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Grounded

Why do we say our teens are grounded?  Who came up with this expressive idiom? The true definition has little to do with how American parents apply the word. 

Was it a sixties hipster who got mad at his kids and used some sort of druggie lingo? “Dude, don’t get high like me. You need to be near the ground.” Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Or maybe it was even earlier, way back when planes first took to the sky and mischievous pilots like Maverick and Goose from Top Gun were grounded from adventure?

Since, I’m pontificating here and have done zero research, besides Googling the word, I think this makes the most sense. 

My little Maverick (Kyle) and his pal, we’ll call him Goose, are the cutest teens on the block, but every now and then, they too need a reality check. 

Now Kyle, if you recall, was restricted from attending the teen dances he deeply treasures (which I’m guessing some hot girls attend) until his Social Studies and Global grades perked back into the A range.

On Friday, he came home and declared, “I aced my finals and I want to go to the dance tonight.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Slow down there tiger. Final grades don’t come out until next week.”

“Mom, it’s in the bag. I’m going to the dance.”

“We’ll see what dad says,” I responded.

Well, dad said “no” to the request and Kyle fell into a melancholy gloom. His usual smile disappeared and for a full twenty-four hours he looked on the verge of tears. 

He claimed we were the strictest and meanest of parents.  In fact, all his friends think we are the worst and no one wants to come over because we don’t have Call of Duty in our home, which is a fate worse than death to a Jr. High Boy.

My parental self-esteem was plummeting, that is, until Monday night when we drove his buddy home and his mom came out of the house with guns blazing. Apparently, Goose had a little explaining to do as well, regarding a certain grade issue. Mmmhhh! 

Maybe, I’m not the meanest and strictest parent alive? Maybe other parents ground their kids too? Gasp! Shock! Horror!

Kyle sat in the car and somberly watched his buddy get zinged while a big smile crossed my husband’s face.  He drove off and heard his friend’s mom say, “You’re grounded,” as he pulled the car out.

I love it when this stuff happens! And, I really loved Kyle’s sincere apology.  So at least for today, I’m not the worst mom ever, now his friend’s mom is!

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Faith and Kolby getting ready for bedtime

20110614-080912.jpg

This is Faith getting ready for bedtime.  Clean, beautiful and now obsessed with my new iPhone 4. She has already absconded it and downloaded Cupcake Maker.  Right now she is virtually cooking on the cloud.  I wish I could do dinner and dishes that way.

This is Kolby after her bath and ready for nighty-night. She peed on the floor right before she jumped in to the water. Pee happens sometimes when you get that excited.

Tonight we are on chapter 5 of Heaven Is For Real, then prayers, kisses and sweet dreams.

It’s my favorite time of the day.

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No Pain, No Gain

It’s official! I am obedient. The receipt below show’s my sincere desire to listen to God after six months of blowing him off. I know none of you would ever cover your ears and sing “La La La La, I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you…” and then do exactly what you know in your heart is defiant, but then again, I probably am the only big sinner around these parts.

So, of course it’s over something silly, my stubborn as Balaam’s Ass streak, but it has been a real stumbling block in my faith. Over Christmas, our family splurged and bought memberships to 24 Hour Fitness.

Our goal was to get healthy together and do some mom/dad/kid bonding with dumbbells. But, part of negotiating this deal with my husband included me canceling my membership to LA Fitness, which is close to my office, but nowhere near our home.

I promised hubby I would do it, but then I didn’t. I procrastinated, I put it off, I secretly liked my cushier gym and hoped Tim might forget his request.

But he didn’t forget and constantly questioned me over, and over, and over. And in response, I would quietly change the subject, defer gracefully and try to look sheepishly cute. We both knew I was being a mule and while Tim was kind enough to not force the issue, God on the other hand was not.

Now I have been a gym-rat for the last twenty-five years. Working out is my thing, my big stress reliever and what I consider to be a healthy coping mechanism (alongside copious amounts of prayer, girlfriends and an occasional margarita).

But ironically, since Christmas I have been thwarted in a million ways to find the time or energy to drag my sorry butt through the gymnasium doors. Kolby has been sick, then not sleeping, and church busyness has been overwhelming.

Lunchtime at my office was always my escape. I could sneak away and catch a run or lift weights and come back to the office sweaty, smelly and happy (possibly TMI).
But all of sudden, as lunch approached, a crippling fatigue would permeate my body and I would find writing to be a much easier endeavor. I actually started to run, for about a week, and then I broke my foot.
It was one thing after the next and I was getting sorely peeved by the non-stop obstacles in my path. It would have been easy to write off my lack of motivation to go to the gym as normal laziness, but this time it seemed like God was trying to get my attention.

On Easter Sunday, during cleanup of the worship service, I accidently kicked a large (lifesize) wooden cross while carrying the baby and a chair. I didn’t see it and wham-delerious pain.

A week later, I was chasing the baby in the church sanctuary when the lights were dim and hit the offering box hard, with the same foot. This time, my whole foot swelled up and turned black.

When I went for x-rays, they confirmed my foot was indeed broken, but it was the cross that had been the culprit, the offering box merely did it in.

Clearly, God was speaking. Maybe the donkey didn’t talk, but the pain in my foot communicated a message. I just didn’t know what it was.

One morning, I decided to test my wobbly foot with a stroll and confessed my frustration to the Lord. And the response I got was humbling, to say the least.

Me praying, “Lord, I’m so bummed…(wah, wah, wah).”

God to me, “Sam, have you ever considered that when you defy your husband you defy me?”

And this was the moment of epiphany. Truth illuminated the boulder of pride lodged in my selfish heart and tears streamed down my face as I lifted up my hands and sincerely repented. (Now don’t forget I am out walking in Ladera Ranch with a stroller)

It was one of those shameless moments in life where I simply wanted my heart to be right with God, and could have cared less if people passing by thought I was a nut.

When I arrived home, I immediately got on the horn and called LA Fitness. Ultimately, I had to go to the gym and cancel in person because, as easy as it is to sign up, they make you go through a thousand hoops to cancel.

When I shared the story with hubby he got very excited and laughed in delight. “Doesn’t if feel good to obey your husband?” he asked.

“Sort of,” I replied. ” But, I don’t really think this was between us.”

I thought to myself how hard submission is, even to a wonderful man. It doesn’t come naturally. But the reward is the sweet serenity of walking in obedience to God.

Receipt for Membership Cancellation

Today’s Date: 6/2/2011
Customer #: 1xxx04
Membership Barcode #: xxxxxxx
Member Name: Samantha Adams
Dues: Too much!
Final Billing Date: 5/15/2011

This confirms cancellation of your membership. This membership will expire on 7/14/2011 and includes application of your pre-paid dues at the time of enrollment. The member is entitled to use of the club through that expiration date. If you have a balance due, it will automatically be charged to your account on file with us, on or after your next regular scheduled billing date, pursuant to the authorization you previously provided.

If you have any questions regarding this notice, please call your local club during normal business hours.

Thank you for choosing LA Fitness.

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Teen Snatching

We almost had to file a police report. Our jovial and loving pre-teen son seemed to have disappeared.  And to make matters worse, the perpetrator replaced my darling child with a defiant, sullen, and entitled kid with a decided mean streak. So, we called for backup and fell to our knees begging God for the return of our son.

I also pulled out Boundaries with Teens, by John Townsend and cracked the cover.  I bought it a while back, anticipating such a time as this and knowing I would need all the help I could get(I know, I know, there are moments where I seem a little less blonde).

As far as rules go, we try to keep it simple in our home.  There are three biggies we enforce religiously that best define our family’s values.  This is not in some pastor’s manual, it’s simply the Keller’s trying to figure out how to be parents and not screw up our kids.

The Rules are: respect, honesty and obedience.

If the kid is disrespectful, they lose a dollar out of their allowance.  If they are disobedient they get fifteen minutes of extra chores and if they lie, we take away dessert for two weeks or skinny jeans depending on the child.  So far, the baby has only had a time-out but we expect great things from her spunky and independent little spirit (translation: strong-willed child).

But Kyle was blowing through all the biggies in minutes. Something had to be done. So, for the first time we implemented the full grounding of said child.  No friends, no social engagements, no phone, no texting, no Mac, and no fun for a solid week with an option for two.  We also took away the teen dances he loves to attend, indefinitely, until his two B’s find their way back into the A range.  This is not because we are Tiger mom and dad, but because we know he is capable.

And something amazing happened…our son has returned home.  It took a few days, but he seems to have come around (at least for now), and I am happy to report the book works!  I am hoping(and praying) as Kyle re-enters society he will not turn into Mr. Nasty again, but I am more than willing to put him back on restriction again(less driving him around, more help around the house…the benefits could go on and on). I’m sure this is just the first of many battles and it scares the spit out of me if I dwell on it too long.

I think the biggest lesson from the book is that freedom is earned and respect is a non-negotiable.  To give our son boundaries is truly a gift for the both of us.  He enjoys newfound responsibility and we have an amiable son navigating the path to adulthood.

Tone matters. Demeanor matters. When I watch kids treat their parents like morons my heart aches.  I don’t believe it has to be this way. 

Most of all, seeing his smile again matters to me.  And at least for this week, I’ve got my boy back again.

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“First Baby” and other labels

My First Baby is officially, as of May 23rd, a double-digit midget (translation-Faith turned ten-years old). Now that might be confusing to some because it makes absolutely no sense if you know the birth order of my kids. 

Faith Whitney is my second child (out of three) and now carries the middle child banner after almost a decade of being the baby.  After that long, you would think the middle child traits would be nominally apparent, but jealousy is such a strong emotion and even the most secure kid gets rattled when their role is replaced.  

I’ve noticed Faith fights to claim her place, postures for attention and vacillates between big girl and lisping baby talk–all symptoms of a classic middle child.  It’s tough being the sandwich kid in between the studly athletic older brother and a ridiculously cute toddling baby sister.  I think of Jan Brady and her silly wigs, just trying to fit in and find her place.

So, as chief mother and encourager of my little tribe, I have decided to break with tradition and give her a new nick-name, First Baby.  For many years Faith was indeed my baby, and instead of taking on the bitter and sassy middle child identity, I have decided to give her a new title, allowing her the distinction of feeling treasured instead of lost among the birth order.

Now, while this might sound coddling to some, I do confess a certain degree of parental guilt when it comes to juggling three kids.  My position recognizes the recurring nagging feeling of mommy guilt because I haven’t been able to give my middle child the attention she craves now that there are three.  The truth is I am outnumbered and Faith has genuinely lost some time and attention from the mommy bucket. 

But, even though my hands are full, as all moms know, my heart has an endless amount of love for my little girl.  So one of the things I decided I could do was to give her a special name.  And when I hold her in bed at night as we cuddle and say prayers, I sense my effort is appreciated.

Clearly she is still the middle sister.  Faith’s role has not changed, but her title has been tweaked a bit to boost her security as my beloved child.  It’s a beautiful picture of what God does with us.  The world calls us certain labels and He in turn tells us we are chosen, redeemed, and cherished.  The circumstances in our lives don’t change, but the image imprinted on our heart, (if we choose to believe what God says is true about us) begins to define us more than the other titles. We operate differently because we are secure.

A recent story in the news caught my eye about a family who has refused to announce the sex of their child.  The baby named Storm will be allowed to pick its own gender.  On a million levels this disturbs me but mostly because we are created in the image of God, male and female he created them. 

Little Storm will grow up without labels, without a gender even.  His family, in an extreme effort to avoid the world’s identification and labels, has created even more insecurity for the child.  In my opinion, this seems like another misguided attempt to play God and redefine the created order into some PC perversion of an alternative reality. 

I understand the desire though.  It’s the same reason I go out of my way to make up silly nick-names because I love my kids.  It’s the yearning to experience the paradise we were created for. Something deep within our spirits strives to recreate that which was lost. Of course not being God, we distort in our effort to recreate beauty or in this case a world without labels.

Strangely enough, I imagine in about a year or two, the last thing Faith will want me to call her is a baby.  And Storm in a few years will probably figure out his or her sex, despite his parent’s shroud of secrecy.  Hopefully, both will find their true identity in Christ alone and ultimately that will be enough.

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Bad Boys, Bad Boys…

Every time I hear another story of a wayward husband  powerful man out finagling instead of legislating, I am sickened, but sadly not surprised. It seems rather par for the coarse these days.  The more surprising revelation is a leader with integrity.

Not that Arnold let me down, because I never really bought into the family man façade to begin with.  (Though I am so sad for Maria and the kids). Arnold is and was a player. The “gropinator” was clearly operating within his wheelhouse.  (Yeah, I know that was mean, but it’s my opinion) This is a guy addicted to fame, fortune and chasing the adrenaline hit. The $2000 suit doesn’t clean up his propensity to lust.  But seriously now, isn’t that part of his appeal?  

I heard a guy on the radio this morning suggest, “A man is: how he treats his wife.” (If I knew who you were Mr. AM Radio man I would give you a full attribution). I thought his statement was brilliant.

Because in the end, our lives are defined far more by what we do than what we say, and lip service aside, I’m tired of all the Kool-Aid trying to clean up the acts of all the bad boys out there. (Yes, I’m talking to you Tiger)

Another study recently came out suggesting those in high management positions have a greater risk of cheating (discussed on KIIS FM this morning). Maybe it’s a confidence thing?  A big ego tied to a powerful position?  I guess you don’t get much higher than a governor, unless it’s a launch pad to the job of president?  This whopper of a secret makes even Newt Gingrich and President Clinton look tame.  Late night TV pundits were claiming it was harder to catch Arnold than Osama Bin Laden.

So, back to the male integrity dealio.  The media would make you think all guys are philandering jerks, but I disagree.  And, I’ve never been more grateful for all the guys in my life who treat their wives as a treasure.  So today, I celebrate you…the Good Guys!  (Do I sound like a beer commercial?)

Here’s to the faithful husband’s and dad’s out there that aren’t climbing the corporate ladder but manage to make all their kid’s baseball games (with the team snack).  Here’s to the men who wake up at 5:30am on Mother’s Day to stand outside Pavilions and buy their wives’ a card, some flowers and eggs for breakfast(that’s for you honey),  and here’s to the man who’s quiet actions speak MUCH louder than his charisma.

Three cheers for all the faithful husband’s and dad’s!

We love you just the way you are and you don’t need a Speedo and muscles to win our hearts.

Photo by:schumachergirl1956

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Cranky Pants

sad face

I am rounding up the week of the fractured foot. And it’s been so stinking DEPRESSING!  I never realized what a happy camper I normally am, until I wasn’t.

Warning! Here comes the vent….WAHH! My foot hurts. All I do is sit, sit, sit on the stupid couch. I’m not motivated to get my sorry behind up and do anything because it hurts even more. My kids look at me and think, “Hey, there’s mom parked on the sofa again. What happened to our vibrant, active go get’em mama?  Who is this long faced bummer gal?”

I am also depressed from the writing conference (Orange County Christian Writers Fellowship) which I attended this last weekend. I actually sat down in front of an editor from a big name publishing house and pitched my book concept . And then, miraculously he told me to submit a book proposal. (Which if you know anything about writing is like manna from heaven, because publishers almost never take random solicitations). You have to get a literary agent, and have a platform of 35,000 people and be on a speaking tour…and have all this marketing mumbo jumbo that makes my head spin around like Carrie.

So I should be happy that I got my shot, right?  But then the editor says to me, after he delivers the wonderful news that he is indeed interested… “But, it might be a long shot.”

Long shot! I am no long shot!  How dare he? I am Scrappy Sam the underdog.  How can he not see this spunk and fire in my belly? Doesn’t it radiate from my very being?

And so now, I feel this pressure to perform and to wow him with my Scrappy Essence. Which means some major edits to my slightly scrappy manuscript. It’s possible (ok, really possible) that I somewhat  haphazardly threw together the book for the writing contest I entered at the conference. 

It means really sitting down and defining my voice and the direction of my book.  It means getting my crap together and putting on the big girl pants.

This is serious stuff.

It’s a make it or break it moment. And even though I broke the foot, gosh darn it; I refuse to give up without a fight.

I’m getting all riled up thinking about proving Mr. Editor wrong. Of course, not enough to actually get off the sofa just yet, because I am in serious pain, but maybe enough to get my fingers tapping and get out of my funk.

To Do:

  1. Find theme song for motivation (Rocky, Oceans 11 soundtrack, any suggestions?)
  2. Ask for prayer (yes that’s you). Pretty please!
  3. Give myself time to heal (so hard)
  4. Surrender wounded ego to Lord (even harder)
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Mac n Cheese

It’s a sweet vignette-one of those touching Super Bowl commercial moments that brings a tear to the eye.

Daddy is trying to help baby Kolby eat her mac and cheese with a spoon and he is pulling out of his hat all the good tricks.

He is doing the locomotive move, “Choo, choo…here comes the train.”

Then the buzzing bee, disguised as a spoon move, “Buzz, buzz (spoon darts around baby’s face until she opens her mouth), here comes the bee.”

But baby is having none of it.  She screams in a howl of fury and tightens up her little pink bow mouth.

“I do it,” baby shrieks like a pterodactyl.

Daddy cajoles, “I have been eating a lot longer than you have and I can help.”

Baby stares him down defiantly. It’s the scary toddler stare- “Blue Steel” in diapers.

Daddy walks away defeated.

Baby picks up the spoon and giggles, and then throws some macaroni over her head like a crazed baby high on power and processed cheese.

Then he gives me the look. The parenthood is so freaking hard look. And I laugh and laugh and laugh some more.

Final Score: Baby Kolby -1, Daddy-0

I laugh because I can relate all too well. But mostly I laugh because it’s a picture of how I am with God, a maniacal baby hopped up on mac and cheese battling a loving father who is trying to guide me into all truth.

Every single day I fight between surrender and selfishness. Between “I do it!” and “Lord, you are in control.”

I think God shows me these vivid pictures of faith to highlight my own silly/stubborn streak and to illustrate His unending and radical love for me.

My son asked me the other day how I hear from God.

“Well Kyle, ” I said with a smile and a knowing laugh, “sometimes I hear His voice in cheesy noodles. You just have to listen.” 

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Bye Bye Tori and Dean

Actress Tori Spelling, during an interview
Image via Wikipedia

  A group of mommies stood around chatting, impatiently waiting for our sons to wrap up baseball practice as we shivered in the twilight.  A little girl prancing around her mom’s feet found an unconventional treasure…a hole in the grass that was about a foot and a half deep and a foot wide.  It was the type of hole that was perfectly deceptive because it wasn’t big enough for a body to fall in but just the right size to miss, step in and twist an ankle.  The tiny girl stood at the very edge peering into the hole.  She was transfixed and couldn’t take her eyes off it. 

Her mother suggested she stay away from the hole.  So the little girl backed up but kept her gaze steady on it.  As her mom returned to yapping with her friends, I saw the little girl back up and start running towards the hole.  With a great leap she jumped over it and laughed in delight.  Her mother watched in chagrin as over and over she ran to the hole and launched her little body over it.  The little girl thought she had discovered a loophole; she could obey her mom and yet still be near the dangerous hole. 

I chuckled to myself as I watched her, then picked up my son and headed home.  But, the image of the child continued to play in my mind long after I left the baseball field.

And then I it hit me, all too often I am the little girl who pranced around the hole, maybe not falling in per se, but delicately dancing around the temptation. 

My husband recently cut back on some of our satellite cable channels to save a few bucks each month (strangely enough ESPN was not one of them).  But a few of my favorite channels have been axed-Bravo, WE and the E Channel.  All my favorite dishy shows, Tori and Dean, The Real Housewives and E News Daily have disappeared into the land of non-subscriber channel land. 

When I scroll through the viewer bar, I can even see what I am missing.  It’s there, but I can’t access it.  Painful! My vicarious addiction to reality TV viewing has been interrupted and I am truly bummed out. Even though I know I should be rejoicing in cutting off my hand that sins (or eyes in this case), my spirit is reluctant and indignant.

I am always surprised at this constant tension of fleshly desires and faith battling in my inner psyche: One moment I am convicted and the next the princess of justification.  I tell myself it’s important to understand culture, while secretly knowing the lives of celebrities offer nothing of value for me to emulate. 

I empathize with Tori Spelling, a working mom just like me, and look for any redeeming characteristic in the show to somehow make it alright. Of course the one and only time I got my pastor husband to watch the program with me; Tori invited a witch doctor over to do a spiritual cleansing involving a mud bath and Tori in a bikini.  That didn’t go over so well.

Despite the best of intentions, and my sincere desire to always do the right thing, I am still prone to obsessing on the tantalizing holes in my life.  And even though I might not succumb to the temptation, my thoughts wage an internal battle untill I submit to the Spirit.  Like Paul said, I do what I don’t want to do.  And sometimes, if it’s an itty-bitty thing (like Tori and Dean), I simply do the bad thing and make excuses.  

So, I am both happy and sad I can no longer watch Kimora, Tori and Tamara, I will miss my glitzy and superficial friends. But I am also strangely excited to relinquish my little vice and find shows more honoring to God.

And maybe, just maybe, I can find some shows that are a little more Holy than hole-y.

No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it. (1 Cor. 10:13 NIV)

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Words With Friends and Cheaters

A game of Scrabble in Tagalog.
Image via Wikipedia

My husband is over-the-top obsessed with Words with Friends.  For those of you living in the dark ages, it’s basically the game of Scrabble designed to allow users to engage in games with each other via their i-appendage (iPhone, iTouch, iPods, and iPad).  

At any given time, Tim has about five games simultaneously running.  He is playing his boss and his bosses ‘wife”, our football coach’s son, a dad from baseball, and some random guy he met in the Words with Friends cloud.  I thought about being jealous of all his new wordie friends and the enormous amount of time he dedicates to this hobby (for about a minute), but then decided it was too much fun watching him kick some serious Scrabble bootie to get mad at.  The truth is my sweetie-pie is a strategic word genius.  Give him a few letters and a board (even a mini one) and the man can make some magic.

Occasionally people accuse him of cheating.  Clearly, anyone who would suggest this ridiculous concept does not know my honest to a fault hubby very well.  In seminary, he once went to a professor and confessed he hadn’t done all the reading. He actually admitted his earnest and sincere effort to read every page and subsequent failure to complete the last few chapters of one of the thirty books assigned.  I still scratch my head at that one (Honey, I think the professors knew the reading load was a tad overwhelming…just saying).

Honest Abe has got nothing on Tim Keller.

But this whole concept of cheating brings up some rather interesting observations… because quite frankly, I know quite a few who do cheat! (No names of course)

What factors influence a person to be so competitive as to cheat on an itty bitty game played over the internet?  No money is involved, no status, nothing other than bragging rights to the one loser you just beat.  So why cheat?

I googled Scrabble Word Finder and about twenty cheater apps popped up.  It seems like we have a culture of cheaters that enable other cheaters. 

Too bad someone can’t morph a lie-detector test into an iPhone app.  But honestly, when a player types in argute or ascesis for a 110 point word, it’s pretty obvious Pinocchio is playing the game.  

So, fess up people…do you cheat or play fair?

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