Author Archives: So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

About So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

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I'm a bookworm, nature lover, kick-boxer, candy fiend, sci fi geek, home body, progressive Christian and part-time student. I love my crazy life and the messy, fun, stubborn, silly, brilliant people who populate it.
November 12, 2011

The Destroyer

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

“Some have come to build, I have come to destroy.” – Sun Tzu, The Art of War

It has been a difficult week in our house. Our cute-as-a-button, darling girl has left a path of destruction in her wake. A month of illness, an ear infection and adjusting to full days at school have left her understandably needy and slightly grumpy. This never bodes well for our possessions.

Her usual M.O. is to hide things. To be fair, this is not trouble-making behavior. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s trying to help. She sees me bustling around, putting things away, so she does the same. She may have inherited a touch of OCD from her parents. One of her favourite forms of play is to carefully arrange rows of toys, books, socks… (whatever strikes her fancy) into different patterns.

Unfortunately, her organizational plan and mine don’t always mesh. Which is why I often come across unusual things such as: potatoes in the Tupperware drawer, socks in the pantry, and cash in the recycling bin.

Although her intentions may be pure and honorable (or more likely, impulsive and benign) this hiding habit does cause problems. On two separate occasions we have had to send guests home in borrowed shoes as B has industriously stashed theirs in some obscure hiding spot. When we express alarm and concern she will eagerly join in the search, but rarely does she recollect where she put that special item.

NOTE: We later found one of the shoes in the downstairs shower and the other set had been stashed behind the books on the bottom shelf of Dad’s home office. STILL Missing: 1 DS game system, several DVDs, a favourite stuffie, a toothbrush, and various odds and ends too numerous to mention.

Recently, she managed to reach her box of CDs, remove each one from its case and hide them in an undisclosed location. The only survivor happened to be in the player at the time. The others remain M.I.A.

I’ve duct taped the slats of her bed and moved furniture around to eliminate some of her favourite hidey holes. We have worked hard to give B an idea of where things are SUPPOSED to go. She loves helping unload the dishwasher and putting dishes where they “live”. I’m optimistic that once this is firmly established she will become our most diligent tidy-upper. Someday I plan to label almost everything in our house to this end. You know, when I have some free time (ha!).

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Things have been getting better… until this month. We first noticed it with her contributions to her sisters’ homework. Some added embellishment on a title page, unique decorative elements on math pages, and most shocking of all: an actual bite taken out of one assignment. “My sister ate my homework, for real!”

She is immediately disciplined, apologizes and seems genuinely contrite, then I open up my iPhone box and find the pocket guide ripped into tiny little pieces. It took me 1/2 an hour to figure out how to turn the ringer from ‘silent’ to ‘loud’. Grrrrrr!

If one more person tells me what happy and easy children with Down Syndrome are, I am going to kick them in the shin. Then they can help me pull every single card, from every single game we own out from under her dresser and put them back in order. Because, honestly, I’ve just left them there. I’m too tired to face it.

Am I frustrated? Definitely.
Overwhelmed? Occasionally.
Amused? Often.

It’s at times like this that I have to have faith that our parenting methods and our God-given instincts will work in the long run. It’s happened time and time again. We don’t usually see results in a timely fashion, but consistent, patient and firm is bound to pay off… right? That or we seriously consider life in a human bubble – for me.

So here’s me, blogging from the road, on the way to a week-long family holiday. Just what the Dr. ordered. If nothing else, she can rip the cabin apart for a change.

5 Comments   |  tags: , , | posted in parenting, special needs

November 9, 2011

My Sunday School Lesson

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

It was my birthday this weekend and I had BIG plans to do very little. It’s a wonderful family tradition in our house: a day of complete, guilt-free laziness. Of course, since it happened to fall on a Sunday, this wasn’t entirely possible.

I’m not going to lie, I was a bit choked when I realized that I would be teaching Sunday School that day. Mind you, in a contemporary church like ours we call it something much more hip and fun-sounding than “Sunday School”. But regardless of the name, I wasn’t looking forward to the workload on this, my special day of sloth.

It’s not a lot – arranging the supplies, reading through the lesson a couple of times, then wrangling some adorable little first graders into some semblance of order until parents arrive for pick-up. I’ve done it a thousand times. In fact, I started teaching Sunday School when I was only 16. After a little quick math, what with it being my 36th birthday, I realized that this means 20 years of nose-picking, pee-pee dances, barely audible answers and completely unrelated stories about parents/siblings/pets/somebody-they-once-met-somewhere-they-can’t-remember.

And though I may have dragged my feet upstairs, by the time I was sitting around that table in an absurdly small chair with ten sweet little faces and three eager helpers, I was kind of glad to be there. We talked about gratitude, that we always have something to be grateful for.

Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. (1 Thesselonians 5:18)

Closing our eyes, we imagined happy circumstances (a surprise trip to Disneyland), sad circumstances (too sick to go to the birthday party) and frustrating circumstances (losing the ice cream off of your cone), then came up with a list of all the things we could be grateful for in each situation. Being alive, parents who love us, siblings to play with, not getting friends sick, more birthday parties still to come, a funny story to tell… they hardly needed any prompting. I’m sure our Pastor preached a fine sermon that day, but I doubt it could have done me as much good as that table full of 6-year-olds.

I’m 36 now (or “almost 40” according to my husband) and I keep coming back to this same lesson. I don’t need to be thankful for bad things or, as I once thought, pretend that they are actually good in some twisted form of Christianized stoicism. But wherever my life ends up, good or bad, I need to make it a place of gratitude.

Immediately after I finished writing this post, before I had a chance to post it, I had a chance to put this into practice. Not the easy kind of gratitude I found on my birthday while I sat with my feet up on the couch, watching my husband clean the house and spending quality time with my new i-phone. Not the kind that spontanteously wells up in me as I eat the chocolate cake my daughter made for me and open even more presents (fair trade chocolate bars – yes!). This kind of gratitude is hard.

It is the kind of gratitude that hears disappointing news about a friend’s health, but chooses to see the time we have with him as a gift and the skills of the doctors as a blessing. Even while I wonder why life is so cruel and so unfair. I hate cancer.

It’s hard for me to see the silver lining when once again we are “not what they are looking for in an adoptive family”. What’s wrong with us? It’s been more than two years and I can’t spend the rest of my life in waiting mode. Yet, I am thankful for the things we’ve learned along the way, the deep conversations and the wrestling with who we are as people, as parents, and as a family. I am thankful that we can enjoy our family holiday without wondering if we will get a call. I am thankful to have more time to organize and paint the future baby’s room. I am thankful that we are free to find the right child for us.

So here’s me, thankful for another year and the circle of first graders who taught me an important lesson this week.

2 Comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in spiritual

November 5, 2011

Imagine That

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

When I was a child, one of my best friends was a girl named Casey. She looked just like me; she had short red hair and even a matching jean jacket. She was tiny; in fact, she only came up to my waist. She didnt speak much at all, but she always thought my ideas were great and played with me whenever I needed her.

When I was a child, there was an elevator in our downstairs bathroom. I was the only one who ever used it. It took me anywhere I wanted to go. My favorite destination was Mrs. Kangaroo’s highrise apartment, which seemed like an exotic locale to a suburban kid like myself.

When I was a child, I lived a double life: mild mannered school girl by day, crime-fighting dog in the afternoon. It was hard work defeating the forces of evil, so when Mom starting doing afterschool care I recruited a whole team of yapping police puppies. Together we brought villians to justice and imprisoned them in the guest room closet.

One of the best things my parents ever did for me was to nurture my imagination. They did not dismiss my flights of fancy as childish and unimportant. Instead, my mom set a place at the table for my invisible playmate. She overlooked my damp socks from playing in the shower stall downstairs and holes in the knees of my pants from crawling around the house for hours at a time.

They fed me a steady diet of books and unstructured free time. My mom freely contributed old blankets, sheets and clothespins to the fort building cause. Somedays I ate my lunch in a cave of wonders than bore a striking resemblance to the underside of our dining room table. I remember her packing snacks in the backpack of this intrepid explorer and listening patiently to the blow-by-blow of my adventures.

While I grew up with fond memories of imaginary friends, my sister Esther had an imaginary enemy. We used to choke back our laughter as she would angrily recount her latest fight with The Girl. “You won’t believe what the girl did now!” I remember watching her stomping around the backyard, yelling at thin air.

My other sister Colleen played pretend in her own way – fashion shows, tea parties and impromptu concerts. She spent her childhood decked out in lace and jewels, wobbling around the house in my Mom’s shoes. There was no such thing as too fancy in her book.

I’m sure there were times it was inconvenient and downright messy, but my parents knew that this was the important work of childhood. We were flexing our creative muscles and practicing the people we were going to become: me, bossing folks around and making up stories; Esther (the law student), railing at the injustices of society; and Colleen (the musician), bringing beauty into the world.

I’d better go now. There’s a little tiger in my living room and she’s getting hungry for lunch. I hope she doesn’t eat me!

So here’s me, years later, still talking to myself when there’s no one around.

2 Comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in creativity, parenting

November 2, 2011

Middle of the Road

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

20111102-141639.jpgIt had such a promising start. For the first time in… let’s be honest, ever… I sent my daughter to school with a thermos full of delicious, homemade vegetable soup. Homemade – by me, and not just the kind where you open a packet and add a few things to feel like you’re somehow contributing to the process. I cut all these vegetables with my own two hands. Eat your heart out Betty Crocker!

I’m afraid the day didn’t live up to its potential. According to my nine-year-old, it will forever be remembered as one of the worst days in the entire history of bad days. It wasn’t the math quiz or even the science test she forgot to study for. It wasn’t post-Halloween letdown or friend drama. It was the soup.

It’s not what you are thinking, really! I know I have repeatedly decried my ability as a cook, but this is ridiculously yummy soup. I’m eating some right now.

The problem was a SLIGHTLY loose lid on the thermos. Just loose enough to let the liquid seep out and pool in her bag, soaking books, gym strip and a collection of Very Important Things that she apparently carts back and forth to school each day: a mirror, a pencil sharpener shaped as a bear, a clip from the chip bag, an old paintset, an umbrella, a special bag of kleenex, a single glove and several broken pieces of pencil lead (which she diligently collects and counts; she is now up to 2,382). At this point my little hoarder-in-training began to notice a certain stickiness down her back and legs. When she opened her backpack – soup everywhere.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, gym class that day consisted of a run around the field. Wearing her everyday shoes instead of runners, she slipped and ended up face down in the mud. So much for that new hoodie. I’m not quite sure why she chose not to call home for a change of clothes (and some more soup), but I’m proud that she tried to make the best of it.

Some kids are quite resilient to this sort of thing; it just isn’t that big a deal. But my little C is not one of those types of people. Spending an entire day sticky, muddy and smelling like vegetable soup was quite the dark night (day) of the soul for her. And it was entirely my fault… mea culpa, mea culpa.

And I know just why I did it. You see, last year I had a bit of thermos problem. Since my girls don’t really like sandwiches, we tend to use them a lot, and I’ve always been kind of paranoid about potential spillage. So I put those lids on with extreme prejudice. Unfortunately, the whole point of the thermos is that it can also be opened – by tiny, little hungry hands. More often than not, they would have to get a class moniter or teacher, and occasionally even trot down to the office to find someone to open it. As if that isn’t embarassing enough, there were times NO ONE could open it. By the third time one brought home an unopened, uneaten thermos of lunch, I knew I had to change my ways.

So this year I bought new thermos’ and vowed to use a light touch. I wish I could say the soup incident was the first of its kind. This year my kids are bringing home soggy lunchbags and damp backpacks. In trying to fix the problem, I over-corrected.

Last month we spent a weekend in the mountains with my in-laws. The timeshare had a games room in the basement; all kinds of arcade games, free and unlimited. I became obsessed with “Long Haul Trucker”. I can’t blame the kids either, since I snuck down there without them one night in my pajamas.

I am bad at it – really, truly terrible. By the end of the weekend, I had made it to the first checkpoint only once. I would watch my brother-in-law calmly drive down the middle of the road and blow past checkpoint after checkpoint. When my turn came, I couldn’t seem to maintain balance. As I drifted too far on one side of the road, I would swerve to the other and before I knew it I was all over the road – veering first one way and then the next. Once again, I seem to constantly over-correct.

I do this in life too. When faced with a problem I often react by veering to the extreme. Sometimes it is a reaction to my upbringing. My parents are very easy-going and take life as it comes, but I feel the need to schedule and plan everything I possibly can (and some things I can’t). Other times I am trying to replace a bad habit with it’s polar opposite. This is why, all too often, my diet attempts end in a sugary blaze of shame, then back to a week of rice cakes and cabbage soup, and so on and so on.

Take a deep breath. Release that white-knuckled grip on the wheel (or thermos). And remember that most of the time, the best path to where I’m going is the middle of the road.

So here’s me, packing sandwiches from now on.

You can now follow this blog on twitter: @SoHeresUs, or recieve it via email (see right).

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , | posted in home-making, parenting

October 29, 2011

For the Cause

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

In the continuing saga of Christie vs. the Chocolate Corporations (a follow up to my earlier posts here and here about child slavery) I have learned about a new phenomena: reverse trick or treating.

Not only do true believers hand out fair trade chocolates along with the appropriate literature, they have their children give it to neighbors when they receive their own treats. One man sees Halloween as an ideal time to educate undiscerning chocolate consumers. In the face of such conviction, commitment and certainty I can’t help but think… what a douche!

Did Mother Teresa’s family ever say “Good Lord, someone needs to get that girl a hobby”? Was Martin Luther King Jr. a good time at a party? Did kids actually want to sit by Jesus at school… was he a drag or a genuinely likeable guy?

I like to think they were kind and winsome; able to communicate without alienating, because they sincerely cared about others. Even the little things like making sure there is enough wine at a wedding and noticing grubby children while the VIP’s clamored for attention. Perhaps they could tell us how to crusade for a cause WITHOUT being obnoxious, but I’m pretty sure it goes something like this… Do not judge or you too will be judged (Matthew 7:1).

I’m not going to lie, I have been on both the giving and receiving end of this. Most of us have: stay-at-home moms or moms who work full-time; kids in private, public, or home school; those who read Harry Potter before bed or those who demonize it. We are always drawing lines and feel the need to let others know that:

I am/My kids are/My family is/My cat/dog/pet iguana is…

MORE

ethical/godly/organic/grammatically correct/educated/potty trained/baby wise…

than you.

So there!

Because the only thing that feels better than being right, is being more right than someone else. Maybe deep down we need to convince others because we need to convince ourselves. But here’s the problem – you are wrong. About something, somewhere along the way you will be wrong. It’s inevitable. If you think you are infallible you are WRONG about that.

So don’t be obnoxious. You can’t afford it; none of us can. Be passionate about the things you belive in, but present your case in a gentle and respectful way. Let people follow their own conscience. That’s in the bible too (1 Corinthians 10:23-33).

So here’s me, trying to keep my soap box socially appropriate.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , | posted in social justice

October 26, 2011

Happy Endings

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

I sat in the waiting room of the Ministry of Children and Family Development today. We had a meeting with our adoption social worker. There was a woman beside me whom I’ve never met and will never see again, but she was so familiar.

It was none of my business and perhaps I should have politely tuned her out as she spoke to the receptionist. But I didn’t. The person she was supposed to be meeting with was running late, but come hell or high water she was determined to wait.

“I don’t care how long I have to wait or what it takes. I want my daughter back.”

She wasn’t belligerent or aggressive. She didn’t raise her voice or make threats. But she was fierce. She had a primal energy. And I knew that we were kindred. Because I am a Mama Bear too.

In my mind I imagined a gritty backstory. Traumatized by her drug dealer/pimp/corrupt cop boyfriend, she is fighting her way back with the help of a inspirational social worker. I picture an Aboriginal Robin Williams/Sydney Poitier at her side instilling a never-say-die attitude in her. The music swells as she sees her beloved child again, but alas, there is the evil ex-lover and his scuzzy lawyer. I hold my breath and suddenly Wylie Coyote drops an anvil on the bad guys. Cue the laugh track. Now roll credits, as they all ride off into the sunset.

But this is real life. There are rarely bad guys dressed in black and good guys in white hats. Just screwed up people trying to prevent the even more screwed up people from hurting the innocent.

I don’t know this mom’s story, but I can only assume that it must be a tragic one to end up in the waiting room of the MCFD. When child protective services are involved, no one escapes unscathed. Not the biological parents whose lives were already out of control. Not the professionals who have to make impossible decisions and navigate an unwieldy beauracracy. Not foster families who open their homes and their hearts to someone else’s pain. And certainly not the children who find themselves at the mercy of a system which can’t help but damage the very ones it was designed to protect.

I can’t help but feel like some sort of scavenger. If things work out as we hope, we will be wading into someone’s very worst nightmare to find our own happily ever after. I know it is possible; in fact, it is what makes adoption such a beautiful thing. But it is a beauty born out of loss and pain.

I worry about that mama bear. I hope the system can do right by her, and by her daughter, whatever “right” may be in this particular case. Chances are, the damage is already done. There are no carefree happy endings in the foster care system.

So here’s me, looking for a bittersweet ever after.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in adoption, grief, parenting, social justice

October 24, 2011

The “F” Word

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

It’s a bad word. I get after my kids for using it. So I should definitely know better, but I can’t seem to stop myself from using it. I don’t often say it out loud, at least, not so anyone can hear. Nevertheless, it is frequently used vocabulary in my internal dialogue.

Failure.

It’s my personal kryptonite. I recently organized a large event for the church where I work. I worked with some amazing people and the evening was a huge success. But even weeks later I can give you a long list of my failures. Small things that no one even noticed. Problems that may very well exist only in my mind.

Last night I organized another event and it also went remarkably well. Yet the same mantra is playing in my head… a list of all the little things that went wrong and that F word over and over again.

It could be that birth order phenomenon – I am the oldest and hold myself to impossible standards, wanting to control things that I can’t possibly predict. It’s a twisted form of pride (all insecurity is). I don’t expect as much from others as I do myself.

Perhaps it is temperament. I am conscientious and responsible. I am detail-oriented and task-focused. According to Myers-Briggs, I am INFJ, which is psycho-babble for “perfectionist control-freak”.

Maybe it’s my religious up-bringing. Plymouth Brethren (think semi-Amish city folk) can give the Catholics and the Jews a run for their money in the guilt department. My parents were definitely moving towards a faith of grace and forgiveness when I was a child, but I seem to have picked up the self-flagellating attitude somewhere along the way. Jonathan Edwards wrote a very famous (and in my opinion quite horrible) sermon, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God”. For me a scarier title would have been “Sinners in the Hands of a Disapproving God”.

When I made my very first foray into therapy, I was sure I knew which problems I needed to discuss. A gifted and insightful counselor knew different. About halfway through our second session, he looked me in the eye and said, “God is not disappointed in you.” I burst into tears and proceeded to blubber for the rest of the hour. After crying all the way home, it occurred to me that this may in fact be the real issue.

The God I picture in my head isn’t nearly as good as the real thing.

There is therefore, now, no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus (Romans 8:1).

No condemnation. No disappointed sighs. No disgusted eye rolls.

When I keep reading that same chapter of the bible it is clear that in God’s eyes I am not a failure. He made sure of it. It says:

I am free.

I am a beloved daughter.

I am forgiven.

I have purpose.

I am loved no matter what.

I am more than a conqueror!

And suddenly it doesn’t really matter that I miscounted the RSVP list and couldn’t figure out the coffee maker. Beating myself up over silly details does seem profane when I remember who I truly am and the God who made me. I make mistakes. I screw up. I may even fail from time to time. But I am not a failure. So bring on the cheesy affirmations; the “F” word has got to go.

So here’s me, and doggonnit, people like me!

13 Comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in spiritual

October 22, 2011

Religion for Dummies

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

I love the “for Dummies” series. With over 1,600 titles and 200 million books in print, you can find everything from Acupressure for Dummies to Yorkshire Terriers for Dummies. Their tag line is “Making Everything Easier” and it’s definitely a concept I can get behind.

I have begun to question many of the religious traditions I grew up with, but I have no desire to spend my life as a professional skeptic. Cynicism may provide some witty punch lines, but it is those things we embrace and deeply believe that actually matter. Since I have both devout Christians and wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-in-a-church folks reading this blog, I wasn’t sure how to approach this topic. But I’m starting to think it’s easier than we’ve made it.

I’d be hard pressed to find a more powerfully divisive subject than religion. It has gotten a bad rap over the years, even (and at times especially) among those of us who are religious. We wade through layers of doctrine, theology, dogma, hermeneutics, exegesis… and most of us regular schmucks are left feeling like, well, dummies a lot of the time. So instead, some of us leave the thinking to others and focus on familiar tradition as a way to measure our religious worth.

Although it has been used and abused since time began, religion itself is not something to fear. It is simply the outward expression of an inner belief. In practice this ranges from the beautiful to the utterly bizarre. Even those of us who share similar beliefs may have drastically different expressions of our faith. For instance, I have never felt a particular need to handle poisonous snakes in our worship service, nor has the Spirit moved me to whip myself into a bloody frenzy, but I am a big fan of group singing, even the 7-11 choruses my husband hates (7 words, sung 11 times to a catchy beat).

But the one thing that all religion has in common is this: compassion. Good works are a crucial component of all the world’s major religions: Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism and pretty much every one I can think of (except for hedonism, which is more of an excuse to be a selfish jerk than a true belief system). We may not agree on much, but on this we are on the same page. There is no better way to honour God than to show compassion.

According to the Jewish prophet Micah, it is all that God requires of any of us. (Micah 6:8)

He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.
And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.

Religion at its best is not about whether we sprinkle, dunk or dip in baptism, but whether we show selfless love for those in our path. Lately my “religious heroes” are not great thinkers, but the great DOers. Ordinary people who have bills to pay and chores to do just like me. People who never seem to have enough money or time, but choose to give it away anyway.

Ordinary people like my friend who chose to adopt not one, but four children from foster care. Although she already had three biological children, their family had room for more: more chaos, more noise, more learning issues, more Dr. appointments, more complications… more love. She doesn’t feel like a martyr, although I know she is often overwhelmed. She is just living what she believes.

Ordinary people like my cousin who chooses ethics over convenience in her shopping habits. Avoiding big box stores is not a decision I’m ready to make, but I respect her commitment to doing what she feels is right. Not just for workers here and overseas, but to counter a culture of mindless consumption that is deeply corrupt. She buys organic, grows her own food, and even makes her own toothpaste (for real). Five small children would be plenty of excuse for me to do what is quick and easy, but not her.

Ordinary people like our good friends who took the time to get to know new neighbours from Zimbabwe. They were moved by the stories and fell in love with the people of that country, before they had even seen it themselves. What started as a few piles of donated clothing in their garage has become Hear Africa, an organization committed to partnering with Zimbabweans to overcome poverty and rebuild a thriving economy.

It doesn’t matter if it is orphan care, ethical consumerism or foreign aid, THIS is the religion that best expresses my faith. I’m still finding my way. I’m not sure what this ordinary girl can do, but I’m on the lookout.

So here’s me, making religion easier: love God, love others.

After writing this post I found they actually do have a “Religion for Dummies” book (of course they do). I haven’t read it (yet), and this is my disclaimer that I have nothing to do with the official “for Dummies” brand.

6 Comments   |  tags: , , | posted in social justice, spiritual

October 20, 2011

Snake Lover

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

She was four years old. A tiny little thing with curly pig-tails and big blue eyes. We had enrolled her in a program called Wee College. It was a weekly program for preschoolers to teach them the bible, kind of like a beefed up Sunday school for overachievers. The system was pretty old school, but the teacher was dedicated and creative, so it worked.

We coasted through the lesson on the creation of the world, but when it came to the garden of Eden we hit a snag. It wasn’t that she was uninterested in the story, in fact, she was fascinated by it. Satan in the form of a serpent tempts Eve to eat from the forbidden Tree of Knowledge and the innocence of humanity is lost. While all the other children learned important lessons about temptation and sin, she had a completely different take on the story.

“Mom, I like the sneaky snake. He’s my favourite.”

We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but settled somewhere in the middle. No amount of discussion or explanation could convince her that the snake wasn’t the BEST part of the story. She drew pictures of him, talked about him and dug through her children’s bibles to find pictures of him. Was this a sign of things to come? Did my precious daughter have a rebellious streak a mile wide? In a word, yes.

The year before, we had enrolled her in a community dance program. She disliked being ordered around and preferred to literally dance to her own rhythm in the corner of the room. In one situation when the teacher instructed the girls to dance around in a circle, she proceeded to pull her tutu over her face and run around in the opposite direction, knocking the poor little ballerinas down left and right. I must admit that after removing her from class and disciplining her, I had to retreat to another room to roar with laughter.

But she is also a free-thinker and a non-conformist. That same year she decided that she was a true princess and proceeded to wear a tiara at ALL times. It was with some difficulty that we convinced her she must take it off for baths and at bedtime (though occasionally we would go back in to check and it would be back on her head).

Lately she’s become more and more concerned with what people think of her. She still marches to the beat of her own drum, but it’s quieter now, less flashy. She’s gotten shy in new situations and less comfortable with being the off-beat, quirky one.

It makes me sad. I know that life is easier if you’re not the “weird one”, but I think it’s better if you are. Conformity to the norm is great for assembling Ikea furniture and making origami, but it’s not a virtue I admire. While I don’t want her to be weird for its own sake (a la Lady Gaga), I want her to find their own voice; to be the unique person God made her to be.

On a completely unrelated note, this same daughter has begun a campaign to get her own snake. According to her, they make great pets.

So here’s me, absolutely refusing to buy a snake, but appreciating the sentiment all the same.

Here’s a blast from the past on finding your own rhythm:

2 Comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in creativity, parenting

October 15, 2011

Commas

By So Here's Us.... life on the raggedy edge.

I love to write and I always have, ever since I started writing short stories about Rascal the Raccoon in the back of my grade 3 exercise book when I was supposed to be learning my times tables. I may not be the most brilliant author of all time (every single Rascal Raccoon story started and ended exactly the same, after all), but I’m fairly confident in my skills, except for one thing: I’ve never been very good with commas. It seems like such a small thing, but it can make all the difference between a well-crafted sentence and a wordy, unreadable mess.

I didn’t always appreciate this fact. When I recruited a friend to proofread my English 11 essay on Macbeth, I was frustrated by his insistence on punctuational accuracy. I mean, who cares about commas, periods and semi-colons when I have important things to say? But he knew these little breaks make a huge difference. He was a good editor.

So, I decided to keep him… and now, when my husband edits my blog posts, he teases me about my poor punctuation. Even with the casual format of blogging, I need to do better. In my last post he had to add only one comma; that’s my all-time record!

“Say it out loud; wherever you take a natural pause, that is where you put a comma” he says.

I’ve never been good with commas, in writing or in life. There are times when I need a deliberate pause. Time to take a breath before moving on to the next thing.

I tend to operate at two speeds: go and stop. When I am really busy, I often forget to eat or even to take reasonable bathroom breaks. There’s nothing dignified about a 35 year old woman doing the pee-pee dance, because she just had to get one more thing done. And on the rare occasions when I’m not busy, inertia begins to set in and it’s hard to get my butt off the couch at all. Yet life, like good writing, flows best with an unhurried rhythm and the occasional pause.

Today I needed a pause. I needed to get out of the house and find some solitude. I felt guilty about it. I worried about all the things I should be doing (knowing full well I wasn’t going to do them even if I did stay home). I asked my husband repeatedly if he minded, until he was irritated at me for thinking the world would fall apart if I left for a few minutes. “It must be hard being a single mom” (his new favourite line from Modern Family). When I finally took a walk in the woods, it was EXACTLY what I needed. Why do I fight it?

What if I took a few minutes each day to enjoy what is, rather than worry about what still needs to be done? What if I saw interruptions as a natural pause in my life, not a ghastly inconvenience? What if I took a moment to pray, to listen, and to catch my breath, whenever I can, all day long?

Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me-watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.

~ Jesus (Matthew 11: 28-30)

I’ve never been good with commas, but I have a good editor who’s teaching me to do better.

So, here’s me, embracing the comma.

3 Comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in creativity, spiritual