I Just Gotta Be MeMe

I was tagged by ME to do a meme with seven things about myself. Now, this blog is already embarrassingly introspective, verging on narcistic. Its not that there aren't seven more idiocyncracies that I'd love to bore you all to tears with, its just that I like breaking rules.

So, I'm gonna do my own thang.

Its called: Seven Reasons Why Today I'd Rather Be The Woman In This Magazine Spread. (much simpler, don't you think?)

1. I've always wanted a true attic room. I've had several bedrooms with sloped ceilings, but never a truly triangular ceiling.

2. She gets an actual closet. I've never had a decent closet. We've always lived in old places which either have NO closets, or SUCKY closets carved out of some old mouse hole in the wall.

3. She has a really small television. I never dreamed I'd become an adult with a large television. I won't be all pious and liar-ous and pretend that I'm way above all that and don't love to go brain dead in front of the idiot box but..... a little tv looks way more evolved and hippy to me. I'd be downright proud if all I had was that little tv.

4. I like that filmy blouse hanging on her closet door. And she probably has actual breasts to put into it. Not remnants.

5. If I was her, I could rip down that floral wallpaper.

6. If I was her, all my old favourites would still fit me.

7. If I was her, I would have time to lay around on the floor, barefoot, without my belly skin preceding me, and I would have time to read a book. Not collect books. READ books.

So? Who else wants to break some rules? Do a meme and make it up. You could loosely use the number "seven"as a guideline. Truth is, I don't have the time or attention span to read much further than that.

I'm writing this in a hurry because "quiet time" is never as long as I'd like. I tag... Gong Show, Lettuce, Tess and four more people who I refuse to mention. You know who you are...... Well, ok, identify yourself and let me know. There's a baby grabbing my keyboard.

Micah, One Smart Kid

Mom's favourite food is: borscht and bread

Her favourite toys are: computer and sewing machine.

She spends most of her time doing: computer, work, daycare, and going outside.

I think my mom knows how to: blog better than anyone in the whole world.

IN YOUR FACE, Best of Blog Awards!

(thanks, Micah)

Rice Pilaf and Pork Tenderloin

You're in the middle of serving up a plate of wild rice pilaf, pepper medley, and rosemary pork tenderloin for a houseful of friends when the phone rings. You often ignore the phone, as its intrusive and should be taught to wait, but this time that urgency within you sets the dinnerware down and picks up the phone. Mom is nearly whispering for help as she is propping up dad with one arm and employing the phone with the other. He insists that he is fine, that their card game should resume, for he is tired and wants to go to bed. There is a dripping of saliva from the flacid left side. Mom urges him to use his tissue, which he does.... wiping the right. Mom is afraid that he'll fall off his chair, as his body no longer recognizes signals from the left side.

We eat rice pilaf and pork for supper the following day, our stomachs clenched at the change in our dad, and hoping he'll rest well in the bed he's been given. We're grateful that the stroke was "not really a stroke", but more of a foreshadow of what's to come. We hope that the staff will notice when he wanders off the ward, goes outdoors, or laughs in a manner never heard before by us. We note that he's had trouble finding the washroom, though he'd used it the night before to brush his teeth, and its a mere four feet from his bed. We wrap ourselves around our strong and determined mother.

Papa insists that he is fine, and indeed his physical body supports the theory. For Mother's day, he is at home and able to enjoy dinner with his offspring and theirs. He laughs too loud , too often. Mama looks lovingly concerned and steals little shakes of her head for us when she is sure he isn't looking. We whisper to one another, wondering if the changes we see could be our imagination? Should we spend another night?

The dinner has become more familiar now, but the rice is wild and delicious, and somehow difficult for us to swallow.

Papa

Last night, my precious father had a stroke.
Its not "massive", except for in the expectation that the first stroke is typically just that-
The First.

Lifestyles of the "Poor" and Relatively Unknown

I get up at 6:00 am (except when I don't) just to have the house to myself for an hour. Sometimes I read, sometimes I sit and stare, but I always, always have at least two cups of good, strong coffee to kick-start me.

If my hair is annoying me, I take out the thinning sheers and go a little crazy. Its to fulfill my latent, unfulfilled, longtime dream of being a beautician. (is that even a word any more?)

I love the smell of Johnsons baby wash. That's the real reason that I run a home daycare. I don't even like kids.

I don't mind housework. I just hate it when I can't get it done. And these days, I never can.

Although my legs are long, I LACK COORDINATION. Badly. I was the one who got picked third last for all the teams in elementary gym sports. And the only reason that I wasn't chosen dead last was because people liked me and would offer a "mercy-choose".

I pick. My fingers have been scabby, calloused messes since I was about ten because I can not leave skin tags alone. I used to bite them, but now I find myself picking and scratching away completely unconsciously. I was never a face picker, but since Ken's illness, I find that my nasty habit has not been satisfied with ten fingers. I now scratch away at many body parts. Well, I don't scratch my bum. At least not in public.

I have been known to take items from the kids' dress-up trunk, alter them, and wear them as my finest.

I like to throw ridiculous parties. Very not Martha Stewart. This is an arena where I get to be almost entirely myself. I get to meet new people, laugh a lot, buy everything but the food from thrift shops, (the guests have to bring the food. Like I said, this is not the sort of party where the hostess becomes the envy of the town...) I get to play dress-up. I don't stress about what people might think of my house. If they think its really ugly and bizarre, then they will be impressed at the great lengths I went to for an ugly party.

And here's a tidbit that I can't for the life of me understand. Although I am very easy-going.... to the point of frightening people, I struggle with anxiety. I think and analyze and wrestle. But if my life is too manageable, I have to add more to it. If there's one thing I cannot tolerate, its boredom. I have to be busy (but not toooooo busy), and I have to multi-task. Otherwise my blood turns to sludge and there is no adrenaline in me anywhere.

What about you? And if you are rich and famous, don't patronize me...

... Sorry you missed it!

I wrote a brilliant post earlier this evening which the computer greedily gobbled up for dinner. (BURP!)

Actually, it wasn't brilliant at all. It was a bit lame. Who can blame me though? Its July in May around here, the sprinkler has been christened, I'm busy surgically attaching a vacuum hose to the end of my arm to keep up with the sand, grass, cheerios..... Oh, and did I mention that my boy got the flu, my girl got strep throat, AND I got a new baby this week? Well, not ME personally, but my daycare. He's a little dolly, lucky me. Aside from those small distractions, I've been thinking about my upcoming bridal show, hoping it won't rain..... And Brian is throwing a bit 'o a bash this friday night as well. Yes, some people take individual vacations, and we throw our own parties.

I better go take down that holly that I hung in the front window in December for the last dinner party....

Driving Miss Good Intentions

Loving others is a messy road with unmarked shoulders, outdated maps, illegible street signs, and reckless drivers. Receiving love on this route is subject to the same lack of clarity. I chaff when I sense another's pain and desire to come along side them, take some of the pain, and give them hope without inadvertently contributing to their sadnesses by employing ineffective attempts at loving intentionally.

Church leaders are subject to this every day, on and off the job. I've made a point of asking such people how they manage to deal with the weight of others' pain without collapsing under good intentions and brokenness. The only answer that has ever made sense to me was delivered by a man who seems to always have genuine joy at the forefront of his interpersonal dealings. He explained to me that the only areas he moved forward in were those where he felt compelled to by the Holy Spirit. Now, I'm a big fan of the Spirit, largely because he doesn't appear to work from a throne, or a rule book, or in guidelines that would be easily filed or categorized.

Faith is huge in this arena, since listening to that still small voice doesn't guarantee witnessing the positive outcome of those actions. And that's where pain comes in again. Some people are nearly impossible to love because all they know to do is to push people away. Even when reaching out to such a person, guided by the Spirit, its awfully painful to get that virtual shove.

That's where I'm grateful that He also speaks to others. Unlikely people who could only have become a portion of my circle through the goodness of God. People who speak the truth- relevant to the situation I'm struggling with ;but the bearer of good news is unaware of.

And now in less shrouded ways, I know that the e-mail I sent this week (which was sent back with a caustic reply) DID come to a positive end. I know that the relationship that pained me this week was injected with grace by someone who could not have known, but who understood as precious few do. I know that the visit I craved with my aging papa came to me this week when I was too slumped to go to them.

And I know again that God is love. And although there are unreliable road signs, I'm pretty confident in my navigation system.

Mommy Dearest

Sometimes the best you can hope for on a friday night is to get half way through a hazelnut chocolate bar without sharing with anyone.

I may be somewhat of a late bloomer, but I never seem to fully wrap my head around the fact that I cannot keep everyone happy. I admit, it doesn't help to have a chronic, self-inflicted case of thats-just-not-good-enough-itis to exacerbate the situation.

People told me that this was going to be hard. Those self-righteous, soother-grabbing, sadistic, clucking old biddies who chided me to enjoy them while they were little, for it was only going to get harder when they grew taller. Gloating, heartless, and inhuman old things.

I don't remember being warned about all the decisions that go along with this. I don't remember being told that I'd second-guess every single faltering decision that I did make. And what about this fantasy that mommy can make everything all better? Did we get any practise at that between the he-he and the hoo-hoo breathing at prenatal classes? I don't remember the lesson on "Every Wednesday, Someone Will Begin To Vomit Violently". Was I sick that day? And what about all this lip service I hear about equality? Who forgot to tell the children? When their daddy goes to bed, NO ONE EVER CALLS HIM. Mommy, on the other hand, is required to tuck, and re-tuck up to forty-two separate and complete times per nocturnal cycle. Times four.

I hear the other half of that chocolate bar calling out to be tucked in. And the wine is feeling lonely....

But I'm so Good At Melancholy....

I wanted to offer something light, but my heart just isn't in it...

I find that I'm having an almost ridiculously difficult time making the simplest of decisions for the upcoming summer. Slow, or non-existent decision making is not uncommon for me, but this feels more loaded.

I guess because a year ago on the evening before the last day of school, we got handed the bombshell. My brother had terminal cancer.
From that moment, until September 20 when his tired body quit, every plan was subject to change with no notice. We lived with the tension of uncertainty, with cell phones at the ready, prepared to do or be anything that was asked of us if it were to help Ken in any way.

I'm not exactly afraid that if I make some plans, something horrible is going to happen to my family this year. That sounds silly and superstitious to me.


I still feel indeterminate about last summer's defining events. I've not yet built constructs for all that it encompasses. I'm not even ready to really explore what Ken's life and death meant/did to me personally.

And now its time to lay plans for another summer.

Although the photo gives the feel of a perfect summer night, it wasn't, and the blur in it is completely appropriate. I'd had a major meltdown that day, and not in a socially acceptable way. I called a friend I'd not seen in years who drove straight to the hospital to pick me up, fed me dinner, and served me drinks.
She knew without being told what had transpired in my mind and body on that day.

I still wear the scars, and I've got no idea where to go to find a dayplanner that won't rip off every scab.

Sunday God Thoughts

"He found himself, wrapped in a towel, tired, and sandwhiched between two beautiful, breathing book-ends with his scooter at the ready when it hit him: What am I doing again? Where am I really going?"

......Its exhausting never having answers like those guys in the seminars do. Those messages with the four points beginning with the letter "P" wrap up perfectly, providing the people with points to ponder, and paths to peruse.

Yet I remain puzzled.

If God knows my heart, and His Spirit will pray to the Father for me when I am utterly empty, then why must I pray with these formulas, and perfect intentions?

If mountains can be moved with a simple faith the size of a mustard seed, then why would a mother's pain-wracked prayers not return to her a son, whole in body and mind?

If I know things as fact and they reside as such in my mind, why will my body and my behaviors not act in accordance with that knowledge?

If I pray correctly, fast for forty days, and give my possessions to the poor.... I am here to say that these behaviors will not manipulate God. God is God. Formulas suck. Life is floppy and untidy and uneasy with categorization. And so WHY are we taught that if we do things correctly, God will bless us? That God does not hear prayers spoken with selfish intent? That God wants to bless us so we best get a larger wallet?

WHERE IS THE MYSTERY IN THAT? If God is so containable, why not just get a business degree? A shiney credit card?

My family life can be good but not ideal. My job can be sufficient but not lucrative. My relationships can be rich but imperfect. My empathy for others can be genuine but not life changing. My parents may be wise but dead before I've learned enough.

I accept and need the God of mystery. The One who can see the rhythms of all that, hear the sadness in my heart, and do what He will. The God who is not easily summed up.

An exchange in a Narnia book goes something as follows:

"Is (Aslan) safe?"

"Safe? No. But He's good."

Calendar Girl

She thought that perhaps, if she bought herself a rather Large calendar, that possibly she could make sense of her life; her work schedule, her daycare schedule, her daughter's soccer schedule, her other daughter's soccer schedule, her son's soccer schedule, school admin days, field trips, and hot lunches... church functions, youth group events, weddings, dinner parties, her husband's work-out routine, guitar nights, and marathon events. She would surely find time to: put herself on the list.

There would be time to work on those projects that she'd had great inspiration for, but that in the mean time made an excellent nest for her cat, Mindy.

There would be wide open spaces for sprucing up some decorating around the house. That outdoorsy look in the dining room appears to have gotten somewhat dusty and rat- infested...

*

*

*And perhaps, thanks to that large events coordinator, she will find the time to run again. When the monthly pages flip to "cottage country" time, then perhaps the great reveal of bathing suit clad calendar girl will be an easier pill to swallow.

The Grass is Brown on the Other Side

At the risk of offending, I must.

Marriage is not for the fickle. Not for the selfish. Nor for those of the generation taught to put themself first on the list.

Are we all getting a little weary of hearing about the man/woman who woke up one morning, realized he/she "just wasn't happy anymore" and went back out there to "get it right" next time? What about those "led by the Lord" to that ultimate partner- the one the Lord surely meant for them to cleave to the first time around?

How canine of us to run about sniffing for the ultimate consummation.

I speak for a weeping child, too young to know such grief. How does one explain the complexity of a woman's physical ability to bear children, choose a life partner, and then regardless of the repurcussions of her actions, decide that "single" is the way to be. Cast-off family. Does Canadian Diabetes do pick-ups for that? Or are the goods too damaged?

When people return to the search for their lown lost identities, clutching little hands, or not... such death is left in their wake. As I study a sad little face, the unthinkable has crossed my mind. What would be worse? Her physical death? Or death by choice- choosing to close down the "mother" in herself, and resusitating her "young and free"? And what else, who else must we bury here?

Now, I concede that its not wise to generalize. I'm not tempted to make any blanket statements, or throw any condemnation around. There are cases where it would be crazy not to decide on divorce.

I'm just weary of the brokenness.

This Parenting Thing

I don't write about parenting much, since its really not my crowning achievement. I don't think fast, which makes decisiveness very challenging, especially when four children and one husband are asking five separate and demanding questions all at the same time.
Hence, my parenting style is perceived as quite laid back. Its more accurate to say that it takes me so long to make a decision, that the children happily run amuck while I stand around with my finger up my nose trying to think of the correct response. And, because I think too much, I overthink what that correct response might be.

While visiting my parents on the weekend, my mom made a comment about how she might have done things differently in raising us kids, and dad mused on what mistakes they might have made. It was easy for me to suggest that perhaps they'd not made many mistakes.

I know it now from the other side- that murky and confusing side of being the one who should do and say and know everything right.

There are a few simple things that I practise to keep myself from tripling my meds and running into the endless prairies barefoot and screaming for the Lord's return. One is to say "hmmmm" a great deal, while studying my children's faces. This communicates attentive listening and makes them believe that what they say is valid and worth my time. The other is to be evasive whenever possible. Quickly pronounced yes's and no's would only ensure that I'd have to have all my justifications at quick reference and just doesn't leave enough room for all the information that I've probably not yet assimilated. Another easy tip is to occasionally remind my children that I used to be a person. That radical statement may be a bit of a jolt to many a developing mind, but it might in fact save that same mind from possible future electro convulsive shock therapies.

When my kids grow up, they'll likely come back to me with lists of what I've done wrong to damage and maim their tender little selves. I hope I'll find the presence of mind to take a deep breath, gaze into their eyes, and........
"hmmmmmmm".

Blogger Envy

In my next life, I'll be entirely evolved. I won't ever have thoughts which embarrass and shame me. But for now, I must work with the raw materials I've been given, and sometimes they are just so raw that one has to mock oneself. (Quick, before someone else does!)

Cyber-insecurity. Can anyone relate? When perusing your links, do you notice your blogspot url removed from others' links? How about those finicky, fickle, slippery commenters who used to comment on your posts, but have moved on to preferring your "blog friends"? Do you catch yourself wondering....

"Hey! What did I say?" And being tempted to post a general apology to anyone you may have disappointed, just to get your virtual circle back, unbroken?

Well, I told you these were true life confessions. Now, please .... don't condescend to me and flatter me with "meme" tags, or quickly add me to your blogroll like some framed needlepoint of a deer beside a stream that you quickly hammer to your wall four minutes before my visit to your home....

No, no. Don't you give it a thought. (sniff, sniff). You're probably much too busy reading those good blogs anyway.

*but I dare you, dare you tell me the truth. Are you waaaaaaay over those kind of thought patterns?
Have I just had that one-too-many glass of wine and just asked that inappropriate question OUT LOUD?
And if you are all way more developed in your maturity than I am, then I shall have much to learn from the lot of you!!

A Little Reminder About May 26

Its good to have something to look forward to.
Just one tip for any of you out there on your eighth day of the slim-fast "lifestyle change" so that you can get into that gown from '81. There are two approaches here. Go to some yard sales or thrift shops (don't be afraid of confrontation here...) and find yourself a bigger size. OR.....

You could do what a certain bride did at her famed wedding at Sarto Hall. Legend has it that the gown did not quite "fit like a glove". Undaunted, she simply pulled the zipper up as high as it would go, and safety-pinned it the rest of the way.

Industrious, really.

* just so I'm clear*

Once you have read about the party, consider yourself invited. If you've not been here before, go to my profile, send me an e-mail, and I'll provide you with directions.

Its good to have something to look forward to.

Ashes to ashes

My brothers ashes have cascaded over the waterfalls.
And I have my own.

In my mind's eye, I am riding on one of those human conveyer belts one sees in airports.
I'm unclear on my destination.
Pictures and symbols and numbers swirl past me.

Dreamlike.

I feel I should discipher them. Understand their meanings.
But I'm stunted.
self-conscious in my impediments.

If I were a Thrift Shop, I'd want to be French

Preparation for the upcoming Spring Bridal Show has given me renewed zeal for the perusal of cast-off stuffed shops. Eyes bright and with a spring in my step, I haunt their aisles sleuthing for veils and crinolins, well-meaning centerpieces, and glassware.

My area of the universe is sharply divided into communities based on its original immigrants. All the "St.-towns" signify the arrival of the French people. All the "darps", "felds", and "villes" house those of Germanic descent. The felds and darps each humbly boast about eighty plain stuccoed churches per town and are known for their abstinence from alcohol and tobacco, dancing, gambling, and often smiling and laughing. The Saints have tall steeples, community halls, and weekly bingo nights. Although there is movement between these people groups, its been enlightening to observe these still prevalant distinctions after having lived in a more diverse area, then returning to darpville as an adult and feeling my (bible) belt pinching just a little.

The nursing home that I used to work at is held in an old Roman Catholic convent. On the third floor, empty of residents, some volunteers turned its echoey rooms into a thrift shop to raise money for the people who dwell beneath it. The volunteers are happy, generous people who like to hug visitors, offer discounts, and leave out boxes and boxes of junky toys for the kids to play with while the moms shop to their hearts content. There are rooms overflowing with neckties and stuffies, plastic virgin Marys and light-up Jesuses. The housewares room is stuffed with ten cent glassware and wine glasses that no one pretends are actually candle holders. If a customer is shopping for say..... a tacky bridal party, one of the volunteers might listen to the tale with interest, then insist on carrying heavy boxes of plates and petro Canada wine goblets down the elevater and straight into the limo... AND give me a killer deal for them. While dancing about my twelve dollars fed into their plastic cash box, they might even share a few stories about their own theme parties. We might joke about having a few drinks together sharing the glass that I found with Steven Harper's signiture on it.

Energized by my windfall of disposal dinnerware from St. Elsewhere, I strolled down to my local church-ville-endorsed-mission-statement-burdened love-your-darp-neighbor establishment to see if I could find some pearl drop earrings or pink dyed pumps. The cashiers must have been feeling quite a pinch in their brassieres and a bit of a cramp from their hush puppies based on the welcome we never received. They fed stern glares at the preschoolers gazing at their polished plastic toys locked away from dirty, dirty hands, enshrined behind proudly polished glass. Their faces looked permanently lined in all the wrong places, set in patterns of sheer determination to put in some goodwill missionary volunteer hours, sell some scrubbed trash to dirty people from one of those St towns, and then tidily send a cheque off to some starving people far, far away. I did a quick circuit, noting their tidily stacked corelle plates, $35.00 wedding gowns from 1979, and ice cream pails for 25 cents.

While gazing at the fake pearls safely locked down beside the cashier, I couldn't help but overhear an altercation between a young mother, her daughter, and the volunteer at the cashier post. The child had asked for her things to be packed in her own bag, to which the cashier Hmmmmphed; (with face and body language to match her dour mood)

"I don't know which stuff is yours". Her displeasure was palpable.

I cringed inwardly, and hunkered down to more closely study the pearls.

Mother of child had clearly tired of being treated suspiciously and as a total inconvenience. She interjected on her daughter's behalf and thanked the cashier never so very much for being rude to the girl, a bona fide customer with rights to respectful treatment.

I stole glances at the women manning their precious cash register. One of them noticed me and took the oppurtunity to share her displeasure by rolling her eyes and berating the customer for allowing her daughter to "Run around the store with valuable glass stuff". I hearded my crew a little closer, fearing they too might accidently smash some rare crystal goblet and feel the wrath of the be-church-ed lady with bun-too-tight.

The story goes on, but I grow weary of telling it. I did get involved. (DUH). I did try to tactfully engage the volunteers in a discussion about customer service and the true intent of goodwill efforts. I was told that I "had no right to give them heck,as I didn't know them, that the volunteer was not responsible, as she had a heart condition and wasn't feeling well....". I did go out of my way to seek out the snubbed customer and offer an apology for the crummy representation of our town and our do-gooders. And being somewhat over ananlytical, I did walk home feeling nauseated. I also considered boycotting the store, but we all know what nonsense that is. That would be as crazy as giving up say... Coffee, or gin, or or my bi-weekly game of bingo in the neighboring town...

It reminds me of what Jesus warned us about. Be careful not to go right back to RELIGION, which is what I just set you free from. Be careful not to get so caught up in rules and regulations, rights and wrongs, that you forget to love your neighbor. (Even when that means a customer from one of those towns.) Don't forget Who you represent. Don't forget that you are not above reproach.

The part that really bugs me is that as I was walking home and stewing on these things, I had a little whispery thingy in my head that said;
"Well, Joyce, if its grace that you're talking about, does that mean that you too will have to mentally offer grace to those self-righteous, pew-warning, rule-keeping, under-pleasured girdle girls?"

Maybe I should offer to join them for a cold one on the church steps poured into Francios petro Canada goblets.

Those valuable glass ones.

Who Are We, Really?

The believer-of-Jesus in me cringes a little posting something with a title like that. But only because my less evolved self fears the disappointment I must be to my more godly friends. Ah well, I can only be me with any sense of authenticity. I kind of know the church answers to this question, and I don't think that's really what my core question is anyhow. A favourite blogger of mine is currently dealing with the painful reality of surrendering her mother's mind and personality to that shameless thief: Alzheimers disease. In the post, she raises the question of "who are we without our memories?" I "hmmm-ed" thoughtfully at the question, as I have worked for some years with people harshly changed by dementia and alzheimers. I only ever knew them as ill, since it was their diagnosis which brought them into the care of medical personnal. Still, I often stared into the photographs on their bureaus and walls to try and get a whiff of who they once were. Mother. Father. Professional. Funny, gifted, brilliant, flashy. All was in the past. And it made me wonder who, or what a person is. We describe people by their character, or behaviors, or talents. But is there a core to what a person is? Are we simply bodies with chemicals coursing through us that direct our choices, attributes, and personalities? I mean that question entirely apart from the question of "soul" and "spirit", since they transcend the physical and have everlasting qualities. I'm talking more about the here and now.

This question first exploded in my head some years ago when a close friend experienced her first bipolar induced mania. Her body carried on, but SHE was not directing it. She was gone. My friend had died, but her body walked among us. It held within it some memories of when its rightful owner occupied it, but the memories were polluted and poisoned. Instead of providing a familiar place for loved ones to meet, they twisted and tainted what once was, and perceived old friends as newly identified enemies.

The agony was worse than death. And it begged the question: Who are we really? Chemicals held together by synapse and sinew? A portable lab? A sort of "matrix" existance where we see what we want to see, but can't or don't acknowledge its fragility? If I have more or less of a particular chemical, would I become a person who struggles with rage? artistic excellence? Would I become more, or less likeable? socially acceptable? deceived?

If I were involved in an accident involving serious head injury, my personality could become permanently altered. Is that then the "who" that I am? How do we know that the original "who" is the real one? Is there something entirely untouchable, entirely "core" that can define us regardless of life's cruelties?

And what about something more mundane and innocuous like all the millions of little decisions we make in all the millions of moments that make up the years of our lives? As they develop grooves of familiarity in our grey matter, they shape us into who we are. Are we then the culmination of chemicals, culture, and choices?

And why does this feel like such a scarey thing to question?

Choose Your Identity (Scroll down for more posts. This will remain at the top until May 26)

Ladies, ladies, ladies.....

You are cordially invited to the Spring Bridal Show.

May 26, 2007

Please choose your identity: Bride? Mother of the bride? Flowergirl? Ringbearer? The wedding singer? Bridesmaid? Father of the bride? The wedding planner?

the wedding cake?

You decide. Its your special day.

*details to follow

"Before School"

Maybe it was the sound of a doll's head being bashed against the basement floor. Maybe it was the dollar store guns getting hucked at peoples eyeballs. Maybe it was the kid who said that the morning's pancakes tasted "disgusting". Somewhere in the past one hour and fifteen minutes, some decisions became cemented in my head. I don't have to take a course on "spiritual giftings" to know that its preschoolers who I love, adore, and know what to do with. The big kids with the big appetites (for non-disgusting food) and the big bodies that do big damage to my little toys..... not so much. I like little people who I can scoop up, kiss their softness, strap into a stroller and go explore puddles with. I like little princesses in taffeta and polyester and butterfly heels. I like soft curls, emerging personalities, and the brave defiance of an eighteen month old bruiser. I like goofy words like: "frazy krog" (crazy frog) and"rockanuti" (macaroni).

I recognize the irony. I have three "school-age" children myself. But they are mine. I see my blood coursing through them. I find them charming, excusable, teachable. Even though I'm not exactly sure how to teach them, I feel less of a "fish out of water" because I'm so entirely invested in them. They too tire of big kids coming into their space, filling their home with their sounds, and leaving their marks everywhere.

Of course I feel guilty admitting this all to you. I'd really prefer to see myself as the longsuffering lady down the street who doesn't have the heart to turn any child away. I'll let you in on a little secret. I am actually heartless. Well, perhaps I exaggerate just a little. Still, when considering our short and glorious summer ahead, I think I've made my decision. I shall concentrate on the little people. We'll have picnics and walks and splash in the wading pool. I'll talk in baby-talk and kiss away boo-boos.

So, this lady will have to develop some ability to make decisions, tactfully advise people of the available summer programs, and all of this without offering downcast apologies. I'll never be a business person, I don't really want to be that. But being sane seems like a fair compromise.