Thursday, December 24, 2009
Whenever I shop for gifts, I feel a mild stress in my gut because I have no confidence that I can choose something someone else will love. The reason for this is that I'm not at all observant; I miss out on all those little clues to the perfect gift. I wasn't even aware of my disability in this area until I met Bill, the perfect gift giver. He's so good, he knows even better than I do what I will need or enjoy.
For example, when I opened my birthday present a couple years ago, I was a little mystified to find a giant black binder with dividers and a stack of sticky photo sheets with cellophane covers. Didn't he realize that, with all my scrapbooking knowledge, I could never use a photo album if it wasn't archival quality?
"It's for your recipes," he explained.
"Ah," I said, still unconvinced. But that turned out to be one of my most useful gifts ever; I use it almost every day. With the dividers to separate the various categories, I can find any recipe with minimal effort. Better still, our bottom drawer is no longer bursting with random sheets and index cards.
Over the years, Bill's given me so many perfect gifts, most romantic in an offbeat way because each gift shows me that he's been studying me, and he knows me very, very well.
No, You Didn't
But there was one Christmas when it seemed his perfect gift had crashed and burned. It was our first Christmas as a married couple, back in 2003. We were chatting at work one afternoon a few weeks before Christmas, and somehow the topic of leather clothing came up. (I can't imagine why we were talking about leather at work, but I'm sure it must have seemed logical at the time.)
"I really don't like leather coats," I announced unequivocally. Immediately, Bill's face contorted with some emotion I couldn't discern, but it didn't look good. Why would he be offended by my dislike of leather coats? I searched my memory; maybe he had a leather coat himself? (He did.) Maybe he thought I was being narrow minded and judgmental of all people who wore leather?
I hastened to add, "I don't mind leather on other people, I suppose. It's just that it's really not my style." Now his face was turning red, and his mouth was twitching in that way that means he's struggling to control his annoyance. What on earth was bothering him?
"I guess some kinds of leather are okay," I said in a conciliatory tone. "Oh, yes. I actually have a leather coat, don't I? You know, the brown suede one that I only wear when I go to Chicago. That's a good coat, so warm.... So I guess I just don't like the shiny kind of leather. What's that called? You know, the black, shiny kind."
"So you're saying you don't like black, shiny leather coats?" Bill gave me a dark look.
I laughed nervously. "Well, I guess it just reminds me of girls in tight miniskirts, hanging all over a rock star," I explained apologetically. "Sort of trampy, I guess."
"What if I told you I bought you a leather jacket for Christmas?" he asked.
"No you didn't," I laughed heartily. How ridiculous would that be? It wasn't even Thanksgiving, so why would he have bought my gift already?
"Maybe I did."
"No you didn't!" I repeated. I laughed even harder, tears clinging to my lashes.
"Okay, I didn't," Bill said with a shrug.
I returned to my desk, shaking my head and marveling at what a kidder Bill was. By the second phone call, I'd forgotten the entire conversation.
Oh, You Did!
It all came rushing back on Christmas morning, though. Sitting cross-legged in front of the tree, I ripped the paper off a neatly wrapped box and excitedly lifted the lid. There, nestled in tissue paper, was a leather jacket--a black, shiny, form-fitting leather jacket!
My mouth dropped open, and my face flushed up to the roots of my hair. It must have been most amusing for Bill, or at least it would have been had he not spent too much hard-earned money on that coat.
I held the jacket up with trembling hands. "It's very nice," I said lamely.
"Don't even bother," Bill said dryly. "You don't have to pretend you like it. As soon as we get to Vancouver, you can return it."
"You bought this in Vancouver?" I asked incredulously.
"Yes, on our visit in the summer. I would have exchanged it if I could have, but there was no way to do it."
Poor Bill! How awful to secretly anticipate this moment for months, only to find out that I didn't like his carefully selected gift! My heart was pierced with regret.
I pushed myself painfully onto my numb feet and put the jacket on. The leather was soft and supple. I could tell it would be just warm enough for our mild winters. Standing in front of the mirror in the cramped half bath, I pivoted to see the jacket from all angles.
"You know, I LIKE this jacket," I said in surprise.
"No you don't," Bill said.
"No, really! I love it!"
"No you don't," he repeated.
"The only problem is I think it's a little tight," I said ruefully. "Do you think it's too small?"
"Sure, it's too small," Bill said dubiously. "It's okay. I already told you you can return it."
No matter how I tried, I couldn't convince him that I liked the jacket. At Danier Leather the next week, Bill said, "You can pick whatever you want, maybe something suede. Or we can just return it and you can buy something somewhere else."
I asked the salesperson if they had the jacket in a larger size, but she said they didn't carry that style any longer. She showed me several other similar jackets, and I found one that fit perfectly and was just my style--honestly!
I've worn the heck out of that coat over the last six years, and it still looks practically new. It's warm enough to wear outside, but light enough to wear inside if I want to. I had no idea how much I'd enjoy a shiny leather jacket, but Bill knew. Unfortunately, he probably STILL doesn't believe that I like it.
Friday, December 18, 2009
In October of 2006, we went on a road trip to Destin, Florida. The day we left was a crazy, busy day. I bought snacks, tracked down a manual breast pump at Target and sterilized it, and gathered up all of Allyson's baby paraphernalia. Just before it was time to leave, I squeezed in a trip to the library to get some books for me and some audio books for Ethan.
Normally, a trip to the library is a leisurely, drawn-out affair--at least it used to be leisurely before Allyson started choosing her own books and videos (now it's just drawn out). I like to wend my way through the entire fiction section, stacking tempting books up to my chin before I finally make my agonizing choice. There was no time for that on this trip, though. I raced through the stacks and literally grabbed several books at random.
Wedged into the backseat of our impossibly cramped Sentra (because Ethan couldn't deal with Allyson's crying), I cracked open the first book, The Winter Garden, by Johanna Verweerd. I was soon immersed in a poignant story about a woman who struggles to make peace with her dying mother and to let go of deep wounds from her childhood. Instrumental in her healing are several scriptures from Isaiah 43-44, which the author skillfully weaves throughout the book.
1 But now, this is what the LORD says—
he who created you, O Jacob,
he who formed you, O Israel:
"Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
2 When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
3 For I am the LORD, your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior;
I give Egypt for your ransom,
Cush and Seba in your stead.
4 Since you are precious and honored in my sight,
and because I love you,
I will give men in exchange for you,
and people in exchange for your life.
5 Do not be afraid, for I am with you;
I will bring your children from the east
and gather you from the west.
6 I will say to the north, 'Give them up!'
and to the south, 'Do not hold them back.'
Bring my sons from afar
and my daughters from the ends of the earth-
7 everyone who is called by my name,
whom I created for my glory,
whom I formed and made."...
16 This is what the LORD says—
he who made a way through the sea,
a path through the mighty waters,
17 who drew out the chariots and horses,
the army and reinforcements together,
and they lay there, never to rise again,
extinguished, snuffed out like a wick:
18 "Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past.
19 See, I am doing a new thing!ISAIAH 44
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the desert
and streams in the wasteland....
3 For I will pour water on the thirsty land,
and streams on the dry ground;
I will pour out my Spirit on your offspring,
and my blessing on your descendants.
4 They will spring up like grass in a meadow,
like poplar trees by flowing streams.
As I read these passages, tears stung my eyes and my heart quickened in recognition. Could this be my new memory passage? I prayed and thanked God for these beautiful scriptures, though it still hadn't occurred to me that he had led me to the book. "I'd really like to memorize this," I told him, "but I'd like you to confirm my choice."
Even as the prayer left my lips, I wondered how God could possibly answer my prayer. We were heading out of town, far from our church or anyone outside our family of four--and Allyson didn't even talk yet!
A couple of days later, I started the second book, Paul: A Novel, by Walter Wangerin. Can you guess what scripture passage I found in the first chapter? I was utterly amazed to see my confirmation, in writing!
This story still thrills me. Not only did God guide me to my passage, in one book among literally thousands, but because he knew that I would ask for confirmation, he also led me to a SECOND book that quoted the same passage. Further, he probably nudged me to read The Winter Garden first; the Isaiah passage was much more prominent in that book, and had I read them in the opposite order, or with another book between them, I might not have noticed it in the Wangerin book.
Only God knew what those scriptures would mean to me. I loved both chapters in Isaiah, and it was hard to choose which verses to memorize, but I finally chose the three passages listed above. During the year or so that it took me to memorize them, several truths worked their way firmly into my heart, always at the exact moment that I needed them.
Redeemed, Summoned By Name
In the first few months, I was grappling with guilt while I attended my first ladies' Bible study. Believing that God had redeemed me and chosen me by name was vital to accepting my forgiveness. Gradually, I began to comprehend that I truly was precious and honored in God's sight, and this led me to believe that I was capable of loving and being loved.
Passing Through the Waters
Letting go of the guilt stirred up old insecurities, and at times I felt like I was drowning. I remember one Saturday morning when I'd mistakenly concluded that a friend had abandoned me. I knelt on the floor of my closet, pretending to sort laundry, while I cried. "I hurt, God. I hurt!" I whispered between sobs.
I clearly heard a voice answer me in my mind: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.... I have summoned you by name. You are mine." I collapsed over the pile of laundry, my body growing limp as peace washed over me. I was NOT alone, and even if my friend never spoke to me again, God would be with me.
Snuffed Out Like a Wick
Three years have passed, and I feel like I'm finally on my way to forgetting the former things so that I can move on to something new, but sometimes those old insecurities try to push their way back in. Whenever that happens, I remind myself that these enemies are utterly destroyed, never to rise again, snuffed out like a wick.
Water on the Thirsty Land
Despite all the blessings I've enjoyed these last couple of years, there are days and weeks when I feel dry and dull, especially when I don't spend time with my Father. But each time I meditate on the scriptures he's lovingly revealed to me, I feel his spirit pouring over me like water on thirsty land, like streams on the dry ground.
What About the New Thing?
I've long since finished memorizing this passage, though it's still a favorite. I've often wondered when the new thing was going to spring up, and whether I'd recognize it when it came. I definitely feel that God is doing new things in my life right now, mainly in pushing me to share my faith, and to allow his love to flow through me to others who have thirsty hearts.
Sometimes, when I'm teetering on the edge of consciousness at bedtime, I'm seized with excitement about what God has planned for my future. It feels terribly urgent, and exhilarating. In my waking hours, though, I feel afraid because I know that growth so often involves trials. Still, I pray regularly that God will guide me into his will. I know that even if I walk through the fire, I won't be burned as long as he's with me.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Remember how Allyson wanted to paint her nails purple for her last visit with Santa? Well, so did she. Since dinner was already ready, I decided to humor her. She sat perfectly still while I applied a sloppy, uneven coat. The polish either came out in thick globs that were impossible to smooth out on her tiny nails, or it was so thin it was nearly transparent. Since we had neither the time nor the patience for a second coat, her nails were decidedly un-glamorous. Do you think she minded?
"My nails are BEAUTIFUL!" she gushed, completely enraptured.
After a quick dinner, we all headed to the library to watch the ballet, Allyson's first. Over 100 people crowded into the folding chairs and sat cross-legged on the floor. People of all ages stood between the book stacks, craning to see the graceful young women in their gorgeous costumes.
As we pressed through the crowd to find a seat, a teenage ballerina brushed past us in her tutu and tiara. "A princess!!" Allyson breathed.
Wonder of wonders, I found a swivel chair at the end of a hodge-podge row of seats. I ducked into it thankfully. Allyson stood on my legs, her 42 pounds leaning against my neck. We were both enthralled by the music and the dancing.
"I'm gonna ask Santa for ballerina shoes," Allyson whispered excitedly. "And ballet lessons! I wanna be a ballerina!"
Just when the pain in my neck was getting pretty intense, Bill came in from the parking lot and swung Allyson onto his shoulders. Now I was pretty comfortable, except for the 17 children who made periodic trips back and forth across my knees. (Actually, I think it was only about six kids making multiple trips. I forgave them in the spirit of Christmas.)
When the dancers and the giant nutcracker had taken their bows, three-fourths of the audience rushed over to the Santa line, which stretched the full length of the library and curved along the back wall.
The rest of us walked reluctantly out into the cold to wait in the reindeer line. Allyson effortlessly pressed her way right up to the bars to catch a glimpse of Vixen.
Impervious to the stench and heedless of the antlers, Allyson couldn't seem to tear herself away. Each time Vixen rounded the small enclosure, she reached out to pet the closest available body part--often the rump. She also chattered endlessly to various strangers, some adults and some children. Occasionally I'd hear snatches of her conversations, mostly about purple nails and Barbie houses.
At last we convinced her to wash her hands with the "magic soap" (hand sanitizer), and then we went back inside to look for Ethan. We found him sorting through some old Johnny Cash CDs. By the time we managed to drag him away, Allyson had planted herself at the head of the Santa Claus line.
We tried to explain why we had to go; Daddy's hockey game was starting soon, and the line was endless, and she had already sat on Santa's lap the week before. Allyson refused to budge. "I have to tell Santa I want ballerina shoes!" she cried frantically.
A mother who was nearing the front of the line eyed us menacingly. "Let's go!" I said firmly, tugging Allyson's arm. She began to sob, but the other mother wasn't moved. She turned to her husband and said pointedly, "I'm getting tired of people stepping in front of us in line."
I smiled apologetically and pulled Allyson onto my hip. "But my shoes! I need to tell Santa!" she sobbed over and over. Bill told her we'd write a letter to Santa, and this seemed to satisfy her.
I realized on the way home that we'd never gotten close enough for Santa to admire Allyson's purple nails. Vixen might have seen them, but she didn't seem impressed.
A Card For Santa
Tonight Allyson decided to write the letter to Santa while I made dinner and Bill stretched out on the couch to close his eyes for a minute. "I'm making a craft for Santa," she announced, and then she cut a snow-skiing mouse out of an old Christmas card and Scotch taped it to a piece of manila paper.
"Now will you help me write my list?" she asked.
"No, Baby. I have to finish dinner," I said gently. "I can help you after we eat."
She trudged back to the living room. "Daddy, Mommy won't help me write my list. Will you help?"
"Nnnnhh..." Bill replied.
"But I don't know how to write 'North Pole,'" she whined. "Please, please will you help me?"
Bill drug himself up to a seated position and asked for a colorful crayon.
Allyson immediately launched into a dictation something like this: "To: Santa in the North Pole. Please bring me a Barbie house and ballerina shoes. And please can I have ballet lessons? I love, love, love Christmas. I hope you like this craft I made for you. And I got to pet a real live reindeer at the li-bary. And we're gonna have a Christmas party for all the kids and decorate cookies. I like it when you bring me lots of chocolate. Please give me chocolate and popcorn and Skittles. Love, Allyson."
She watched expectantly while Bill scratched away with the green crayon. At last, he handed her the card, and she raced to the kitchen to show me. When I read it, I burst into laughter and then covered my mouth so she wouldn't think I was laughing at her picture. Bill frowned at me, and I sputtered, "It's just so cute, Allyson! Santa's going to love this card."
Here's what Bill actually wrote:
I managed to avoid actually reading the card to Allyson. I happen to know that Santa's already bought everything but the ballet lessons, anyway.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
"Thank you for the candy!" Kindra said.
"That's great!" Kindra replied.
"Well, I guess we can go to the next-door neighbors," I said reluctantly. It looked pretty dark inside, and I fervently hoped they weren't home. You may remember this neighbor as the one I tried to give the cheap Walmart water bottle to, after I'd mistaken him for the father of Ethan's friend Tin. So you can imagine that I didn't want to give him ANOTHER reason to believe that the neighbor lady is crazy.
"Merry Christmas," Tin's dad repeated.
I was still giggling when the man answered the door. "We're your neighbors from there on the corner," I said. "This is Allyson, and she wanted to bring you some candy canes."
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
You can check out Grandma's book here, and buy it or download a free PDF copy if you'd like. If you do read her story, I know she'd love to hear your comments. You can enter comments on my blog, and I'll pass them along to her, or you can post a review on the book's website.
Jack and Jeanne
Not too long after we'd finished Grandma's book, I was praying about what I could possibly do to minister to others. I was part of a nursing home visitation program through my church at the time, and I was so excited when the answer came: I could collect and transcribe the residents' stories! I interviewed several people, but most had only a few stories to share. Then I met Jack, and boy could he tell a story! I was spellbound as I transcribed his World War II stories.
Over the course of a year, I compiled Jack's autobiography in my spare time. This involved many visits to the nursing home, almost always with Allyson in tow. Jack's wife Jeanne fell in love with Allyson, and the feeling was mutual. Allyson always sits in her lap, and Jeanne usually gives her a cookie or some strawberry yogurt from their tiny refrigerator.
Nearly all the residents love Allyson. At first she was overwhelmed by all the hands and voices reaching out to her, but she's gradually gotten more comfortable there. Even the grumpiest men brighten when she waves at them, and even the ones who can no longer speak can clearly express their joy. (It reminds me of the last time I saw my grandfather. He couldn't talk, but he reached out for baby Allyson with both arms. I set her on his lap gingerly, still holding her lightly, but he wouldn't have dropped her; his grip was surprisingly strong. His entire face was lit up with joy, and tears streamed down my cheeks. I am so thankful for that memory.)
Jack's book took me so long that we both probably figured it would never be finished, but the day finally came a couple of weeks ago. Though he couldn't really see it, he was so proud when he held the book in his hands for the first time. I hope his family enjoys the book for generations.
Click here to view, order, or download Jack's book.
Now I need to finish my parents' autobiography and start another one at the nursing home. I'm praying for God to lead me to a person who is longing to share his or her story--maybe a woman this time.
Would YOU Like to Write a Book?
Publishing a book these days is surprisingly easy. I used a site called Lulu to self publish both books. The cost was quite reasonable, and the best part is that it required no up-front cost. Each book is printed and sold individually, with all costs paid by the buyer. You can choose whether to mark up the price or sell it at cost, and where to send any profits--even to a charity, if you like.
I strongly encourage you to publish your own family stories! I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
While I was putting the finishing touches on our dinner--split pea soup with homemade croutons--Allyson was gearing up for the big event. "Can we paint my nails purple?"
"No, painting your nails is only for special occasions," I said absently, absorbed in the meticulous work of removing all the fat from the tender ham which had slipped off the bone.
"But I want to look special for Santa Claus," she pleaded.
"No, sweetie, I have to finish dinner right now, and then we have to hurry and eat so we can.... NO!!! Don't open that nail polish!" I lunged to grab the bottle, which was dangling loosely from one hand, right over the ceramic tile floor.
Allyson was so excited over the prospect of seeing Santa that she didn't even pout about the nail polish, though she did ask a couple more times just in case. She was also too excited to eat more than a couple of bites. I made up for her lack of appetite, though. The soup was FABULOUS!
Ethan eyed it suspiciously; it was green, for crying out loud. I braced myself for his disparaging comment, probably involving the word "gross." But there was an unexpected silence as he shoveled spoon after spoon into his mouth. Then came the sweetest words: "This soup is delicious! I don't even like ham. Or peas. But it's great! Can I have some more?"
Actually, Ethan's response closely mirrored my own back when I first tried split pea soup, at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant on our honeymoon. Who could guess that something that looked so... pukey... could be so incredibly delicious?
Bill did not share our enthusiasm. He did finish about a third of his bowl to be polite. When I asked how he liked it, he smiled apologetically. "It's not too bad, as far as split pea soup goes."
At 6:15, we scrambled to get all bundled up for the tree lighting. Allyson argued that she was plenty warm in her long-sleeved T-shirt, but Bill insisted on adding a few layers. By the way, this is Allyson's idea of bundling up:
Allyson isn't the only one who likes to borrow other people's winter wear. When Bill saw that I was wearing TWO of his jackets, his brows lowered. "Let me get this straight," he said. "You have the nice black coat with matching gloves, scarf, and tuque [hat] that I gave you last Christmas, but instead you put on my jacket?" [That reminds me of another black coat Bill once gave me for Christmas, but I'll save that story for another day.]
I ducked my head. "I needed a big jacket to go over-"
"-my other jacket?"
"Well, yes," I admitted, warmth suffusing my face. "I wanted to wear layers. You're the one who taught me that."
"Well, let's get on with it," he said. (I always wonder if he's REALLY mad at me for wearing his jacket... or flip flops... or flannel pajama bottoms. There's just something enticing about his stuff. A couple of times he has passed his flip flops on to me and bought himself a new pair--which I promptly pilfered. I guess I have a problem.)
At 6:22, we pulled out of the driveway with eight whole minutes to get to the library. We hurried across the parking lot just as the mayor was finishing a completely inaudible speech. We joined in the countdown, and then the tree burst forth in all its humble beauty.
We paused for a quick shot in front of the tree before we herded into the library to wait in an endless line that snaked between the computers. Allyson was amazingly patient, but Ethan was pretty bored until he found a couch where he could curl up with his latest Harry Potter book.
Meanwhile, I kept myself amused by surreptitiously sneaking peeks at the computer screens; I particularly enjoyed perusing scores of Facebook pictures, which really weren't all that interesting, truth be told. It made me thankful that I can waste time on Facebook in the comfort of my own TV room instead of making a reservation at the library.
Can't We Have Just One More?
The best moment came when I admired an adorable baby girl all dressed in red. "Don't we need another one of those?" I sighed wistfully.
"We don't need another BABY," Bill said, rolling his eyes.
This jogged Allyson's memory; just the day before she'd asked me why we couldn't have another baby, and I'd told her to ask Daddy.
"Oh, Daddy! Please can't we have just ONE more?" Allyson asked in her sweetest voice. "I love babies! I want to babysit." I turned my back and pressed my lips together.
"You can babysit Aunt Emily's baby when he's born," Bill said, in his most reasonable voice.
"But he already gots a owner," she argued.
"Who's Charlie's owner?" I asked.
"Aunt Emily!" she said, and I was surprised she didn't add: "Duh!"
"Well, I'm sure we can watch Charlie when Aunt Emily and Uncle Paul go on a date," I soothed.
The Big Moment
I wondered if Allyson would freeze up in terror like last year, but she was all business. When it was finally her turn, she climbed onto Santa's lap and grinned for the camera, and then she announced, "I want a Barbie house!"
We heard Santa ask if she'd been good, but we couldn't decipher her mumbled response.
Santa gave her a hug and promised to see what he could do. She headed back to us with a radiant smile, clutching her candy cane and Santa coloring book tightly. She and Ethan had cookies and punch in the story hour room, and then we hurried back to the car, chilled from wearing our coats too long inside the warm building.
On the way home, Bill asked what Allyson had said when Santa asked if she'd been good. "I said yes," she said.
"And WERE you good?" Bill pressed.
"Well, kind of good."
"Yes, you're a good girl," Bill assured her. "Most of the time," I added mentally.
It was a great evening, even without the live reindeer--which won't be there until later in the month. Maybe I'll paint her nails for that.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tonight Ethan and I were on the way to Target when we saw a bumper sticker that said "My Child is Still in a Five-Point Harness. To find out why, visit kyledavidmiller.org".
Having attended a car seat safety talk at MOPS (Mothers Of Preschoolers) last semester, I already knew why children should stay in a five-point harness as long as possible--that's why Allyson is in one, and will be until she is at least 65 pounds.
The website looked like a child's name, and I figured Kyle David must have been a toddler who was killed in a crash because he wasn't in a five-point harness. I wanted to read his story, even though I dreaded it, because I knew how hard it must have been for his parents to share that experience, and I wanted to honor his memory. So I repeated the website over and over until I could park the car and text it to myself. Then I promptly forgot about it.
Ethan was the one who remembered it--conveniently just past his bedtime. He rattled off the website effortlessly, and we watched Kyle's video together. I was sobbing as I watched this beautiful child. At the end, his mother said, "I would give anything to have this knowledge before our accident. You on the other hand are lucky, you can learn from our loss."
The same sentiment was repeated on the videos of two three-year-old girls who were killed by adult seatbelts--one in a very low speed crash. Had they been in five-point harnesses, there's a good chance they would have had only minor injuries.
Yes, we ARE lucky to have the chance to save our children, or someone else's children. Please pass this information on to anyone who might benefit.
In a nut shell:
- Children should be kept in a rear-facing seat as long as possible, even if their feet are touching the back of the seat. Broken legs can be fixed; a ruptured spinal cord is fatal.
- Toddlers should ride in a five-point harness until the upper weight limit of the biggest available seat. This is FAR greater than 40 pounds. In the U.S., there are now quite a few car seat models that go as high as 80 pounds. An adult seat belt cannot safely restrain a small child, and may even cause life-threatening injuries. A five-point harness distributes the impact over a larger area of the chest and hips and greatly reduces the movement of the child's body and head.
- All car seats should be snugly anchored in the back seat, using the tether strap if available.
- The car seat's belt should be so snug that when you pinch it, you can't create a vertical fold. Make a habit of loosening the belt each time you take your child out, and then tightening it after you buckle up the next time.
- The chest clip must be at armpit level. If it's too high, it can interfere with breathing. If it's too low, the child can slip out of the belt in a crash.
If you're still not convinced, watch the crash test videos on the site. You'll be appalled at how violently a child's body moves when restrained in a booster and adult seat belt.
The site also features recommended car seats. I found Allyson's seat at Target. It's a Graco Nautilus, and I got it on sale for only $79.
Please forgive me if I've been overbearing about this, but I really want to get the word out.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Me: "There's NOTHING wrong with that [generic] popcorn!"
Bill: "Let's have some Pop Weaver with some Diet Ditto [generic 7-Up]."
Me (with a swat to Bill's behind): "I'll Ditto you!!... And there's NOTHING wrong with that popcorn!"
FIVE MINUTES LATER
Allyson (speaking around a mouthful of Pop Weaver): "Here, Mama, have some popcorn."
Me: I'd love some Pop Weaver, baby. Man, that's yummy!
Now I just need to pour myself an ice cold glass of Diet Ditto.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
"You know what she's going to do next, right?" Brandy asked. I nodded as she continued. "She's going to cut her hair. You'd better keep those scissors out of her reach."
"I know," I said. "It's just that there really isn't any place that's truly out of her reach any more. But you're right. I was about her age when I cut a chunk out of my hair. Or maybe I was four."
I told her the story. My mother had been so busy taking care of baby Emily that she hadn't even noticed until I announced proudly, "Scissors can cut hair." Turning around sharply, she spotted an inch-long tuft of hair to the left of my forehead.
The first thing she did was spank me, and I think (based on the picture below) the next thing she did was cut a matching piece on the other side of my forehead. I guess she couldn't give me bangs because they would have covered too wide of a section. As you can see, it didn't look so bad....
After I'd laughed over the story with Brandy, I resolved to find a way to lock up the scissors; what I needed was something like a gun case where I could lock up all Allyson's craft supplies and my scrapbooking papers, too. That would stop her from cutting my best sheets into tatters AND protect her hair (and various household objects). Or maybe I'd just get another plastic doorknob lock and stash it all in the downstairs bathroom closet.
Despite my best intentions, I didn't get a chance to follow through. Would you believe that Allyson cut her hair the very next day?
I was on the phone with her Auntie Lisa at the time. Early in the conversation, I let Allyson have the phone, just after I'd explained to Lisa about my daily slump at 3:00, when I often melt into sleep. Allyson told Lisa she wanted to go to the park, and I could hear Lisa's reply: "Is it almost 3:00? You'd better hurry before your mama falls asleep."
"Oh, she's not sleepin'," Allyson said. "She only sleeps when I'm not busy."
"Ain't that the truth," I thought ruefully. "And if she does let me sleep, it's only so she can get really busy while I'm not looking."
I had no sooner reclaimed the phone than Allyson started begging to talk again. I moved from my bedroom to the TV room, then back to my room, then to my closet. Allyson finally tired of following me around and retired to her room.
When she shut the door, little alarm bells went off in my head, but I was too engrossed in laughing with Lisa to take action. About five minutes later, we hung up, and I opened Allyson's door with trepidation.
She gave me a crooked, rather guilty smile, her craft scissors half hidden behind her back. Several six-inch strands of golden, silky hair lay in a pile at her feet.
"Oh, Allyson!" I wailed, horribly disappointed and exasperated at the same time. That very morning, two people at MOPS had commented on Allyson's gorgeous hair. Now, I was berating myself for not locking up the scissors when I had the chance. Maybe this was my punishment for being vain about my daughter's hair.
I had the same initial reaction as my own mother had; I gave Allyson a couple of swats. She wept bitterly, but I think she was more upset about my disappointment than about the mild spanking.
"Now we'll have to cut your pretty hair," I said. I held out the shortest strand, my fingers just grazing her shoulder. "This is how short it will be," I said.
Allyson was sobbing so hard she could barely speak. "I don't w-want to c-cut my hair!"
I took her to my room and pulled her into my lap on the rocking chair where I'd spent hours nursing her just a couple of years ago. She buried her face in my shoulder, and I held her close and stroked her hair. "It's going to be okay," I promised. "You'll always be beautiful. And your hair will grow back." Still she cried.
She cried all the way to the kids' hair salon where she'd had her first trim a few months back. When we got out of the car, her little body heaved one last quavering sigh, and then she put on a brave face.
As I was signing her in, one of the stylists gave Allyson a welcoming smile. "Do you need a haircut?" she asked brightly. Allyson broke into fresh tears, and the lady looked at me quizzically.
"She just gave herself a haircut," I explained. "We need you to fix it. Don't cry, sweetie," I pleaded. "It's going to be okay."
The stylist asked if she wanted to sit in the firetruck chair and watch a princess video, and a hint of a smile curved Allyson's lips when she nodded.
"Okay, let's see what we've got here." The top of Allyson's hair was still held back with an elastic band, so I took it down and smoothed her hair with my fingers.
"That's not so bad," the stylist said. "It's covered up now." Then Allyson moved her head to see the screen better, and the top hair swung to the side. "But you can definitely see it."
We talked it over and decided bangs and tapered sides would be the best way to camouflage the damage. "Would you like bangs?" she asked. Allyson stared at her blankly until she gestured to her own bangs, and then Allyson brightened.
A few minutes later, my little three-year-old looked like a young lady. I couldn't believe the transformation. "Oh, honey, you look beautiful!" I exclaimed. Allyson beamed.
On the way home, Allyson had a sudden realization. "Now I have bangs like Olivia!" she announced. "Not Olivia the pig, Olivia my friend," she clarified. (Olivia the pig is featured in both a favorite TV program and a favorite library book.) "I wonder if Olivia got her bangs at the barber, too."
Since then, Allyson has told her story to everyone we've seen, always with a flourish of her gracefully tapered hair. "I cut my hair with scissors, and then we had to go to the barber and get some bangs," she explains.
I hope the joy of the bangs does not outweigh the memory of the initial horror. Maybe I'd better go buy that gun case.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
"Nuffin!" she called back.
"Why don't you come down here with me and Mama?"
"Not now!" she replied. "I'm waitin' to see what's under the eye."
"Huh?" Bill asked.
"It's a eye on TV. I want to see what's under it," she explained.
"I think she's watching Discovery," Bill surmised.
"How cute!" I said as I scraped the last bit of crusty refried beans into a Gladware container.
Technically, Allyson is only allowed to watch about 30 minutes of her preschool channel at bedtime, but we certainly didn't want to stand in the way of her education. So we left her alone while we worked on the kitchen.
Bill was washing the last two pots when I headed upstairs to check on Allyson. I was flabbergasted when I saw what she was actually watching. "You're not going to believe what Allyson's watching," I yelled.
"It's an infomercial! For wrinkle cream!"
"That's bizarre," he said.
"Yes," I agreed, just as I realized that I, too, was now enthralled. (I have to admit that I have a weakness for informercials; generally I try to avoid them like an alcoholic steers clear of bars.)
We sat side by side on the couch and watched the same trick over and over again: each model smoothed a pea-sized drop of the Youthology wrinkle cream under one eye, and we watched the wrinkles disappear via time-lapse photography. After only 90 seconds, their smile lines, bags, and shadows were virtually eliminated. It was positively mesmerizing, but I felt a little sorry for the poor folks; now their untreated eyes looked pathetic in comparison. One of the girls was my age, or maybe younger, and I'd thought she looked perfectly fine until I saw how much better she looked with the Youthology cream.
"I've got to have this stuff," I thought, especially when I found out it had been marked down from $118 to just $39 for a 30-day supply--AND it was only available through this TV offer. I was tempted to go right to their website, but then I remembered the time I tried ProActiv solution after watching an infomercial. Instead of clearing up my pimples, it gave me a horrible case of hives that only went away after all my skin peeled off. "Step away from the television," I urged myself.
Just then, Bill came up to take Allyson for her bath. "Please," she wheedled, "I want to watch some more. It's a good, good show!"
"Honey, it's a commercial," Bill explained kindly. "It's time for your bath." We both tore ourselves away.
Obviously, she's inherited my weakness. I just had no idea how soon it would take effect.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
After the dubious welcome of September 11th, Bill's new life in America got off to a rather rough start. We were thrilled to be together, of course, but that didn't erase his loneliness. He'd left all of his friends, his coworkers, his hockey team, and his close-knit family behind. Here, he had... me.
He lived in a small, dark apartment about 40 miles from my house. This was what we'd planned; we wanted to avoid becoming enmeshed in each others' lives too quickly. It seemed like a good plan, but the reality was that on most days, the TV was his only company. He had a couple of friends at work, but unlike Bill, they had busy lives.
I could tell that he was depressed, though he wouldn't admit it. In Bill's mind, expressing his unhappiness equated to questioning his decision, and he hates second guessing himself. The more I asked how he was feeling, the more withdrawn he became.
I'd like to say I was a comfort to him, but the opposite was true. I was used to being treated like a princess once a month, but now I saw him every day at work, and mostly all he did was mope. My insecurities engulfed me, and we were both miserable. I continually complained about his lack of affection, questioned his love for me, and wondered aloud whether we'd made the wrong decision--which made him angry. I'd dissolve into tears, and then, pushing past his own mood, he'd pat my back helplessly. This went on for a month or so.
A Happy Coincidence?
Just as I was beginning to doubt we would make it, something wonderful happened. Maybe it was a divine appointment. Ethan and I had spent Sunday afternoon with Bill, who seemed exceptionally blue during dinner. It was hard to leave him, but I knew we had to be up early in the morning. I drove home with a heavy heart, scarcely hearing Ethan's happy chatter.
At home, I was surprised to find a message from Bill on my answering machine--it had been less than an hour since I'd talked to him. When I called back, he was positively breathless with excitement.
After I'd left, Bill walked over to the outside roller hockey rink at the recreation center. Planning to skate around a bit, he ended up joining a pick-up game instead. But that was only the good news. The great news was that these guys were forming a roller hockey team, and they wanted him to join! He couldn't believe he'd arrived just in time to catch their practice.
My own smile must have matched his own. Relief washed over me as I listened to the story; this was the old Bill, the one I fell in love with.
In no time, they were practicing a couple times a week and playing games regularly. They played in the old Big Wheel skating rink where I'd spent a few Friday nights in the 80s. Other than the plastic floor tiles that had replaced the gleaming wooden rink, the Plexiglass walls, and the metal risers, the building was just as I remembered it. I might have been caught up in memories of couple skating to Journey--okay, of longing for some boy to ask me to skate--had it not been for the smell. I've encountered that odor in only three places, and all three were roller hockey rinks. It's like... the inside of a sweaty gym sock. No matter how many games I attended, I was shocked at the stench that assaulted my nostrils, yet somehow it always dissipated during the suspense of the game.
Ethan and I attended nearly every game, and I was ALMOST Bill's biggest fan. (Ethan was more interested in running around with the other boys and sometimes throwing bottle caps onto the ice.) I remember sitting on the risers during the first game, bursting with pride when I heard some of the other spectators whispering, "That's Bill. He's from Canada! Isn't he great?"
True to stereotype, Bill really was a star. In truth, he'd only been playing a couple of years, but that was two years longer than the rest of them. Some of them could barely skate, at least at first. The goalie's mom was Bill's biggest fan, mainly because she was better at following the game than I was. She shouted Bill's name almost as often as her son Gentry's. Her favorite phrase was "That's-the-way, Bill! That's-the-way!" On the rare occasions when Bill got a penalty, she echoed my own thoughts: "No, no! Not Bill! No way." She was quite a tiny lady, but you'd never guess it when the Blazers scored a goal.
Like Pearls Before Swine
I was pretty loud myself. I leaned forward in my seat when Bill approached the goal, and when he scored, I leaped to my feet and screamed myself hoarse. I was trying to make up for my egregious lack of attention during the one disastrous game I'd watched him play up in Vancouver in 2000.
On that team, Bill was probably only average, but he definitely had an above-average game that night. Knowing I was up in the stands spurred him on to one goal and a couple of assists. Fortunately, he didn't realize that I had no idea what was going on. I'd never watched hockey before, not even on TV, and I just couldn't follow the constant action; instead, I was deep in conversation with one of his teammates' girlfriends, a very personable girl named Tanya.
In the last minutes of the game, they were winning by several points, but Bill pushed for one more goal in my honor. As he rounded the back of the goal, he caught his skate on the post and wrenched his ankle. A sudden silence caught my attention, and I stopped speaking in mid sentence. "Who's that on the ice?" Tanya asked tensely.
"Someone's hurt?" I asked.
"That's Bill!" another girl said. My heart seemed to stop beating as I strained to see his limp form. I breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when two of his friends helped him up and off the ice. But his face was gray when he emerged from the locker room several minutes later.
As he limped to the car, I had to ask what had happened, and then I had to admit that I hadn't seen any of the goals. He was in too much pain to care. He said it was probably a bad sprain, but he insisted he'd be fine, and he also insisted that he could drive the two hours to the Seattle airport the next morning.
He did manage to make the drive, but I felt so bad for him--especially when we learned that he'd broken his tibia. Man, is he tough!
A Chance to Redeem Myself
Thanks in part to his teammates' slow skating, I did learn to follow hockey fairly well after Bill moved to Texas. I watched the Blazers claw their way to the top, winning the league championship in just their second season. I watched them transition to ice hockey, which was much more difficult, and I watched them move from the top of the I-league to the bottom of the D-league. Over the years, old players left and new ones took their place, and the name changed a couple of times, but Bill was always at the heart of the team.
Now, unfortunately, I don't get to watch much at all. Most of the games are very late, way too late for Allyson. But every now and then they have an early game, and Allyson gets to cheer for her daddy. SHE'S now his biggest fan. "Go-Daddy-go-Daddy-go!" she hollers. When he scores--and also when he doesn't--she shouts, "That's my daddy! Number 2-2!" Nothing makes her happier than when he skates up to the glass and gives her a wave.
They're already making plans for her future hockey career. She's even picked her jersey number: 8. Somehow we'll have to squeeze in those practices and games with her ballet lessons and recitals, not to mention the soccer. (She desperately wants to do all these things.) I wonder which sport she'll actually choose?
I guess hockey will be part of our life for a long, long time, and that's fine with me. If it weren't for hockey, Bill just might have gone back to Canada. I guess I'll never know, but either way, I love to see his passion for the game. Thank God for hockey!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
If you'd like to share one of your favorite blog posts from October, here's how:
- Pick one of YOUR posts from the past month and insert a link to it in The Mister Linky form on Elizabeth Esther's blog . (Remember to provide a direct link to your specific post, not your home page).
- Compose a new post at your site encouraging your readers to come check out the other great submissions and maybe explaining why you chose to highlight a particular post.
Is That a STRAWBERRY?
As you may recall, our garden has been plagued with thieves and vandals, both known and unknown. There was the time we found Lola contentedly munching a green tomato that had mysteriously fallen from its hanging basket. Then there was the time I caught Allyson picking a Roma tomato from the corner garden. And when some of the tomatoes finally did manage to reach maturity, we were dismayed that tiny beak holes had marred their crimson beauty.
Never in all that time did we dream that we'd find some EXTRA produce in our yard one Saturday morning! Around a bite of blueberry chocolate chip pancake, Ethan said, "Hey, what's that on the porch? It looks like... a strawberry!"
We all rushed out onto the porch and found that it was indeed a perfect, plump strawberry. But where could it possibly have come from? Allyson had a theory. She said a bird must have dropped it. I figured it might have been one of our little tomato thieves bringing a peace offering.
Oddly enough, Lola, the dog who literally eats rocks, disdained to eat it. She put her lips around it and tested it with her pink tongue, but instead of devouring it as I expected, she rolled it gently around the porch with her nose. Occasionally she'd give it another taste, but she never did eat it. Funny dog!
Who Ate all the Parsley?
A week or so later, on a weekday morning, I was lethargically eating oatmeal when Bill called me and Ethan out to the porch. The first thing he said was, "Look at your parsley."
I surveyed the hanging basket with bleary eyes, then did a double take when I realized the parsley was GONE! Not a leaf remained, just pathetically shorn stalks.
"What happened?" I shrieked.
Bill held out his hand, upon which rested the largest caterpillar I'd ever seen.
He offered to let me hold it, but I grimaced and shuddered violently. So he set it in the bushes to grow into a butterfly... so that it could lay its eggs in my herbs some day.
The Rotter Drawer Strikes Again
The two green bell pepper plants yielded just one perfect specimen. It was plump and unblemished, and I couldn't wait to taste its crisp juiciness, fresh off the vine.
However, I couldn't immediately think of a recipe that called for bell pepper, and I don't like them well enough to eat them alone. So I put it in the fridge, where it suffered the fate of many other vegetables before it. When we thought of it a couple of weeks later, its limp form had been ravaged by mold.
One Glorious Success
The one crop that flourished was Ethan's banana peppers. The plants blossomed several times, and the peppers were large and waxy and smooth.
There was only one problem: no one would eat them. Ethan, the only one who allegedly likes banana peppers, apparently only likes the ones they serve at Subway. The first time we harvested some peppers, he eagerly cut one up, but then he just took one tiny bite and spit it in the trash.
We figured he might like them better if they were pickled. Bill said all we needed to do was put them in a jar of pickle juice. I was pretty skeptical, but I allowed myself to be swayed by Bill's total confidence. (He seems to be a storehouse of obscure knowledge, and even if he doesn't know something, he can usually make up a very plausible explanation.) We waited a few weeks, and then Ethan got ready to try them again. This time, all he did was look at the pale, limp pepper and wrinkle up his nose.
The last six peppers were too beautiful to waste. I looked up a recipe on the Internet and pickled them myself. I boiled them in straight vinegar with onions, garlic, and a variety of spices. Then I put them in an old pickle jar, closed it, and boiled the jar until the top sealed. My kitchen positively reeked, but the pickled peppers at last resembled the ones you find in the grocery store.
A day or two later, Ethan worked up the courage to try them. He gingerly touched his tongue to a pepper and said, "Ewww." So much for the theory that kids love to eat the vegetables that they plant themselves. Now the jar is sitting on the top shelf of the refrigerator, waiting for some banana pepper lover to visit.
Oh well, even though we didn't actually eat too many of our vegetables, we sure had a lot of fun with The Family Garden. We definitely plan to do it again. And I'm sure you'll hear about it when we do.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
She began rehearsing for Halloween a few weeks before the big event. She assembled her own costumes by combining various pieces from her princess treasure trunk. For example, there was this country Super Girl princess bank robber costume, complete with Cinderella pumps:
She also designed costumes for me, but the only things that fit were the sleeping mask and the flower headband.
I thought I was supposed to be the Masked Flower Bandit, but she said I was Sleeping Daisy. I guess she knows that you wear the mask for sleeping. I was wearing this costume at the same time that she was wearing her Super Girl ensemble, and both of us had to walk around her room in our blindfolds. I stepped gingerly, bracing myself for the hard little toys that often litter her floor, but both of us actually escaped injury.
A few days later, she dressed as a Daisy Ballerina, and she tried out her best ballet steps. Isn't she graceful?
Then again, maybe not so much. We really need to get her into some lessons.
A couple of days before Halloween, we went to TWO pumpkin patches. Allyson and I met our MOPS group for a play date that morning. We rode a train, stomped through a muddy hay bale maze that smelled like manure, and suffered through a picnic lunch in the icy breeze. Still, Allyson and the other kids all managed to have a great time.
That evening the whole family went to another pumpkin patch around the corner. It was hard to tear Ethan and Allyson away from the giant slide long enough to pick out the pumpkins.
While I was still working on dishes, Bill succumbed to the kids' begging and started cleaning the pumpkins. Ethan carved his own pumpkin this year, with only a little help from Bill! Allyson drew the face for hers, and Daddy did the carving. Bill carved a third pumpkin for a contest at work. I never knew he was so talented! (If you can't tell by looking, he made a tree, a cross, and tombstone.)
Ethan went to his dad's for Halloween. He wore a skeleton costume, but I don't have a picture.
We went out with our friends Brandy and Rodney, and their daughter Eniya--the most adorable little bee I've ever seen.
Allyson thoroughly enjoyed the trick-or-treating, especially the slight thrill of fear. Our first stop was at Ethan's friend Makayla's house. When Allyson rang the doorbell, a face hanging on the door started talking in a spooky voice, and she jumped back, though she made sure to wait around for her candy. After that, she wanted me to ring all the doorbells just in case.
She complimented the other kids' costumes along the way, and she was so proud when others admired her costume. "I'm Fumbelina, the greatest fairy in the world!" she announced proudly.
She had almost as much fun handing out candy back at home. The most fun, of course, was EATING the candy. Thanks mainly to Ethan, the candy is all but gone now. Just like Halloween.