will I focus my energy in a completely different, exciting way? What is in store for me? Anne Lamott says, "I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us." Thank God for that.
Now, for something completely different, it's today's POOP REPORT
I was holding Joel in my lap. He was sitting, facing out, because he likes to see what's going on. He was wearing a cute gray sweatshirt, a detail which will be significant in just a moment...
I hear a gurgle, look down, and see a geyser of green baby shit gurgle up over his diaper, shooting up his back, and on my lap. Because he was not wearing a onesie, there was no line of defense. Just a green Old Faithful of ca-ca, everywhere.
I squeal, then place him on his tummy so I can clean off his back. This isn't the worst I've seen. I've had times when I've just cut the onesie off with scissors and thrown the whole thing away, because nothing's cleaning that mess.
Anyway, I'm working on cleaning his back. As I do this, Joel takes it upon himself to spit up about a gallon of milk. So, I'm working on both sides, using wipes by the ton. Finally, he's clean, newly dressed, and the trash can is bursting.
Then, with a giggle and that tell-tale gushing, my youngest decides to finish the job (and his brand new onesie).
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