Met a woman yesterday who "absolutely hates reading." She repeated this statement several times in several ways. I find myself wondering how a person develops such a fierce antipathy to reading, of all things. I thought literacy was like music–we all have different tastes, but we can all appreciate it in one form or another. Maybe nobody ever gave her a good book, or maybe there is a disability there, I don't know. But it enlarged my tunnel vision just a bit, as I considered how different we were.
Monthly Archives: April 2009
My children set up a tent last Thursday.
The night was far spent by the time they drilled the pegs into our rocky backyard and the tent was full of detritus from last summer's camping trip, so they went to sleep in their own beds.
Friday they cleaned it out and we bought real beef hot dogs and had a fire and five boys went out to sleep. Two were warm–including the oldest, who slept outside the tent–and three froze.
Saturday, two of the cold ones learned their lesson and insulated their sleeping areas. Two slept indoors.
Sunday all but one decided to sleep out again. The oldest, who'd come to the same conclusion the rest of us had–when the younger ones sleep in the tent, not only are they eager to go to bed, but no matter how long they stay awake giggling, or how early they start–the rest of us can't hear them.
Could it get more perfect? I pictured a long, and restful spring/summer season. I blocked out all images of the 10' square patch of dead grass developing under the tent and straightened everyone's bed rolls. I went inside. To sleep. Ahhhhh.
The sprinklers came on at three a.m.
The youngest came inside howling that he was never sleeping outside again. The rest hunkered down and waited. I opened the back door. Two choices: mad dash through the Rainbird 2045 sprinklers that were battering the tent, the house and every square inch of yard between, to the control box on the opposite end of the house; or, go downstairs, out the front door, through two gates and make a sneak attack from behind.
I chose the more direct, but wetter, approach.
"They turned them back off!"
Apparently they thought the sprinklers were some sort of elaborate hoax. The older, wiser brother had thought it through, however. "They were supposed to come on, they're on a timer. Nobody's out there," I hear him whisper.
"What if they come on again?"
"I turned them off," I called as I trudged back across the yard. "Go back to sleep." I could hear a handheld video game starting up. "Turn the DS off, too," I added.
Click. What do you know, Mom really does know all and see all.
I went back to bed after drying off the youngest and getting him some spare bedding, hoping they would all be able to sleep again.
Unfortunately the birds in the orchard were on to us. They started their "chorus" at about three-thirty, which started up the neighborhood canines.
Would you believe they (all but the youngest and oldest) slept out Monday and Tuesday as well?
The reasoning being that the sprinklers being off, any forecast moisture would fall down from the sky, and not full force from the ground up, underneath the tent fly. Silly boys. We do live in a desert, but it does occasionally rain. And as they discovered last night, it doesn't always come down in a vertical fashion.
They've announced their intentions to sleep indoors tonight.
It was a nice dream, while it lasted.
I think I should build a playground full of doors. Doors and drawers. Cabinet doors, bedroom doors, sliding doors, pocket doors, folding doors, rotating doors. Big heavy drawers that roll with a hollow chunking sound in and out. Little tiny ones that make a satisfying click. All sorts of knobs and latches and locks. And not just doors on walls, but doors in frames that stand upright that you can go through. Again and again and again.
Ooooh. And real working telephones and remote controls. None of this fake toy business with a canned loop of recorded sayings. They know the real thing when they see it, and nothing else will do. A water fountain, of course, or even just a pipe or two providing a steady drip of water to play in. All issues of water preservation aside, you know they'd love it.
To make it truly paradisiacal, the playground would also have lots of plastic boxes and baskets. Okay, okay, to make it truly paradisiacal, the boxes and baskets would have to be full of toys and books for the children to dump, on the way in and out of the doors, and a playground attendant to refill them, ready for the next pass-thru, but that might get expensive so lets just stick with the boxes. Unless someone can cheaply produce a holographic system wherein we could fill the boxes and drawers and cupboards with computer generated images of toys, household goods and dishes that a child could sweep out, with full sound effects, but they'd just disappear as they hit the ground. Mattel, Nintendo, Microsoft, are you listening? This could make you the toy giant of the millenium.
Kimber! Kimber! Listen to this one–
Um. I think I've heard enough jokes this morning.
But this one's really funny.
Okay. One more.
What does the man in the moon use to hold up his paints?
Uh, I don't know. You stumped me again. What does he use?
An astronaut belt! Hahahahahahahaha!
Let me see the book–Ah. I think you meant he holds up his pants with an astroid belt.
Huh? That's not funny…
Hello? . . . Hello? . . . Helloooo?
'ello? Is Meester Marrrrrty Leebert there?
No he isn't, can I take a message?
This is very important information about his auto loan. If you can have him call back as soon as possible?
He doesn't have an auto loan.
Oh. Well, do you want one?
Only four children here today. And three of them sound asleep. Two of them leaving shortly.
Mostly because the one family that didn't show that should be here hasn't called and isn't answering my calls. I start imagining all sort of scenarios when this happens. Why maybe they have just decided to leave care without a word–I put myself through this every time and usually they've just been sick or something and forgotten to call. But still I go over the past week, worrying.
Was the baby's shirt too dirty when they picked them up yesterday? I'd lost the bib somewhere between nap and lunch, after all. She tears it off at every opportunity. Are they fed up with the dirty knees and inside out socks? Let's see, the father picked them up yesterday–one kid had just smashed a graham cracker all over the floor and their kid had shredded an old coloring book. I figured it would keep her from climbing the cupboards while I fed her sister, so I allowed it, but it really was a disaster when he came in.
Speaking of climbing on cupboards, this kid is insane. She is always climbing and when I warn her to get down she does this heart stopping victory dance as I approach. Two days ago she fell off and got quite a bump on the back of her head. Two weeks ago she climbed a toy outside, slipped and got herself a pretty nice shiner; she told everyone she fell out the window. Yeah–a window eight inches off the ground, in a toy house. She has been bumped and bruised more often in this first month of care than all the other kids put together in my entire career here.
Is that it? Have they called it quits because she keeps getting hurt?
Seriously, all day, I go through the possibilities. Why? When, really, there's nothing I can do or could have done different, and even if they have become disillusioned with this place, and moved on, I really don't care. I have another family lined up that will come tomorrow to take their place–a family who won't care what my floor looks like, and will trust me enough to know that whatever bumps or scrapes occur, well, that's childhood for you.
Grow up, girl. This isn't a popularity contest.
Brushing my teeth the other night I seriously thought–Not again!
How much time have I spent in the past thirty odd years standing over a sink, frantically scrubbing my teeth with a little plastic stick? How much time sudsing up in the shower, combing through my wet hair afterwards, drying it, finding something to wear, washing those things to wear, flossing the teeth, buying the clothes, mending the clothes, buying and preparing and cleaning up after the food required to keep this flesh and blood body running day in and day out?
But as I considered the vast amount of time spent just maintaining this body, I had an epiphany.
I always understood on some level, the sacred nature of the human body–the miracle that is human life–but I guess I never got it. Never really understood that my body is not something like my old van–something that worked well enough to get me from point A to point B; something to be merely tolerated and used and finally tossed aside when it could go not one yard further, and eventually replaced with a new and improved machine. This is it–the gift of life God and my parents gave me.
Ezekiel saw in vision a field of dry bones coming together, sinews and flesh and skin brought up on them. Apostles and prophets and Christ himself promised a resurrection of our mortal bodies–but it will be this body that will be resurrected. And here was the arresting thought–you know the parable of the talents? The idea that we will be held accountable for our gifts and what we have done with them?
For the first time I considered that maybe God will be just as interested in what I did with the physical gift of my mortal frame, as he will be with the other intangible talents he has given me. Why else would mortality be so consumed with the details of survival? If God wanted us to focus solely on spiritual things, He would have made us immortal in the first place, wouldn't he? To avoid the distractions and demands of the flesh? Granted, we have the flesh in order to school the spirit–ideally the spirit grows stronger than the flesh instead of the other way around. But surely that ratio should not be accomplished by the physical weakening or neglect of the flesh.
I'm not proposing that an inordinate amount of time be spent on the physical self–you're not going to catch me signing up for Body Sculpting 101 or Mrs. America, but I do think I have been less than responsible with this mortal gift. Maybe because I have very little concept of my own mortality–that someday this thing could just up and quit on me. Maybe because I'm lazy–I'd much rather sit on the grass and study the History of the US government than get up and play ball with the rest of the team.
And if it is a lack of willpower (a spiritual thing, no?) that keeps me from going on that walk or run, or declining that second slice of pie, then perhaps some of the ills of my spirit manifest themselves in the ills of my flesh. They are inextricably linked.
I have new respect today for the mundane tasks of just living–they aren't asides in a more important task, but a crucial part of our schooling here on earth. Now if only I could translate that respect into action! Maybe I'll finally make that dental appointment I've been avoiding. . .
When Son #3 interrupted scripture reading last night to ask what "bearing false witness" meant, it got me to thinking–have we never talked about the ten commandments before? I think we probably have, but obviously some review is in order–
Which got me to thinking–really, aren't most of them common sense? It isn't much of a stretch for anyone to agree that lying to get someone else in trouble is bad. Even the toddlers get that–
Which got me to thinking–what is it about the ten commandments that has so many people up in arms when they see them posted in a public place?
For the most part, the Decalogue deals with universally accepted standards for human behavior–the same laws crop up in every culture, in every period of history–so either the laws reflect inherent truths, OR, they were given by some supreme, all knowing being who communicated them independently to cultures on every isle and throughout time.
Throughout history and in every culture I'm familiar with, murder, adultery, theft, and lying have been outlawed or punished to some degree. Family unity, intergenerational loyalty and altruism are encouraged–universally acknowledged as beneficial for society.
Profanity exists in every culture–it isn't so much the words as the feeling behind the words, and in every culture, profanity is not something one uses in polite company, right?
That leaves, what? Keep the Sabbath Day Holy–what culture doesn't have some sort of labor law, prohibiting you from working your children or your employees seven days a week without a break? Okay, maybe China, but let's not go there.
Then there's "Love the lord thy God with all thy heart, might, mind and strength", which, okay, that's religious and there's the whole separation of church and state thing–but it doesn't say "Love Jehovah" does it? (Okay, I know, the original Hebrew essentially did, but not the version being protested in America.) So you honor your God, and I'll honor mine and if your God is your Lamborghini, then still, I don't see why you're protesting that statement.
Which leads us to one last commandment–or two, depending on if you look at Exodus 20 through Catholic or Protestant eyes. I assume this thing is the catalyst for contention. "I am the Lord your God, and you shall have no other Gods before me." First person–yeah, that can get sticky. Because when words like I and me start cropping up, presumably they refer to an identifiable individual.
Is it an authority problem? We don't like being told what to do? Or maybe our pride gets tweaked–Yes, yes, fine, let's not allow random killing, copulation, or slander, but hey, don't steal our thunder! These are our original concepts; we thought these laws up all on our own! No really, the American legal system bears no resemblance to and has no basis on Judeo-Christian codes at all. Honest.
I hardly think the people who want to post the Decalogue in public buildings are purporting to decree some kind of new marriage between church and state–good grief, we don't even take seriously the whole adultery thing in America anymore, and that law is on our books. You really feel like your agnosticism or your Sunday fishing trips are going to be threatened by the posting of the ten commandments?
Whatever the origins–Bible, Qur'an, Torah, or some other culturally-specific source, there are gems of wisdom that resonate for all humanity because doggone it–they're true! You don't have to agree with the idealogy or even the entire statement from beginning to end to respect the elements of truth that are there. Come on America! An idea does not have to offend us simply because it did not originate within ourselves. We can acknowledge it, and its purported source, without diminishing our own dignity or freedom.
My entire life, I've wanted to be something. Something. I was never sure what. I was smart enough, musically inclined enough, polite enough, to sail through most school, orchestra and social situations without too much effort or discomfort. But just enough, and no more.
I remember watching Chariots of Fire and thinking I wanted to be really good at something.
How do you, at the age of six or sixteen or even twenty-six, know what you want to do with your life? I messed around with poetry and writing and music and tried out several majors and worked in the fields and in a hospital and in a school and I became a decent sort of mother and then a childcare provider. I tried to imagine myself in every major and vocation and it was all just living–coasting through, making it day-to-day. Just enough. But no more.
I woke up the other day, and I knew. It was like a door opened in a previously solid wall, and what do you know, there's a future out there.
Not right now, and not in the next few years. But I'll get there. Somehow I know this.
So when my mother emailed me this YouTube clip, I found it interesting–not because I plan on launching a singing career, but because I know I'm going to be older than everyone else pursuing my path, and I'm definitely not going to look the part. But it's okay. Just ask Susan Boyle.
Just in case you're not one of the 13 million people who have already watched her YouTube clip, I post here proof positive that you can never be too old, or appear too ordinary, to pursue your dreams. Just get out there, open your mouth and be your very own best self.
I saw this shirt once that said, "Who are all these little people, and why do they keep calling me 'Mom'?"
I thought this was funny. Because I had six of my own, and everyonce in a while it did feel like, wait a minute, when did this happen–surely I didn't give birth that many times!
But now I have this new two year old here, who last week started calling me "Mom". Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom Mom. So now all the children are starting to call me Mom. And not just Mom, but Momomomomomomomomomom.
I don't think that shirt is all that amusing anymore.
Anyway. That wasn't the original intent of this post. It just took took me an hour to actually get logged on to my computer because of all the momming going on. My real intent was to share with you a few incongruities you might have never known about the WAC (Washington state Administrative Code) for licensed childcare providers, and the USDA food program:
- A provider is required, by law, to have on the premises an unexpired bottle of ipecac syrup; and
- A provider is prohibited, by law from administering ipecac syrup. We keep it under lock and key, in order to satisfy both requirements. Ipecac syrup is no longer stocked at most pharmacies, and so incredibly difficult to obtain, that rule makers recently ammended the WAC to allow us to have an expired bottle on hand. Under lock and key.
- Technically, I need a signed medical waiver to apply any over-the-counter meds–including diaper ointment and sunscreens, and the waiver expires monthly. I'm so in violation over this one.
- A provider can serve your child fritters, donuts, poptarts, sweet rolls, cinnamon rolls and coffee cake for breakfast, but
- A provider can not serve Honey Nut Cheerios, Raisin Bran, or any other cereal, including oatmeal, that contains more than nine grams of sugar per serving.
- Nor do eggs, cheese, ham, yogurt or any other form of protien count as a creditable food source for breakfast–in otherwords, Uncle Sam says Krispie Kremes are preferable to, say, an egg and cheese omelette.
- Once a week a provider can serve cookies–any kind of cookies, including double fudge brownies–as a creditable snack. But again, not a bowl full of Cheerios and milk.
- A provider who accepts state subsidized children must financially support the United States democratic party and any other social cause deemed worthwhile by the SIEU through payment of either union dues (2% of income) or equivalent payments made under protest, but made, monthly and on time.
Need I go on, really? No? Good, because it's taken me three hours to peck this out in between various biohazard explosions, emergency refueling (oooh, look, breakfast is cleaned up, we must be famished!), games of roly-poly, peek-a-boo, and momomomomomomomomomomom's.
I'm not complaining–answering to Mom and all the various tasks appended to that are my job, after all–blogging meanwhile just keeps my brain awake, and if it takes me all day to write one post, well, C'est la vie. One of the genetically related mommers once insinuated that I spend too much time blogging–if only they knew how long it takes to get through a paragraph at this rate. This is my one vice, okay? I don't even read MSN or check the NASDAQ anymore. I tried computer solitaire once–thinking it would be infinitely easier with one hand than typing; and much less frustrating when a little finger pushed the power button midway through–but I almost slipped into a coma, and I think the DEL might frown on that.