Tag Archives: child

1-999-910-0122

I got a call from the bad man. This guy calls and tells you that he is receiving error messages from my Windows Computer. He asks me how I am. I tell him that I don’t want him to call here anymore and he shouldn’t try to hurt people, that it was bad. Then I hung up, to the chimes of my husband and daughter, “Who was that?” “What was that about?” I already talked to one of his compadres months ago. I searched the phone number (1-999-910-0122, if you feel lonely). They tricked others out of money and time and that is just not good. I suppose I could do like my brother does and string people along – if he gets a message from England asking for $1,000 my brother offers him $3,000 and says they’ll set up a benefit concert for him. I would die laughing if I tried that sort of thing, but he is a pro. I’ve seen him call HSN and ask questions until they hung up on him. Then he’ll call back and say, “The last person I talked to was so rude.” They will engage him until he is tired of them and hangs up the phone. I am not sure I endorse the wacky calls to HSN – those people have jobs, but getting the swindler’s hair on their necks to stand up – well, in my opinion, that is too lovely.

Does anyone read this?

Things are better these days with my husband right now. I suppose that is why I haven’t spent as much time blogging. I decided to be “nice” to him. I don’t like the word “nice”. I think it implies boredom and perfection – perfection is something I can tolerate only in God. (Which is good, as it is also the only place anyone can find it.)

So he is happy, I am happier and I am in bed listening to Small take a bath. She hates baths, but if she wants to dig in the mud like a puppy, she has to take a bath afterwards.


The Empty Tomb

I don’t know much about the women who came to care for Jesus’ dead body. When I have to do something out of the ordinary, I prepare myself mentally for it. They have probably prepared a body for burial before, but not someone as precious as Jesus. The women were walking together but there is no record of their time, walk, if they spoke of the man they loved who had died, or if they kept their busy thoughts to themselves. What I do know is what they found exceeded their expectations.

Mary Magdalene heard his voice. I don’t know if you’ve ever lost someone close to you, but I know when I have that I hear their voice and see them – his hand pushing the button on the elevator, that is not his hand. Or her coat on a woman crossing the street a block ahead of me. I don’t know if it’s an illusion, but I do know that was I saw was not what their was. Mary Magdalene must have thought something like that was going on. It wasn’t. Not only did she find Jesus, she found the Jesus she never could have expected. He was not bent over cowering in the corner – half dead from the beatings and cross he had spent so long enduring, but not all dead. He was vibrantly and completely alive.

There was nothing in that tomb. Martina Ockerman from United Methodist Church, explains that Jesus chose to show up and tell the women himself all that had happened. He couldn’t let use women-folkin the temple, or arrange for a private women’s Bible study and would have been considered scandalous to have her as one of his disciples.

She explains, “Those of us who serve as women clergy are spiritual descendants of these women at the cross. If not for these women, we might still be followers from a distance, never to have broken that boundary….” I do not consider myself clergy, although I’ve held various leadership positions in the church, but I know a reason I am welcome at all in the services is because those women went to care for Jesus, opened their doors to believers and seekers and strongly gripped their faith. The roles I do have are because those women went to the tomb in the service of God and they served Jesus because they loved him. They weren’t only wives, daughters and mothers, they were Ministers to Jesus.

Let’s do that, too.


the day I deserve

I am off kilter. Last night my husband and I watched Sherlock over the internet. If you have any sense you will find it and watch it yourself. I thought about it all last night and woke up this morning with him in my brain. I feel frightened. I’m attributing it to the scary British tv show, not to anything real…

But I’m anxious, no matter what caused it, I still am anxious and I need to do whatever it takes to get out of it so it doesn’t become depression, and depression doesn’t lead to death. The last time I was depressed my seven year old asked me, “Do you feel like you don’t deserve anything?”

I thought about it for a minute. “Yes, yes I do.” That really is a part of all the moods I travel through. You can call it self-pity. I don’t care what you call it, actually. For me, those feelings come and bad things happen. No chemically balanced person can say that.

“You deserve ME!” She told me with out stretched arms. A perfectly acceptable time for a hug. I deserve her.

I asked her if she ever felt that way. Her answer was a simple “no”. This child has so much self esteem it is, as her North Dakotan aunt would say, “disgusting.” She is confident. She is happy about 80% of the time. She will pretend to be sad, some of the time, but I have never seen her pretend to be happy. Maybe it comes naturally to her and maybe we’ve built it in to her. Either way, the feeling I don’t deserve anything is mostly gone for me today. It’s just the fear without discernible cause that is getting to me today.


As if life itself is not a series of disappointments

I want to be one of those “yes, yes” and “no, no” kind of people. Look at the Sermon on the Mount, “All you need to say is simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; anything beyond this comes from the evil one.” I want to say “yes” and everyone to know I mean it. I want my “no” to be of the same ilk. Yes. No. No, “I swear” not even, “I promise”. “Yes”, “No.” That’s it.

I am disagreeing with someone important here. He thinks that disappointment is part of life, and that a kiddo should get used to it. I think there is truth to that, but I also think it is a person’s responsibility to keep, not only to their promises, but their word. You don’t talk up a trip to Disney World, or a puppy or anything to a ten year old without following through. It’s wrong, it’s a lie. And it’s ugly. The kid learns disappointment, as if life itself is not a series of disappointments, and the child learns not to trust anyone. Trust is given freely by children, as babies they trust their mommies will come when they are called for. As toddlers they learn the floor doesn’t move. As they get older, they realize some people will not tell them the truth, and that, despite other’s best efforts, that plans fall through. Disappointment comes organically, why should that net be thrown by your parents?

I think that has to be all for today. I’m headed to Weight Watchers, and I have watched my weight faithfully this week. I didn’t track my food, I ate viciously (I think, like I said, I didn’t track it.) and exercised twice. I am getting tired of this whole dieting regime, even though I know it’s worth it. Did you know, after thirty two pounds I am still at size 14? I can still shop at Fat Lady stores while I am five pounds away from “goal”. I guess it doesn’t matter. I look fine in them, and I’m not wearing a sash that says, “#1 Non-Fat Woman of Lane Bryant”. My mother says that I may have worn at fourteen before, but it was way too tight. Whatever, mother.


Working is hard work

I’ve been working sporadically, but determinedly. Today I did an all day in a kindergarten class room with a sweet, intelligent teacher. The school is an inner city school and I’d put Small in her room in a snap. Remember Small’s kindergarten teacher? If you don’t, I won’t refresh you. It was that bad.

It’s dress rehearsal tonight. Seven year old Small is the lead. She sang a teaser to the congregation last Sunday and we got comments like “She should sing in the ensemble” (the church’s worship band). Everyone said she did a good job and in the second service she didn’t miss a note. The director of the play said, “Without Small, there would be no play”. So we’re proud and it may be that Small will have the acting career I dreamed of. I have never pushed her towards this. I think there is too much heartache, but she hasn’t had any of that so far. And she doesn’t know Carolyn Robertson.

But still, when I see her up there, the only actor who speaks with any sort of expression, the only one signing solos, the sweetest singer, the glowingish skin, my face beams. She’s all those things, and more than that, she is the one who is mine.


Meeting Myself

“if you met yourself tomorrow would you be someone you like… trust… want to be friends with… admire? That’s where it begins.”
— Marcel Nunis’ Dad.

If I had the pleasure of making my own acquaintance, I would like myself right away. I have red hair, after all! And some freckles. And pimples. In a lot of ways I look like a forty-year-old-eighth-grade-early-bloomer. I kinda like that look on a woman. I think I’m interesting. I have a small family but I talk about my child (mostly) only when asked, or when the story is really funny. I have an interesting job, read interesting things, and have traveled all over the interesting world. I’m also will spend three hours on the veranda talking about nothing with a friend. I love that in a person. I do not understand why it is so rare. People have time to spend hours on the internet, watching television or getting high. They are not always more important than spending precious hours with a friend. (I obviously use the internet, I watch some tv and I can’t drink anymore for a thousand different reasons – I’m not better than you, because I spent two hours drinking coffee at the house across the street. If I thought I was better than you, it would be because of different reasons.)

I am not sure I could trust myself. I am loyal to a fault, but sometimes it’s difficult for me to understand things. I look at my calendar every single day. Some days I read, “Psychiatrist – 1:00”. Unfortunately I read, “Psychiatrist – 3” and there at 2:45, announcing to the receptionist that I know I’m a little early. My daughter’s play rehearsal starts at 5:15. I should remember this. Two out of four meetings we have been fifteen minutes late because I am sure the rehearsals start at 5:30. I’m trying to get this straightened out. I ask B to read the days appointments back at me, and I carefully read the numbers on the page. I still make about two calendar mistakes a week. I do not purposely hurt people anymore. I don’t get mind-cloggingly drunk, anymore either and that makes me much more reliable – but please – that is not saying a lot. I am pretty good at gently confronting people if I have issues with them. Except when I’m not.

I do admire the person I hope that I am. (Let’s slip this into the third person so I don’t get embarrassed.) Malakoa manages bipolar disorder. She has a regime and she mostly sticks to it. For example, she would rather sleep late as much as she could and stay up as late as much as she wants. Instead, she keeps to a pretty consistent sleep schedule. She sorts out twelve pills a day in to a big ole pill box and takes those damn pills twice a day, even if they make her choke or don’t seem like they are doing anyone any good. She has lost most of the weight she gained on those damn pills, and that is not a common thing for mentally ill folks to do. You are more likely to see a patient walking around with a dazed look on their face and a milkshake in one hand. I know because I’ve done that before, too. It’s easy to give up on ever being well – so many folks with mental illness get fatter and fatter and feel so sorry for themselves, thus making no effort to pull themselves together. It’s a hard thing to do, and sometimes it’s nearly impossible to do, but she does it a lot of the time. She has held mostly difficult jobs – right now she works with a little autistic guy – it’s something that, even if she’s not great at it, is one most people would not want to attempt. She quit drinking on her own. No meetings, no backslides, nothing. She’s been sober for six years, and as much as she wants to drink again, she won’t. I believe her.

So, meeting myself would give me a true, albeit untrustworthy friend. What can I do to be a better friend? Anyone?


Feeling Kind of Sad Today (PG)

Not sure why but I’m feeling kind of sad today. I couldn’t stay for all of the Red Ribbon Don’t Use Drugs Day assembly even though Small really wanted me to. I got to the psychiatrist’s late and she wouldn’t lower my Lamictal dose even though I believe it is directly responsible for my poor word recall. She asked if there was any real reason to be anxious and I couldn’t think of one aside from being late. She told me not to worry about her, the waiting room (they call it the salon) was bursting anyway. That didn’t help.

I like her scale because it says I weigh 150 lbs. I actually weigh 178. I trust Weight Watchers more than the shrink’s office. I know I’m still a big girl and I look it. From behind I am told I have a cute butt. That’s nice to hear – I never had much of a butt before. It’s the gut I want to go away now.

Might be sad from title=”Single Dad Laughing” target=”_blank”>http://www.danoah.com/2010/09/you-just-broke-your-child.html Read it, and get back to me. The things he observes remins me so much of Dobson when he instructs parents to break their children’s “will” not their “spirit”. The way to do this, of course, is to beat them. If they do not improve, spank harder and more often. Usually desperate parents read this stuff and do it. There seems to be little concern about the ramifications of violence in their child’s home. A child who cannot be trusted to learn logically from her own mistakes doesn’t need more spankings. She definitely needs consequences to her actions, of course she would. But what logical consequence is there for a three year old to spilling food off her plate on the table? Is a spank reasonable? No, but I’ve seen a man do it. Is telling her to clean it up reasonable? Yes. Is punishing her for not getting the table immaculate? Because of the child’s age, in my opinion, the consequence is reminding them next time to be neater. Then, if she doesn’t do it, consider a more age-appropriate consequence. If she doesn’t comply, perhaps your demands are unreasonable? Consider this: Does it make that big of a deal to wipe up a table?

Dobson is an enemy to children and families. I know some friends, even readers here like what he has to teach. I respect their rights to decide how to raise their children, but I respect my own right to comment about Dobson. It’s not you, dear reader, that I have the problem with, it’s just with some of your choices. Dobson pits parents against their children, calling the poor little ones manipulative. A counselor I once respected recommended the Strong Willed Child to parents with children that weren’t perfect. When I spoke to him about it, specifically about giving it to a family we had established is abusive, he nodded at me indulgently. It would have been easy to commit murder, but I had no means in which to do it.

There are a barage of “Christian” family books, videos and CD about raising children. I read a bunch of them before I was even married. Children interest me. Unfortunately the books made cry. There was one that advocated spanking every time you get a chance, even newborn babies, with PVC pipes because they don’t leave marks like some other things might. Another guru wanted newborn babies to cry for forty-five minutes so they could learn to sleep and said that if you don’t do things his way you were going to have an unhappy family. All this talk about being able to “love them too much” repelled me. Lastly, I read that a man who said that he had never met a child under twelve who was happy who wasn’t spanked.

I knew I couldn’t have children if I had to raise them so punitively. I knew I couldn’t do it the way I was raised as well. I cried. This was outside of my scope. I could never raise a hand or a PVC pipe to any child. There was some truth to what some of them said, but enough for my shoulders to seize up and my stomach to rumble.

Thank goodness I stumbled in a more natural, less punitive way of living. In the sixth grade we learned about babywearing. I thought it made so much sense, I knew I would do it. I wanted to breastfeed because it seemed to be convenient, not to mention best for the baby. I need a lot of sleep so I knew the baby would be in a side car in my bed as long as I needed the sleep and she wanted to be there. I stumbled upon an article about “Attachment Parenting” and recognized myself in it. I wasn’t the only one like this! There were even Christians who did it, although there were a number of anti-Christians that espoused that philosophy that did not like the Christians.

I can see why. If you read only the mainstream, Christian literature it would be easy to hate Christian parents. It’s a well earned aversion. I admit I get that feeling, too. I fight against it, confident in the millstone around the neck of the person who causes a little one to stumble. That sort of justice is somewhat soothing, but it doesn’t stop the child from being broken.

I have more to say about this, but I don’t have the time to write it. Maybe later, maybe not