Veridicality Grooming

So, yeah, my name’s The Mamma, and I’m a veridicalholic, and I’ve had accurate fact, based perceptions for 15 days.

<Hi, The Mamma.>

The reason I am at this Veridical Anonymous meeting is because I don’t want my issues to cause my kids problems.

At its core, veridicality means truthful or veracious.  Veridical testimony can be directly supported by concrete evidence.  Psychology operationally defines veridicality as the correct perception of an object, that is, the perception of an object that dovetails the object’s real (objective) properties as opposed to its (subjective) or interpretive connotations.  Furthermore, in the field of Psychology, veridicality also veers more toward the esoteric; that is to say, truthful,yes, but of or relating to revelation in dreams or hallucinations, etc. that appear to be confirmed in subsequent experience.

As a Mamma, my primary parental function boils down to grooming.

Who knew grooming had such veridicality context!?

I prepare and fix.
I cut and trim.
I mend and wash.
I wipe and polish.
I tend scrapes and breaks.

That’s the truth.  Veridicality extraordinare.

Every maternal duty I perform could be categorized as a grooming behavior.

I prepare meals and help children prepare their homework.  I cut their bangs and trim their nails.  I am also responsible for cutting the budget, trimming expenses, and getting the yard cut by someone. Anyone?  I mend socks and wash laundry.  I wash loads of laundry more endless than the seas.  I wipe noses and counters.  I polish nails and furniture.  I tend scraped knees and am something of a savant with a glue gun.  Can anything really break if there’s a glue gun and enough glue sticks in the house?  I mean, come on, I’ve got two.  Large, for industrial jobs, and petite, for jewelry and knick-knacks.  I know how to mend.

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

However, honestly, it’s tough to keep objective the subjective work of relational grooming as a Mamma.

Yes, I prepare meals and help children prepare their homework.  I expect that, and whatever self-indulgent complaining I might do about it on the side, waxing poetic about the mind-numbing aspects of how much time it takes to plan the meals, write the shopping list, buy the food, pack the food in the car, unpack the food at home, prepare the meal, and clean up after the meals… and don’t even get me stared about Long-Term Research Projects the kids bring home every two weeks, it’s like I ALWAYS have my period on this type of cramp-inducing schedule!  Nonetheless, panty-liner in place, I am efficient in the realm of the physical demands of parental grooming.  Relationally, however, grooming becomes more of a maternal stretch.  How do I prepare my children for rejection?  How do I prepare myself to accept they will lie to me as I strive to prepare space for each of them to grow their own characters grated from the expectations set by our God, house, circle and world?  Why is it that when I must prepare to tell them that they alone are not able to attend the co-ed party at a friend’s house whose parents I don’t know that I all but have to wear Depends so I don’t have a situation panty-liners simply aren’t designed to cover?  Why is it when I prepare my heart to begin a new day with my babies, instead of it being flooded with rainbow colors of hope, like Love’s own Covenant, it prepares legalistic lists like the pharisees, like a spiritual fracture or OCD?

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

What’s true?

Indeed, I am responsible for cutting the budget, trimming expenses, and getting the yard cut.  I expect that as a natural outcome of having a body, living with 4 children who also have bodies, and owning a home instead of a condo.  I expect nails and grass to grow back.  However, I am MUCH less gracious about mistakes or bad habits growing back.  Yep, I am a hypocrite too, but, dammit already, once I’ve done the soulful lecture, given the encouraging talk, metered the appropriate consequence and hugged the it’s-all-going-to-be-okay-hug, why does the errant behavior grow back?  Like I ever, ever, got frustrated at one of my kids that their nails grew too quickly, or their hair was too long?  Really?  Why doesn’t it feel the same?  It’s all just cutting and trimming, right?

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

What’s true?

Yeah, okay, I only mend clothes in an emergency.  Like, if one of my kids is in serious love with something, or a Halloween costume goes kinky, or I have to wear something, then and only then, I mend clothes.  I have actually only mended 5 socks, and well, yes, they were just that special.  However, I wash more laundry than a lifetime, centurion insomniac has ever counted sheep.  I live with five other people.  Jeans with blown-out knees and dirty laundry are more common than colds in our house.  I do more loads of laundry in a week than toilets flush in this house.  Do the math.  The number is just that big.  Yet, I get frustrated if I have to have the same discussion over and over with one or more of the kids.  Like really, and those of you who are regular readers, this won’t surprise you. Really?  We have to talk about the litter box again?  And go over the chart or board or plan de jour?  Again?  Like, do you expect me to kill the cats or scoop the waste myself?  I don’t think so.  And then we all have to get over it again and mend relationship?  Running a marathon uphill is less cardiovascular.  Can’t I just tell my children what to do once, and the problem will be mended?  I have never complained that it’s time to give a baby a bath, or wash Baby Girl’s hair, or even wash out the sink.  I love to see and smell my kids squeaky clean.  Frankly, I am a bit of a freak about my sink.  I love to wash it, and don’t leave it wet.  I always dry it out with a cloth so it’s shiny.  Yep, I am just that sick.  Too bad it doesn’t translate when I am tasked to wash away angry words said by a confused adolescent or overtaxed husband.  Where’s my compulsion to wash when it’s time to clean grievance and forgive?  My track record simply isn’t as consistent there.

I am a recreational wiper.  Really, I wipe my kitchen counters as a go-to anxiety reducing strategy.  Yep, really.  I buy Windex in bulk.  I like how it smells more than a rich waft of a freshly baked brownie.  I am just that kind of sick.  I wipe noses and counters with complete alacrity.  It doesn’t gross me out.  It doesn’t bother me.  I am only uncomfortable if you tell me I can’t wipe a dirty nose or counter top.  That said, I am not oh-so smile-on-my-face-song-in-my-heart when it comes to wiping out a debt or a grievance.  I can rehearse a grudge like one big, drag-queen diva on a stage belting out a tune from Yentl. I have to wipe out my right to be right?  My left hand is all but a CPA with record keeping, folks…  I gotta wipe my righteous indignation?  I need to forget? Like wipe away my being offended like the tide?  Really?  Over and over again… cause my kids aren’t listening and they still don’t clean the litter box, and oh, by the way, one of them lied to me again.

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

What’s true?

Yeah, I polish nails and furniture and mend scraped knees like Florence flapping Nightingale, but polishing and mending relationships is so much harder.  The central reality that makes it feel so much more challenging is completely subjective.  I expect to drown in laundry and I expect my children to listen to me the first time every time and learn from their every mistake too.  Only one of the two premises has any basis in reality, yet I operate in a constant state of denial that I have to say it again, like, “How many times have I told you…” That cliche has been around so long it has surprised cave men. I just ain’t gonna be the Mamma who only has to say it once.  Dammit, dammit, dammit!  And I’m not going to cure sibling rivalry either, so I have Oreo pie accidents and eat two slices in the middle of the night in my underwear.  Yes, for the record, I am eating a lollipop.   And I’m tired.  I’m mean, I’m here, I won’t quit, but I am weary in my marrow.  And what do you mean, children?  I am supposed to cultivate meaningful relationships with each of you individually and still keep up with your laundry, homework and extra-curriculars?  You outnumber me and your father travels!  I can’t do it!

That’s truthful.

Veridicality.

What’s true?

The most veridical thing that I can assert at this point is that in my own strength I can only keep up with their laundry.

OK, sorry, some of you know me, usually, I can’t even manage that.

If I objectively list everything I am supposed to groom, or facilitate the grooming of, as a mother and wife, I will archive a job description for which none would apply.

Like ever.  Even in a recession as deep, dark and long as this one, Beloveds. And that’s true enough.

However, if you want to talk to me about truth relating to revelation that appears to be confirmed in subsequent experience, I got me one heck of a Big Brother.  He wipes debt like I go after a counter top.  Verily, I say to you, He was born for it.  I got a written promise that His plans are to prosper and not to harm me.  And up to and including the kids putting toxic waste in my rice pudding, that’s true enough too.  I got this wholly, holy fruit lives inside of me like some supernatural, turbo-pack to equip me to groom like a salon before a red carpet event grooms A-list celebs.  Only this equipment could care less what I wear or look like.  In fact, outward appearance isn’t even on its compass, this centers exclusively on the Heart, Truth and Home.

So, yeah,one way or another, in terms of veridicality, being a Mamma most often comes down to grooming.

The onus is to accept the relational aspects of grooming as reflexively, and with as much unflappable expectation, as we address physically grooming our children or homes.  True, relational grooming is more difficult because it calls upon us Mammas to get our egos out of the way and  to access Godly cleansers like Grace, Forgiveness and Love.  The task is to remove blame instead of coffee stains and mend fences before bra straps.

No matter how clean I keep my house, my house is not in order unless the people who I love that dwell here sleep well, and safely, and trust like breath that they are adored and beloved.

So, yeah, my name’s The Mamma, and I’m a veridicalholic, and I’ve had accurate fact-based perceptions for a term, and because I am one fleshy mass of human id, there’s no transformation of my identity without God.

And I am gonna keep showing up and doing this program, because it’s not just my job, it’s my call.

Eternally.

Lovingly dedicated to Mona, whose soul-time with me today on the phone inspired this post.  Love you so.  xoxoxo

I did my best,
it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel,
so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth,
I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

see “One Chinese Mother’s Voice” on BlogHer

BlogHer is an awesome space.  It’s like one big, cozy den in a real girlfriend’s house.  It makes me think of my friend, TJ’s, house.  Her place slings hash and parties more than any NYC bistro. Everybody feels happy and heard in her bright, citrus kitchen… children, couples, adults, girlfriends, and in-laws alike.  TJ knows her crowd, speaks the truth, and lives in a land where polka dots meet sass.  So when I’m stuck at home with a sick kid, or actively avoiding laundry, or coming down off work, or checking the pulse of recent headline buzz, I show up on BlogHer like I often wander over to TJ’s house.  I love places where I don’t have to worry what I wear, Starbucks is always welcome, and make-up is entirely optional.

I plugged into some BlogHer voices like passive-agressive earbuds more than usual last week, in bold procrastination of my urgent need to plan and host a weekend event.  I had one big case of Mamma- Performance-Anxiety, and believed I couldn’t consummate.  While there, I read “One Chinese Mother’s Voice,” The post is not only provocative and profound, but it challenged me to Surrender on a new level.

The post speaks for itself, and I encourage you to read it.  Though its entirety compels, an Hallelujah rose like a phoenix from the ashes when she sang:

Sure, the little voice produces an adult who knows how to work hard, achieve, and get into an Ivy League school. She believes she can accomplish anything if she puts her mind to it.

But that little voice also produces a person who worries about not accomplishing enough and frets about the next accolade.

The little voice produces a person who cannot accept the fact that there are actually things hard work alone cannot accomplish.

The little voice produces a person who can’t accept the fact that her competence comes in Christ alone.

The little voice produces a person who can’t accept the fact that she needs a Rescuer.

The truth is, all the hard work, grittiness, and achievement in the world cannot make you right with God.

That comes from admitting to Jesus that you can’t work hard enough, that you don’t know all the answers, and that you really can’t be confident of anything in life except Him.

When you let God’s grace invade every part of your life, it’s not so easy to suddenly turn that little voice off.  Thankfully, God’s grace, embodied in Jesus’ love, speaks a whole lot louder than the little voice.

Ester Feng, http://www.blogher.com/frame.php?url=http://www.estherfeng.com,  unglued me like bad 80’s hair on a too humid day.  The Holy Dove moves through her to minister to my heart.  Her premises about “the little voice,” are not to be denied.  In a cathartic spasm of PTSD, I realize how my own little voice still sometimes deafens me from the Still, Calm Voice of Peace.  I wish to plant no such little voices in my children’s intellectual maps.  Have I constructed a family culture wherein anxious children measure accomplishments with fretting fingers, strumming ever-shifting emotional abacuses in search of the next accolade?  Have I embedded the message that they need a rescuer like an in-grown toe nail to falter their steps in Faith?  As I intone the mantra, “Quality matters,” have I diminished their reality that true competence comes in Christ alone, and that there are things their hard work cannot independently orchestrate?  Is my own heart a place that Grace invades so that I may lead them toward Godly relationships and Love?

I walked away from the screen the first time I read Feng’s post, and knew she’s struck a secret chord, and like David pleased the Lord.

This Mamma needs be still, and know that God will be God to my children.   Only His voice may speak clearly enough to consistently mute the noise of this percussive world, so that my children may turn to him as their Him as their Portion Deliverer.

I need to be inside-out on Message with this Truth… My children belong to Him, and all the interactive book reports, music lessons, soccer tournaments, and healthy lunches in the universe don’t compare to the Glory of the Provision He brings to the lives of my children through Love.

Surrender.

Love wins.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah!

Adolescent Marketing

I have been annoyed and amazed in turns by email, sales ads, I have gotten since Christmas from Macy’s.  Their images offer icons that look like option buttons, that you can not click.  The only way to enter the sale is one “Shop Now,” tab, and once you get to the main page, the items offered there differ from those on the tease-ad page.  This all got me thinking about marketing in general.  Grocery and discount department stores are renown for sales ploys that get people in the doors with the promise of bargains, and then do their prankster pricing like the man behind the curtain to keep their books in the black.  My marketing musings made me consider my adolescent son, who has begun to learn how to craft a message to prompt permission or favor.

All this input prompts me to also consider the undeniable social reality of relational marketing.  Then a notion struck me like a mosh pit!  What would happen if adolescents organized?  How crazy would it be if there were a clandestine, fraternal, marketing order for adolescents?  Only those who knew the secret handshake or wore the signet ring with the infrared crest could enter the meetings dedicated to playing the parents one day at a time.  What if such an organization had sponsors, hip aficionados of context, that would coach our kids in the right way to massage a message or carry a load?  What if they tweeted daily persuasion tactics on Twitter and had a Facebook presence?  What would be the name of such an organization?  What would be the title of their on-line manual?  And would we, the uninitiated and technologically-outdated parents, even know such an order existed?

If The Boy, 12, told me that his Physics teacher was adding an extra 50% free to his test grade, I, The Mamma, of course would look for the catch.

If The Boy, 12, advertised that his English teacher was doing a half-off assignment load, I, The Mamma, of course would check the fine print (on the school’s homework site).

If The Boy, 12, offered me a FREE homework pass from his Geometry teacher, I, The Mamma, of course would scoff!  Like not gonna happen, Son, like Polar Bears are more likely on a deserted, tropical island, and I don’t mean an inane Lost plot twist.

However, in daily conversations, during carpools, at the dinner table, or during Family Meetings, like most Mammas, I am more easily persuaded to take Adolescent Marketing at face value.  After all, my first-born, only and sweet son, The Boy, loves me and wouldn’t contrive to trick his mamma.  Would he?

Maybe I shouldn’t be so sure.  Recent imaginings make me certain that The Boy could, in fact, engage in covert adolescent marketing campaigns of his own, and that I can be quite a mark.

True, the majority of his ads seem designed to persuade permission, not distort truth, but what if other tactics are being employed?

How many other ploys designed to fool Mammas are out there? What sly, dazzling marketing designs lie beneath the surface of adolescent permission-seeking promotions and rationale-deductions/social networks. . .

Here, confiscated at great personal risk by an undercover operative, are some of the most common Adolescent Marketing Antics of the Anonymous Association quoted from their own handbook:

CONSEQUENCE ESTABLISHING

Make big, bold confessions and independently offer unsolicited confessions of wrong doing. Adolescent Marketing Antics of the Anonymous Association (AMAAA) recommends this tactic called ‘consequence establishing’ when members have other, more major transgressions they seek to conceal.  Upfront admissions of minor offenses conceal the ‘original’ violation from view, and, if only for a very short period, help members avoid major parental penalties. In some cases, special rewards are even given by parents who see the member’s confession like a bargain, and seek to reward his honesty, but it’s actually the age-old bait and switch.

THE CONDUCT-CUT PLOY
The month before Prom (or desired event like a concert or party), boast that  you have slashed your social engagements to polish your grades before report cards. But don’t say that you’re actually only reducing your face time with friends, and are gaming together on line as much as doing homework when you studiously sit at your computer. Nor should you mention that you send around 1,000 more texts those weeks.  In most cases, the halo effect of your proactive approach to school work will prompt the all-night-out permission you seek for prom night (or coveted event), and, in rare but documented cases, might even help raise your grades.

BIG ‘SIBLING’ PACTS
Teenage siblings can look Jumbo-sized and cool to smaller brothers and sisters.  As annoying as they are, younger siblings can be bribed to do chores, lend money and cover your absences quite easily and relatively cheaply.  Do not underestimate the power of Big Sibling Pacts.  You can make your younger siblings feel like you’re doing them a favor when you swear them to secrecy about who broke Grandmother Margaret’s antique candlesticks.

THE DAZZLE FACTOR
Certain everyday behaviors (such as consistent use of manners, keeping a tidy room, regular bathing, tooth brushing and making eye contact) are used to gauge just how trustworthy or otherwise reliable a teenager is.  If they’re consistently employed, they can ‘put a halo of good value’ around an adolescent… Even if the reality is very different.

THE CHORE SHRINK RAY

This sci-fi nickname, coined by an infamous AMAAA alum, refers to the hundreds of ways we teens can shrink effort invested in chores while still appearing to have completed the tasks.  Parents might be responsible for making the Family Chore Wheel, but it’s the kids that control the how the jobs get done.

So, for example, when cleaning the litter box, put the majority of the effort into the first impression… the sweep around the box and the big chunks.  If you skip the basics or leave the lid of the box askew, you’re just begging for a parent to come behind and inspect your work.  The goal is to avoid inspections entirely.

THE AFFECTION FLEX

How much is a kiss, hug or smile worth to a mother of a teenager? No idea? Well, that’s because mothers’ hormone levels juggle almost as often as our own as they begin their marches toward menopause.  Use the affection your moms seek to encourage their goodwill and favor…

I am unable to transcribe anymore of the purloined AMAAA handbook.  The document emitted a strong, sudden gust of Clearasil and self-destructed shrieking, “Ahhh, Maaa!”

AMAAA… “Ahhh, Maaa!

Parents of adolescents beware…

They have organized and are marketing their message…

And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

What Are We Mammas Made Of?

The dastardly GI bug that’s been stalking the innocent bagged The Mamma Sunday night.

Its rabid, hungry teeth bit hard, my legs were like caterpillar squish when they tried to answer the alarm’s revelry, and it took very little kitten-mewling-trying to know I wasn’t going to be doing many vertical activities Monday.

Superstud that I am, however,  I had myself convinced that I would be all up and able by this morning.  Wrong was I; and though that may sound like gracious, Yoda cadence, I was very unJedi in my Zen.  I don’t want to say I was a big baby about the whole thing, but I cried like a toddler who didn’t want to eat peas when I had to call in sick to work two days in a row.

I am not a big fan of my limits, and as any Mamma knows, even though the boat stays afloat, it’s just not the same cruise when a Mamma’s down.  Add to the equation that I was unable to take a birthday snack in for one of my kids for the first time in any of their lives, and I was ripe for a Pitty Party.

<Sniff!>

And do you know what tastes worse than NyQuil?  Pitty Party puke.  Nasty.

In lieu of a dose of self-loathing, we made a Plan B.  The Papa bought two dozen Spudnut donuts for the girl’s class on the way to school.  She was treated like every inch the birthday-princess she was today… The Middle Girl had Spudnut donuts, the only confection with a whole in the world good enough that other teachers come to the doors of the classrooms hoping for left overs like alms for the poor.

Our Plan B morphed into a Plan C when freezing rain made The Papa ditch our idea to go out to eat to celebrate her birthday as a family.  The Husband is kind.  He blamed the precipitation and not my green gills.  No one cared it was home spaghetti instead of Sal’s pasta, and we served our bread warm and straight out of the Pillsbury tube.  Instead of restaurant lemon-aide, we made chocolate milk in martini shakers, and served it ice-cold and frothy in martini glasses.  We pulled open the pantry and foraged ingredients to make brownies too.  They ate them hot standing up around the island in the kitchen.  The Middle Girl had a chocolate goatee under the Dr. Seuss birthday hat she’s worn every year since she was two.

All that mattered was that we were together.  Oh, yeah, it sure didn’t hurt that The Mamma In-Law got her The American Girl Doll, coveted Lanie, that The Middle Girl didn’t get for Christmas, and knew went into the archives as of January 1.  My ears still ring from her ear-splitting screams of joy.  Man, I just never wanted a doll has bad as that girl wanted Lanie.

It was The Middle Girl’s Birthday, but The Mamma received a gift of Grace from the family and a healthy booster about perspective.

What are little GI Bugs made of?
What are little GI Bugs made of?
Snog and wails
And moist, puke-y tales,
That’s what little GI bugs are made of.

What are little FLU bugs made of?
What are little FLU bugs made of?
Aching and moans
And it hurts in your bones,
That’s what little FLU bugs are made of.

What are we Mammas made of?
What are we Mammas made of?
Plans A, B and C
And veridicality,
That’s what we Mammas are made of.

I did my best,
it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel,
so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth,
I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

If You Give The Mamma St. Francis of Assisi…

Pastor’s message was a bit of a wash for me this morning.  Naturally, that had nothing to do with Pastor’s message.  I was uncharacteristically distracted.  My busy brain switched channels like battling siblings during Saturday morning cartoons.  I was supposed to be in 2 Corinthians, but I composed a to-do list for the day.  When the time came to reflect upon Luke, I remembered a theological grievance and turned to Acts instead just to prove to myself how right I was to be offended.  I noticed who was in front of me, and oh, look… didn’t she have her parents with her today?  And Oh, my, how it touched me to see three generations of a Mommy friend!

And like the mouse in If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, I was all, oh, that reminds me that I should email this other friend about something and where’s my iPhone (Give me credit, I did NOT actually pull it out during church), and oh, yeah, had I signed up for a parent duty for kindergarten this week?  Of course, that made me remember that I hadn’t helped the Oldest Girl research pediatric sleeping disorders for her latest Language Arts independent learning contract and, did I mention, The Middle Girl turns 9 on Tuesday?

Oh, yeah, 9.  And you know what?  In lieu of her usual BFF bash, she wants to have a Mother Daughter dinner this year.  Don’t even get me started about having the mothers of her friends here for dinner, because I am in recovery, damsel-it, and I won’t go there.

Meanwhile, Pastor is about to wrap his message on the difference between sharing Jesus and talking about Jesus, and he reads this quote:

Preach the gospel always, and when absolutely necessary, use words.

—   St. Francis of Assisi

And after I say to myself, “God, stop reading my intracranial email!”

I think, yeah, this is why I came today, to be reminded of this one sentence.

So, here’s how The Mamma plans to operationally implement St. Francis of Assisi:

1. Make my Sunday to-do list before church each Sunday.
2. Ask forgiveness as soon as I first realize I have trespassed against someone.  (Like today in church was the first time I had considered that maybe I owed the party an apology… Please!)
3. Wait for Meet & Greet time to reunite with friends.
4. Keep up with school emails and/or delete all by Saturday night.
5. While I’m at it, keep the Sabbath, and commit to a no homework policy on Sundays unless it cannot be avoided.  (Let’s all agree, it could have been avoided in this case.)
6. Actively choose the life I live.  No one who knows The Mamma thinks that she would host that dinner for The Middle Girl if she didn’t secretly want to thrill and delight her daughter with the experience.  Own your choices, Mamma!

Lather, rinse, repeat, and now, generalize!

Get out of your own selfish, self-absorbed head.

Oh, and call your mother, carry a meal, take on someone else’s burden, and when in doubt, shut up and do good… metacognitively and verbally!

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Neither Nor

A tale my husband told me last week continues to vex my peace.

We were able to NOT ONLY celebrate our anniversary this year, but do so without kids because of the incredible generosity of a Mommy-friend of mine.  This woman not only tended my kids, she took them to her house overnight so that we could, <gasp> sleep-in the next morning.  I think if you look in the OED under Mommy friend, that exact example is listed as an ace connotation!  Before you think I have wandered off the conversational path again, trust me, ok?  I am getting there.  Given the delicious novelty of the event and venue, The Husband and I agreed that we would not discuss The Children.  As we bath the children, feed the children, raise the children, keep the children from killing each other, praise the children, minister medical and emotional first aid to the children, tutor thie children, drive the children form event to event, and keep each other from killing the children together 24/7, not talking to each other about the children for a whole night is more of a challenge than you might expect.

Perhaps for want of content, it was on that date night that The Husband told me the story that thunders in my ear like a souped-up Chevy Geo with too much bass at a traffic light.  The Husband shared that he had been thinking about what a former colleague had told him while recovering from hip replacement surgery.  This former colleague is a pretty hip guy, super charismatic, a successful builder of teams, professionally savvy, a supportive husband, and a great dad.  You like look at his outsides, and you think, “Yeah, rims to fins, he’s the whole package.”  Given this public persona, therefore, it jolted The Husband, and me (still) by extension when he told my husband, “Self.  Work.  Family.  Pick 2.  You can’t be good at all 3.”

To his credit, The Husband did NOT throw the get-well potted plant on the speaker’s head.  Instead, he challenged the guy, “Come on, Buddy, look at you.  You can’t tell me that.  Look at you.”

The guy’s response it the vex piece.

He explained to The Husband that it’s actually much more dire than that.  He pledged that he could have honestly said you can only pick one of the three, “If you want to be excellent, if you want to be a true master, then you can really only pick one thing.  Like now, all my energy is in me.  Rehab.  Physical therapy.  I see my kids right now maybe a half hour a week.  I know all I can do, and what I have to do, is get myself strong again.  If you want to be excellent, you can only pick one.  If you want to be good, you can pick two things.  If you try to pick three, you will fail one of them.”

“If you pick three, you will fail one of them.”

Let’s review the list:  Self.  Work.  Family.

I’ll save you the pandora’s box that opens once one considers the order of that list… DON’T GO THERE.  Let my perseveration serve you, and let’s simply conclude that the list is not alphabetical.

Now let’s admit where we are…

Mono-focused?
Bifurcated?
Or just one sleazy, poligamist Don Quixote tilting at windmills and shooting for all three?

I gotta guess you know where I stand.

I’m like that multipurpose printer you got at Staples that never really worked right.  I want to print, fax, copy and butter your toast all on my own strength.

Not!

Ya’ll remember what happened to the printer in Office Space? That’s my success multitasking life without God, except I take the bat to my own head.  I don’t even need an to wait for an outraged consumer to go postal.

I am neither for Self, nor Work alone.
I am neither for Work, nor Family alone.
I am neither for Family, nor Self alone.
I am neither ignorant there are more permutations possible, nor willing to type them all out; that’s so not the point.
I am neither for conceding to suck at a core value nor, willing to admit that is necessary for success.

I am not a Math girl.
I am not a formula.
I am not an equation that needs reduction.

I stand among royal Company.
I am a New Creation.
I got Fruit.
The Fruit.
Neither one, nor the other,
but all the juice I’ll ever need to serve
GOD
Self,
Work,
Family.

Look at that, stop relying on my own, futile strength, and all of a sudden, my limits are neither lids nor forever.  They are just like a point on the map, baby.  I am here.  Now.  Today.  Don’t blink or go potty, though, cause I am on the move and I won’t be here tomorrow.  I’ll be there.  Simple.  Be still.  Plans to prosper, Baby…

For example, there was a time when my vex would have stayed irritated. Ida, you remember her, right, what I’d done… like for a time I should’ve legally changed my name to Ida Shoulda Done. Oh, yeah, baby, Ida woulda told that guy a thing or two about playing uncle in the orchard, pouring poison into my husband’s ear. I woulda been neither charitable nor mute.  I woulda been neither respectful nor cute.  That was then, though.

This vex Here, doesn’t burn, it grieves.

Really, guy, really? Is that what you believe?

I wanna strap the Turbo Charge of Life on his back like a passenger bag, and fill his Sigg bottle from the Well of Love.

Then he’d be neither tired, nor alone.
Then his limits would neither be his own, nor finite.
Then his Hope would neither be compartmental, nor cynical.
Then his Heart would neither be brittle, nor cold.
Then his life would neither be futile, nor small.
Then his Love would neither be limited, nor mortal.

I am vexed.

I don’t want to slap this guy, I just want to hug his heart and say, that idea neither belongs here, nor is longer welcome.

There is a better Way.

And as much as I want to let my Light shine, folks, there just ain’t no way present context and relationship allows me to tell this to him today.

Neither do I accept that as an excuse, nor will I forget my stand.

With this, as it should be for me with all things, I will wait with Hallelujah on my lips with sober expectation for Direction.

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!

2010 Take-Aways

Along with lists and count-downs, (See Banned Phrases…) New Year’s is infamous for inventories.   We have been socialized to reflect, resolve and redefine ourselves with each New Year.  The number one New Year’s Resolution is to lose weight/exercise more.  After the food-glut highway between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, many of us gain up to 15 pounds, and it makes sense that getting our diets under control will safeguard our health and finances in the long run.  (Who has money to keep buying clothes in bigger sizes?)  Smoking cessation is another common New Year’s resolution.

I appreciate resolutions.  I am all about calls for personal growth or improvement, and have made New Year’s resolutions in the past.  This year, however, I am most clear on what I take away from the previous year, rather than what I hope to do differently.  I feel like I have finally learned some personal and precious truths and that it is time for me to now apply them in the year ahead.

As dysfunctional as it sounds, let me own my behavior and admit that I was at Barnes & Noble three days ago in the Self-Help section doing some reading about a topic for a friend.  Before there was Doctor Internet, there was Psychology and its scared text, the DSM IV Revised with which the somatic could self-diagnose.   Believe me or not, I really was in that aisle on behalf of a friend, however, while there, I read one of the most liberating sentences I had encountered all year.  While scanning an overview on a particular illness, I read, “…in many cases by ones mid 30s to early 40s, people mature out of this disorder.”

It was as if I heard the tumblers of a safe unlock.  My toes clenched so hard that I rocked on the back of my heels to keep my balance.  I could smell the fresh-baked cookies from the café as my thoughts turned to Praise.

In one sentence, presumably researching on behalf of someone else, I read the tag-line of my biggest take away of the year:  You can heal without even realizing you’re better.  The hope of it still delivers enough visceral impact to make me shiver as I type and my breath has become more shallow.  The very antithesis of despair, this idea asserts that sought growth may be incremental and subtle enough that it occurs beyond recognition.  That which you once were fades like blue jeans into a new pair of pants through good care and use.

I am in love with this sentence and transfixed by the idea.

From 2010, I take away the realization that I have matured out of at least one of my disorders.  My hallelujah is clinically less broken.  Sure, I still have plenty of work to do on my issue model, but I am certain that Love wins.

Effort matters.

Prayer heals.

God reigns.

On New Year’s past, I have weighed more and less than I do now.  I’ve been actively working out and never near the gym.  I’ve lived inside and outside of abuse.  I’ve hoped and bargained.  What is different this year is subtle, but distinct.  I have chosen to rise up and lift my voice in Praise.  I dwell in possibilities more often than I rehearse anger.  My incomplete and insecure Surrender has been matched by infinite Grace.

I Believe.

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

List of Phrases Banished from The Family’s English for Mis-use, Over-use and General Uselessness for 2011

Today is a day of many lists.  We’ve heard the count down of the Top 100 songs on the radio on the way to the mall for the biggest sale of the season, and tonight they will drop the ball in NYC.

One of our family favs is the list of banished words.  This year’s list includes several technology terms like “viral,” and “Google,” as well as “Facebook,” as verbs.  A couple of nuggets from Sarah Palin made the list like, “refudiate,” and “Mamma Grizzlies.” I won’t miss, “I’m just sayin,” also listed, but will grieve, “epic.”  The list is compiled using public input on words that are regarded as “so over,” (BANNED) from mis-use, over-use or uselessness.

Our family comprised our own List of Phrases Banished from the Family’s English for Mis-use, Over-use and General Uselessness.

From The Children:

“It’s gonna be a big day.”

“Don’t forget to set your alarm.”

“You got this one wrong.”

“That was due today?”

“It’s due tomorrow.”

“Sectionals are today.”

“Get out your planner.”

“Quality work matters.”

“Time for bed.”

“Have you played your violin?”

“Whose turn is it to do the litter box?”

“No, no, not like that, like this…”

“Are you paying attention?”

“How long have you been on the computer?”

“Brush.”

“Should you be eating that with those braces?”

“When is that due?”

“Be careful.”

“Do you hear me?”

“Do you understand me?”

“What did you say?”

“No means no.”

“What is the problem?”

Anything that begins, “How many times have I told you…,” “Did you remember to…”  “Don’t tell me…” “Don’t forget…,” or “What did I say about…”

From the Parents:

“My bed is wet.”

“Can I go?”

“It wasn’t me.”

“No I didn’t.”

“My soccer game is at 9:00 a.m.”

“The cat puked again.”

“She won’t clean up.”

“I didn’t know.”

“There’s a dance Friday night.”

<At any meal> “I don’t like it.”

Anything that begins, “I forgot..,” “It’s due tomorrow…,” “I got assigned a long term project today…,” “Can I invite…”

Though the words vary, I think our family is in consensus on it’s more fun to play and eat ice cream than do homework or chores in 2010.

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Facebook Tag Sends Pic of 12 Year-Old Granddaughter French Kissing to Grandparents & Family

Reasons A Mamma May Be Forgetful

It is common for mothers, even those under the age of 30, to be forgetful. While it may feel like you have Alzheimer’s at this young age, it is more likely that there are other reasons that affect your memory.  Before you fret that you  have actually lost your mind, consider these triggers associated with forgetfulness.

Stress

Need I say more?  We color-code family calendars.  We put post-its on the front door.  We jot notes in Sharpie on our wrists so that we see them when we drive (a great way NOT to forget to pick-up a kiddo at location other than the usual carpool time or place), our phones beep reminders at us, and we can’t make an appointment for a pap smear unless we have our kid’s soccer schedule posted by time and field.   These examples show two things… we are busier than we probably should be, and, nonetheless, we get even busier trying to implement strategies to get ‘ir done.  Such constraints lead to stress.  We all know that stress wrecks havoc on the body, but it can do a big number on the mind as well.  Memory is a prime target for stress.  The basic formula is the more stress we are under, the more we may be forgetful.

Reasons You May Be Forgetful at a Young Age – Holiday Problems

Holiday disorders, such as hyper-cookie-consumptionism and hypoensitivity to dietary cues that inhibit compulsive eating, have been known to affect one’s memory. If you have a family member with is known to have binged on Sweedish cookies, especially during the Thanksgiving to Christmas corridor, then there is a good chance that you may have or develop it yourself.  A logical question is to ask how excessive cookie ingestion can cause memory issues.  This becomes crystal clear when you stand in the middle of your own kitchen dressed only in a thong, at 1:27 a.m., with a tuperware full of sugar cookies in your hands, and you’re mindlessly eating them one after the other while shopping Ebay for black velvet paintings of crying clowns.   The brain is kind, people, there are things that are simply too traumatic to remember.  Furthermore, who wants to remember that as the cause for having to go up a pants size in January?  Life is hard enough getting the kids back into the routine of school and practices, let alone being held hostage to such unwelcome memories.  In order to experience the best memory that you can if you have a hyper-cookie-consumptionism or hypoensitivity to dietary cues problem, you may need see a doctor or nutritionist for necessary medications or treatment protocols.  Then again, you could just STEP AWAY FROM THE COOKIES.

Reasons You May Be Forgetful at a Young Age – A Lack of Sleep

A lack of sleep is known to cause forgetfulness. However, this cycles us back to stress, as many people often find they lose sleep when they are stressed. When we are tired, we often do not think clearly and make irrational decisions like eating cookies in the middle of the night in our underwear.  It’s not that we would not prefer to sleep, it’s simply that we have too much to do, not, however that we can remember what that is so we color-code family calendars.  We put post-its on the front door.  Wait a minute, did I already say that?

Reasons You Shouldn’t Worry If You Are Be Forgetful at a Young Age

1.  If we can’t do any more than we are doing, our best has to be good enough.

2.  Cookies are yummy.

3.  We can’t afford to lose anymore sleep.

The season of raising children is a dense time of saturated experience and emotional intensity.  There is only so much nuance and detail a brain can store without loss of our joy, pace, or humor.  I don’t have to remember how high The Boy’s fever was when he got the H1N1 last year, and we were worried The Oldest Girl might catch it too and impact her heart.  That was a lifetime of fears and tears ago. Some of you remember more along the way as you raise your kids up.  Some of you remember less.  However, what matters is if our children are well and that Love wins.

Realizing that  I get it right more often than I get it wrong isn’t vanity, it’s sanity!

Maybe I’ve been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!