There are some days when a parent looks back at life prior to child with a certain kind of bewildered, disbelieving wonder: "What on earth made us smile or laugh before this adorable little bundle came along?" for example.
Then there are days when a parent looks forward in life in a way that I suppose would be comparable to Caesar's sentiment when preparing to cross the Rubicon: "The die has been cast." In other words, there is no going back now. We have passed the point of no return. We are parents, with all of the messy battles that parenting can bring... whether we like it or not.
Yesterday we did not like it.
We are in the midst of walking those frightful corridors that every parent of a toddler must tread: Potty training. I've heard horror stories, and I've heard more horror stories. I've never heard anything flowery or fun in relation to this topic. But nothing I'd heard prepared me for our little adventure with Lilia yesterday.
At around 2 o'clock, after a very busy morning, we put her down for nap. Since we heard not so much as a peep from her room, we fully believed her to be engaged in a blissful, sound sleep.
Oh, what fools we were.
At about 4 o'clock, Jerry went to awaken our darling little angel from her precious "slumber." About five seconds later, in response to his frantic calls for help, I joined him.
She was not asleep. Not only was she not asleep, but it appeared that she had not slept at all. Not only that, but her diaper was OFF. We slowly began to realize that not only was her diaper OFF, but the messy contents of her diaper were scattered EVERYWHERE about her room. Yes, that's right, my friends: The poo was EVERYWHERE: On the bed rails, on the blankets, on the window, on the carpet, on the stuffed animals, on the walls, on the books, on the furniture. There was nary a spot in the room that the poo had not touched. And it smelled. Badly. The smell of poo pervaded the nostrils in a most ferocious manner.
Oh yes, and did I mention that the poo was also all over our adorable little daughter? How could I forget that little tidbit? The poo was also covering our daughter. She also smelled of poo.
It's very hard to convey the emotions that coursed through our bodies at that moment. First, we were appalled. Then, we were angry. Then, we were sad. Then, we were frustrated. Finally, we realized that we needed to break free from our state of petrified disbelief and DO something!
What did we do? Oh, I'm so glad you asked. As Jerry angrily bathed our filthy child, I collected an odd assortment of necessary implements: Paper towels, rags, latex gloves, boiling water. I felt a little bit like I was preparing to deliver someone's baby. I began to slowly collect the fragments of poo and place them in plastic bags. I collected each item with a copious amount of poo on it to be either disposed of immediately or placed into a boiling cauldron.
I then began to scrape hardened poo off of the furniture, the walls, the bed rails. I think it was at this point that I began to wish I had never been born. Jerry then uttered a few minor profanities. (Or that might have been me, I can't really remember. It was all so traumatic).
After our child was cleaned and disinfected, Jerry joined me. We worked together in true marital harmony, as one: Scraping, wiping, disinfecting, cursing. After one and one half hours of this arduous labor, we began to see the fruits of our efforts. The room once again looked like the shining, safe abode of our little gift from above. *grr!*
We laughed a little bit about it today. Tomorrow we may laugh a bit more. I fancy that twenty years from now we will be rolling with laughter as we share this information with Lilia's betrothed.
Yesterday, we did not laugh. We only cried and postulated various theories about what strange creature had temporarily taken over the body of our adorable little baby girl.
And just in case you are wondering: Boiling water removes poo from walls very quickly and effectively. Hydrogen peroxide is a must for poo embedded in carpet.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
A Tale of Two Daddies
In the school calendar year 1982-83, I was a long-haired, acrobatically-inclined, sweater-vest-wearing second grader in Miss Glaze's second and third grade split class. Among other academic exercises, Miss Glaze once assigned us a writing project whereby we were to describe, in two to three short paragraphs, a "missing person" -- without ever naming the individual. Looking back, I can only guess that the intent of such an assignment was a mastery of adjectives and adverbs, but at the time I simply saw it as a cool thing to do on specially prepared, pre-lined, ten-by-fourteen-inch paper.
The title of the piece was, in fact, "Missing Person," and this was boldly proclaimed at the top of the page, above a roughly four-by-four-inch box where the student could exercise his or her artistic gifts by providing the reader with a sketch or portrait of said "missing person." I vividly remember sitting there at my east-facing desk, pencil poised thoughtfully in mid air as my second grade brain began to wax literary. Apparently I had no conception of the link between quality of work and quantity of time invested, for I zealously finished the thing off in about 8 or 9 minutes (including the skimpy, hastily-done pencil sketch) and, if memory serves, probably spent the next 20 minutes of allotted time reading the Boxcar Children while sipping chocolate milk from my red Star Wars thermos.
All of that said, I somehow received a fine mark. Not only that, but the literary endeavor has received near legendary status in my childhood home, where it hangs framed in my parents' bedroom between pictures of grandparents and certificates of honor. For the sake of nostalgia, this is how it reads:
This person wears almost the same clothes every day. Sometimes he goes to the store. When he reads, he needs glasses. He has black hair. And he is the person I mostly sit by on the couch. Sometimes he takes me to the park on sunny days.
He has yellow teeth. He is 6 ft. 4 inches. He has brown eyes and black eyebrows. He is 47 years old. But he's the person I'm glad to live with.
This narrative par excellence attempted to describe someone very dear to my second-grade heart: Daddy. It contains a certain amount of creative license (my dad was actually 5 foot 10). I can imagine my forty-something parents immersed in teary-eyed fits of laughter after reading the thing when I proudly presented it. Only a small child would have the audacity to forever commemorate her father by telling the world he "has yellow teeth" and "wears almost the same clothes every day."
My Dad was, in fact, a strikingly handsome man. He did not have yellow teeth. And he was hygenic and sensible enough to not wear the same clothes every day (although his clothes all looked the same to me).
But I guess my parents framed the thing because they were able -- and I'll use an actual literary phrase here -- "to read between the lines." Sure, they laughed feverishly when they first got hold of it. But I imagine that afterward they probably cried a few sincere tears of endearment. It was, after all, a genuine attempt by a sentimentally awkward second grader to describe her hero. My parents understood this. And despite the funny idiosyncrasies, the sweeter side of things are woven into the piece as well: Images of Daddy taking me to the park, sitting side by side on the couch in the evening, and the expression of simple contentment to have Daddy at home.
Things have come full circle now. My Daddy has since passed away, and I have a daughter of my own who adores her Daddy. I think the Lord has given me, in a sense, a way of seeing myself as a little girl with my own Daddy, as I watch Jerry and Lilia. She waits for him by the front window when she knows he will be home soon. She reaches into his front shirt pocket, searching for "treats," when he holds her in his arms. Her contagious laughter echoes through the house when he carries her on his back, running from room to room. And he is the person she mostly sits by on the couch.
The other night Jerry told me that he had been reading Lilia a story earlier that evening while she sat in his lap. In this particular story, all of the main characters are bears. At one point, the Daddy bear arrives home from work, greeting his family. Upon turning to that page my daughter pointed to Jerry and said, beaming and full of two-year-old pride, "You're my Daddy."
It's enough to melt the stoniest of hearts, and my husband's heart is not stony. As he related this sweet story to me, his face literally beamed. It was hard for him to keep from crying. I could see then what that simple little statement from a pint-sized Peanut meant to him. Reading between the lines, if you will, it meant this: "I love my Daddy."
That's what I had meant, too, as I sat there in Miss Glaze's class endeavoring to describe the missing person. The prose was in no way elegant or poetic, but in essence I was saying the same thing that Lilia said to Jerry over the story of a bear family:
"This is my Daddy. I love him a lot."
The title of the piece was, in fact, "Missing Person," and this was boldly proclaimed at the top of the page, above a roughly four-by-four-inch box where the student could exercise his or her artistic gifts by providing the reader with a sketch or portrait of said "missing person." I vividly remember sitting there at my east-facing desk, pencil poised thoughtfully in mid air as my second grade brain began to wax literary. Apparently I had no conception of the link between quality of work and quantity of time invested, for I zealously finished the thing off in about 8 or 9 minutes (including the skimpy, hastily-done pencil sketch) and, if memory serves, probably spent the next 20 minutes of allotted time reading the Boxcar Children while sipping chocolate milk from my red Star Wars thermos.
All of that said, I somehow received a fine mark. Not only that, but the literary endeavor has received near legendary status in my childhood home, where it hangs framed in my parents' bedroom between pictures of grandparents and certificates of honor. For the sake of nostalgia, this is how it reads:
This person wears almost the same clothes every day. Sometimes he goes to the store. When he reads, he needs glasses. He has black hair. And he is the person I mostly sit by on the couch. Sometimes he takes me to the park on sunny days.
He has yellow teeth. He is 6 ft. 4 inches. He has brown eyes and black eyebrows. He is 47 years old. But he's the person I'm glad to live with.
This narrative par excellence attempted to describe someone very dear to my second-grade heart: Daddy. It contains a certain amount of creative license (my dad was actually 5 foot 10). I can imagine my forty-something parents immersed in teary-eyed fits of laughter after reading the thing when I proudly presented it. Only a small child would have the audacity to forever commemorate her father by telling the world he "has yellow teeth" and "wears almost the same clothes every day."
My Dad was, in fact, a strikingly handsome man. He did not have yellow teeth. And he was hygenic and sensible enough to not wear the same clothes every day (although his clothes all looked the same to me).
But I guess my parents framed the thing because they were able -- and I'll use an actual literary phrase here -- "to read between the lines." Sure, they laughed feverishly when they first got hold of it. But I imagine that afterward they probably cried a few sincere tears of endearment. It was, after all, a genuine attempt by a sentimentally awkward second grader to describe her hero. My parents understood this. And despite the funny idiosyncrasies, the sweeter side of things are woven into the piece as well: Images of Daddy taking me to the park, sitting side by side on the couch in the evening, and the expression of simple contentment to have Daddy at home.
Things have come full circle now. My Daddy has since passed away, and I have a daughter of my own who adores her Daddy. I think the Lord has given me, in a sense, a way of seeing myself as a little girl with my own Daddy, as I watch Jerry and Lilia. She waits for him by the front window when she knows he will be home soon. She reaches into his front shirt pocket, searching for "treats," when he holds her in his arms. Her contagious laughter echoes through the house when he carries her on his back, running from room to room. And he is the person she mostly sits by on the couch.
The other night Jerry told me that he had been reading Lilia a story earlier that evening while she sat in his lap. In this particular story, all of the main characters are bears. At one point, the Daddy bear arrives home from work, greeting his family. Upon turning to that page my daughter pointed to Jerry and said, beaming and full of two-year-old pride, "You're my Daddy."
It's enough to melt the stoniest of hearts, and my husband's heart is not stony. As he related this sweet story to me, his face literally beamed. It was hard for him to keep from crying. I could see then what that simple little statement from a pint-sized Peanut meant to him. Reading between the lines, if you will, it meant this: "I love my Daddy."
That's what I had meant, too, as I sat there in Miss Glaze's class endeavoring to describe the missing person. The prose was in no way elegant or poetic, but in essence I was saying the same thing that Lilia said to Jerry over the story of a bear family:
"This is my Daddy. I love him a lot."
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Lessons from Bamboo
I recently heard an interesting fact about Bamboo plants: After planting, the bamboo will remain in the ground, developing here and there, ever so slowly, for a full four years. Then suddenly, in the fifth year or thereabouts, it will shoot up out of the ground, reaching 90 feet in height over the course of about three weeks. For years you can't see any progress, and then -- bang! -- bamboo enough for the hungriest of pandas.
I wasn't watching one of those cool nature shows on PBS when I learned this fact. My hubby told me that it was something he heard on some parenting segment of a radio broadcast. Now I don't know about you, but typically I don't expect to hear about the life cycle of horticulture when listening to a parenting program. That's like hearing about volcanic eruptions on a cooking show or the ecology of tide pools at a financial seminar. But it was brought up by some parent (who was, perhaps, a botanist?) as an apt analogy to raising children.
It especially encourages me because we have officially entered with Lilia what is popularly referred to as the "terrible twos." It's also known as toddlerhood. Yes, folks, the babymoon is over. Toddlerhood is here.
Welcome to the real world.
Over the course of the past month, Jerry and I have found ourselves frequently asking this question: "Uh, where did our adorable and sweet little baby go??" It has prompted us to seek some wisdom from a plethora of sources, and one of those sources is a book called The New Dare to Discipline, by Dr. James Dobson. The focus of the book is having the courage, as a parent, to discipline (train and teach) your children -- consistently, wisely, diligently, and always in a spirit of love and tenderness.
Among other things, Dr. Dobson is absolutely hilarious. As Jerry and I sit and read this book, we often find ourselves just busting up over some of his anecdotes and descriptions. Here is a choice tidbit on 'toddlerhood':
"... let's say a few words about that marvelous time of life known as toddlerhood. It begins with a bang (like the crash of a lamp or a porcelain vase) at about eighteen months of age and runs hot and heavy until about the third birthday... Children between fifteen and thirty-six months of age do not want to be restricted or inhibited in any manner, nor are they inclined to conceal their viewpoint. They resent every nap imposed on them, and bedtime becomes an exhausting, dreaded ordeal each night. They want to play with everything in reach, particularly fragile and expensive ornaments. They prefer using their pants rather than the potty, and insist on eating with their hands. And need I remind you that most of what goes in their mouths is not food. When they break loose in a store, they run as fast as their little fat legs will carry them. They pick up the kitty by its ears and then scream bloody murder when scratched. They want mommy within three feet of them all day, preferably in the role of their full-time playmate. Truly, the toddler is a tiger!
We were laughing like hyenas when reading this, mostly because it describes very nearly word for word what life is now like with our once-adorable, once-angelic little Peanut. We still love her just as much (if not more than) as ever. She's just more... well, toddler-like now.
Part of this toddlerhood thing means training (i.e: discipline). Sometimes it means discipline of the same kind and for the same offense five or six times within as many minutes. It's exhausting, and it changes your daily life. I don't remember when I last folded laundry or fed the cat (is he even still alive?!). Dinners are often delayed or postponed indefinitely, and need I even mention that romance with one's spouse is uh, well, not as frequent as before. *ahem*
There are times when I really, truly wonder if it's making any difference, this intentional parenting thing. When I find myself telling Lilia, "For the one-hundred-thousandth time, do not take objects off of the counter top," and then I proceed to hold her little arms down firmly at her sides, gently but firmly telling her no and that I love her and that if she does it again it will mean a hand-flick or a spanking because I want her to stay safe... Is it really making any difference? Will she ever get it?
That's where the bamboo part comes in. It's still early days. The planting has been done, and now there's the tending, the watering, the care-taking. And then one day, as most parents say, your child does something or says something and you realize that the growth is there. It shoots up before your eyes like bamboo, all of a sudden. And it's because you were diligent to watch, to love, to give, to care.
I've not known anything as exhausting as being a parent. Teaching children in a classroom is small potatoes compared to this daunting endeavor. But I can honestly say that parenting -- even the hard parts -- has brought more joy to my life than I ever thought possible. Watching that little Peanut toddle around the room is just the cutest little thing in the world to me.
If I can experience that level of joy now, when the growth is still hidden, what will it be like when the shoots appear? I can only guess, and pray, that the harvest will be unimaginably sweet.
So here's to bamboo. (And now I should probably go see if the cat is still alive).
I wasn't watching one of those cool nature shows on PBS when I learned this fact. My hubby told me that it was something he heard on some parenting segment of a radio broadcast. Now I don't know about you, but typically I don't expect to hear about the life cycle of horticulture when listening to a parenting program. That's like hearing about volcanic eruptions on a cooking show or the ecology of tide pools at a financial seminar. But it was brought up by some parent (who was, perhaps, a botanist?) as an apt analogy to raising children.
It especially encourages me because we have officially entered with Lilia what is popularly referred to as the "terrible twos." It's also known as toddlerhood. Yes, folks, the babymoon is over. Toddlerhood is here.
Welcome to the real world.
Over the course of the past month, Jerry and I have found ourselves frequently asking this question: "Uh, where did our adorable and sweet little baby go??" It has prompted us to seek some wisdom from a plethora of sources, and one of those sources is a book called The New Dare to Discipline, by Dr. James Dobson. The focus of the book is having the courage, as a parent, to discipline (train and teach) your children -- consistently, wisely, diligently, and always in a spirit of love and tenderness.
Among other things, Dr. Dobson is absolutely hilarious. As Jerry and I sit and read this book, we often find ourselves just busting up over some of his anecdotes and descriptions. Here is a choice tidbit on 'toddlerhood':
"... let's say a few words about that marvelous time of life known as toddlerhood. It begins with a bang (like the crash of a lamp or a porcelain vase) at about eighteen months of age and runs hot and heavy until about the third birthday... Children between fifteen and thirty-six months of age do not want to be restricted or inhibited in any manner, nor are they inclined to conceal their viewpoint. They resent every nap imposed on them, and bedtime becomes an exhausting, dreaded ordeal each night. They want to play with everything in reach, particularly fragile and expensive ornaments. They prefer using their pants rather than the potty, and insist on eating with their hands. And need I remind you that most of what goes in their mouths is not food. When they break loose in a store, they run as fast as their little fat legs will carry them. They pick up the kitty by its ears and then scream bloody murder when scratched. They want mommy within three feet of them all day, preferably in the role of their full-time playmate. Truly, the toddler is a tiger!
We were laughing like hyenas when reading this, mostly because it describes very nearly word for word what life is now like with our once-adorable, once-angelic little Peanut. We still love her just as much (if not more than) as ever. She's just more... well, toddler-like now.
Part of this toddlerhood thing means training (i.e: discipline). Sometimes it means discipline of the same kind and for the same offense five or six times within as many minutes. It's exhausting, and it changes your daily life. I don't remember when I last folded laundry or fed the cat (is he even still alive?!). Dinners are often delayed or postponed indefinitely, and need I even mention that romance with one's spouse is uh, well, not as frequent as before. *ahem*
There are times when I really, truly wonder if it's making any difference, this intentional parenting thing. When I find myself telling Lilia, "For the one-hundred-thousandth time, do not take objects off of the counter top," and then I proceed to hold her little arms down firmly at her sides, gently but firmly telling her no and that I love her and that if she does it again it will mean a hand-flick or a spanking because I want her to stay safe... Is it really making any difference? Will she ever get it?
That's where the bamboo part comes in. It's still early days. The planting has been done, and now there's the tending, the watering, the care-taking. And then one day, as most parents say, your child does something or says something and you realize that the growth is there. It shoots up before your eyes like bamboo, all of a sudden. And it's because you were diligent to watch, to love, to give, to care.
I've not known anything as exhausting as being a parent. Teaching children in a classroom is small potatoes compared to this daunting endeavor. But I can honestly say that parenting -- even the hard parts -- has brought more joy to my life than I ever thought possible. Watching that little Peanut toddle around the room is just the cutest little thing in the world to me.
If I can experience that level of joy now, when the growth is still hidden, what will it be like when the shoots appear? I can only guess, and pray, that the harvest will be unimaginably sweet.
So here's to bamboo. (And now I should probably go see if the cat is still alive).
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Behind Prison Walls
When Chuck Colson died on April 21, people remembered him as one of two things: President Nixon's "hatchet man" in the Watergate Scandal, or a leader in Christian evangelical circles. He was both of those things, and I imagine he was much more, too.
After his conversion (which, by the way, was after his involvement in the whole Watergate thing), he served time in prison and then founded Prison Fellowship, a ministry that has shared the love of Christ with inmates all over the world. Because he was a prisoner, he could empathize with prison inmates in a way that many of us cannot. He understood the brokenness, the sense of isolation, the despondency. He went to them personally, telling them that God loves them, that He sent His Son to die for them, that there is hope, even for them. Many of those prisoners trusted Christ, and some are now following in Colson's footsteps, reaching out to others as he reached out to them.
I was reading an article recently about Colson, and the author noted how God is not a respecter of persons. He extends his offer of salvation to the entire world. As the author put it, "The worship arising behind prison walls sounds just as sweet to God as the prayers from the church pews." I think I often forget this. I feel all cozy and justified on Sunday morning, but I often forget that there was a time when I was a prisoner, too. I wasn't incarcerated, but I was a captive -- to my sin, to my pride, to my hopeless despair. And then Jesus came one night and set me free.
I'm told that when a convict is released from prison after serving time, there is (typically) a far greater appreciation for freedom. Similarly, at those times when I give serious remembrance to my life before Christ, my self-righteousness and pride are shattered like glass, and I feel what it was like to be a prisoner. I remember. And it's at those times when Jesus is sweeter to me than on any Sunday morning. He becomes to me once again what He should be at every waking and sleeping moment: Rescuer, Hero, Lovingkindness, Friend.
Chuck Colson walked in the footsteps of Jesus by taking the good news of salvation to the dregs of society. He has left a legacy, and I am grateful to him for that.
Really though, we are all the dregs, every one of us, and we all need a Savior. We are masters at disguise, but God is not fooled. He looks at us behind our prison bars with pity and love, and He waits for us to step out toward Him, and sing.
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