When I read my friend Victor's post about the Good Samaritan in modern times--and especially the comments about it--it brought to mind one of my earlier posts about a time when I failed to help someone. I always meant to tell you the rest of that story, but I never did...
The first time I conversed with a homeless person, I was waiting in a Chicago subway station with my friend Angela. My entire body was tense with anxiety despite the soothing melody from a cross-legged young man playing guitar at our feet. Cringing at the harsh squeal of wheels on the opposite track, I willed our train to arrive.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man approaching on my right. His clothes were shabby and dirty, and his long hair was unkempt. I wanted to run back up to the street, but instead I edged closer to Angela, who edged closer to the guitar player.
When the man spoke, I was caught off guard by his genteel manner and quiet voice. He explained that he’d fallen on hard times and had been living in the subway for a few weeks. “I know I look dirty and I probably smell,” he said, “but I haven't had a way to take a shower down here. I don't want you to feel threatened, so I'll stand back here. If there's any way you could help me, I'd be really grateful.”
I hesitated for a moment. Even though I knew he might waste the money, I had a strong desire to help him. My fear of being mugged proved stronger, though, and I replied that I’d just given my last dollar bill to the musician. This was technically true, but I also had a five and a twenty, either of which I could have spared. Another train rolled up just then, and I looked over my shoulder as we rushed to board. The man’s head hung low and his shoulders were slumped.
By the time we reached the airport, I’d forgotten the encounter, but it came back to me at Bible study two days later when we studied Matthew 25. Jesus’ words in verse 45 pierced my conscience: “I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.” I longed to go back and respond differently, but all I could do was ask God to help me share His love the next time I had an opportunity.
That opportunity came within a few months, when my Bible study group served dinner at a downtown mission. I’d been looking forward to the experience for weeks, yet my fear that evening was nearly as strong as it had been in the subway. How could I relate to these people? Was I capable of loving them?
When the first group of mission residents settled into the molded plastic chairs, it was my ineptitude as a waitress that dominated my thoughts. I struggled to keep up with the rhythm of filling trays, distributing meals, and cleaning tables. I’d hoped to share loving words with someone who needed encouragement, but instead I felt awkward and shy amid the easy conversation and laughter at each round table.
By the time the last group filed in, I was feeling a bit more confident in my duties, but I still felt anxious. Unlike the first two groups, these men and women were homeless, and I knew some of them might be mentally or emotionally disturbed.
Actually, they weren’t all that different from the people I see every day. Most of them were neatly dressed, and all of them were polite. They talked and laughed, and they really seemed to enjoy their meal. I wanted to join in their conversations, but I had no idea what to say.
As I scraped a plate into the garbage, I paused to say a silent prayer. “I know I came here to serve, God. Thank you for the opportunity to do that. But I also wanted to… talk to someone. Please help me find the words.” I dropped a handful of dirty silverware into the gray, soapy water and headed resolutely back to clear the last few tables.
Before I picked up the next tray from a rather rough-looking man, I looked into his brown eyes and murmured, “Have a good evening.” I almost laughed at myself. Gee, that was hard.
Due to the twitch at the corner of his mouth, I suspected the man was a little amused at my discomfort, but I appreciated the way he left my dignity intact. “Thank you so much, ma’am,” he said, clasping my hand firmly.
I grinned as I shook his hand. My heart was light, my aching back and sore feet forgotten. I can’t explain what passed between us, but somehow I knew that we’d recognized each other, accepted each other in that one moment when I realized that we were both “the least of these.”
Showing posts with label 2009. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2009. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Pumpkin Pie for Candy Canes
Remember when Allyson insisted that we take candy canes to the neighbors for Christmas? Well, you won't believe the payoff from that!
About two weeks later, on Christmas Eve, our doorbell rang. When Bill answered the door, I was up on the computer, probably putting the finishing touches on a blog entry.
The moment I heard the man's voice, I knew who he must be. I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying, but it was something about Allyson and candy canes and Merry Christmas. I thundered down the stairs and skidded around the corner in my hand-made wool socks.
"Hi!" I said breathlessly.
The man stood just inside the doorway holding what looked like a pie.
"What a deal!" Bill exclaimed. "We give you candy canes, and you bring us a pie."
"Well, we're new to the area--we moved from Ohio--and we don't know a lot of people yet. I like to bake pumpkin pies and give them away at Christmas, and we thought of you because we were so tickled when your daughter gave us the candy canes."
"I'm Allyson!" Allyson announced, rocking from one foot to the other.
"Yes, I remember. You told me your name when you brought us the candy. My name is Sean. Are you ready for Christmas, Allyson?"
Allyson positively danced with joy. "Yes! Santa's gonna bring me a Barbie house and some ballet slippers!"
"Well, I hope he does," Sean said solemnly, "but be sure to remember the most important gift. God sent us his son Jesus, and we should be thankful for that always."
"I know that," Allyson said hastily. "We talked about it in Sunday school. Christmas is Jesus' birthday, you know."
"Yes," we all agreed.
We talked for a few more minutes. We learned that the teenagers at his house that night were all his daughters, and that he and his wife also have a seven-month-old baby! (There's a 14-year span between the youngest two.)
He told us the pie was made from real pumpkins, not from a can. "It tastes rather different from canned pumpkin, and hopefully you'll really like it."
"Well, thank you so much," I said. "I know we'll enjoy it."
We all wished each other a merry Christmas, and then he was gone. As soon as the door had clicked shut, I ripped the foil off the pie, which was still warm from the oven. I'd never had a pumpkin pie from scratch, and I was excited.
Allyson Took this Picture of Me With the Pie
It did taste different--not necessarily better, but different. The texture was a little stringy, but it tasted great. Allyson sat next to me at the table and nibbled at her dainty piece. I think she liked it, but she was mainly interested in the crust. She obviously takes after her Aunt Emily, who much prefers pie pastry over the filling.
I Was So Afraid She'd Drop It
What to Do With all That Pie?
Now I had a big dilemma: there was an awful lot of pie to eat before our flight to Vancouver the next afternoon, and I would have to do it by myself. Bill doesn't like pumpkin, Ethan was at his dad's at the time, and Allyson wasn't going to be much help. You KNOW I can't waste food, but a whole pie?
"Can't you freeze it?" Bill asked.
"I read on the Internet that pumpkin pie doesn't freeze well," I explained. "Something about the filling separating from the crust. Maybe I should take half of it across the street to Makayla's family."
Bill looked at me as if I'd just lost a marble. "You are NOT carrying a half-eaten pie that a stranger made over to the neighbors. That is just WEIRD."
"Not if they love pumpkin pie," I argued.
"No!" Bill said unequivocally.
"But it will go to waste," I said in a tiny voice.
"Just freeze it and see what happens."
I sighed heavily and cut myself another slice. I had another slice at breakfast the next morning and another with lunch. When Ethan came home at 1:00, I offered him a piece, but I wasn't surprised when he was too excited to eat anything before our flight. (The excitement apparently dissipated when we actually reached the airport; when he spotted the McDonald's just past security, he was suddenly STARVING.)
I ended up freezing the pie in foil and a freezer bag, and Ethan pulled it out after school this past Tuesday. It was perfectly tasty! Bill reminded me that you can't believe everything you read on the Internet.
What Next?
Throughout the last two weeks, I kept wondering what I should do about the family from Ohio. A pie seemed like an offering of friendship to me, but I wasn't sure how to respond. If I were Allyson, I'd just knock on their door and say, "Let's be friends. Want to go for a walk or something?" Now THAT would be weird, I thought.
The answer came to me one morning while I was brushing my teeth, almost like an audible voice in my thoughts. Invite her to MOPS.
I immediately started arguing with myself.
-She has teenagers. She's not a young mom who needs potty training tips.
-You're not a young mom either. Ethan's almost a teenager. -What if she expects a Bible study, and then she's disappointed that it's basically about making friends?
-Maybe that's what she wants. Her husband said they don't know a lot of people.
And then came the question behind all the questions: What if she thinks I'm weird for asking?
"What should I do, God?" I prayed. "Should I invite her to MOPS? What will I say to her?" If God had an answer for me, I didn't hear it that day.
I thought of it again when I learned that my MOPS table would only have five members this semester. I made up my mind to invite her the next day.
On my lunch break yesterday, I wrote out a thank-you card. Of course I thanked them for the delicious pie, but then I hesitated about what to write next. Did I dare write what was on my heart? Would they think I was crazy?
I took a deep breath and wrote something like this: "Such a kind gesture in response to our humble gift of candy canes helped me remember the spirit of Christmas. It reminded me of the lavishness of God's gift to us all, something we can't possibly repay."
Since I didn't know their last name, I wrote ours on the outside of the envelope. Then I bundled up against the bitter cold and hastened around the corner to the house two doors down. As I approached, I noticed a plume of smoke coming out of the chimney, and I envisioned us talking in front of the fire, drinking cocoa.
But when I knocked firmly on the door, there was no answer. I waited another minute and then rang the doorbell. Still, there was no answer. She HAS to be home, I thought. Nobody lights a fire and then leaves. Now I imagined the woman peering at me through the peephole and deciding she really didn't want to talk with any crazy ladies just now.
Bitterly disappointed, I trudged back toward the corner. I'd obviously not been listening hard enough when I asked God about this. When I reached the corner, I turned for one last look at the house. That's when I noticed that the "smoke" was actually steam from the dryer vent of the house next door. I shook my head at myself for jumping to so many conclusions.
The Invitation
I decided to make one more attempt last night after I picked up Allyson, and she eagerly agreed to come along.
This time there were two cars in the driveway, and Sean answered the door immediately. He greeted us warmly, and I handed him the card. With a dry throat and sweaty palms, I asked, "Is your wife home?"
"She's right over here," he answered, gesturing toward the dining room just inside the door. "Come on inside."
There were two pretty teenagers, an attractive blonde woman with her hair pulled back in a loose twist, and a chubby baby in a high chair. They were just sitting down to a meal of spaghetti, and I felt awkward for interrupting their meal, but I plowed on doggedly.
"Hi, I'm Sarah." I looked at the woman. "What's your name?"
"Elizabeth," she said. Then she introduced their three children. (Funny, I could have sworn I'd seen three teenage girls on my previous visit, but I must have been exaggerating.)
I squared my shoulders and opened my mouth to issue the invitation, but then I realized I'd already forgotten her name. "I'm sorry, what's your name again?" I asked, my face suffused with warmth.
"It's - "
"Oh, Elizabeth. Right?"
"Yes, and what's your name again?"
"Sarah."
We both laughed.
"I'm terrible with names," I confessed.
"So am I," she said.
"Well, Elizabeth, I actually came over to invite you to my MOPS group, Mothers of Preschoolers. We meet every other Wednesday and have breakfast. Do you work during the day?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I do work."
"Oh," I said, looking at my feet.
"But if you have any activities in the evening, I'd definitely be interested," she added.
I told her about Tuesday night Bible study, and how we'll soon be starting a study on Psalms.
"That sounds great!" she said, and she took down my phone number and address.
I stood and visited with them for a couple more minutes, during which time Allyson told them all about the puppets at Sunday school and I admitted that I'd pretty much eaten the entire pie. (Ethan literally licked a piece and decided it was gross; it reminded me of his reaction to the pickled banana peppers.) When I finally remembered that they were trying to eat their dinner, I drug Allyson, still chattering, out the front door.
From the porch, I called out, "Hey, do you girls babysit?"
"Yes!" the oldest replied. "I was actually going to ask you about that."
"Awesome! I'll be in touch," I said.
I was still smiling when I got back home, where we told Bill all about our visit.
Who would have thought that handing out candy canes would earn you a pumpkin pie--and maybe even some new friends?
About two weeks later, on Christmas Eve, our doorbell rang. When Bill answered the door, I was up on the computer, probably putting the finishing touches on a blog entry.
The moment I heard the man's voice, I knew who he must be. I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying, but it was something about Allyson and candy canes and Merry Christmas. I thundered down the stairs and skidded around the corner in my hand-made wool socks.
"Hi!" I said breathlessly.
The man stood just inside the doorway holding what looked like a pie.
"What a deal!" Bill exclaimed. "We give you candy canes, and you bring us a pie."
"Well, we're new to the area--we moved from Ohio--and we don't know a lot of people yet. I like to bake pumpkin pies and give them away at Christmas, and we thought of you because we were so tickled when your daughter gave us the candy canes."
"I'm Allyson!" Allyson announced, rocking from one foot to the other.
"Yes, I remember. You told me your name when you brought us the candy. My name is Sean. Are you ready for Christmas, Allyson?"
Allyson positively danced with joy. "Yes! Santa's gonna bring me a Barbie house and some ballet slippers!"
"Well, I hope he does," Sean said solemnly, "but be sure to remember the most important gift. God sent us his son Jesus, and we should be thankful for that always."
"I know that," Allyson said hastily. "We talked about it in Sunday school. Christmas is Jesus' birthday, you know."
"Yes," we all agreed.
We talked for a few more minutes. We learned that the teenagers at his house that night were all his daughters, and that he and his wife also have a seven-month-old baby! (There's a 14-year span between the youngest two.)
He told us the pie was made from real pumpkins, not from a can. "It tastes rather different from canned pumpkin, and hopefully you'll really like it."
"Well, thank you so much," I said. "I know we'll enjoy it."
We all wished each other a merry Christmas, and then he was gone. As soon as the door had clicked shut, I ripped the foil off the pie, which was still warm from the oven. I'd never had a pumpkin pie from scratch, and I was excited.
Allyson Took this Picture of Me With the PieIt did taste different--not necessarily better, but different. The texture was a little stringy, but it tasted great. Allyson sat next to me at the table and nibbled at her dainty piece. I think she liked it, but she was mainly interested in the crust. She obviously takes after her Aunt Emily, who much prefers pie pastry over the filling.
I Was So Afraid She'd Drop ItWhat to Do With all That Pie?
Now I had a big dilemma: there was an awful lot of pie to eat before our flight to Vancouver the next afternoon, and I would have to do it by myself. Bill doesn't like pumpkin, Ethan was at his dad's at the time, and Allyson wasn't going to be much help. You KNOW I can't waste food, but a whole pie?
"Can't you freeze it?" Bill asked.
"I read on the Internet that pumpkin pie doesn't freeze well," I explained. "Something about the filling separating from the crust. Maybe I should take half of it across the street to Makayla's family."
Bill looked at me as if I'd just lost a marble. "You are NOT carrying a half-eaten pie that a stranger made over to the neighbors. That is just WEIRD."
"Not if they love pumpkin pie," I argued.
"No!" Bill said unequivocally.
"But it will go to waste," I said in a tiny voice.
"Just freeze it and see what happens."
I sighed heavily and cut myself another slice. I had another slice at breakfast the next morning and another with lunch. When Ethan came home at 1:00, I offered him a piece, but I wasn't surprised when he was too excited to eat anything before our flight. (The excitement apparently dissipated when we actually reached the airport; when he spotted the McDonald's just past security, he was suddenly STARVING.)
I ended up freezing the pie in foil and a freezer bag, and Ethan pulled it out after school this past Tuesday. It was perfectly tasty! Bill reminded me that you can't believe everything you read on the Internet.
What Next?
Throughout the last two weeks, I kept wondering what I should do about the family from Ohio. A pie seemed like an offering of friendship to me, but I wasn't sure how to respond. If I were Allyson, I'd just knock on their door and say, "Let's be friends. Want to go for a walk or something?" Now THAT would be weird, I thought.
The answer came to me one morning while I was brushing my teeth, almost like an audible voice in my thoughts. Invite her to MOPS.
I immediately started arguing with myself.
-She has teenagers. She's not a young mom who needs potty training tips.
-You're not a young mom either. Ethan's almost a teenager. -What if she expects a Bible study, and then she's disappointed that it's basically about making friends?
-Maybe that's what she wants. Her husband said they don't know a lot of people.
And then came the question behind all the questions: What if she thinks I'm weird for asking?
"What should I do, God?" I prayed. "Should I invite her to MOPS? What will I say to her?" If God had an answer for me, I didn't hear it that day.
I thought of it again when I learned that my MOPS table would only have five members this semester. I made up my mind to invite her the next day.
On my lunch break yesterday, I wrote out a thank-you card. Of course I thanked them for the delicious pie, but then I hesitated about what to write next. Did I dare write what was on my heart? Would they think I was crazy?
I took a deep breath and wrote something like this: "Such a kind gesture in response to our humble gift of candy canes helped me remember the spirit of Christmas. It reminded me of the lavishness of God's gift to us all, something we can't possibly repay."
Since I didn't know their last name, I wrote ours on the outside of the envelope. Then I bundled up against the bitter cold and hastened around the corner to the house two doors down. As I approached, I noticed a plume of smoke coming out of the chimney, and I envisioned us talking in front of the fire, drinking cocoa.
But when I knocked firmly on the door, there was no answer. I waited another minute and then rang the doorbell. Still, there was no answer. She HAS to be home, I thought. Nobody lights a fire and then leaves. Now I imagined the woman peering at me through the peephole and deciding she really didn't want to talk with any crazy ladies just now.
Bitterly disappointed, I trudged back toward the corner. I'd obviously not been listening hard enough when I asked God about this. When I reached the corner, I turned for one last look at the house. That's when I noticed that the "smoke" was actually steam from the dryer vent of the house next door. I shook my head at myself for jumping to so many conclusions.
The Invitation
I decided to make one more attempt last night after I picked up Allyson, and she eagerly agreed to come along.
This time there were two cars in the driveway, and Sean answered the door immediately. He greeted us warmly, and I handed him the card. With a dry throat and sweaty palms, I asked, "Is your wife home?"
"She's right over here," he answered, gesturing toward the dining room just inside the door. "Come on inside."
There were two pretty teenagers, an attractive blonde woman with her hair pulled back in a loose twist, and a chubby baby in a high chair. They were just sitting down to a meal of spaghetti, and I felt awkward for interrupting their meal, but I plowed on doggedly.
"Hi, I'm Sarah." I looked at the woman. "What's your name?"
"Elizabeth," she said. Then she introduced their three children. (Funny, I could have sworn I'd seen three teenage girls on my previous visit, but I must have been exaggerating.)
I squared my shoulders and opened my mouth to issue the invitation, but then I realized I'd already forgotten her name. "I'm sorry, what's your name again?" I asked, my face suffused with warmth.
"It's - "
"Oh, Elizabeth. Right?"
"Yes, and what's your name again?"
"Sarah."
We both laughed.
"I'm terrible with names," I confessed.
"So am I," she said.
"Well, Elizabeth, I actually came over to invite you to my MOPS group, Mothers of Preschoolers. We meet every other Wednesday and have breakfast. Do you work during the day?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I do work."
"Oh," I said, looking at my feet.
"But if you have any activities in the evening, I'd definitely be interested," she added.
I told her about Tuesday night Bible study, and how we'll soon be starting a study on Psalms.
"That sounds great!" she said, and she took down my phone number and address.
I stood and visited with them for a couple more minutes, during which time Allyson told them all about the puppets at Sunday school and I admitted that I'd pretty much eaten the entire pie. (Ethan literally licked a piece and decided it was gross; it reminded me of his reaction to the pickled banana peppers.) When I finally remembered that they were trying to eat their dinner, I drug Allyson, still chattering, out the front door.
From the porch, I called out, "Hey, do you girls babysit?"
"Yes!" the oldest replied. "I was actually going to ask you about that."
"Awesome! I'll be in touch," I said.
I was still smiling when I got back home, where we told Bill all about our visit.
Who would have thought that handing out candy canes would earn you a pumpkin pie--and maybe even some new friends?
Monday, December 14, 2009
Please Send Skittles
Allyson and I were both looking forward to last Thursday. I was eagerly anticipating my book club meeting about Snow Flower and the Secret Fan (which was phenomenal), and Allyson was waiting for the Nutcracker Suite, Santa, and a live reindeer at the library. As it turned out, one of us was bitterly disappointed. I was having car trouble that day, and I couldn't use Bill's truck because he had a hockey game. (For the record, I'm sure he would have let me take the truck, but I didn't want him to miss his game; you know how much hockey means to him.) That is how it happened that I went along to the library.
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.
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
Candy For All the People
Allyson came up with a crazy scheme that just may become one of our Christmas traditions. She and Bill bought a bag of individually wrapped candy canes on Sunday, and Allyson poured them into a cereal bowl. For days, she begged to hand them out to the neighbors, but we kept putting her off. What would they think if we rang the bell and offered them candy?
My cheeks flaming, I explained the reason for our call to Makayla's mom Kindra. "Allyson wanted to bring some candy canes over to you for Christmas."
"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."
By tonight we had run out of excuses. After dinner, Allyson grabbed the bowl and pulled on my pantleg until I agreed to walk her across the street to Ethan's friend Makayla's house. I figured we'd hit that one house and she'd be satisfied.
We put on our coats and Allyson's pink hat, but I didn't bother to track down our gloves, or to put on real shoes. I wore my white socks and my aqua shower thongs. (We know them really well.) Ethan, who'd decided to tag along and see if anything funny happened, didn't even wear a coat.
While Ethan rang the bell, Allyson stood in front of their door with the bowl held in her outstretched hands. Just before the door opened, I noticed a smudge of barbecue sauce on the bowl from Allyson's sticky fingers. I rearranged the candies to hide the spot.
"How sweet!" she said with a laugh, as their dog slipped out between our legs. She invited us in, and Allyson distributed the candy canes to Makayla and her little brother Jacob, and also to one of their cousins who was over for a visit. We stood and talked for a minute about how cold it was (25 degrees Fahrenheit!).
As soon as she'd passed out the candy, Allyson was ready to go. She wished them a merry Christmas and opened the storm door, where the poor dog was anxiously waiting to get back into the warm house.
"Thank you for the candy!" Kindra said.
"You're welcome," Allyson said. "We got lots of candy, enough for all the people!"
"That's great!" Kindra replied.
"Okay, Allyson, time to get back home," I said.
"No, we have to give away more candy!"
"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.
"You guys go on," said Ethan. "I'll wait here in the driveway."
When we got to the door, however, Ethan was right behind us. He probably hoped to witness another embarrassing moment.
My hopes were realized when no one came to the door after two rings and a hearty knock. "I think they're not home," Allyson said, crestfallen.
"Oh well," I said. "We can try again tomorrow. Let's get inside where it's warm."
"No!" she cried. "We have to give away more candy. Let's go to another house!"
"But we don't know any other neighbors," Ethan protested.
"We have to give away our candy!" Allyson repeated, on the verge of tears.
"Well, there are the neighbors just around the corner. We know them a little," I admitted. (They probably think of us as the neighbors with the obnoxious dog who barks at all hours.)
"Yes, let's go there!" Allyson agreed, breaking into a run.
Again, Ethan came along for the show. Their house was also dark, and I was surprised to find that I was almost as disappointed as Allyson when no one answered the door.
"Let's go to the next house," Allyson said, undaunted.
"We could go over to Tin's," Ethan suggested, getting into the spirit.
"Too far," I complained. "My hands are freezing."
"It's not that far," he argued.
"Okay, let's go."
I held Allyson's icy hand as we crossed the side street. Ethan carried the bowl because I was afraid Allyson might drop it and break it.
"Hey, look what I found!" Ethan shouted, stooping in the middle of the street to pick up a pointed black stick.
"What is it?" I asked.
"It's a stick. It kind of looks like a sword," Ethan answered.
As Allyson and I hurried up Tin's walk, Ethan lagged behind. "Hurry up," I urged. "I'm cold." Taking a closer look, I realized he was busy picking up all the candy canes, which he'd dropped in the grass. "What happened?"
"I was swinging the stick like a sword," he explained, without a trace of embarrassment.
He handed the bowl back to Allyson and rang the doorbell.
Tin's father answered--the real one, this time--and greeted us warmly. I blurted out my explanation, and he didn't even seemed surprised.
"Thank you!" he said with a grin. Tin took a candy for himself and his little sister, who is just six months older than Allyson. He and his dad wished us a merry Christmas.
"Tell him merry Christmas," I whispered. Allyson mumbled it shyly, too low to be heard.
As we walked back down the walk, though, she hollered, "We have a Mickey Mouse balloon!" I didn't bother to explain that she was referring to a yard inflatable.
"Merry Christmas," Tin's dad repeated.
By now we were all in high spirits, and there were still quite a few candy canes left in the bowl. "He was really happy, wasn't he?" Ethan asked.
"Yes. You know, this is just like trick-or-treating, but in reverse," I said.
Just One More
"Can't we do one more house?" Allyson pleaded, which really WAS like trick-or-treating. She pointed at a house with lots of colorful lights. "Let's go to that one."
"But we don't know them," I objected.
"We can just ask them their names," she said. I couldn't argue with that logic.
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."
Three teenaged girls gathered around, all of them laughing. The man introduced himself and his daughters, and then his wife, who'd just come out of the kitchen to see what was going on. I grinned as I explained how Allyson had said we could just ask their names.
"Oh, I'm Sarah, and this is my son Ethan," I said.
"Where do you live again?" he asked. I gestured to our house on the corner.
"Well, it's nice to meet you," he said. "Have a merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas!" Allyson shouted. "We have a Mickey Mouse balloon!" She was still jabbering when he closed the door.
We laughed jubilantly all the way home, and then we laughed some more as we repeated the crazy story to Bill, who'd been home washing dishes.
"It was fun!" Ethan said.
"I think this should be one of our Christmas traditions," I said.
"We'll see," Bill said.
We posed for a few pictures. If you look closely, you might be able to see the tears of laughter still shining in our eyes.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Their Journeys Through Life
One of my favorite hobbies, which I also consider a ministry, is helping people compile their life stories. I started by transcribing my maternal grandparents' autobiographies. After I had typed all the text, my sister-in-law Diane inserted many pictures, mostly from old slides. Then my brother Rick created the book cover according to our instructions. This was such a rewarding family project, and the finished book, Our Journey Through Life, turned out great!
Grandpa and Grandma's Wedding Rings,
On Grandma's Silk Wedding Blouse
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.
Jeanne and Allyson
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.
Jeanne and Jack on Their Wedding Day
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.
Grandpa and Grandma's Wedding Rings,On Grandma's Silk Wedding Blouse
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.
Jeanne and AllysonNearly 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.
Jeanne and Jack on Their Wedding DayClick 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
Well, Kind Of...
Thursday was the night Allyson had been waiting for for weeks: the tree-lighting ceremony in front of the library and a visit with Santa. She'd been talking about this to anyone who would listen, and even to some people who probably didn't want to listen. (On Thanksgiving day, she told my sister Emily's neighbor all about it. The poor woman couldn't even get back in the house because Allyson kept hollering more details, like: "and a real live reindeer!!")
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:
"Don't Worry, Mama--I Got Lots of Warm Stuff!"
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.
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:
"Don't Worry, Mama--I Got Lots of Warm Stuff!"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.
Friday, November 27, 2009
I'll Ditto You!
Bill (smiling mischievously): "Come on Allyson, let's have some Pop Weaver!"
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.
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
Scissors Can Cut Hair
One night last week, I was complaining to my friend Brandy about Allyson's fascination with scissors. I told her how Allyson had cut holes in the bottom of a reusable grocery bag that morning with her little craft scissors.
"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....
Me, Age Four
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."
Example of Some 3:00 Mischief
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.
Allyson's First Haircut (A Happier Occasion)
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.
Allyson's New 'Do
"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....
Me, Age FourAfter 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."
Example of Some 3:00 MischiefI 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.
Allyson's First Haircut (A Happier Occasion)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.
Allyson's New 'DoWednesday, November 18, 2009
It's Never Too Soon to Think About Wrinkles
Tonight while Bill and I were working on dishes, he got worried because it was a little quiet upstairs. He hollered, "Allyson, what are you doing up there?"
"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.
"What?"
"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.
Not One Wrinkle
"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.
"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.
"What?"
"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.
Not One Wrinkle"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.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
A Few Garden Stories
Here are a few stories about our now defunct garden. I've been saving them up....
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.
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
Fumbelina: The Greatest Fairy in the World
I can't believe Halloween is already over! It seems like only yesterday that I posted last year's Halloween entry. This year was even more fun because Allyson was anticipating it so eagerly.
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's, Allyson's, Bill's
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's, Allyson's, Bill'sWhen Halloween finally arrived, Allyson spent the entire day asking, "When do we go trick-or-treating? Is it time yet? Is it time now?" Clad in her Thumbelina costume and purple nail polish, she just couldn't contain her excitement. I thought maybe Bill had given her a few Halloween candies, but he said it was just her natural enthusiasm.
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.
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.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Artificial Sweetness...A Peace Offering
Just moments after Ethan walked through the door this afternoon, he and Allyson started bickering. "It's going to be one of those days," I thought with a groan. Ethan gathered up his homework and moved from the kitchen table to his room.
Allyson traipsed up the stairs after him. "Get out of my room!" he snapped.
"Don't be rude, Ethan," I admonished as he settled down at his desk.
I started to follow Allyson out the door, but Ethan told me he needed my help with his algebra.
"What is it?" I asked, craning to catch a glimpse of his worksheet.
"I just need you to scratch my back," he said. I agreed, but I told him we'd have to leave the door open so I could keep an eye on Allyson.
Approximately two minutes later, Allyson walked in with a tray of colorful cloth cupcakes. "Would you like a cupcake, Mommy?" she asked sweetly. I thanked her and daintily nibbled at my pink-frosted cupcake, careful not to let it actually touch my lips.
She held out a white-frosted cupcake to Ethan. "Do you want one, too?" With my eyes, I silently urged him to accept this peace offering.
He narrowed his brows suspiciously. "What kind is it?" he demanded.
"Peanut butter chocolate banana!" she replied proudly.
Ethan snatched the cupcake out of her hand and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. He proceeded to chew it theatrically.
Allyson's eyes were huge with alarm. "Ethan!" she shrieked. "It's a pretend cupcake. You can't eat it!"
Ethan didn't answer, just grabbed a second cupcake and crammed it into his mouth in front of the first one. His mouth completely stuffed, he still managed to grin broadly.
"You're going to gag yourself," I warned. Meanwhile, Allyson started chewing the remaining cupcake with gusto.
True to my prediction, Ethan spewed the two cupcakes out of his mouth. "Plehhh!"
"They're wet!" Allyson exclaimed, but she didn't seem bothered at all. In fact, she was grinning from ear to ear. "I'll go make some eggs!" she said, scurrying back to her room.
Ethan had just started the next problem when she returned with her tiny metal mixing bowl and wooden spoon. "It's scrambled eggs," she explained.
"Yum!" I said, trying to convey the right level of appetite without actually touching the spoon to my mouth.
When I'd finished, she handed the bowl to Ethan. "Do you want some eggs?"
Ethan eyed the bowl angrily. "There's nothing in here!" he growled. "Mama, why'd you eat all the eggs?"
Allyson giggled. "I'll make you some more," she assured him hastily.
She returned a minute later with the same bowl and spoon. "Do you want some, Mommy? Just eat a little, and then Ethan can have the rest."
"NO! I want my own bowl," Ethan argued. "I'm really hungry." He then wolfed down the imaginary eggs noisily while Allyson looked on with pleasure.
"Make me a slurpie," Ethan said when he'd finished devouring the eggs.
"What kind?" Allyson wondered.
"Coconut."
"What color?"
"Blue."
"Put in extra artificial colors and flavorings," I called after her. "That's how Ethan likes it."
Ethan gave me a dirty look, but he was laughing. We'd just had a discussion in the kitchen about why I try to limit their consumption of artificial colors and flavors.
Allyson returned with a blue Cinderella tea cup. "Here's your artificial sweetness," she said.
So that Ethan could get a little homework done, I finally had to tell Allyson that he was getting a bit full from all the cake, eggs, and slurpies. We were all in high spirits after that, but I'm sure I was the happiest of the three. I just love to see them having fun together despite their nine-year age difference.
Another Harmonious Moment--Playing Guitar Hero Drums
Allyson traipsed up the stairs after him. "Get out of my room!" he snapped.
"Don't be rude, Ethan," I admonished as he settled down at his desk.
I started to follow Allyson out the door, but Ethan told me he needed my help with his algebra.
"What is it?" I asked, craning to catch a glimpse of his worksheet.
"I just need you to scratch my back," he said. I agreed, but I told him we'd have to leave the door open so I could keep an eye on Allyson.
Approximately two minutes later, Allyson walked in with a tray of colorful cloth cupcakes. "Would you like a cupcake, Mommy?" she asked sweetly. I thanked her and daintily nibbled at my pink-frosted cupcake, careful not to let it actually touch my lips.
She held out a white-frosted cupcake to Ethan. "Do you want one, too?" With my eyes, I silently urged him to accept this peace offering.
He narrowed his brows suspiciously. "What kind is it?" he demanded.
"Peanut butter chocolate banana!" she replied proudly.
Ethan snatched the cupcake out of her hand and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. He proceeded to chew it theatrically.
Allyson's eyes were huge with alarm. "Ethan!" she shrieked. "It's a pretend cupcake. You can't eat it!"
Ethan didn't answer, just grabbed a second cupcake and crammed it into his mouth in front of the first one. His mouth completely stuffed, he still managed to grin broadly.
"You're going to gag yourself," I warned. Meanwhile, Allyson started chewing the remaining cupcake with gusto.
True to my prediction, Ethan spewed the two cupcakes out of his mouth. "Plehhh!"
"They're wet!" Allyson exclaimed, but she didn't seem bothered at all. In fact, she was grinning from ear to ear. "I'll go make some eggs!" she said, scurrying back to her room.
Ethan had just started the next problem when she returned with her tiny metal mixing bowl and wooden spoon. "It's scrambled eggs," she explained.
"Yum!" I said, trying to convey the right level of appetite without actually touching the spoon to my mouth.
When I'd finished, she handed the bowl to Ethan. "Do you want some eggs?"
Ethan eyed the bowl angrily. "There's nothing in here!" he growled. "Mama, why'd you eat all the eggs?"
Allyson giggled. "I'll make you some more," she assured him hastily.
She returned a minute later with the same bowl and spoon. "Do you want some, Mommy? Just eat a little, and then Ethan can have the rest."
"NO! I want my own bowl," Ethan argued. "I'm really hungry." He then wolfed down the imaginary eggs noisily while Allyson looked on with pleasure.
"Make me a slurpie," Ethan said when he'd finished devouring the eggs.
"What kind?" Allyson wondered.
"Coconut."
"What color?"
"Blue."
"Put in extra artificial colors and flavorings," I called after her. "That's how Ethan likes it."
Ethan gave me a dirty look, but he was laughing. We'd just had a discussion in the kitchen about why I try to limit their consumption of artificial colors and flavors.
Allyson returned with a blue Cinderella tea cup. "Here's your artificial sweetness," she said.
So that Ethan could get a little homework done, I finally had to tell Allyson that he was getting a bit full from all the cake, eggs, and slurpies. We were all in high spirits after that, but I'm sure I was the happiest of the three. I just love to see them having fun together despite their nine-year age difference.
Another Harmonious Moment--Playing Guitar Hero DrumsSunday, October 25, 2009
Guarding Your Heart
Guess what I did this weekend?? My friend Brandy and I were part of the studio audience for five Beth Moore Bible study segments! If you've been reading awhile, you know what that means: naturally I feel compelled to share a revelation or two.
This was my first time to hear Beth in person, and it was as amazing as I thought it would be. It was also my first time to be part of a studio audience, and that was an interesting experience, but I don't really have time to say much about that.
It was pretty hard to decide what part of the conference to share, but I thought it over and decided that the segment that hit home most with me was the one called The Guarded Heart. Here's what I learned....
We started the session by reading Proverbs 4:20-27, with a focus on verse 23: "Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life."
At first, my mental commentary was, "Yes! Preach it, sister." I had heard this verse many times before, and I recognized the wisdom of it and believed that I had done a pretty good job of putting it into practice. As usual, though, Beth showed me a whole new perspective.
She started by talking about the many ways we should guard our hearts:
We may try to withhold our heart, or guard our heart, but whatever is in our heart is going to come out. If our heart has grown cold, we'll pour out that coldness on the people around us. If our heart is full of anger and resentment, we'll spew out rage. Whatever is on the inside--bitterness, sorrow, love, joy--is going to come out and pour over the people around us.
The Revelation
Beth took us to Exodus 34 next. We glanced back a couple of chapters to review the story of Moses coming down the mountain to find Aaron and the Israelites worshiping the golden calf. Then we read about God showing his glory to Moses, who was hidden in the cleft of a rock as God passed by.
As we read this story, I wondered what it could possibly have to do with guarding your heart. Soon, it all started to come together. It turns out that the Hebrew word translated as "maintaining" in the phrase "maintaining love to thousands" is the same word translated "guard" in Proverbs 4:23.
In the passage in Exodus, God is describing his own character: compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, and guarding his love to thousands. God was very angry with his people during this time because of their unfaithfulness to him, yet he actively tended, maintained, and guarded his love for them. God often withheld his blessing when they were sinful and unrepentant, but he NEVER withheld his love.
So What Does This Mean to Us?
Beth suggested that our focus should not be guarding our heart FROM others, but guarding our heart FOR others, just as God guards his love for us. That means we must tend to our hearts and protect the love that God has placed there.
Sometimes we are tempted to withdraw our love because we've been hurt too much, and it feels dangerous to keep loving. But that is not what God intends for us. He wants our love to abound more and more through the knowledge of Christ (Philippians 1:9). Love is the whole point! In Mark 12, when a teacher of the law asked Jesus the most important commandment, he replied, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."
The tricky part is that we really do need to guard our hearts from unhealthy relationships and influences, but at the same time we need to guard our love for the very people who hurt us. Beth advised that we should refuse to support and enable unhealthy behavior, yet we should refrain from holding back our love.
One thing she said really pierced the armor around my heart. She said that guarding your heart means watching out for diminishing love. She invited us to examine our most important relationships, especially our marriages, and ask ourselves whether our love was less fervent than before. Of course, passion in a marriage waxes and wanes, but she wasn't talking about romance. Instead, she was talking about going through the motions, about withdrawing emotionally.
I took a hard look at my own heart and realized something that brought tears to my eyes. I've been growing so much in the last year or so in my walk with God, and I've found myself loving others in ways that are completely new and often delightful. But I haven't striven for that level of love with my husband. I've just been coasting, and often we've been living parallel lives. We haven't made time for each other. In past years, I would have fought against that. There would have been tears and Relationship Talks. Somewhere along the way, though, I stopped trying so hard. Either I just got busy and forgot what was really important, or maybe (probably) I took a step back and decided I didn't want to risk things getting messy.
I told Bill about this revelation tonight, and he acknowledged that this has been a very busy season in our lives. We agreed that we would work on spending more time together, for a start. And I'll be praying that God will fill up that wellspring in my heart with his abounding, forgiving, extravagant love.
How About You?
Are you guarding your heart AGAINST people, or are you guarding your love FOR people?
This was my first time to hear Beth in person, and it was as amazing as I thought it would be. It was also my first time to be part of a studio audience, and that was an interesting experience, but I don't really have time to say much about that.
It was pretty hard to decide what part of the conference to share, but I thought it over and decided that the segment that hit home most with me was the one called The Guarded Heart. Here's what I learned....
We started the session by reading Proverbs 4:20-27, with a focus on verse 23: "Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life."
At first, my mental commentary was, "Yes! Preach it, sister." I had heard this verse many times before, and I recognized the wisdom of it and believed that I had done a pretty good job of putting it into practice. As usual, though, Beth showed me a whole new perspective.
She started by talking about the many ways we should guard our hearts:
- watching the company we keep
- watching what goes into our heart (what we watch, what we read, etc.)
- watching what we say--"What goes into a man's mouth does not make him 'unclean,' but what comes out of his mouth, that is what makes him 'unclean.'" (Mark 7:15).
We may try to withhold our heart, or guard our heart, but whatever is in our heart is going to come out. If our heart has grown cold, we'll pour out that coldness on the people around us. If our heart is full of anger and resentment, we'll spew out rage. Whatever is on the inside--bitterness, sorrow, love, joy--is going to come out and pour over the people around us.
The Revelation
Beth took us to Exodus 34 next. We glanced back a couple of chapters to review the story of Moses coming down the mountain to find Aaron and the Israelites worshiping the golden calf. Then we read about God showing his glory to Moses, who was hidden in the cleft of a rock as God passed by.
Exodus 33:18-23, Exodus 34:5-7a
Then Moses said, "Now show me your glory."
And the LORD said, "I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the LORD, in your presence. I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion. But," he said, "you cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live."
Then the LORD said, "There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will remove my hand and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen."...
Then the LORD came down in the cloud and stood there with him and proclaimed his name, the LORD. And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, "The LORD, the LORD, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin....
As we read this story, I wondered what it could possibly have to do with guarding your heart. Soon, it all started to come together. It turns out that the Hebrew word translated as "maintaining" in the phrase "maintaining love to thousands" is the same word translated "guard" in Proverbs 4:23.
In the passage in Exodus, God is describing his own character: compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, and guarding his love to thousands. God was very angry with his people during this time because of their unfaithfulness to him, yet he actively tended, maintained, and guarded his love for them. God often withheld his blessing when they were sinful and unrepentant, but he NEVER withheld his love.
So What Does This Mean to Us?
Beth suggested that our focus should not be guarding our heart FROM others, but guarding our heart FOR others, just as God guards his love for us. That means we must tend to our hearts and protect the love that God has placed there.
Sometimes we are tempted to withdraw our love because we've been hurt too much, and it feels dangerous to keep loving. But that is not what God intends for us. He wants our love to abound more and more through the knowledge of Christ (Philippians 1:9). Love is the whole point! In Mark 12, when a teacher of the law asked Jesus the most important commandment, he replied, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."
The tricky part is that we really do need to guard our hearts from unhealthy relationships and influences, but at the same time we need to guard our love for the very people who hurt us. Beth advised that we should refuse to support and enable unhealthy behavior, yet we should refrain from holding back our love.
One thing she said really pierced the armor around my heart. She said that guarding your heart means watching out for diminishing love. She invited us to examine our most important relationships, especially our marriages, and ask ourselves whether our love was less fervent than before. Of course, passion in a marriage waxes and wanes, but she wasn't talking about romance. Instead, she was talking about going through the motions, about withdrawing emotionally.
I took a hard look at my own heart and realized something that brought tears to my eyes. I've been growing so much in the last year or so in my walk with God, and I've found myself loving others in ways that are completely new and often delightful. But I haven't striven for that level of love with my husband. I've just been coasting, and often we've been living parallel lives. We haven't made time for each other. In past years, I would have fought against that. There would have been tears and Relationship Talks. Somewhere along the way, though, I stopped trying so hard. Either I just got busy and forgot what was really important, or maybe (probably) I took a step back and decided I didn't want to risk things getting messy.
I told Bill about this revelation tonight, and he acknowledged that this has been a very busy season in our lives. We agreed that we would work on spending more time together, for a start. And I'll be praying that God will fill up that wellspring in my heart with his abounding, forgiving, extravagant love.
How About You?
Are you guarding your heart AGAINST people, or are you guarding your love FOR people?
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