When Mamas don't feel well...

I won't say that the whole house falls apart... but it's a lot easier to stand on two legs than just one.

I have so many things to write about and so little energy to do it. So I'll save the big posts for later when I have more energy.

Today I am grateful for a husband who stays home in the morning with only my noncommittal "I don't feel great" to go on. I am grateful for Kelly, who comes over after her work and scoops up my kids to take them on a walk on this gorgeous day. I am grateful for my Mom who becomes smarter and wiser with every phone call and every experience and every year I grow older. I am grateful for my older sister who journeys with me on this insane ride we got on called parenting. I am grateful for my little sister who just got a job offer, showing me the worth of determination after months and months of searching. I am grateful for a Dad who trusts me and my husband to manage the details of his mother's funeral from here. I am grateful that despite the fact that my body does not feel awesome, my spirit is still well. Hey, I am even grateful for the stupid dog, who has shown me that with a little love and including... a giant fur-ball is not so bad to have around.

Next time I shall blog about how we are literally insane to have children. HA! Stay tuned. :)

Grace

I have been absorbing all the stories from the media, specifically the political circus going on right now. I have not always followed politics... I used to be blissfully unaware, and now sometimes I wish I still was. I find myself wishing Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart were running- then at least it would be funny. Someone made the comment that the people fit to be be a president don't want to be a president. I believe that to be true... or to put it another way- you have to be insane to want that job. SO we get some crazies.

In politics we're missing something huge: grace. In that grace is playfulness, the idea that we are connected, and giving the benefit of the doubt. Seeing Gabby Giffords step down from her position to fully recover from her injuries due to GUNSHOT wound....tells me something is horribly wrong. There is an article floating around about the confrontation of the Arizona governor and Obama. Our government has been trudging through a mile high pool of molasses because of this missing grace. We're drowning in bitterness, hate, defensiveness.

Jason and I had a nice long talk the other night- one of those good, hard marriage conversations that allows partners to hold a mirror up to each other. It can hurt, but with trust and grace, it can be productive and healing. No one is perfect. No one has the ultimate right answer to the grey and mucky problems of the world. I think politics needs a little couples therapy.

I don't know the answer. I'm not in the government room. But I have been in a room when the calm, non-anxious presence is drowned out by the screaming banshee. I have been in a room when the collaborators are shunned for weakness and the uncompromising are hailed for their strength. I don't know how to fix this, certainly not overnight. But grace has to enter. It must enter.

Maybe I could be the chaplain of the government. ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

"Let us pray. Dear God of all people- we come today as humans trying to make this corner of this finite time one worth naming. Lead us into grace. We think people should be able to eat nutritious food, people should be able to wear adequate clothing, people should be comforted and helped when they are sick. So far we have not detected any Cylons in our midst- so we can be safely assured that we indeed are all humans and in need of these basic elements of life. Amen."

A little Rainbow

I'm feeling a little bit of the rainbow these last few days. I don't know if it's the light box, the release of having my darkness blinded by the light of shared compassion, or if it's just that all the hard work has to pay off at some point... but I'm getting a glimpse of the rainbow. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, I haven't started my own corporation or cleaned my house even. But I am doing things a little easier. The morning step out of bed is a little lighter, quicker, more hopeful. I took a shower the other day and had a distinct feeling of lightness and freshness that transported me back to Florida on a beach summer day. I didn't hold onto it the whole day- but I recognized it. I stood still in it and held it as long as it would last. That feeling - it was a freedom, almost an anticipation of certain joy. I love that feeling. My spirit craves it. It was home. Contentedness. The miracle was that I wasn't near a beach. I wasn't looking outside at a sunny day. I was looking in the mirror, fixing my hair, noticing only the curls forming.

I don't have any one thing to write about- there are plenty of things that are catching my political, social, emotional, moral, everything attention right now.... but I just want to remember that real feeling of contentedness. That happened here. In the winter. As a 30 year old with two kids in a dirty house.

I went to yoga last Thursday (which could be why my back is hurting today)- and something the instructor said in the relaxation segment at the end was very poignant for me. She said (I'm paraphrasing): "Find ways to be uniquely you." It was a pretty simple concept, but she was asking us to rediscover the things that we like and enjoy, pleasure solely for us. For me? Reading. Burning scented candles. Listening to music. Writing.

I have been burning candles every night for nearly a week. I haven't burned so many candles since I was in college. I forgot how much I love candles. We rearranged our furniture to make a play room where the dining room used to be (it actually works awesomely!!) and the moving and rearranging led us to setting things up in the living room very differently. The result? All of my beautiful pieces of glass, random heirlooms, serving pitchers, vases, odds and ends- are all OUT- sparkling by the light of my candles and well-placed lamps. All my favorite things that I usually see when grabbing some necessary serving dish (and think- man- why don't we use these things!?)- they are on display. No longer out of sight out of mind. I don't care if it wouldn't work for a magazine cover. I have brought beauty back into my living space. My stuff. My collections. My idea of beauty. And I love it.

Savoring the taste.

Opa Weekly... Or Not

Well- I'm procrastinating on going downstairs to clean up the dog's lovely gift of pee on the floor, so I guess I should at least procrastinate by doing something else I've been meaning to do...

As of now, I won't be able to update the Opa weekly any more. I know, I know- I just started it- and you got a true teaser- but I jumped the gun and did not do the most important thing first: ask permission. These letters are very personal in nature- and while I believe that is what makes them special, unique, and compelling- it is also what makes them not mine to broadcast. Right now, out of respect for the wishes of my family, I will not post anymore letters. The conversation will begin and who knows what will come of it.

I think this is a common struggle... how open should we be? How vulnerable should we be? Whose right is it to showcase personal letters like these? These are questions of humanity, ethics, respect, boundaries. I am obviously a very open person- and strive to be more and more vulnerable... but I am doing it in as safe a way I know- through the thin veil of a blog and through an online community. I don't have to watch your eyes when you read my struggles, I don't have to endure the awkward shoulder squeezes. I get to put it out there and be done. Those of you who care to comment, I get to read them and process them on my own time and publish them or not. It's a controlled vulnerability.

These letters, they are the personal letters of my Grandfather to my Grandmother- and only recently did we find them. Would my Grandfather sanction their public use? I don't know. Just because my Grandparents are deceased does not mean I get free reign with their thoughts and personal items.

However, and here is the part I was thinking about before without giving too much thought to the other side.... Where do boundaries get us in the business of transforming the world? The letter I was set to post before I had the conversation of pause- was a letter from my Grandfather to my Grandmother that was just slap-happy, giddy in love and eager to find a way to win her parents' over. To me- this is Hope. Here was my Grandfather, a German refugee with no communication from his mother or extended family. He *knew* that some if not many of his family members would likely die in the war. He heard daily news of bombings and military advances. He barely made it to the United States, dodging service to the Nazi army. And here he was, giddy in love with a Kansas farm girl. Happy. Hopeful. Connecting to a new life and reaching forward to a new era- living the future of a German man peacefully living in the United States without prejudice. He wasn't quite past the stares, but he was hopeful. This is transformative. This is perspective. This is REAL life. Not a reality tv show, not a glossy interview or an edited history book. These are real letters from a real German to a real midwesterner, with real love in the middle of a real war. With real problems and ups and downs. The very vulnerability of it is what saves it from the rest of the junk we read. I feel nearly selfish for keeping it to myself and not sharing it. Of course I want to share it- I am amazed by it!

But it is a real life, a real love, a real story. And not everyone can or will respect it- so the reality is that out of respect for the personal privacy of our families, we safeguard some of our secrets...we hold close those intimate moments so that they are not by sharing turned into something grossly massive and inanimate...becoming the opposite of intimate- ruining the beauty that was there. Is it possible to share some intimate thing and have it be widely received as intimate? The only comparison that gives me hope is that the stars are a beautiful and wondrous and amazing thing to behold- and the sheer, astronomical volume of them does nothing to diminish the value... each star somehow still feels special. Each star makes me feel tiny, yet precious.

I really do struggle with this. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a fool for putting such honest and vulnerable things out there for public consumption. Our society would say yes. Because even the "reality shows" aren't real- and the real story is that America likes to see simulated reality so that they can feel better about themselves in a way of mockery. It's the ultimate bully- we don't even have to pick on a kid to feel better about ourselves- tv does it for us. But then what about the documentaries, the biographies... there is something different about those- isn't there?

I have had the privilege of living safely with my vulnerability- no one has attacked me yet. No one has called me a fool. No one has told me that I am indeed wrong or an anomaly. I have received only grace, love, and acceptance. After yesterday's post, I received at least 5 emails and letters of essentially "Oh my gosh, yes, me too...thank you." This moves me forward in my experiment in vulnerability. But I know- I just know- that the moment someone hurts me, the moment I feel the true vulnerability of what I write- that moment I will question it all- despite the dozens of encouraging and hopeful responses and "me too's" I've gotten.

Is it fair for me to experiment with someone else's vulnerability? Even if they are no longer alive? I think that is a hard question to answer. I want to ignore it- because in my hope, I see so much potential for transformation- but what price will we have to pay? And again- it isn't really my place to bargain the benefit, is it?

This has been a bit jumbled... but I guess so are my thoughts. Graham is up from his nap, so I shall end here. But for now- in respect to my Grandparents and family- I will pause posting the letters. The stories will likely still come through, and maybe one day we might agree as a family to take the risk.... or maybe we will agree that this is too private, too personal...

Disenchanted Days

So... clearly I have a little problem with depression. Or maybe grief. Or both. Or being a stay-at-home-mom. Whatever the cause or sum of causes- I am a little bit tired of it. Right now Hunter is down the street at a preschool friend's house- so that I can bitch and moan while Graham naps.

Let's see... I've been pretty honest in my blogs about how I'm feeling- sort of down and like doing anything is a big production. I literally tell Jason at the end of the day if I've done any laundry, dishes, or anything else on top of general survival. Like it's a list of accomplishments to be medaled for. He responds like I deserve a medal, which has to be a bit ridiculous for him. "Yay! In your 9 hours at home you put dishes in the dishwasher and pushed start- wooooohoooooo!" He has NO idea how it feels to be me- and I don't want him to- but it does make me wonder what he thinks about the mopey mope that drags around the house all day.

Here's the thing- part of me is proud of myself. I know that for whatever reason- it takes all I have just to do the survival stuff, so to step up and do more- that's like climbing the second mountain. I have forced myself to do play dates, general outings, ridiculously cold walks, play game after mindless game with the kids, wake up, etc. I have some days that are easier than others. I am trying to do right by myself. I bought the light therapy box thing and I'm doing that every morning. I have allowed myself to be less than totally panicky about the status of our wrecked house. I have tried to stay slightly positive about the fact that I was sick, better for two days, sick again and then Jason got sick. I even let Jason sleep in two mornings- and that is like giving him an organ. He deserves it (he's up in the night more than I am some nights and he's now the sicky). I'm doing sit ups, wall push ups, squats in the shower- trying to remember to move when I can. I have meals planned that are healthy. I am making Graham baby food. I am doing ALL OF THIS SHIT and I'm tired. So so so tired. And over it. I want to stop working so hard to be normal. Especially since it's not really working. Basically I'm working hard so that everyone else is not as affected by my not normal.

There are so many rational explanations for why I feel the way I feel. Blue Winter. Grandmother died. "Newborn" who still gets up in the night occasionally. Husband who has erratic schedule. 3 year old who sucks the energy out of me. But here's the thing- that is life. A privileged life at that. If I can't make it work with a normal life- don't come see me when things actually go wrong.

I wonder why the hell Jason still is so madly in love with me. I mean honestly, I am so over me. If I were married to me- I would be really not happy with me... or at least frustrated beyond measure. Jason consistently extends grace and love- and although I know it to be genuine- I almost distrust it- because who is that patient? Who is that kind? I don't know if I would be.

All this mental illness PSA stuff out there saying it's a disease, a burden that shouldn't be shameful, etc- well- it doesn't actually make me feel any better. In fact, it just annoys me. Sure it's a "disease." The kind without a known cause, cure, and with ridiculous amounts of conflicting information around it. Helpful. I tend to get these kinds of "diseases." What's that scar on your neck from? Cue 10 minute explanation of the condition that has no name or description that makes any sense. What are your symptoms? Cue 5 minute description of weird things that exist in my body that are so much a part of me that I don't even know what is normal or not. Hearing aids- luckily that's pretty straightforward.... of course no one in the health care industry thinks my insurance should pay for the one clearly marked disability I have. Are you depressed? Maybe- well- I am now- but I'm not always... try again in 6 weeks. Think positive! What do you do? I'm a stay at home mom. OH that's SUCH a blessing....blah blah blah. OH- what a rut...blah blah blah.

I'm even starting to resent Graham for nursing. Not completely- but there are some times when he literally pinches the shit out of everything he can reach- my lips, neck, moles- everything. And I'm like, really? Can you please pretend to make this a connecting moment? I haven't been by myself without the kids for a long period of time in a WHILE. I would like to spend time with Jason- but what sadly sounds even more awesome is a silent retreat. By myself. With a journal. And tea and coffee. And good food prepared for me. And full nights sleep. No major physical strains. No coldness. I want to wear yoga pants and t-shirts and sit in the sun. With a breeze. What a princess introverted fantasy. It would be lovely. It wouldn't solve anything, but it would be lovely.

I feel like every time I begin to tap into something good- it gets poisoned. I mean literally, somebody dumps cyanide in it. I get disenchanted. Crash. High to low. Plans, dreams, excited movement halted.

And I see these people succeeding. Just easily succeeding. I know they worked hard. But they worked hard and accomplished something. I work hard and unload the dishwasher. It's defeating. It's frustrating. It's maddening. What do I really want to do anyway? Do I really want to become a chaplain? Or was I just looking for something ordained to do? I do want to write but I know I can't survive writing for the rest of my life in small, stolen spurts for no other reason than to get my thoughts on paper. I crave an audience. There it is- the vain truth. I don't want to write because I think it's a nice hobby. I want to write because I want to be transformative in the world.

The problem is - that - I am stuck at home wiping poop, nursing a pinching baby, sleeping for short stints of time and barely getting the mail inside. I live a conundrum. I want to connect with the world. Yet right now, I want no one to need me, because I keep disappointing myself and them. Just for a weekend, maybe.

And it's so. damn. cold.

All this is of course, to be taken with a mountain chunk of salt...or a half a bag of peanut butter m&ms, which I just consumed. They were on sale.

Mudslide

I wish I were talking about the kahlua and chocolate and ice cream concoction...man I really do wish I was talking about that. Instead I'm talking about the feeling when you're in a mud pit and you try to climb up and out and it is so hard because mud- well- it slides. I feel like I am in a 5 foot deep hole. I can see out over the top. I've got enough perspective not to be face down in it. I can function pretty well, but I feel about ankle level with the world. Like I just can't quite get up and out and thriving. Each time I rally to get up and out, something seems to slide. None of it is earth-shattering or devastating or even that upsetting to the normal person walking at sea level. But for me, it's just slippery enough to send me back to ankle-line-sight.

I'm working hard. Ankles aren't that exciting.

Current Events are Fun!

Do you remember having to bring in a current events clipping to your class and writing a short essay on it? We did that- I can't remember if we shared them out loud, although I feel like we did- we must have. I loved that assignment. Maybe I didn't- but I do now. I most likely was not daring enough then and found articles on the accidental burning of a local restaurant and wrote "this is too bad, I used to eat here." But now, now it lights a fire in me.

I am currently attending a Sunday School class that does just this- pulls current events and opens the floor for discussion. The curriculum is an online source, with study questions and discussion starters. My class today decided that the current event and questions were a little too tame: the topic was on the American rescue of Iranians from some ship/pirates, etc. The questions were about whether or not to do a good deed if you wouldn't get a return on it. Um, really? This is not typical, but we totally passed on this ridiculousness. We pulled out some articles and information surrounding the MLKjr weekend. One article was a letter from a local (Hyattsvile) pastor of an AME church who was not so sure that having MLKjr in stone (alluding to the new monument in DC) was all that great. Before you judge him- he had an excellent point. (I believe the article can be found in the Saturday faith edition of the Washington Post) He said he far preferred the living, breathing voice of MLKjr that challenged the status quo, said no to war and violence, etc. Basically- a monument makes a happy image of a strong man we all like. But if MLKjr were still with us today (oh man, what would that look like?!), less people might like him than we think. He might still be pushing buttons and pissing people off.

Our class was interrupted, hijacked, poorly insulated and even a baby (mine) crashed the party. It was still the best Sunday School I've been to. Why? Because we were putting flesh on scripture. Here are stories happening rightnow- and we need to talk about them rightnow as Christians. None of this Jesus is the answer stuff- we're trying to actually follow Jesus- figure out what our faith speaks in this context- where we fit- why we think the way we think. The cool thing about this concept is you can do it with any context of history... the problem is that I think we spend too much time using stone monuments as our current event stories. MLK was a great man who fought for equal treatment of people with color. Unless you are embedded in racism, this is an easy right and wrong story. I like getting dirty with details and nuances. I like exploring the mud for what we're really made of. What are the stories that we aren't separated and commentaried on so much that we have collectively decided what is right or wrong?

For example, a friend of mine from seminary posted his opinions on the recent outrage over the marines' urinating on the dead bodies of our "enemies." The link (I have GOT to get more savvy about linking) here: http://faithhopepolitics.wordpress.com/2012/01/13/detachmentandoutrage/
I think it is definitely food for thought. This is digging deeper. Of course it's not right to urinate on a corpse! But let's get past the easy part.

Now you would think- a class with current events, a truly open dialogue (for me anyway) would be an instant hit. No. I was the only student per se. Two teachers and moi. I wonder why that is? Are we so afraid of talking current events in such a politically charged location (near DC)? I'm sure there are lots of reasons beyond my perception.... but my thought is that many of us just don't want to open pandora's box. We don't want to think about things. This described me for a long time when it came to the news. It depressed me so I shut it out. I'm serious! I didn't watch the news, read the paper, and avoided clicking on news links that were posted. Now that I'm a fabulously isolated stay at home Mom, I ran out of options and started branching out for sanity's sake. I'm addicted. I need, want, have to know what we as a human race are participating in. Do I still avoid the starving children and crying puppy videos? Yes. I'm no saint, I have a baby at home and... well- I don't want to send my soul over a cliff- I'll ease into those news stories. I'm addicted to learning about how we tick, how we think, how we relate. I think that's why I'm addicted to this blog- it's my space to think with the possibility of getting a response. I'm addicted to Facebook- it is a space to relate and share stories. I'm addicted to reading the letters by my Grandfather, because he was doing the same thing- taking his world and processing it, with his bride to be and his friends who would engage in dialogue with him. He didn't expect everyone to agree with him, but he hoped for a conversation.

Let's keep talking. Let's keep working through the muck and mud together- and really think about what it means to be human. For those of us who have faith as our guide- let's talk about where our guide would have us go.

Opa Weekly

One of the gifts Jason and I gave to my family is a book bound (2 volumes, actually) collection of letters that my Grandfather (Opa) wrote to my Grandmother during their courtship and first years of marriage. When we moved my Grandmother from Virginia to Florida, we found this box full of handwritten and typed personal letters. Jason and I snatched the envelope that contained the letters from Opa to Grandmother and began the process of scanning them for preservation. As we began to read them and realize the timing and nature of the letters- we knew they needed to be put together and we used blurb.com to make the books. The books are AWESOME. SO- because it takes a long enough time to scan letters, Jason did not let me read them (for efficiency's sake). This means that Jason scanned most of the letters while I sat and read a handful. Now that we have the books- I'm reading them and unfolding the beautiful and crazy time that was America in the 1940s during World War 2, specifically in the life of a German refugee (Opa), and a Kansas farm girl (Grandmother).

As a fun element to this blog, I want to start posting some of the letters for your enjoyment- hopefully on a weekly basis.

You'll need a little background information before we get started. Here is a shortened version... Opa, my Grandfather, was a German boy born and raised in Berlin, Germany as Thomas Walter Doeppner. His mother was Jewish and his father agnostic at best. His parents divorced when Opa was growing up. His father and mother were not supporters of Hitler and his regime for obvious reasons. However, growing up in Berlin had its disadvantages for a German boy against the growing political power. Opa would arrive at school exceedingly early to avoid having to give the "heil Hitler" salute at the gate. He was forced as a school boy to be the front and center audience for multiple parades and political rallies. Opa could see Hitler parading on main street under his apartment window. I remember when I was in middle school, Opa told me that the worse thing you could say to a person is that they were like Hitler. When Hitler won his election and grew in power, spreading propoganda and censoring dissenters, Opa's father moved to Switzerland. Opa's father, August, was an editor of a newspaper and obviously was not writing the correct news. Opa and his sister remained at home with his mother. The war started and things began to be more and more dangerous. From what Opa told me, I think that the sweeping of the Jews from their homes was a little less obvious and blatant than what we might think. I don't think people realized just how very dangerous things were until it was too late. Opa's older sister had left the country for work before it became difficult to cross the borders. Then Opa learned that he was drafted into Hitler's army. He knew he would not serve, but how he was going to escape was an entirely different story. The (extremely) short version is that his father paid to have him smuggled out of Germany and he eventually landed in the United States on a student visa to go to Kansas State University. He embarked on the last ship to make it across the Atlantic before the war was over (he switched tickets with a businessman to try to make it to school on time). After reading some of his notes about his journey, and even the process he went through to become an American citizen- I am really shocked that I exist.

When Opa came to Kansas State, he was accepted and got tuition help because of a recommendation by some man named Albert Einstein, who made it a habit to help Jewish refugees...and luckily August had some connection to Einstein's secretary through the newspaper world. If I remember correctly, Opa's tuition help was provided with the conditions that he participate in the Wesleyan group (and abide by its moral code). This is where he met my Grandmother.

Grandmother grew up on a farm in Kansas and the youngest of 5 children, her older siblings all boys (and the one closest in age to her died not long after she was born). She was a princess in many ways, protected as the only girl and the precious child after the older brother died. Grandmother was in school and engaged to marry Archie, the literal "boy next door" when she met the mysterious German refugee. Something definitely clicked- and Grandmother's already festering doubts of her current engagement were somehow solidified as she broke off her engagement and began dating Opa.

Their story unfolds, unfortunately one-sided through Opa's letters- but it is FASCINATING and kind of a page turner. Which is not what you expect when reading letters between your Grandparents. The letters contain a mixture of young love, fighting hard to win the girl, political discussion, wondering about relatives in the war, following current events, finding employment, applying for visas and citizenship, sharp wit, movies, friendship, physics, philosophy, poetry, German and more.

Here is the first letter I will give you- a little love for your day. (beware- you're going to raise your expectations of your significant other after reading this love letter)

Honesty

I've always said (maybe to myself) that lying is one of pet peeves. It's just annoying- especially when it doesn't involve an ethical dilemma like "Sharon will be put in a concentration camp if you reveal her identity." Obviously there are some exceptions. However, lying just because it's a little easier than telling the truth- it annoys me. I honestly think it's a habit and once you start, it is hard to break. So I'll have a little grace.

All that to say, I am a horrible liar. HORRIBLE. My pet peeve means that I have little to no practice in the art of lying. The game mafia- I usually lose. But just because I am a failure at lying, doesn't mean I have not learned the art of a well-crafted word. Telling an ugly truth can look really pretty, or being completely silent is a handy tool. One of my un-official resolutions for this year is to shed those nuances. I'm not going to completely lose my filter or stop being gracious, but I'm going to try to be more direct. I find that I would hide behind "if it's cool with you, if it's not too much trouble, only if you want to, but don't worry about it."

I'll give you an example. In my asking for help from others during my week-long plague, I started this more direct approach. Instead of beating around the bush and trying to craft my text message in 160 letters or less with all the caveats, I called and said- I'm sick, could you handle an additional 3 year old so I can take a nap? I may have given her an out- but essentially I just spit it out. Another instance was when my 3 year old was playing with a friend in the morning and another friend invited him over in the afternoon. Instead of playing the awkward "we have another date" game- I just asked... would you mind if the other child came (with their caregiver) or would you rather it just be my son? Of course the only way that this whole candid method can work well is if the recipient of my candor feels free to say No. While it's easy to say that it's not my problem whether they can say no or not, I think I can help by saying a clear yes and no here and there. And when they say no- not making it awkward. THEN the relationship is established in which there is no weird "I hope she's not doing this just to be nice and hating on me after I drop off my kid!"

Not too long ago I had the opportunity to meet with a few folks from Germany. My Opa (Grandfather) was from Berlin and has an amazing story. I told a little of it to these folks, and then sort of shyly admitted that I was disappointed that their accents didn't resemble Opa's more. I was hoping to sort of hear him again. We talked about geographical accents, etc. I mentioned that Opa had a sense of pride being from Berlin and speaking "well." They told me (very kindly) that people from Berlin were indeed different and could be seen as a little snooty. I didn't doubt this for a minute. They said it was less the accent and more the mannerisms and social rules. They said that when sitting at a table, people from other places in Germany would be involved in that dance to see who sat where, offering others seats and being polite. A Berliner would say "you sit there." Not to be rude, just frank (and I'm sure they had thought out the entire system of the table and discerned that this was indeed the most favorable spot for said person). As I had plopped myself smack in the middle of the table that night without any dance- I realized- I've got a little Berliner in me.

SO- tell me how it is. Be frank. Be gracious, but be frank. We'll see how this goes. It keeps me much more honest and realistic about what I want and need.

Rough-Housing

This is one of those little things that has been dangling on my radar ever since I had my first son. The phrase "boys will be boys" is often quipped when a boy is being obnoxiously rough or plain stupid. I think we can do better. Boys can do better and we as parents, peers, weird aunts and uncles, can do better.

However, I struggle with the boundary between playfulness and roughness. I want my sons to be playful. I want my sons to be gentle. I want my sons to be able to stand up for what's right, and I don't expect them to be immune to the temptation to elbow someone in the face for being a jerk...(in fact, I may have to stifle a smile when they do it). Right now I have a sweet three year old who is a big boy- and by big I mean he is in the 90-98 percentile for height and weight. He's no shrimp among peers. My almost 9 month old looks to be shaping up about the same. The other day my oldest was wrestling another child to the ground. He was not doing it with a mean spirit- but the kid was definitely pinned to the ground. I intervened and told him to be gentle. Someone at a different time told of a similar thing happening between my son and their daughter and was happy about it- saying how their daughter was no frail thing and they were having fun. OK. But. I don't want my son pinning people down regardless of how frail or tough they are. I want gentleness to be the default. My three year old is smart and perceptive, but he cannot always discern when someone is open for a body tackle or not. I sense that he is being encouraged, and therefore his physical self is getting a little more brave. This happened when he was in a mothers-day-out program 1.5 years ago. The teachers were not concerned (most likely recognizing he was playing) but I witnessed that he was getting rougher with each unchecked physical foray. So I asked them not to let him do it, and he quickly went back to a more gentle default.

Where is the line? I wonder (seriously) if I'm being over-protective or attentive to the issue. I honestly don't know where the line is. I will be that Mom that struggles when her boys wrestle with bruises emerging. Yet- is there a need for all of us to roll around and get a little bruised up? I was a pretty physical child, I don't remember wrestling with my sister on a regular basis- but I did have outlets and even friends to rough-house with. (It was probably pretty tame, but I'm sure I thought I was a bad-ass arm wrestling for the win) In seminary, we even had leg wrestling matches (I lost at those). Do we as humans *need* to rough-house? How do I begin teaching boys about "appropriate" physicality when culturally they will be encouraged at every push and shove? Or maybe they'll be demonized because they are boys and big? I imagine there is some balance. I err on the side of gentleness, because there are plenty of temptations and expectations to the other extreme. Maybe I'm being a little Aristotelian (did I get the philosopher right?) by hoping for the "golden mean" and therefore leaning a little to one side in a situation that tends to lean a little to the other side.

Or am I just confusing the hell out of my boys? BE GENTLE! GIRLS ARE STRONG! STAND UP FOR WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN! BUT DEAR GOD- BE GENTLE!

Anyone out there have any thoughts on rough-housing?

Ask for help

Then get your shit together so you can help other people. This is my New Year's resolution. I've been sick for what feels like a month and has only been about a week. I'm *finally* on the mend and really glad for it. (Another post on how I recognize my brief contact with the plague is hardly an experience of failed health- and how grateful I am for health... is coming) I had to postpone a trip to Nashville because of it (still hoping to go soon). My husband has his DMin classes this week and next week, and since I was going to be gone with the boys- he also booked his nights. Then I got sick. I have a knack for awesome timing.

Things I learned... ASK FOR HELP. The village is out there, but you kind of need to call. This is the hardest part for some reason. I did it. I called the college students. I will pay them - but I'll think of it as donating towards their tuition. I called the preschool moms and Hunter had two fabulous play dates without me. I batted away the lurking guilt when I ordered take-out. I turned my head away from the guilt of putting Graham on the floor to play or in the exersaucer and then lying down. You gotta survive! It was NOT easy. Graham had a couple rough nights with teething and growing and all those things babies do at the same inconvenient time. Hunter was freakin adorable and playful and I was missing it. I went to the doctor for meds, convinced and hopeful that I had strep- only to learn I had a virus that would take 7-10 days to run its course. I told the doctor I didn't have time for that. But the village saved me. I had to round up the village- but they came. It is really hard to ask for help when you know that most people are battling the same sad story you are. But I put away the guilt of "I can't handle being sick and having kids and my house is DISGUSTING"- and let the college kids come in and see me in all my red-eyed, puffy hair, dishes dirty, pantry and fridge bare glory. The preschool parents just saw the eye. I wore a hat when dropping off Hunter. I also wore lip-gloss, which had a surprisingly positive effect.

So now that I'm mending... I'm inspired to get my act together so that I can be a village member. One that hears a parent is sick and drops off some soup. I want to- not because I feel obligated to return the favor- but because I know that a healthy meal is a balm. I want to use my powers for good! I want to call and invite the 3 year old over for a play date- not to "Christmas threw up land" but to Hunter's house.

But first I'm going to Nashville. Let Jason get a head start.

By the way, a side effect of being sick is that you have time to think...so I've got about 4 blog entries in my head, ready to go. But first the laundry, pick up Hunter, etc.

ASK for help. do it. REST. (hard). Then get your shit together so you can help. If you can. If you can't- ask me for help in a couple weeks. I should be helpful by then.