It's Not ALL Precious

I'm pretty sure this particular blog has been done to death, but I don't really care.  "Frozen" parodies and lip syncing videos have been done to death, but people seem to like those.  This is my lip syncing blog.  

*side note:  I find it very disturbing that a lot of videos are being done in cars.  If I ever get hit by someone doing a lip syncing video while driving, I will not be happy.  At all.  I will probably bite them.  Hard.  

As I scroll through my Facebook news feed, I get inundated with trite quotes, trying to be deep but really intending to inflict as much guilt upon the reader as possible, telling me to embrace every moment of my children's every living second because I'll never get it back.  Time is precious, therefore, everything my kid does is precious, and if I'm not living in the moment, I'm wasting precious time.  Like, right now, I'm wasting precious time by not being upstairs with my children in their overheated room at my parents' house that smells like farts, chlorine, and something unidentifiable but definitely dead, drinking in the precious moments of them fighting with their cousins over who gets to play Minecraft next.  Is that one word or two?  I don't know.  

The problem I have with those saccharine quotes, often superimposed over a nice picture of a child or a flower or a yak, is that I happen to be an introvert who lives in the real world.  Why should that matter, you ask?  Well, as an introvert, I get drained by being around too many people too often.  Just completely worn out, and this is around people I enjoy immensely in small doses.  The problem with kids is that they happen to be people.  Some days (okay, at different points every.single.day), they happen to be people with whom I would not choose to associate if I wasn't bound by law to do so.  They have personalities that often I enjoy, but then I often don't enjoy them either.  It's those times where I'm not enjoying them that I get annoyed with the idea that I am meant to savor everything they do as  a precious moment.  I just want them to go away, or, better yet, I want to go away.  Finding the energy to hover over my children like a helicopter, enjoying everything they do all the time even when I'm not enjoying what they're doing, is not reality.  So, to those who create those quotes on those pretty pictures, I have to say it:  suck it.  You either don't have kids, or you are living in a fantasy world where your child is the constant center, all other relationships are completely ignored, and you're inwardly dying a slow, precious death.  Congratulations to you, and I have pills if you need them.  

So, now, for your entertainment and possible harsh judgement, I will share with you some (just a handful; barely a sampling) times when I did not find my inner Fantasy Super Mom (mainly because she doesn't exist) and think my children utterly precious:  

• Pregnancy, when all my internal organs were squashed to fit an MRE package and I became a woman capable of producing enough methane to heat entire Scandinavian towns in the dead of winter.  
• Childbirth, when I was laid out on a cold operating table, nekkid and my no-no special places freshly shaved by a male nurse.  
• Having a newborn pee in my mouth.  
• Getting covered in poop too many times to count.  
• Having my child cover herself from head to toe in Vaseline.  You know what should work to get that out?  Dawn.  They use it on the oil spill animals.  Guess what doesn't work on a Vaseline-covered child?  Dawn.  Great for penguins.  Lousy for children.  
• Retrieving shoes off the roof.
• Finding my iced tea maker has been turned into a cooking pot for every cereal and cracker in the pantry.
• Finding my son in the front yard with nothing on but a smile, running through the sprinkler, because he couldn't take the 2 minutes to look for his swimsuit which he swore he couldn't find even though it was in the place where it's always kept and where he has found it every other time.  
• The endless bad jokes.  I can't even fake laugh anymore.  Really, I'm doing them a favor.  Kids have got to learn that not everything they do is a winning effort deserving praise and adoration.  "Knock knock."  "Who's there?"  "Cow."  "Cow who?"  "I love chicken."  Seriously.  Not precious.  Or funny.  
• Tantrums.  All of them. 
• The endless barrage of tattle tales.  
• Homework.  Why do they even give out homework to first graders?  I did my time.  I graduated.  I find it supremely un-precious having to sit and go through school all over again.
• The daily Cooking of the Amazing Dinner and the daily "I Don't Like That" followed by the daily "You're Gonna Eat It or You're Gonna Starve" routine.  I am not a short order cook any more than I am a tropical fairy queen.  
• Laundry.  

Finding the energy to be completely plugged into my children every second of every day on top of trying to maintain some small part of the Person I Was Before I Became a Parent on top of keeping my house clean while little people follow me and destroy my handiwork on top of feeling guilty for not having my children signed up for sports, activities, cooking classes, and dog training courses (because all of that means more people), is impossible.  This does not mean I don't adore my kids.  This does not mean I don't find plenty of precious moments to enjoy each day.  It just means that I cannot center my world around my kids because, like I said, they're people.  People, in large doses, suck my soul dry, and knowing that it's okay to not find everything they do wonderful means that the special moments remain special, the tough moments become learning opportunities for all of us, and the balance between the two means I'm still a human raising humans to be humans that other humans want to be around.  

And just in case my cynicism is leaving a bad taste in your mouth, I will leave you with this piece of optimism.  

I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that every day, I will, without fail, find one thing very, very precious that I will enjoy immensely no matter what has happened during the day:

Bedtime.  

Scandalous Hope

This isn't my typical blog intended to make you laugh.  This is me showing some of my other sides, namely my faith and my philosophy.  Turn back now if you'd rather wait for something lighter.  Don't worry.  I won't be offended.  

I had the privilege (yes, privilege) of going to a funeral for one of my oldest friends' mother who I have known for 27 years.  When I first moved to Rockford, I was a shy child of 8, resentful of having to leave my familiar life in Iowa, terrified of what the new school year would hold for me.  On my first day, I met a girl named Rachel Allen, and she and I became fast, fabulous friends.  To this day, she remains one of the most important people in my life because she was there for me in a time of life when I was ready to just fall apart and give up completely.  She ate lunch with me.  She played at recess with me.  She welcomed me into her world without hesitation, and, being the person I am who has always enjoyed a small circle of friends, I put her right at the center so I could navigate my new surroundings.

Rachel stayed by my side all through elementary and middle school.  She was (and still is) brilliant and patient and kind and helpful.  She talked me through many tearful nights of algebra homework.  She taught me that no matter how much life hurts, like when I lost my grandmother Turnquist or my dog Terra, that there is always something to smile about and hope for.  Rachel and I took tennis lessons through the park district which is something I would NEVER have attempted on my own.  We went to Camp Timber-Lee together, which is another thing I would never have done, and she saw me through my homesickness and showed me that camp can be fun, even on a horse.  Rachel loves horses.  Because of Rachel, I learned to live life a bit more adventurously.  

I absolutely despised sleepovers.  I liked my own bed, and I liked the familiarity of my home and my room.  I would get sad and scared at someone else's home.  In fact, I didn't really even enjoy going to play at other people's homes.  But I was always happy to be at Rachel's.  It wasn't just because she was my best friend in the whole wide world but also because her home came with a bonus:  her parents, especially her mother.  It was her mother's funeral I went to on Friday.

Mrs. Donna Allen has always been a bright spot in my life.  When I would go to her home to play with Rachel, she treated me like her own child.  When I would sleep over, she always took the time to say a prayer with me and give me a hug and a kiss goodnight.  I trusted her quiet strength and her loving heart and knew that being in her home, in her care, was the second best thing to being at my own home.   Before I was even aware of it, Mrs. Allen was teaching me compassion, kindness, and love on a level I might never have understood.  

While we were remembering her life and weeping for our loss, we were also celebrating that this remarkable woman was in the presence of her Savior.  I sat between my own two amazing parents, holding their hands, grateful that I still have them, and keenly aware that this scenario would one day be playing out in my own life--the loss of a parent who loved me beyond comprehension, raised me to change the world one life at a time, taught me the importance of laughter, and the necessity of forgiveness.  

As I sat, weeping for those of us left behind and rejoicing for Mrs. Allen's release from the world and all its pain, I was struck by what a beautiful blessing it is to experience joy and hope in the midst of grief.  I have watched sadly as my generation, my peers, have gotten distracted by the details of "religion" and seem to be missing out on the unexplainable joy that comes from knowing Jesus, loving Him, accepting His love, and showing it to others.  Instead, we fight about the right and the wrong of this social issue or that one.  We decide that this political policy or that political policy betray the "Christian" roots of our nation and therefore must be changed before the whole country goes to pot.  We point fingers at the close-mindedness of this church and at the liberal tendencies of that church.  We forget to love the ones Christ has put in our paths because they don't see the world the way we see it.  But the truth is, the answers to all of our problems, our concerns, our grievances against our fellow man, are not in this world.  They will not be solved here, so why do we spend so much time bogged down in the muck and mire of these things when Joy beyond measure is ours to embrace and live in and roll around in and let seep into our very souls?  

Mrs. Allen kept her eyes on her Heavenly Father, and as I listened to the stories of her life and her faith, I was greatly inspired to start living as she did, even just a little:  praying, hoping, helping, loving.  I am a blessed person to have had her in my life and for her to have shared her family with me.  I am blessed to have grown up alongside Rachel and to have sung in her wedding and to have played on the beaches of San Diego and to have warded off mosquitoes in a drafty cabin.  I am blessed to follow the adventures of her son Matthew and his wife Jennifer and their boys as they work and minister in Honduras.  I am blessed beyond anything I deserve, and I am thankful.  

It seems scandalous to find hope in the midst of grief, but to go through grief without hope at all is devastating.  I know my friends who have not found the Hope that I have think me naive or deceived or downright crazy like an adult who still believes in Santa Claus, but I will continue in this legacy of hope, lovingly laid down for me by Mrs. Allen, my Uncle Jim, my grandparents, and the thousands and thousands who have gone before me, knowing that one day, my hope will be complete.

The service closed with one of my favorite choruses:

Turn your eyes upon Jesus.  Look full in His wonderful face.  And the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace.  

What a promise.  What a truth.  What a beautiful, wonderful woman.