Confessions – Page 22 – The UnderToad

The Poop-Sponge

I came down to breakfast this morning and John said, “I’m having a bad day. I don’t know what’s wrong. I just feel angry. I’m experiencing your kind of irrational anger and I don’t know what else to do, so I’m just going to express myself.” He then went on to vent about the two things which had him completely wound up by 9:30am on a Saturday morning: my burning dinner in his griddle (which is actually a non-stick skillet) the night before and the fact that I did not delineate clearly enough which sponge was the “poop-sponge.”

Let me back up.

Carter has been using the “potty-chair” all week. As an instrument in potty-training, it is debatable whether cleaning the potty chair is in fact preferable to changing a poopy diaper. I have to admit, I’m glad Eliott never took to using it. Carter, however, immediately recognized it as the one thing in the house that could only possibly be fully hers, and loves it. So I got out a new sponge to clean the potty-chair all week, and casually mentioned this fact to John. Unfortunately, there is no visible difference in the poop-sponge and the other sponge. They are both relatively new, blue, and located near the kitchen sink.

So part B of his anger this morning was over the fact that my poop-sponge directions had caused confusion, to say the least. Paranoia was the natural result of my inattention to detail in both location of sponge, and explanation of location. (It turns out he did mistakenly clean the entire kitchen with the poop-sponge. In hindsight, I might not have pointed this out ~~today~~ ever and/or attempted a better job of convincing him otherwise.) It also does not matter to John that the possibility of even a trace of Carter-feces on the sponge in question was negligible at best. I had, after all, mostly cleaned the potty chair with the flushable wipes first, and then merely disinfected it with a sponge and anti-bacterial soap. Seriously.

But remember, this is the man who refused to allow me to wash cloth diapers in the same machine that his own clothes would also be washed. Nevermind the logistics here and the fact that clothes and diapers would never actually intermingle within the machine. Remember too that the entire conversation started this morning with the disclaimer that John was experiencing my irrational anger, which cannot be appeased with logic, no matter how hard one tries. I actually understand this.

For the first time in my life (I dare admit), I responded in a way that put only John’s interests at heart. This is to say, I did what he always does to me, when I’m in such a mood. (Because, as my mother oft explains, this is how men work. They communicate best by showing, rather than telling, and treat others as they wish to be treated, rather than taking the female verbal cues to “LEAVE ME THE EFF ALONE WHEN I’M IN THESE MOODS!”)

Completely against my nature and desire, I climbed on top of him and enraptured him in a full body bear hug, right there at the kitchen table. I soothed him with loving reassurances that “Everything will be okay, honey,” and “It is all my fault if the entire family contracts Hepatitis-C,” and finally, the clencher, “Don’t worry. I still love you.” Unsurprisingly, he reacted exactly like I do, which is to stiffen, whine, and attempt to back out of the hug. Though my size is no advantage in such a situation, I did have him pinned to the chair. This is about the time Carter noticed someone usurping her spot, became jealous, and proceeded to angrily kick at me saying, “No Mommy. Stop it. No hugs. NO HUGS!” (I thought, where are you when I’m the recipient of such torture, huh kid?!)

Unfortunately, the hug had little to no real effect on The Undertoad, which has lingered throughout the day, bouncing back and forth between Dad and Mom, Mom and Dad, 2 out of 3 meals, and plans to have the house clean by bedtime.

I’m not sure how they do it, but children manage to pick up on these sorts of “I got nothing today” moods. It’s even worse when Mom and Dad are experiencing it at the same time. The children develop a vague awareness of control, who has it and who does not. John and I both admit, the best thing to do on days like this is to just mentally hunker down, whisper when we feel like yelling, laugh when we feel like crying, and close our eyes a lot. Oh. And whiskey doesn’t hurt.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel. With the girls both in bed at exactly 8:01, John opened the Netflix envelope downstairs to reveal Project Runway Season 8 Disc 1.

Take that, Undertoad.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

Just So I Don’t Forget

When I was about 10 years old, I got on a chair in my closet and brought down a very old box which had been through a couple of moves without being re-opened. Inside were a handful of relics from my childhood: my christening gown, a children’s china tea set, my baby book, and a small box of various cards, newspaper clippings, and pre-school awards.

As the 2nd of four children with a fairly meticulous (and possibly somewhat bored at the time) mother, every single page of my baby book is filled out. Besides pictures (of which there are plenty), my mom documented all of my first doctor visits, saved a lock of hair, and even filled out the date of every single tooth on that weird tooth chart. She admits now that she never got that far with my little sisters’ baby books.

Eliott and Carter each have a baby book. Sadly, though they are my first two, their baby books are more empty than those of my younger sisters. It isn’t that I don’t have enough time, energy, nor creativity to do it. No. I’m blaming modern technology for this. First, when is the last time I actually developed a roll of pictures? (Answer: college.) Second, when the majority of the universe is documenting everything from what we’re eating for dinner tonight to where we’re hanging out RIGHT NOW (and with whom) via Facebook and Twitter, it’s no wonder we don’t see the point in writing down the exact moment that 2 year molar poked through. (For the record, I will say the tooth chart with Eliott seemed stupid until Carter started cutting teeth and then I really did wish I’d had some sort of a guide to go by from the previous child. I’m over it now though, which means, the task was exactly as important as I originally deemed it.)

That said, there is much about my own baby book that I really do love and want my own children to be able to experience for themselves one day. The difference is that rather than piling a chair with books to reach the tops of their closets, they’ll have to search through the archived bowels of Google (if it even still exists by then) to find THIS. Very. Blog.

So here are a few nuggets that I’d like to not one day forget:

Eliott:

I’m not sure if this is true for all 4-year-olds, but it is certainly true for my 4-year-old. You have an imagination and can make things up that reasonable adults would wonder where you first heard them. Likely, you heard them nowhere. Also, you have dreams, remember them, and can talk about them the next morning. Your dreams, in fact, very similar to adult dreams, speak volumes of the things in your life which are important to you and the things you worry about. (Example, one morning last spring you woke up clearly upset and proceeded to explain that you were dreaming about “circle time” but none of the kids were following directions. This had you, my just-like-your-Dad-type-A rule-follower, seriously stressed out. You went to school later that morning and explained the exact scenario to your teacher, all details intact.)

Also, though you don’t fully understand many social conventions yet (such as the true meaning of the word “friend” and the difference between “friend” and “best friend”) you seem to have a very keen grasp on who likes you and who does not. On the other hand, you are completely oblivious to the fact that the 10 and 11 year old boys next door are clearly not interested in your pink princess shoes. It’s pretty cute.

You like to play house with your sister, whom you have pet-named “Gancia” (pronounced Gayne-cee-ya). The two of you pretend like the downstairs powder room is an elevator and the cabinet is your car. You often fight over who gets to drive.

You have already begun to plan your princess wedding to your husband Peyton, which is strange considering you have not yet been to a real wedding. Yesterday you asked if you were old enough to get married and I said no, you have to be a grown up. When you asked why, I explained that there are a couple things you should probably do before you get married. Some examples included: go to school, learn to drive a car, move out of your mom and dad’s house, and probably go on a couple dates. You agreed and said you’ll be ready to get married when you are six. You and Peyton could ride your bikes to the wedding.

Finally, about a month ago, I was getting you and Carter ready for bed and I forgot to grab your underwear after baths. When I told you to just wear your PJ’s without underwear you squealed and giggled, “No! That is SO weird.” Off-hand, apparently I responded with, “No it’s very liberating,” because you are now currently really into not wearing underwear. And every time you do it, you announce, “It’s very liverating.”

Carter:

At the beginning of the summer you could hardly speak two syllable words. Now you are stringing entire sentences together and actually using most prepositions correctly. A few of your cuter common phrases currently include:

“Where did Eliott go?”

“I take a nap.”

“Mommy. Hey, Mommy. Right there. Uh-huh.”

“Daddy not home. Daddy at work.”

“Here! Thank you. Thank you, Mommy. Thank you.”

On the surface you appear to be very polite, somewhat in your own world, and obliviously self-confident. Daddy and I agree that this might work out in your favor one day, as long as you don’t completely lose the love of the big sister who adores you enough to run from any room in the house to fetch your Boo anytime Mommy scolds you. The fact is, you are a bit spoiled, completely by nature and not nurture, which I predict to one day manifest itself in true Paulus style arrogance. Again, not a bad thing in my opinion. You laugh a lot and sometimes it surprises me the things you pick up on that seem funny. You scold the dogs next door with the authority of an 8 year old, but secretly, all animals freak you out. (Even cats. Tiny benign ones.) You have learned from Eliott how to say “Yes, Mommy” or “Yes, Daddy” at exactly the right moments and you seem to know that apologizing instantly after doing anything wrong will get you almost anywhere.

You are scary smart. And like your big sister, you are really stinking beautiful.

I continue to pray that both of you intimidate all men until you are at least 24, when you meet the one who is enough like your father to marry you.

Confessions, Eliott

Mid-Summer Vacation Alternate Read

*The following was written yesterday and lost before publication, hence the condensed version you saw published. Somehow I recovered this today (on my iPhone no less) and like it enough to get over the repetition in subject. I’m also over my inability to figure out how to do italics while typing on a phone.*

For the record, both of my little sisters are getting married this year. Truth be told in entirety, in three months I can say that all three of my siblings got married in 2011, which is kind of like my worst nightmare as a parent, and I’m surprised my parents’ heads haven’t exploded yet. (Though, John and his one brother also got married exactly 2 weeks apart and his parents also survived, so it is nice to know that it can be done, should similar circumstances befall me one day in 2032.)

I seem to remember a few weeks ago (a few?) the onset of anxiety as a result of imagining an entire summer without preschool. This was about a minute before I was reminded that my manifesto to “never be in another wedding after my own” doesn’t extend to immediate family.

Tomorrow, July will be exactly half over. So far, I haven’t had even one entire week of kid-entertainment planning duty. Awesome.

First it was two weeks of swim lessons, which, although we got stuck in the what-almost-killed-us 9:15am class, turned out to be shared with two very cool women from church and a new friend named Hilary who ended up on my porch for book club before the lessons were over. Then, the girls went to Michigan with Daddy and I made dress decisions with Laura. The next week was Vacation Bible School (only for Eliott) which is the first time I’ve noticed exactly how rarely Carter is not running her mouth. The location of VBS also resulted in the discovery of my new favorite grocery store. While Eliott was filled with the Holy Spirit, our freezer with filled with discounted meat. Amen.

Then, John and I had our first weekend together and without kids since our honeymoon (which was actually last summer). We spent two nights away visiting two different sets of friends, celebrated first pregnancies on both ends, and drank on behalf of the moms-to-be. We checked in on the un-sold condo and two hours later (in the middle of Ikea), our realtor called to tell us after almost 11 months, someone finally wanted to buy it. There is a very delicate emotional balance of relief and disappointment that comes with selling property at a loss, but I’m guessing that this is another one of those big picture moments of life that I will not actually be looking back on one day and regretting. In the meantime, I’m trusting the difference will be made up in the form of business for my genius, not to mention dead-sexy, and competent, attorney husband. (No pressure darling.)

Carter’s birthday came early with Grandma and Grandpa (and fireworks), came again on time with just us, and came yet again with Mimi and Pop Pop in Tennessee. The kid now associates lighting the citronella candles on the back porch with singing “Happy Birthday.” While my children were in Tennessee, I was in Las Vegas for more sister/wedding celebrations, which I graciously forgot was three time zones away. I turn 30 in exactly one month and one day and am not for one minute embarrassed to admit that I’m possibly a little too old for staying out until 3am. (But apparently I’m not too old for 4 inch heels, trading clothes with 25 year olds, and blonde wigs.)

The recovery has been made easier by the fact that while I was gone, my type-A-in-denial husband had fully gutted the three most disorganized rooms in the house and put them back together in a way that would make the producers of Hoarders proud. Our moms will be happy to know that if we have any more tornadoes this year, we can now fit in the closet under the stairs and won’t be forced to brave the wind in the middle of the night to run next door for safety. Eliott, who permitted me a three hour nap yesterday afternoon, exclaimed simply: “Daddy made the house FUN!” This was her response to finding that an entire closet of “lost toys” had been found. Nevermind that more than half of them are Happy Meals prizes.

So we have three weeks ahead of a rigorous schedule balancing time at the gym, the pool, the park, and the library, before Erica’s wedding in Spokane. Oh and I might have a few books to read for book club. My life is difficult.

Today, I’m eating the first tomatoes out of my garden with mozzarella cheese.

Confessions

Mid-Summer Vacation Update

So I realize how very little I’ve updated the blog this summer. The reasons are several-fold. (1) I never did get rid of my iPhone allowing the majority of my daily computer time to be complete at the breakfast table within but one cup of coffee. I’m not sure if it was teacher discount or the sudden rise in Wait Law productivity which prompted me to keep it. Either way, barring an accidental drop into a lake or toilet, the iPhone stays. And though it can, and has been done, using it to type an entire blog entry is far less appealing than not writing at all. (2) Both of my sisters are getting married in the next 3 months, a fact which nulled and technically voided my manifesto to avoid official participation in any wedding after my own. (A further fact of which I was fully aware at the time of my original declaration. Who could have predicted that both of my only two sisters would actually get married, and then, in the same year? *Answer: possibly my mother-in-law, who successfully wed-off both of her sons within 2 weeks of each other.* Furthermore, I play not only the role of a married bridesmaid (just hate the substitution of “matron” here) but also the mother figure to the flower girls. Result: lots of dresses, shoes, decisions (not necessarily mine but of which I play a role in the process), celebrating, emails, phone calls, and traveling. *Aside to the brides-to-be: in your potential wedding planning stress, do not read into this as complaint or begrudgery. Simply noting the reasons for summer busyness which might have otherwise gone undocumented.* (3) I have enjoyed an afternoon nap almost every non-weekend afternoon that I have been home with my children. In fact, revolving my daily schedule around nap-time has never been more selfishly motivated. For those of you who will understand this, compare it to siesta during every session of counseling anything but CIT’s or 8-year olds. And then there was… (4) Swim Lessons. (5) Vacation Bible School (6) Trip to Michigan. (7) John and Claire’s 4th of July celebrate-pregnant-friends-around-North-Carolina-who-do-not-include-Claire weekend trip without children. *We drank because the mothers could not.* (8) Trip to Tennessee. (9) Bachelorette party in Las Vegas.

This brings us to today.

I have a little bit of jet-lag which I have exactly three weeks to get over before the wedding in Spokane, my 30th birthday, the beginning of school, the wedding in Tennessee, and Thanksgiving in Michigan.

So forgive me for my lack of summertime stories to tell. It isn’t that they do not exist. It is more that they lose their luster when compared to that ever tempting afternoon nap. And by now we all know my stories are good like a soufflet is good: timed to perfection, served immediately, and, if left unfinished, really no way to bag up and take home the leftovers.

In every way, our summer has been mostly non stop excitement. But none of it is happening in Clemmons.

Things are pleasantly boring around here.

And if you need me, I’ll be at the pool or the gym all week…catching up on my reading for Book Club.

Confessions

Things Unsaid

Just read: This Life is in Your Hands: One Dream, Sixty Acres, and a Family Undone by Melissa Coleman.

It is the true story written by the oldest daughter of Eliot Coleman, a man who took his wife and child to the tip of Maine in the 70s and decided to “go back to the land” by homesteading.

What resulted, ultimately, were several books and articles (many about organic farming which have since become quite beneficial to the current national trend) and one very broken family.

At our book club discussion of the memoir last night, to one question came this answer: “Just because it can be written does not mean it should. Sure, everybody’s got a story to tell. That doesn’t mean they all need to be published.”

I’m wondering if I should heed such wisdom and stop now.

Overheard this week at the gym (a younger-than-me-female trainer to a senior citizen on a recumbent bike):

Trainer: Oh wow! So you’re 89! You’re like, almost 90! Aren’t you excited by that?

89 Year Old: No.

Trainer: Oh man! I would be like so excited if I was almost 90. I mean, when I’m almost 90, that’s like, so awesome that you’ve lived for so long. It should be exciting. I would be excited.

89 Year Old: …

Trainer: Well okay! You’re doin’ great! Good to see ya. See you around.

Hard to read the facial expression from my position directly next to the man, but I think I was feeling a strong sense of WTF coming from the awesome-almost-90-year-old. I love my gym. I do. And I hate that I’m about to say anything negative at all about the place that gives me a full two and a half hours of actual happy serenity whenever I may need it (as long as it is before 1pm Monday-Saturday). So here’s the thing unsaid: the trainers at this gym (and so many others for that matter) are obnoxiously, overwhelmingly, and disproportionately positive. It pains me to hear one 30-something male trainer use “Right on, right on,” like it is still 1999. Most of the time, I think they only hear themselves, and like shot-guns they walk around spraying people with random blasts of all-encompassing-encouragement, but they never linger long enough to see who/what actually gets hit. Lots of words. Lots of finger points. Very little eye-contact. Strangely reminiscent of the dining halls at Baylor. I get the feeling many of them wake up each day with the goal to “live intentionally.”

Overheard today, the last day of Vacation Bible School (a mother standing in the doorway to two, 7-year old girls sitting on the floor behind her):

Exasperated Mother: EE-mily. Carly-Faith. You have about ten seconds to get off that floor. Nay-ow. Come own.

Things unsaid: 10 whole seconds? Lady. Do you realize how long that actually is? Did you mean to say TWO seconds? Because ten entire seconds is probably a little longer than you are willing to stand there holding the door for some 7-year olds, judging by your tone. Then again, maybe that’s exactly why the girls are on the floor in the first place.

And finally, another parking situation.

Vacation Bible School is at the Baptist church in Winston-Salem that could moonlight as a community college. Eliott and Carter assume we’re at some amusement park because they have courtesy “trains” to pick you up in the parking lot and drive you the half or full mile to the church entrance.

It is huge.

Finding a parking spot for the one and only VBS that takes place from 9-12 anymore, also a bit of a nightmare. Normally I am picky. Normally I choose not to park next to jabronies who have managed to wedge their mini-vans directly on top of or even slightly over the line into an empty spot. Given however, that my car is compact, and my clock was reading 12:03, I knew I had to take the first thing that came available.

I wedged in.

I almost had to crawl through my trunk to get out.

I resisted the urge to write my name in red car door paint all over the green mini-van in question.

As we’re leaving the building, I’m hoping the driver of the van has already picked up her kids. I would be out of such luck. Rather, I would be in such luck as to walk out at the exact same moment as the green-mini-van-owner who is recognizing me from the gym and introducing herself as we walk.

She then pushes a button on her key which opens EVERY DAMN DOOR ON THAT GREEN MINI-VAN (and I think turns on the DVD players inside, but I can’t be sure). Though she is not the same mother who was willing to wait a full 10 seconds for the kids on the floor, she might as well be. Lady’s in no hurry to get anyone inside a car, but her van doors have now halved the space between my car and hers.

Eliott was forced to crawl in from Carter’s side and buckle her own seatbelt.

Things unsaid (in my best, most-chipper, southern church voice): Well! Look at that! Luckily I’m not actually one of those (hushed) overweight Baptists who wouldn’t be able to fit in this 3 inch space to get into my driver’s seat right now. About that play-date…call me!

Confessions

Grandiloquence

For the past day or so, I have been going back and forth via email, with a friend and former colleague, working on editing a paper for her PhD. The subject of the paper is not necessarily one with which I am well versed but as I perform routine clean up, make suggestions, reword, and (admittedly) find myself looking up definitions of words I know I’ve heard before but haven’t ever actually used myself, I’m finding my own response to this challenge to be personally astonishing. What I’m trying to say, in short, is that I think I might possess a little bit of articulatory genius.

I’m serious.

I sort of hate to admit this, but I’m experiencing what feels like a mental high which can only come from the strategic placement of the English language from fingertips, to computer keys, to screen. Even as I type this confession, I realize the new level to which I have either risen or sunk. In fact, I can already count on one hand the number of my regular readers who are no longer with me on this post (my sister Laura, for one, I’m sure). I know. I’m a total freak. I’m experiencing a giddy sense of pleasure at getting into the head of someone, via Times New Roman size 12 writing, and helping her to say exactly what she wanted to say but couldn’t quite do on her own. I’m sort of mentally tingling with the academic exchange of ideas on a topic for which I otherwise have no personal invested interest.

Wow. I feel like I’m getting to lead conditioning training for some professional sports team. Only, I don’t care about the sport. And I really don’t even follow the team. But I just know they are going to be stronger because of me, and if they win more games this season, as a result of this one or two days of conditioning practice, I am going to count myself as partially responsible. And I’m going to yell at my TV on the night they accept their trophy, or whatever, “I DID THAT! That was me! In part.”

Oh. To be the man behind the man.

I just wish there was a way to solicit myself and make a living out of this. I’m thinking, hey, Obama? I know pretty much nothing about politics and world affairs, but considering that neither does 90% of America, you and I could really make a difference in the world with your speeches. “Bestowed upon?” Who says ‘bestowed upon’ outside of a church (and really, only at weddings)? No no no, just say “given to me.” “Forbearers?” –Okay, I understand that you didn’t actually type this thing so it isn’t your fault that you didn’t catch the red squiggly line underneath that word, denoting that it does not in fact exist in the English language, according to Microsoft, which could have served as your first clue– but NObody says forbearers. Just say, “The men and women who came before us.”

Hey people. I’m a writer. I can write. In fact, I can very likely read your mind and re-write your thoughts in a way that brings a similar kind of satisfaction to finding a pair of lost keys. So I’m just throwing it out there. My services are for hire. I can either work hourly or on a contingency basis, depending on the desired outcome of the document in question.

Dang.

Maybe I should go to law school.

Confessions

Green Thumb

For the record, I want to declare here and now that I am not one of those stay-at-home-moms who has decided to become (appear) all natural and sustainable and green and all that crap, just because it is trendy, or I want to be considered uberhealthy (shuddering at the word “uber”), or I have the time. The fact is, I don’t really care if my children are crawling around on $0.59/oz chemicals that may or may not cause them to one day give birth to children with 18 toes.

Also, let me say the record, that after growing up on a farm and living year round on fresh and self-canned fruits and veggies, my husband-the-freak declared that he never wants, never intends to plant, and will not miss a garden if he never sees one again. (You’d think he’d be a snob when it comes to both fresh foods and Maple Syrup, which his parents also make, but he is not.) On the other hand, I spent the last four summers in our condo in Burlington driving to deposit nickles, dimes, and dollars in a can, on a table, in the driveway, of a house, of the little old man who sold tomatoes from his garden for $1 a pound. And John loved it.

So, for Mother’s day, I asked for a small part of our yard to be turned into a little area in which to grow nothing but tomatoes.

He humored me. ♥

I had absolutely nothing to do with the building of the actual garden (which for an entire weekend resembled the hole of an empty grave) but it is perfect. I did, however, pick out the plants and conduct a little research last spring on the best way to grow tomatoes. It seems that people have the most success avoiding rabbits, tomato worms, and general plant rot by planting tomatoes on poles and pruning them down to a single vine wherever possible. This is my plan. So far, no rabbits.

I also asked for a watering can for Mother’s Day. Imagining myself to look much like one of Mary Englebreit’s cartoons my idea was to skip outdoors in a dress and sunhat and have rainbows and butterflies serenade me with my gigantic watering can, which, no doubt, would weigh little more than a feather.

John laughed at this idea and instead gave me this:

The homeowners before us were a little more adventurous in the yard work. There’s an entire section of my front yard that resembled a small jungle for the first few months we were here, but I’ve recently realized there was quite a bit of planning that went into that 6X6 piece of ground. It seems one bulb or another shoots up and blooms, and the very day it dies something else is coming in behind it. I’m a little overwhelmed to say the least and have asked on more than one occasion if it would be terrible to just rip the entire thing out and plant grass. To this I have received more than my share of “Why?! This looks great!” And to prove it, here are my prize winning roses:

Something about Japanese Kamikaze beetles and pruning with the lunar cycle, whatever that means.

They had an actual garden right next to the house, which my non-gardening-green-thumb-in-denial-husband declared the “soil” and shade impossible for growing anything. Also, about four weeks ago, we discovered this:

Granted, between the birds and Eliott, I have yet to actually taste one of these (I assume) raspberries and have been told to cover it with netting, but I doubt that will actually happen this summer.

All of this is to say, I’m enjoying the heck out of the tomatoes which I so rarely remember to water. It turns out, my lack of attention to these puppies might be exactly what they need to grow. Which is just how I like it. I never had a pet other than a goldfish and would you believe I kept that bad boy alive through two years in the dorms, two summers at camp, and three road trips (via a glass jar around my neck, what else?) between Waco, Texas and Spokane, Washington?

I never claimed to take on more than I could handle. And now, as I watch the clouds outside, I’m going to hold off on yet another day of watering my garden, because I think it might rain tonight.

Confessions, Eliott

Honesty

For a little while in college, I was minoring in sign language. Many people are surprised to learn that American Sign Language is not in fact just a direct sign-to-word translation. Meaning, when speaking ASL, you won’t actually sign every single word that was (or would be) spoken. True sign language communication is much more holistic and artistic than stringing long sentences of words together.

In order to minor in sign language, we had to take one or two classes that basically covered the Deaf culture, which, also surprising to many, is different from the speaking culture. One of the biggest differences is how quickly Deaf people get to the point. Our professor explained that to hearing people, it seems blunt, but in reality, it is just a more efficient way of communicating. I totally get this. Because they get to the point quickly and do not mince “words” when they are talking to each other, an outsider might look in on a Deaf conversation and think, “Well that sounds rude.” Let me give you an example that I still remember one of my professors telling us early in the semester. She had been an interpreter for years and had met and known many Deaf people in her town. Then, she moved away, got married, and had a baby. She went back for a visit and ran in to an old Deaf friend. The first thing this woman signed to her was, “Wow! It’s been so long! You fat! Used to be thin, what happened?” To this our professor signed back (all the while, both women smiling and hugging) “I know! Got married. Had a baby. Kept the belly! Your hair’s gray!” This conversation was like a warm moment between two old friends where absolutely no offense was taken by either party at anything that was said.

I wish we hearing people could be more like this.

The English language probably has 25 synonyms for “fat” (in varying degrees of politeness). Sign language, on the other hand, does not have 25 different signs for each of those words. I mean, sure, perhaps this Deaf woman could have signed “You look different,” but in order to sign that, she has to show where the difference has taken place. To point to the face, as if to say, “Your appearance,” is different, would signify that my professor’s face had changed. And perhaps she could have signed a literal: “You have added a respectable amount of weight to your butt, legs, and belly,” but in her culture, that would never be done. The genuine love this woman had for my professor and the “No offense, but–” was controlled by two things: her facial expression, and my professor’s knowledge that in her culture, this woman was absolutely not being offensive.

Again. I wish we hearing people could be more like that.

How much time do we waste in adding all sorts of unnecessary words to how we feel, in the fear that what we really want to say might offend someone? How much time is wasted in cleaning up an accidental offense? And then, how often do we end up bottling up how we really feel because we’re afraid of hurting the feelings of someone else at the expense of our own?

Dear humanity: grow thicker skin. It will increase productivity and decrease stress all over the world.

On a seemingly unrelated note, getting together with other moms of pre-school kids inevitably leads to conversations of “Listen to what my child said in line at the grocery store the other day which mortified me…” One common one, of course, includes kids who are so obsessed with pregnancy (usually stemming from a pregnant mom) that they believe everyone with any sort of belly at all must also be pregnant. Even men. Another is the pointing out of obvious physical differences between people. Sometimes this sounds like, “What is that big thing on your cheek? That big red thing? With hair.” I also realized that my child isn’t the only kid who was really excited about learning the word “nipple,” showing hers off, and asking others if they also have them.

One sentiment I rarely share with these moms though, is that feeling of humiliation. In fact, I admitted recently that Eliott often gives voice to the exact thoughts inside my programmed “Things not to say out loud” head. I’m often so relieved and satisfied to have them spoken aloud that I have to work at concealing my agreement with her. (This could possibly say one of two things: one, that I still have the maturity of a 4 year old. Noted. Or two, that my child is my genetic spawn and DNA is in far more control of things than many give it credit for.)

Last week, on a particularly hot day, we went to the grocery store. Though the parking lot was mostly empty, I did not take a prime spot toward the front. Instead, I parked in a space that was empty on both sides, knowing I could open both car doors wide and allow a breeze to flow through while getting kids buckled into their 5 point harnesses. But the moment we pulled in, two rather large white SUV’s pulled in on each side of me. One was a Tahoe. The other was an Escalade. In hindsight, I can’t be sure that both these women weren’t well within their own lines on either side, but the fact was, in my little red Hyundai, all three of us were forced to squeeze out of the doors to avoid dinging the pristine white walls on either side. Needless to say, I was a little annoyed by this. I reminded Eliott (who can now undo her own seat belts) to “be careful” as she opened her door, but before I could even gather my shopping bags and get out I hear her little four year old voice of fury and arguably genetic sense of superiority from behind the car: “Why did you park so close to us?” Looking in my rear view mirror I see a horrified woman who seems to be in her mid-50s. Eliott goes on: “We almost couldn’t even open our doors. You should not park so close to our car next time.”

So many possible responses.

(I did, with difficulty, manage to refrain from a double fist pump and gladiatoresque, “YEAH!” in the woman’s face, followed by high fiving my four year old.)

Actually, I let the woman handle it herself. And I didn’t apologize for Eliott. And I don’t regret it.

Confessions

It’s Father’s Day

I have come to believe that, growing up, a girl’s identity is mostly shaped by her father. In fact, this might be true for all children, boys and girls. I often use this personal belief system as a threat to John, that if any of our kids need therapy one day, it is likely to be more his fault than mine. But the fact is, I really truly am not worried about the kind of man Eliott and Carter will each marry one day. Whoever he is, he’s got some pretty big (and pretty good looking) shoes to fill.

I’m not saying that I was a “Daddy’s girl” growing up, because I hate that term. (For one thing, I never called my Dad “Daddy” after the age of 4, and when I went to Baylor I mostly wanted not to be one of those girls.) But the truth is, when my mother threatened us with, “Just wait until your father gets home,” it usually evoked more relief than fear. (I think subconsciously she knew this, but was sometimes just tired of always being the “bad guy.”)

Now, I can safely say that the majority of the self-confident women I met in and after college, especially the ones with unusually high husband standards, all had really freakishly awesome fathers. I count myself among these women.

There’s not much I can say to my dad that I probably haven’t already said at some point. I actually hoped to post a list today of the “Lessons, advice, and words of my Dad” that I apparently wrote down sometime in college. Unfortunately, I can’t find it. A better late than never post will hopefully follow, but for today, my main message is this: Dad, it is difficult to put a finger on all of the little things you did outstandingly well as a father, or outstandingly terribly. But you need to know this: it might be true that when the garbage disposal stopped running 3 days ago, my husband told me to call you. And it might also be true that my husband –for a few months– didn’t catch the “thermostat” problem in my car that you diagnosed –in a few seconds– as an empty coolant problem. However. In about a hundred million more ways, he is the most outstanding man for me on the planet Earth. And whether I knew it at the time or not, I wasn’t actually holding out for someone who resembled Jesus. I was always holding out for someone who resembled you.

If you ever wonder “how good” you were, as a father to three daughters (I can’t really speak for Jeff here, he’s a boy), I think all you need to do is look at who we chose for husbands. I’m pretty sure that’s your fault.

I love you.

And Happy Father’s Day.

Confessions

Wax Paper

There are a few things in my life that might have gone forever unnoticed, but once discovered, quickly rose to the top of my list of favorite things. One is a paper-cutter. Now that I’ve left my daily position in a classroom I’d probably never own one. But I sure do miss using it. Another thing is wax paper. I’m not even exactly sure what aisle of the store to find it on, but my stay-at-home-mom-sense tells me it is probably near the aluminum foil and Ziplocs.

Whenever John’s mom comes to visit, I’ve noticed she purchases wax paper and probably only uses a foot of it. So I frequently have some on hand, and for a long time, I didn’t really know what to use it for. John informs me that there was a time when people “wrapped their sandwiches” in it. I seriously can’t even imagine how that worked, but I wonder if a rubber band or some Scotch tape was also involved. Another thing that gets left behind after a Grandma visit is leftover pie crust dough. I just had to stop and Google “pie crust dough” to make sure I was even writing it correctly. —Dough, for pie crust? Just, pie crust? Unbaked pie crust? A ball of frozen dough that can be rolled into the shape of pie crust?— This should tell you how savvy I am with the homemade baked goods. (Pillsbury Ready-Made Pie Crust on the other hand, rolls off my tongue like Slice-and-Bake Cookies or Box of Brownie Mix. No Google necessary. I not only know exactly what I’m talking about, but I know exactly where to find it in every grocery store in town.)

The first time some extra pie crust dough was left in our freezer, like the wax paper, I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. John’s mom listed about six quick suggestions before she left (none of which were actually bake a pie) but I think I ended up on the computer and executing a “leftover pie crust” recipe search. I ended up making a quiche. And I fell in love with that quiche. And now we eat quiche at least once every ten days or so. And, for the record, I’m absolutely not complaining about Grandma’s leftover dough in the freezer, as somehow, even with only three ingredients, I have yet to make anything that tastes even remotely similar. I’m sure there’s also some sort of secret to making the stuff stick together better, and I suspect it is either more butter or a golden Grandma teardrop. Either way, I haven’t mastered it yet.

As for using anything other than the stuff that comes out of a bag and rolls into a perfect pie-pan-ready circle, I’m sure I have a rolling pin, somewhere. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen it since we moved. So I usually just grab an empty or completely unopened bottle of wine. You can only imagine the mess this makes. Flour everywhere. Sticky dough residue. The last two drops of wine in the dough and sometimes flecks from the label.

Then one day, I thought about the 74 feet of wax paper just sitting in the drawer wishing to feel needed again.

Who KNEW?!

This stuff is amazing.

Dear wax paper, where have you been all of my obsessively-clean-non-baking life?!

*And, in other non-kitchen related kitchen discoveries, vegetable oil makes a very suitable do-it-yourself-bikini-waxing-gone-bad wax remover.