Pandora's Box

We went through our mountains of documents yesterday in search of the last piece the underwriter needed to wrap up our loan. We decided it would be a good idea to “organize” them. Files were started for birth certificates, immunization records, passports and fingerprints... As we pilfered the documents we had to sift through all of my divorce/custody stuff. I started a folder for it, the folder got too full, I thought about starting a second and then decided to just toss it all in its own box. Every document I picked up and scanned to determine its importance brought with it a merciless onslaught of emotion. Fury, heartbreak, panic, empty longing, and raucous triumph flooded my mind. When we finally scanned the last piece of paper and put the lid on the box, I thought to myself, “It's sealed up, it's done. Right?”

Wrong. Although I have forgiven the horrible wrong that was done to me, more importantly to my children, the anger and pain rear their ugly heads from time to time. We will all deal with the damage done during that time for the rest of our lives. The children will always carry gaping wounds from what was done to them. What was done to their young, innocent hearts makes me shake with rage. It only gets worse when I have to speak to or see the one that did this to them, to us.

You know what makes it worse? He won't ever admit that what he did was wrong. He ripped my babies away from me. He tried to keep them from even speaking to me. They found ways; if they were caught they were severely punished. He didn't parent them while he was holding them apart from me; he went out and partied. He didn't want them, he just wanted to hurt me.

And they suffered. They didn't know I hadn't abandoned them to this. They knew that they were not treasured where they were. They knew they were pawns in a sick and twisted game. And they suffered.

And they still suffer. Every promised call that never happens, every visit that gets canceled or was promised but never planned, every missing or late child support payment, every “I love you” with no action to back it up reenforces it. Every accusation that I am speaking ill of him to them, drives their pain a bit deeper, makes them feel as though they have to choose.

But they are strong. And they are beautiful. And they are bold. They are only truly jaded to one, the one who hurt them. They are moving on with their lives, letting the wounds scab and heal; in their place there will be a scar but, if viewed properly, scars are simply a road map of where we've been, not a definition of who we are. They know this. And onward they go.

I do pray, though, that the sealing of the box is also the sealing off of the pain and doubt. I wish that there was a mystical quality in that moment yesterday that brought this all to an end, as if we really had sealed Pandora's Box.    

Ugh moment, bear with me

Somebody needs a good, long trip behind the woodshed. There's a line about a mile long of those who would love to escort Somebody to pick out a switch and then take their turn showing Somebody how that switch works. In this instance, tactile learning is the best way to fully comprehend. As much as I would like to be one of those who teaches Somebody all about how Newton's Third Law of Motion applies to the switch and the butt, I cannot.

So, I'll sit here and feel helpless. A failure. The world's worst mom. I know that I am none of these things, but this how I feel right now. We will fix this. I know we will. "Tomorrow is another day" after all.

Broken Promises

My son broke a promise to me. He has no remorse for having done so and rubs it in my face everyday. In fact, he's doing so right now. It hurts my heart that he made the decision to go back on his word and just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes and builds a lump in my throat. As I type I want to throttle him for it, to force him to take it back and honor his solemn vow to me.

"What did he do that's so bad?" you may ask. I'll tell you what the little snot pocket did. He promised me that he would never leave me. Ever. His big greenish brown eyes stared into mine and he promised, with all his heart and in complete earnestness, that he would live with me for forever. And now he's planning how he's going to go to college, and leave me. He's trying to figure out how to get a job so that he can buy his own car, and leave me. He makes arrangements with his friends to pick him to go do stuff, and he leaves me. He's making decisions for himself, and leaves me behind. Do you see now how he broke his promise to me?

I know that he's supposed to do this. I know it's part of the process of raising children. It wasn't so hard when the oldest two left, and it doesn't tear me up that the youngest two will leave also. But they didn't promise me. They didn't hold up the inside of their elbow for me to kiss to seal the promise.

As I watch him grow and become a young gentleman, pride swells in me. But so does a bit of hurt that he's on the cusp of not being mine anymore. At least not in the same capacity he was. I don't want him to grow up; I want him to snuggle on my lap, run to me for owie kisses, and chase all manner of creepy-crawlies in little boy delight.

Part of me screams that it's not fair that this sweet child will become a sweet man and not live under my roof. But I know that it's right. So I'll shed tears (a whole bunch in fact) for the broken promise. And then I'll shed some more in pride for the man he's becoming because he decided to take it back.

Concern vs Control

I've been pondering, recently, where the line between concern and control is. Is there an age at which our concern for our children, played out in discipline and education, becomes control?

For example: When our children are small we limit what movies and television shows they watch, what video games they play, what they do on the computer... As they grow older we start easing up on the reigns and let them make these decisions for themselves with guidance from us. By this point they already know what we believe is appropriate and what is not, and hopefully we've also taught them why. Is it still concern for his well being when I don't allow my 15 year old to come to his own conclusions about these things, or is it now control?  What about when he turns 18 and I'm still only allowing him to watch certain things and do certain things on the computer?

Personally, I think that every step of the way we must exert a certain amount of control because of our concern. I also think that we are failing our children if we don't turn more and more of those decisions over to them while they still have the safety net of home and we are still able to inflict consequences for wrong choices or rejoice in the consequences for good ones. I believe that's the only way we can teach our kids how to be responsible adults. Otherwise all we're doing is controlling them and stripping them of their power.

What say you all? Is there a line between concern and control?

Romance?

I can tell you that, to me, romance is not a candlelight dinner, red roses, and staring sickly sweet into each other's  eyes. It's not long walks on the beach at sunset. Nor is it having a glass of wine while lolling about on a bear skin rug in front of a fire. Yeah, just writing that kicked my gag reflex into high gear.

The way I see it, romance is as individualized as our fingerprints. Sure, I like it when Matt brings me flowers, but I don't have to have them to feel loved and desired. What I do like is when we go for a wander downtown and take goofy pictures. I love it when he does the laundry because he knows how much I hate it. What absolutely makes my little heart go pitter-pat is when we're working in the yard and he takes over the shoveling so that I won't hurt myself.

Romance isn't something that can be contrived, planned, and ordered on a silver platter. It is something that must be maintained. And it is something that only happens when a couple takes the time to get to know each other. It doesn't matter if you have all your children running about and nagging for your attention or if you're on your second honeymoon. If you are truly invested in this person you chose, even picking out a new toilet can be romantic.

Bodyguards and Lovers

As I listened to the episode of "Repo Games" playing in the other room, I went from amused at the complete, self-inflicted stupidity of the people on the show to absolute horror and disgust. Two women were shocked to find that their cars were being repossessed because their husbands took out loans on the vehicles, without the wives' knowledge, and failed to pay them back. These men didn't merely fail to protect their wives, they threw them under the bus to save their own skins.

While I know that there is no new thing under the sun, that men and women have been taking advantage of each other forever, and there really didn't exist a "golden age" of marriage, I long for the days of common chivalry. Whether or not we like it, women long for a protector, a hero. We want to be cherished. We crave the knowledge that our men will love us for the treasures we are. Regardless of what society tells us what liberation is, we were made to desire a protector in our husbands.

This current idea of what marriage should like is confusing to the way we were made. The cries of "Women are equal!" are both right and wrong. We are equal. We have equal value, intelligence, work ethic, and bread winning capabilities. But we are not equal. We are different. We are delicate, tender nurturers.

Ms. Steinem would have us believe that in order to be equal to a man we must be the same as them. However, if we're honest, our inner beings sob silently at what we've lost. We still daydream about our knights in shining armor. We plead with ourselves to stop seeking out that fool who's "in touch with his feminine side." We over compensate by clinging to that guy who has to be the manliest man in the room.

You know, it's quite all right to let yourself be taken care of, to have the door opened and your chair pulled out for you. It is truly liberating to be able to hand off your heavy load to stronger arms and shoulders. It is more than acceptable to admit that you want to have a human shield and to be viewed as the most beautiful woman in any given room. We can find true freedom to be who we are when we can accept that what we really want are bodyguards and lovers.

Belch Rating Guideline

When one is rating a belch there are a few basic guidelines one must adhere to. It must also be understood that in order to appropriately rate a belch it must be done by a nonpartisan party.

VOLUME This is perhaps the most important of all rating factors. One must take care in the evaluation of volume and therefore ask the following question:
Did the issuer employ his/her vocal chords in order to enhance the volume? If this is the case the issuer is to be reprimanded and points may be taken from the next 3 belches issued.
No more than 3 points may be issued for volume. However, should the volume of the belch cause dogs to howl or temporary deafness, the full 10 points shall be awarded to the issuer. The issuer shall then go down in the annals of fine belching and attain godhood. Selah

LONGEVITY When rating the longevity of a belch several factors must be considered. Was the belch helped along with force? If the length of the belch was assisted, points must be removed. Points may be awarded for a duration of 5 seconds or more. No more than 2 points can be awarded a belch less than 10 seconds. Should the belch last more than 30 seconds the issuer may be awarded the full 10 points. The issuer shall then go down in the annals of fine belching and attain godhood. Selah

STENCH This is a vital part of the rating process. Points must be awarded in moderation for mild stench. 1 point may be awarded for the mild stench that is commonly a part of the belch. It must be recognized that occasionally the stench exceeds that which naturally accompanies a belch. In these cases up to 4 points may be awarded the issuer.
If the odor causes flies to flock to the location or nose hairs to curl the full 10 points may be awarded the issuer. The issuer shall then go down in the annals of fine belching and attain godhood. Selah

PARTICLES This area of evaluation requires more than passive observation. One must question the issuer as to whether a belch was actually issued or if the issuer is suffering stomach ills. If the issuer has in fact vomited, there is no further need for this guideline. However, if there were simply particles the issuer may receive up to 5 points. Should the occasion arise that there are sufficient particles present that the evaluator feels 10 may be awarded, the belch must be reevaluated as vomit. There is, in this category, no possibility of attaining godhood. 

BONUS Points may be awarded for surprise effect and extreme longevity.
Should the belch be issued with no warning or from an unlikely source points may be awarded the issuer. This is category is purely subjective and there is no limit on the points one may receive.
Points for extreme longevity should be awarded only in situations where entire sentences may be completed during the belch. Again, there is no limit on the points that may be issued in this category.
One may go down in the annals of fine belching and attain godhood on this category alone. Selah 

Life Lessons

I met my husband at work. We sat in adjoining cubicles, passed notes, took lunch and breaks together, mocked the other employees (because we're that perfect), and just generally enjoyed our oddball friendship. I don't know why I started doing it, but I began a sticky note list of life lessons. These were all things that I felt could only improve a person's quality of existence. For that reason I will share some of them you.

Lesson #1. Never play leapfrog with a unicorn.

Lesson #2. Eat right, exercise daily, die anyway.

Lesson #3. Never poke a sleeping bear in the eye unless you have a really long stick and can outrun the other people with you.

Lesson #4. The grass is only greener on the other side when you don't water your lawn.

Lesson #5. If life hands you lemons, set up a lemonade stand. Why not make a buck off your misery?

Lesson #6. Trying to reason with the ignorant is like speaking French to an ape... Both will just get your arms ripped off.

Lesson #7. If you make a mess, go get a broom and clean it up. Or just use the broom you rode into town on.

The Body

We are referred to as the body of Christ. Head, hands, and feet to be specific. This says to me that we are to think, lead, learn, go, and do. These things require us to be active, to participate. These things bring us fully alive in Christ, in our church, in our homes, and in the world. We experience contentment, accomplishment and joy when we indulge in life as head, hand, and foot. We know this, the Bible tells us this.

Knowing all this, why are there so many who arrive at church just in time for service to begin and boogie out the door almost before the last "Amen!" is uttered? They're the ones who cringe from the sign up sheet as though you're trying to pass them an angry adder. If we know the peace that settles over us when we take on the role of head, hand, and foot, why do so many choose to be the butt?

The Gods Were Cruel

Dark chocolate covered pomegranate. Créme Brule. Nachos drowned in melted cheese, sour cream, avocado, and ground beef. Sour dough french bread with real cream butter. Peanut butter pie. Ah, the foods of the gods.

That was so very cruel of them to give us their food and keep their metabolism for themselves.

Trust issues

Not many of us lack excess baggage. We all carry these things around that are like anvils around our necks. They weigh us down, age us, make us cranky. What are they? The easy answer is worry or not taking time to relax. I think the easy answer is wrong. Of course those two things wear at us, make us tired. They're just not really the root cause. Trust is the real answer.

I was told today that if I don't quit smoking immediately it's a short trip to inhalers, then oxygen tanks. If I don't lose weight soon I'll end up on blood pressure medication and insulin. I trust the doctor. I trust that he's right. But do I trust in my ability to let go? Can I?

Can I trust my Father's promise that he will hold me up? Do I? I say I do. That's easy to say when my mind is altered into a state of contentment with nicotine. "Of course I do," I say around a mouthful of chocolate. So here begins the test. Not of my Father. He promised. And he always keeps his promises. This test is mine. Will I trust him to carry me through?

Survival

I saw the coolest thing this evening as I was walking near the irrigation canal. A hawk was hovering well above the trees, it's body vertical, wings moving back and forth maintaining it's position. Suddenly it flipped head down and dove for the trees. Before it could complete it's dive, a swarm of small black birds flew up from their hiding place among the leaves and drove the hawk back.

Several minutes later, the hawk still hadn't given up, it just shifted position. It began soaring above its prey, light belly camouflaging it in the bright sky. The smaller birds in the trees quited down, began flitting from the trees to the ground hunting and bringing back their prey to the hungry chicks in the nests they had just been so ferociously protecting. The hawk dropped from its glide in the sky, straight for the unprotected baby birds. Or so it thought. Just as it reached the highest branches the air around it turned black. The hawk shrieked and retreated into higher air.

It circled a few more times before it flew away in search of easier prey. I'd like to think that most of us are like those tiny black birds. Certainly they overrode their own sense of survival in order to protect the defenseless. Can we?

Hamurabi had it right

Hamurabi's Code holds very little patience for wrong doers. Almost everything ends in death. If you accuse somebody and can't prove it, you die. If you steal from somebody and it can be proven, you die. The list is long of the things that you will die for having done. My over developed sense of justice loves this.

God's law is the same. If you do wrong, you die. But there's a clause that saves us. "For God so loved the world..." Probably the best known verse in the Bible. His justice is not tempered by his love, nor is his grace tempered by his justice. One creates a situation where we are convicted of our crimes. The other relieves us from ultimate judgement.

Hamurabi had it right. Mostly. He had no grace.

Why One Egg Short?

Here's the deal: I'm what's called a Third Culture Kid, or TCK. This term applies generically to all people who were raised in one culture, but live in another. I am American, but lived in the Dominican Republic. At home, we were American, spoke English, watched American TV and celebrated American holidays. When I walked out my front door, I was Dominican. I spoke Spanish, drove like a crazy woman, celebrated Dominican holidays, and generally blended in with the population (with the exception of being very obviously a white girl).

So how does that make me one egg short of an omelet? Because I live in dueling cultures. I am Hispanic by osmosis, American by birth. Both places think I'm a bit off my rocker, especially the grand Ole US of A. I look like I belong, but sometimes forget to act like it. My perception of life has been forever altered (or skewed, depending on your point of view).