Superior: Home Sweet Away From Home

They say home is where the heart is.  Well, my heart is in this home, and it always will be. When I was 10, my parents went through a bitter divorce.  When it was all said and done, my dad was granted summer custody.  That summer, my dad met my stepmom, Becky. She came to meet us, cooked us real food (sorry Dad), and she brought her parents along. From day one John and Wanda became Grandpa and Grandma.  They treated me as though I was their own - blood or not.  Their home because one of my homes.  One of the places that never changed no matter how much my life changed.  For that, I consider myself truly lucky.

Each summer my brothers, sister, and I would spend about a week at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  It was a week for us to run wild, stay up late, play all day at the park, swim at the pool, and eat as much cookie dough as we could handle.  We lived for this week each summer, and now that I am a parent I am sure that my parents LIVED for this week as well.  (Can you say FREEDOM!) We played games of Posy Pitch and Yard Darts (the javelin-will-poke-your-eye-out-or-impale-you kind).  We slid down the huge slide at the park with wax paper so we would go faster.  We snuck black-cherry Shasta out of the fridge after bedtime.  We (being me) climbed through the crawlspace and got caught red-handed and hung-out-to-dry by my siblings who had gone before me.  No seriously, my butt was literally hanging out of the crawl space window when Grandma caught me, and they acted all innocent like it was my idea.  My brothers went commando one summer, and told grandma that, "They didn't wear underwear anymore."  She called home, discovered their lie, and then threatened to make them pink, silky panties if they ever came to her house again without their underwear, ending that threat with, "And you WILL wear them and like it."  We got as many pancakes as we could eat every morning.  And grandpa always bought us the biggest blizzards they made a Dairy Queen; we called them "Grandpa Smalls".

Every Christmas we grandkids packed the basement.  We played Thirty-One all night, or until Uncle Kenny got mad, stormed out and yelled, "You play cards like a fish, I ain't playing a G--- D--- card game with people who make up the rules as they go." (I am sure there were other expletives in there - nobody could cuss us out like Uncle Kenny.)  We kept air freshener at the table because our family was full of hot air in more than one way, and to this day, the smell of apple-cinnamon still makes me gag.  We serenaded anyone who lost with the song "Happy Trails" - led by Aunt Tami.  We would play until 3:00 in the morning, or until whomever was in college had won enough laundry money for the next few months. Jane got to sleep upstair because she was the first to have "greats". Joe and Jarod snored in the recliners upstairs, and we could hear them through the floor.  In the basement, sleeping bags and air-mattresses lined the floor. Jason and Bud blasted their discmans.  Jen used my stomach for a pillow and stole my covers.  Laura cried that she was in hell because of all the noise.  And we loved every crowded second of it.  The next day we crowded into the upstairs living room.  We exchanged tons of gifts, and Joe usually got old-lady underwear.  I can't remember the joke behind it; I just remember it was funny.  And then we ate.  Boy did we eat.  Homemade dressing and rolls.  Real mashed potatoes and gravy.  Turkey and ham.  And the pies, oh, the pies.  Grandma did it right (and somehow we grandkids managed to get out of doing dishes almost every time!)

You see, I watched over 100 people carry away my grandparents' stuff this weekend, and they had a ton of stuff - 60 years worth.  A comment was made about all the stuff, how it just sat there waiting to be sold, a lifetime worth of collecting -- gone.  What's the point? That is when I said that this stuff served a purpose.  It built a family.  And it brought us all back home.  Our home sweet away from home.  The stuff may be gone, but the family remains, and I am so blessed to be a part of this loud, opinionated, dedicated, emotional, party-like-a-rock-star family.

Four Legs Good, Two Legs Better

As a student, I was assigned the novel Animal Farm by George Orwell.  I remember disliking that novel at the time, not because my teacher did a bad job teaching it, or because I don't like a good allegory now and then, but because I could not relate.  What did a farm full of animals have to do with me? (Disclaimer: if you've never read the novel, you should - it will take you all of 3-4 hours to finish.  And if you are really feeling gutsy, study a little bit about the Russian Revolution ahead of time.  History repeats itself in many different ways, sometimes physically and sometimes metaphorically.)  Crazy how an allegory I was assigned to read as a freshman, and now teach to freshmen, is playing out in real life.

I can tell you that I now have a great appreciation for that novel and the message it teaches.  I see a resemblance between what is happening at the state level with education and our state budget, and it frightens me. Why is education important?  Because educated citizens are the only ones who can keep government officials in check.  Right now, I am feeling more and more like Boxer.  That poor, poor horse.  *Spoiler Alert:  He is worked to death and sent to the knacker's yard for slaughter.

Keep writing your representatives, Kansans!  This is not right.  This is not OUR Kansas.  This is "special interest" Kansas.

Online link to a PDF of Animal Farm:  https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/o/orwell/george/o79a/  

Online link to find your representatives:  http://openstates.org/find_your_legislator/

Armor Up

My son Kyle has an amazing friend, a true relationship with a person that I long to have someday. That person is God, and their relationship inspires me every day. Just the other day he came to me in the middle of the night. He said he asked God what to do, and God told him, "Just go get your mom." Then, yesterday he was riding his bike and hit a brick at the end of the drive way. He told me, "Mom, I think I hurt my bone to my penis (???), but don't worry, God is taping it up, and it will be all better."  

Today was the first day of Bible School for my son. He has been talking about it, about how much God loves him, about how he can't wait to see his friends, about taking his Bible. He was so excited. We got him enrolled, entered the room with the other children, and then it happened. My son became an extension of me, clinging to my leg, my arm, my shoulder, anything he could for dear life. He was genuinely afraid; I could see it in his eyes, and it broke my heart.

I probably didn't handle it correctly. I told him if we went home, he had to go to his room.  I was mad, frustrated, sad, embarrassed. I didn't understand what the big deal was - it was JUST Bible school. In my frustration, I hit the steering wheel with my hand.  I had crossed a line.  I was letting anger win.  The other day I witnessed something from a spectator's viewpoint that I pray I never do as a parent.  While taking a short walk to the post office, in the 11 blocks it takes to walk there and back, I heard two different families use the "F" word towards their small children.  The "F" word was not used in conversation with other adults, it was used in a degrading, belligerent way TOWARDS their children:  "Shut the "F-ing" door" and "Get on the "F-ing" porch".  I was stunned, saddened, shocked.  These two incidents have stuck with me.  I have had students tell me that I am one of the nicest people they have ever met.  I am not trying to pat myself on the back, but it is strange to me that more people in their lives are not nicer, that more people find it okay to use such hurtful and hate-filled words towards children of ANY age.  Incidents like this are the reason why I try to be so nice.  They don't need to hear negative words from me, and I knew that my son did not either.

I did not know how to handle the situation with Kyle, but I knew I didn't want to handle it with anger. You see, it is times like this, when I don't know how to handle my son that I know my husband will. (Apparently my eldest son and I are A LOT alike.)  And he did.  He talked to Kyle, and he listened to me cry because I felt I did not know how to parent my son in this situation without hurting his feelings. I want my son to tell me when he feels uncomfortable in a situation. I want my son to leave when he knows that something doesn't feel right.  But I also want him to try. I want him to give his best in every situation.  I want him to try new foods at least once, and introduce himself to new people. I think I want these things for him because I struggle with them so much too. It is painful to see my own struggles in my child. As for my second child, I fear he and I have a few things in common, too - mainly that he has never met a dessert he doesn't like.  

Hours later I can reflect on today, and I know this: I don't have to know all of the answers because God does. I don't have to make every correct parenting decision because of God's grace and forgiveness, the same traits I try to teach my son. I do know that Satan is not some little red devil with horns and a pitchfork sitting near flames. He is a very real being who will use my own children against me when he feels they are getting closer to God. Today I did not have my armor on, ready to fight. But tomorrow, I will do my best because that is, after all, what I ask of my son. When someone asks me what my weapon of choice is, it is kindness. Kindness always wins.