Those People

If there's one thing Paul doesn't like, it's a snob. It's too bad he married one.

I not proud of the fact, but it remains a fact nevertheless.

For example, I don't like shopping at Wal-Mart. It's not because I have a zeal for social justice or workers' rights. It's because I think that I'm better than some of the people that shop there. When I see a boy with a rat-tail yelling at his NASCAR tank-top-clad mother, I roll my eyes. I mean, really.

When I write it down it sounds as petty and awful as it is. I don't know those people. I don't know their stories, I don't know their circumstances. I make a few cursory judgments and mentally declare myself superior.

God must want to drink moonshine straight from the spout when I think like this. He uses the same adoring gaze when he looks at the rat-tailed kid that I use when I watch Joel sleep. He does not discriminate.

God does not create economic or moral caste systems. It's easy for me to declare somebody to be "Redneck" or "So Calvert County."

I choose not to adorn my bumper with plastic dangling testicles. Have I considered it? How could I not? It's a look both classic AND timeless. Yet, my bumper remains ball free. Does that mean I'm a better person? I would say "yes." God would disagree.

I do not agree that the Confederate flag is a sign of "Heritage, not hate." It seems pretty hateful to me. I can honestly say I've never taken the time to hear the other side, because I've considered myself better than those people. It occurs to me that slave owners thought they were better than those people too.

It's not up to me to do the judging. I'm sometimes the "worst kind of liberal." I'm tolerant of people, as long as they agree with me.

It's God's challenge, and my directive, to attempt to listen and understand, even when the ideas seem backward or the exterior appears rough.

Truly seeing other people as God's creation---without deciding which creations are better--may be one of the hardest things I'll ever do.

And probably one of the most important.

One step closer

Joel is now mobile. I would not call it crawling as much as a military-style scoot. It's not pretty, but it does get him from one place to another.

This means that I am one step closer to having one toddler and one preschooler.

I am one step closer to carrying around a feed bag bursting with Goldfish crackers and Cheerios.

I am one step closer to exiling the houseplants upstairs. Although they may wither from a lack of sunlight and/or neglect, they will not perish at the hands of my baby boy.

I am one step closer to the day when I will take two walking boys to the playground AND keep all four of their limbs intact.

Lord help me, this means I'm one step closer to taking both of them to the pool and the beach, too.

One step closer to the day that Owen realizes he has a playmate, not a baby brother.

One step closer to the day that Owen finally gets his comeuppance. Go get 'em Joel!

One step closer to two boys digging for worms in the flower beds, and two boys stomping in the piles of leaves.

I'm one step closer to discovering Joel--his likes, dislikes, his sense of humor, his take on the world.

I'm terrified. I also can't wait to see what's next.

It's one step closer.

Is your colon rollin?

I did a 5K Saturday morning. It was called "Get your Colon Rollin," and all proceeds fund free colon screenings to detect/prevent colon cancer. Colon cancer, I learned, is the second leading cause of cancer-related death in Calvert County. It is virtually undetectable until it is serious. That's why it's so important to get the screenings once you hit the age of fifty and onward...not to sound like a public service announcement.

Although cancer is never, ever, funny (I've known enough people with it to know that it falls into the "never funny" category), the people who put together races for colon cancer have a good sense of humor. Before the race started, you could pose with a woman dressed as a bright red polyp. She looked like a slightly flat jellybean, but no, she was, in her words, "A giant pain in your ass." How true. The shirt that I earned running this race was bright green (thankfully, not brown), and loudly proclaimed that it was time to "Get [my] Rear in Gear!" Duly noted.

The race itself was a a comedy of errors. It had rained the previous night, and naturally, this was a cross-country trail race. We were delayed because the EMTs came late. The bagels were frozen. The DJ felt inclined to play "Cotton Eyed Joe" at nine thirty AM.

Once we actually started, I ran through the mud puddles, stagnant water splashing up my legs. I ran up hills, slipping and sliding all the way. I ran on the wet sand by the river. I trudged up a gravel pathway, then attempted to make my way back down. I crossed the finish line, the giant polyp cheering me on. My heart was thundering in my chest. I leaned over and waited for my breath to return to normal. I guzzled a Gatorade. I normally HATE Gatorade.

Paul's motto about running is, "If the run felt good, you didn't give it your all." Poppycock.
My motto is, "I did it, damnit. Where's my coffee?" That being said, I felt really tired. I must have given it my all, for once. I was eager to see my time.

Oh.
I had one of the worst times I have ever had for a 5K. 34:18

Was it the terrain? Am I just out of shape? Was it because I was listening to my iPod, a running first?

I don't know. I could choose to stew about it. Instead, I'm just happy that I managed to get my rear in gear, and that I made it there at all.

Now where's my latte?

Lily Pads

Anne Lamott in her memoir, Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith, opens the book by talking about the Lily Pads of her life. She writes, "My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another. Like lily pads, round and green, these places summoned and then held me up while I grew. Each prepared me for the next leaf on which I would land, and in this way I moved across the swamp of doubt and fear."

I thought of this today as I was watching Owen splash in the puddles. Owen got super-cool Fireman rain boots for his birthday, so we put them on and headed off to the beach. The plan was to to splash in as many puddles as possible.

Mission accomplished. We started in the dirt parking lot, where he jumped in the puddles, causing the water to hit his shoulders. He then sped through the puddle, leaving a muddy wake. Crying, "Come, on Mom, this is cool!" he picked up sticks, handfuls of dirt, and rocks, throwing them into the puddles and laughing out loud. There is nothing so satisfying as the sound of a good, heavy splash.

We moved on to the small beach. Sometimes, I'm struck by the Maryland-ness of our lives. As Owen played by the banks of the Chesapeake, fishing boats cut through the fog. Owen picked up oyster shells and fossilized coral off the ground and put it in (surprise!) another puddle, making "soup." We shooed away ducks as they waddled our way, listening to the sound of the waves gently lapping the shore.

I pulled up my hood and watched Owen create his own world out of twigs, sand, shells, and water. Then, I thought of Anne Lamott and her Lily Pads.

Her metaphor is one of faith...the faithful people she encountered protected her from her swamp of depression and darkness as she inched towards her own relationship with her God.

Likewise, Owen is leaping from one Lily Pad to the next, as he leaves babyhood and toddlerhood behind, becoming a little boy. His first Lily Pad was me, as he would sleep, eat, and stretch in my arms. My smell, my body, my warmth was his safety. As he learned to sit up, crawl, and walk, his next Lily Pad was larger, and included grandparents, aunts and uncles, and most importantly, Dad. He learned how to talk and imagine, and with that, his next Lily Pad included caring adults---babysitters, pastors, teachers, friends. Each Lily Pad was progressively larger to support the people who loved Owen.

And today, watching him play independently on the beach, I realized that Owen is about to leap to another Lily Pad, where he stands on his own two feet. He still has all the people who love him, but he also is learning that he is a pretty great person by himself. A person who can play by the bay, collect shells and stones, and create worlds out of puddles.

He is this person because he knows that whenever he jumps, he will not fall in the swamp. He will be protected. He will be loved.

I'm still me!

When I started this stay-at-home-mom business a little over three years ago, I was scared out of my mind.

I was sure that I would become one of those people that didn't know how to interact around adults, a woman who talked loudly about lactation and potty training instead of books, music, work, or travel.

I was afraid that I would not have enough to do, and I would invent pathetic little hobbies to occupy my time, to keep the days from blending into one endless loop of diapering and ga-ga-goo-ing.

Now, three years later, I am no longer scared. However, I am amazed: I was scarily accurate. I do talk about sleep schedules, poop, nursing, and discipline more than I should. At parties. With a glass of wine in my hand. Thankfully, I can get away with this because most of the parties I frequent are hosted by parents of young children.

Since most of my friends are parents, I live in this bubble where I am not tiresome. Every once in awhile, though, my bubble bursts. When I'm telling a "hilarious" story about one of the boys to my brother, he tries so hard, but I can still hear his stifled yawn on the other end of the line.

I'll get occasional emails that say things like, "Oh, Nancy, you're such a mom!" The underlining message is: you're so uptight.

"No, I'm not!" I want to reply. "I'm still me!" I still love campy stuff, like "RuPaul's Drag Race," which is "Project Runway" meets "America's Next Top Model," except that the contestants are all drag queens. I mean, the lip-synch-off alone makes the show quality television.

I also still love to read. When I go to the library now, I grab as many titles as I can, usually by scanning the cover and reading the first two to three lines of the jacket. I would read more, but I'm often peeling Owen off the bookshelves. Why are bookshelves so similar to ladders?

I'm still me. I am a child of the desert, and will always feel happiest soaking up the sunshine. On Sunday, I took Joel outside and he and I found the warmest spot we could and just sat. While Joel picked up leaves and pulled at the grass, I basked in the warmth and felt myself recharge like a battery.

I love music. Having an iPod has helped me reconnect with my high school roots, when knowing the "right bands" and listening to the "right music" separated the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. I'm listening to The Decemberist's new album, "The Hazards of Love," and I'm astonished by its creativity and artistry.

I'm still me. But I'm tied down now. The part of me that loves adventure, spontaneity, freedom, is presently hibernating. In college, my friend and I once drove to the Grand Canyon to see the sunrise, just because we could. I once dated a guy who played music with a conch shell. Paul and I used to go up to DC and try new restaurants, sampling sea urchin or speciality beers. We hiked in Baxter State Park in Maine, swatting away the deer flies and smiling at each other, thinking, "Can you believe we're here?" We talked about seeing Fiji, Scotland, Italy, Ireland.

Those plans are on hold. If and when they happen, they will be a different reality. A safer, more family-friendly reality. I'm mostly okay with this, but it bothers me a little, too.

I'm still me, but I am also, such a mom. I worry about the economy, because I want the brightest future for my boys. I can't read books like Night anymore. While Wiesel's depiction of the Holocaust was and is troubling, as a mother, it is too heartbreaking for me. Likewise, when Dr. House has a case involving a child, the TV is turned off. I can't handle to see a sick child, fictional or not.

I guess I really know that I am a mother because I just bought scrapbooking software. I used to hate the idea of scrapbooking: these poor, pathetic mothers who have nothing better to do but memorialize every moment of their childrens' lives. I mean, really. It's like writing a short essay about one's children every day and posting it online. What a waste of time!

This is what a pot looks like when it calls a kettle black, in case I was being too subtle....

I decided that the boys, especially poor, sweet, forgotten Joel, should see their lives unfold through words and pictures. So, despite the fact that it's not my comfort zone, I am going to give this digital scrapbooking a whirl.

I'm still me. Even though I'm a mom. Even though I fill my days with "pathetic" hobbies and talk about my kids more than I talk about ideas.

I'm still me. I hope that my friends outside of the "parent bubble" know that.

Speechless

On Monday night, I felt it starting to go. By Tuesday night, it was gone.

Yes, folks, it's time for my semi-annual tradition: Losing my voice. The perfect storm of a head cold and the start of allergy season results in my voice becoming a death rattle.

I use my voice a lot. I'm attempting to use humor and choices when Owen gets stubborn, which works much better when one's voice box works.

Likewise, I do a better job teaching when I can project my voice above a whisper.

Since I can't talk, I've thrown in the towel. I cancelled class. Then, I called Paul and hissed into the phone, "Please come home as soon as you possibly can."

After asking me to speak up three times, he finally said, "I'll be home by noon."

At noon, the cavalry came. Both boys are sleeping, I am resting the voice, and hopefully, I'll be at least croaking by tomorrow.

I guess that's all I have to say today. Not the most entertaining post, which is strange. You would think that I would be dying to share the things I couldn't express out loud. Instead, I'm feeling a little weary and I'm going to enjoy the boys' naps with a nap of my own.

All this attempting to communicate is making me too tired to communicate.

What makes my garden grow

Today, the three of us went on a forced march, I mean, enjoyable excursion to the hardware store/nursery.

Since the weather has remained in the high forties most days, and a few trees are starting to bud, I have declared it spring. This will be the year that the yard looks pretty. Last year, I didn't bother because I was pregnant. The year before, I didn't bother because I had A Baby! Who could never go outside! Who required all of my attention all of the time! What a joke. I know now that it is possible to have an infant AND have a yard with "curb appeal." Or at least a yard that doesn't give the impression that the occupants skipped town months ago...

So, I put the kids in the car, and went to the nursery to buy a bunch of Violas. Then, since I bought the flowers at a roadside stand, I loaded the boys back in the car, drove to the hardware store, and purchased multiple bags of mulch.

All that sitting in the car and listening to the Wiggles worked up quite an appetite for Sir Owen. A stop at Starbucks was in order. I cannot tell you how much I enjoy that place. We bought a snack (cheese and apples), a juice, and a decaf coffee. I'll let you figure out who consumed what. We settled into the comfy chairs and just stopped moving for a bit. The music played, I made goo-goo faces at the baby, Owen "hid" behind the chair, and all was good. Owen took the time to tell me that "I just like saying no to say no." Color me surprised. It's cool, though---spending time just interacting with the boys gave me the fuel I needed to attack the next task: gardening with two boys.

Joel fell asleep on the way home, so I actually only worked outside with Owen. What a treat. While I planted the Violas, Owen dug in the dirt for worms, and joyfully placed each worm in the empty containers (which once held the flowers). He made this elaborate story of how each worm had a home. I told him that worms eat dirt, so he dumped a wee bit of dirt next to the worm to "give it a little snack."

I felt like this is what parents are supposed to do: introduce children to the world, and all its simple wonders, without rushing or making it a BIG EVENT.

It was, simply put, such a nice way to spend an hour.