I saw a Real House Wife from the OC yesterday at the grocery store. This lovely is my neighbor, if you count living in the track across the street as part of my hood, and I do, because somehow that makes me cooler (or maybe not).
We both had three kids trailing at our heels and our eyes met in a moment of “Lord have mercy on me,” or at least that’s what I was thinking with a crying baby, my son begging for coconut water that costs five dollars per eight ounces and my daughter trying to assemble the perfect cake making materials to create an atomic particle (will somebody please tell me how the crap am I supposed to make positive ions out of frosting?).
Right about then it hit me who she was and the “ding, ding, ding,” bell of acknowledgement traveled though my thick skull.
Trying not to be too obvious, I snuck copious glances and did the female version of celebrity gawking. She was dressed in fancy workout clothes (because that’s what you do when you are a hot reality star) and her long blonde extended tresses were flowing around her shoulders. She had lots of makeup on and was a perfect shade of bronze.
I, on the other hand, am proud to say I did not have snot or poop or pee on me. It was a good day.
We checked out around the same time and somehow ended up right next to each other in the parking lot. I walked over to my Nissan Xterra and she walked up to a white BMW and then realized it wasn’t hers.
She started mumbling cuss words under her breath and for the first time I saw a REAL woman. The scenario was funny and dumb and something I would do.
And for a moment, I connected with a single mom who struggles to remember where she parked the stinking car. And I know that feeling of panic all too well, that “Oh no, is this early Alzheimer’s setting in?” I loved it! I love the MESS! I love it when we desperately need Jesus and I love it when people don’t have their act together and acknowledge it.
What I really want is a REALITY show where moms act like real moms.
• Real is: when they walk around all day with baby vomit on them and are too exhausted to care.
• Real is: when they show the parents pretending to be asleep when baby cries and then fighting over who will get up for the third time. “It is not my turn! It’s your turn jackwaggon.”
• Real is: when a mom prays for a girl who is a bad influence on her daughter to disappear and this bad girl moves and the mom shouts-“Yes Jesus Yes!!!!” and the daughter is baffled why her mom is having a big whoop dee doo in the kitchen because her friend (who didn’t even say goodbye) has just moved to Texas.
• Real is: when Facebook is the cause of endless arguments between teens and parents, and mom commandos the teen’s page and posts links to “Lord help me have a heart for the Poor and Needy.”
• Real is: when parents turn on Yo Gabba Gabba and park their baby in front of the TV and get crazy in the bathroom for five minutes because it’s the only time they have to be intimate.
• Real is: when neighbors come over and bawl and hug because it’s been a bad day and we pull out the Skinny Girl margarita mix and we encourage each other to forgive and forget, even when it’s tough and even when we know we are right.
• Real is: when real mommies and daddies fight and make up and pray and laugh at each other’s jokes, because mommy thinks daddy is freaking hysterical and adorable and the best thing, alongside Jesus and her babies, that has EVER happened to her.
I could go on and on… but for me, this would make REALITY TV far more real.
The Christmas my daughter Faith turned four, I succumbed to Barbie Guitar mania. I was one of “those” parents who got in a bidding war on Amazon and eventually paid twice the retail value to score an overhyped piece of plastic that ended up buried in a storage unit: only to be unearthed years later- just in time for our littlest girl to rediscover it’s hokey Shania Twain belting wonders.
You would think after all this time, I would have figured out the words to the incessant songs on the guitar that my toddler plays over and over and over, but admittedly, I have an awful ear for lyrics, and am repeatedly caught making up my own version of songs and am then mocked by my family.
The other day was no different. Baby Kolby and I were rocking out to the guitar, swaying our hips and singing, “It’s not as bad as it could be, seems everybody’s bugging me.”
My husband looked up from his iPhone snorting, “What did you say? The song says “It’s ‘bout as bad as it could be.”
“Oh, well I like my version better,” I said sheepishly. “I guess I’m just an optimist.”
I flounced away and Kolby and I kept on dancing to our own tune.
But later, I replayed our interaction and it made me think about how often we choose to hear what we want to hear, based on our own emotional paradigm and life experiences.
When I hear Shania’s song it takes me back to my own journey through abandonment and betrayal, divorce and struggling to survive as a single mom with health issues. And I guess it’s all perspective, because even on a bad day, I’m pretty confident it’s not as bad as it could be. It could be total crap.
And so a few poopy diapers, teen stress, and pure exhaustion from our hectic life is still merely a gentle breeze ruffling my feathers, not a tornado picking me up and leaving me unconscious and naked thirty miles from home.
And I think I like being an optimist in a world full of cynics, and maybe its God’s little gift to those who choose to trust him for a grander purpose instead of turning to bitterness over life’s disappointments.
At Bible Study the other day, this woman showed up with a big cake for her friend’s fortieth birthday, but she was clearly frazzled from her ordeal with the baker. She explained that she had specifically called in and said she wanted the message to say “Forty and Fabulous.”
When she picked up the cake it read, “Forty and Flabulous!”
I guess some things get lost in a pessimist’s translation.
What could be better than this? Cheap pumpkins and cute kids!
Some people labor in vain, while others are just vain laborers. (quote by Sam)
It started during the morning staff meeting. Just as I reached for the tapitio sauce to spice up my egg burrito, a wave of intense pain rolled around my tailbone then wrapped all the way around to my swollen belly.
I frantically gripped the counter of the church kitchen and panted, “whoo whoo whoo, heee heee heee,” in the breathy way pregnant women are instructed to huff and puff. That is, until the pain gets bad enough for the real guttural groans of childbirth. This is why you don’t ever tell the labor and delivery nurses you are in ministry. That way if an F bomb escapes while you are bearing down to push they won’t stare at you like you’re a hypocrite.
Emily, the children’s pastor, looked at me quizzically. “Are you in labor? Do you want me to get your husband?”
“No, maybe, I don’t know,” I replied. The last thing I wanted was to be an inconvenience to the team or to my busy pastor husband. We were trying to get this new church up and running and I really didn’t have time to fit birthing in on this particular day.
Ironically, it was my actual due date, but baby number three seemed quite content to hang out in the nice warm womb for the full term. Labor wasn’t really on my radar because we had a scheduled induction the very next morning. Wrapping up all my loose ends was on the agenda for today. I had the meeting to attend, a few quotes to do for work, and kids to pick up from school.
Besides, I had it all planned out down to the hour. The two older children were scheduled to spend the night with my ex-in-laws and the renovation on our condo from unanticipated flood damage was to be completed that very night. And most importantly, the baby’s arrival was perfectly coordinated to not conflict with Sunday Service. Our fledgling church was every bit as much as our baby as was the actual child now dropping precariously low between my thighs.
As we moved the meeting into the study, I alternately paced and rolled around on the sofa while the church staff shook their heads at me in disbelief.
“You are so in labor.”
“Uh, Sam, it’s probably about time to head on over to the hospital.”
Defiant, I stared them down, determined to keep my schedule. I picked up the kids from school then headed back to church and to my favorite sofa. Around 4:00pm. A gush of water dampened my seat. I ran to the restroom to check if my water had broken. But when I stood up, it seemed to stop. Embarrassed and humiliated that I had more than likely wet my pants, I kept my mouth shut and continued to deal with the contractions which were growing more painful by the minute.
My husband walked in around dinner time and suggested we head out to find some grub. Now my husband, the soon to be father of the baby on the way, was not the baby-daddy to my two older children, Kyle (eleven) and Faith (eight). So though he was a great step-dad to the kids, he was rather clueless about childbirth.
Planting a church during the pregnancy had required almost all of his time and energy, leaving little room for Lamaze classes or birthing preparation. When the Doctor had told him a few weeks prior I was about ready to pop, he had protested adamantly.
“But, I’m not ready,” he said. “I’ve got two more weeks! I’m just getting used to you being pregnant.”
The doctor and I looked at each other in bemusement. But now, here I was the stubborn one, clinging to my agenda and in complete denial of actually being in labor.
The kids and I piled into my husband’s grey Ford Expedition and we headed over to the Panda Express in Ladera Ranch. It sits dead center in a strip mall of idyllic suburbia. I timed my contractions on the dashboard of the car. They were about four to five minutes apart now. I figured I could make it to three minutes apart before I cried “uncle.”
In we trooped to the restaurant and ordered up our usual favorite fare. But my insides were violently churning and the mushroom chicken I normally adored didn’t look too appetizing. My husband urged me to eat up. “You need to keep up your energy; we are having a baby in the morning. “He decried jubilantly.
I smiled back weakly.
“Oh by the way, “he said, “I need you to drive your car back to the condo, pick up the kids bags and then take the kids over to their grandparents. I have to wrap up some work at the church and then I’ll meet you there.
My eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know if I can do it, I’m really in a lot of pain.”
He smiled his charismatic smile, “Kyle will be with you. He’ll take care of you.”
Mumbling low-grade insults, I drove the thirty minute commute back to Newport Beach in waves of delirious pain. The contractions were holding steady now at four minutes apart. I whined and moaned the whole way home as my son both encouraged and laughed with me at the absurdity of driving in labor.
We walked in the front door to our condo and were greeted by the roar of fans. The construction crew was still on sight, even though it was now after 8:00pm. And all of a sudden, I got grumpy, real grumpy.
I glared at them menacingly. “Hey lady,” the guy in charge said, your husband told me we had to have this done before you brought your kid home from the hospital. We are just doing our job.”
I grabbed the bags, shot the workers a dirty look and headed to the car. We pulled up at my ex-husband’s parent’s home (Mimi and Papa to the kids), a few minutes later. Mimi ran out and invited us in with open arms. Finally, I had found a nice place to relax. I plopped down in their big comfy chair, curled up in a cozy blanket and then “whoosh” another big gush of water burst forth. This time I knew it wasn’t pee.
“My water broke!” I shouted. Just then my husband walked in the door and everyone got very excited. The kids were laughing, the cats were meowing, and the adrenaline was pumping. My husband’s eyes got very big. “It’s time! It’s time!” he said with joy and trepidation.
We kissed the kids goodbye, thanked the ex-in-laws and headed back to our condo where fortunately the workers had retired for the evening. I told Tim I wanted to take a quick shower before we headed over to the hospital. Honestly, I just wanted to look decent for the round of pictures that I knew would follow. So, I jumped in the shower, blow-dried my hair, carefully applied makeup, and even managed a few curls with the curling iron. The contractions were now about three minutes apart.
At some point, I finally got around to calling my doctor to tell them we were on the way to the hospital. When questioned about my contractions and time of water breaking, my doctor seemed a little miffed that I was not already at the hospital. She sounded a little angry in fact, “Let me get this straight, you have been having contractions for the last fourteen hours, your water broke six hours ago, and you are now just calling me? Get your butt over to the hospital.”
“Ok” I said. We practically live next door. We are on our way”
Tim walked in and said nonchalantly, “Remember that day we were walking around on Balboa Island and we passed the photo shop with the gorgeous pictures of the pregnant woman with her belly showing. You know I always wanted to take some pictures of you like that but we sort of ran out of time. Could we do a few now?”
“Now?” I asked incredulously.
“Just a few, it will take two minutes, max.” he promised.
With a loud “fine,” I walked out to the living room and dropped my meticulously packed bags by the front door. I had packed the special little tie-wrap t-shirts my older kids had worn in the hospital when they were born, the perfect going home outfit for baby, a brand new mini-pacifier, soothing music on the iPod, and my favorite pillow. All the essentials a girl could possibly need for the hospital stay.
Tim lined me up where he wanted to shoot me and then had the audacity to request I change into a black satin top which he thought would curve nicely around my giant belly.
Seriously…a costume change?
I am going to stab you...in the eye.
But I adore my husband enough to play along with his badly timed request. So in the throes of labor, contractions now about two minutes apart, I do an impromptu photo shoot for my hubby. As a former model (yes, I’m serious. It’s how I put myself through school), I pose and smile, in between contractions of course, and make love to the camera with my eyes.
I hate you...
I throw in some more under the breath cussing at my husband for making me do this in the first place. My personality is now teetering between curmudgeon and loving wife.
When Tim is satisfied that he has captured my pregnant essence we head out the door to walk to the hospital.
Yes, I said walk to the hospital. Our condo complex was just down the street from Hoag Memorial Hospital in Newport Beach, so I figured we could save some money on parking and walk. I might have been hallucinating when I thought this was a good idea, but now fifteen hours into labor, I’m not really operating with a full deck of cards.
My husband pulls our travel bags with the rickety wheels across the cobblestone pathway as we make our way over to the hospital. Now reeling in pain, I stop several times and desperately hold on to the stone planter and screech in pain. Then we have two more minutes to walk as fast as I can trot.
Waddle, waddle, howl, waddle, waddle, yelp.
Finally, we arrive in labor and delivery. The nurses crowd around me and bark off directions but I refuse to let them push me in the wheelchair to my room. If I’ve made it this far, I’m not wussing out in the final stretch. I do let them convince me to take the epidural though. I’ve birthed one child drug-free and that was enough pain to last me a lifetime.
Epidural kicked in...I look sooooo out of it.
And so Kolby Grace Keller entered the world. She came out of the birth canal with a true knotted umbilical cord wrapped twice around her neck. The doctors believe Kolby tied her cord up around the fourth or fifth month in-utero. The knot completely blocked all blood flow and nutrients from reaching the baby. She should have died, but somehow the cord fused around the knot to give her just enough sustenance to live.
They said she was a miracle baby. The doctor was so amazed Kolby survived he had the nurse take multiple pictures of the mangled cord.
Call me Kolby the Survivor!
But it didn’t surprise Tim and I. Not that we deserve a miracle or take God’s grace lightly, but we do believe in a big God whose endless love allowed a little baby to survive against the odds. He is a God who can take the endless knots we tie and lives we so easily tangle and turn them into beautiful things.
My dear friend Bruce sent me this story in response to my post Helga the Cleaning Nazi. It was a great reminder to keep the main thing the main thing-namely the love of Christ working through me- and to let go of the little crap that get me all riled up and cranky.
Bruce Carl Aronson is a true spiritual guide to many at Mariners Mission Viejo Church and his wisdom and heart are off the charts! I am honored to share his story on a woman who I resemble all too often I really want to be like Mary, but my inner Martha keeps nipping at my heels.
I hope you enjoy this as much as did…
***
Martha’s House, Mary’s Village by Bruce Carl Aronson
Martha was pissed.
She had to watch over her two hair-brained siblings ever since her mom, Enchania, and her dad, Syro, died. That blighted tower that fell down in the earthquake, crushing both of the parents, and sixteen others, was the beginning of Martha’s great aloneness. Her exacting soul found great comfort in clinging to the idea that the disaster was not the punishment of God. Martha’s father had expected much of his first-born daughter. At least, if I had been born a son, she thought to herself, I could enjoy that, but now it’s just a talent (for Martha a talent was not a skill or ability but a load weighing 94 pounds, in her day). Martha saw her brother and sister as hopelessly scattered, and surely without Martha they would be both homeless and starve.
She worked hard to keep a proper Jewish Home: ordered, clean, and run with a kind of autocratic authority that her sister and brother found withering.
Now it was even worse, the Rabbi had showed up and nothing was ready. It was okay for the men to sit around and gab, but a worthy woman washed the feet of each guest, made sure there was plenty of food and drink, and that her guests lacked for nothing. So that is what Martha did. It was getting hot outside as the sun was now directly overhead. Even the cool, dark of her home was permitting some of that heat to enter. She needed to prepare the biggest meal of the day, after which, everyone but her would take a nap. She glanced around her home: it did please her enormously! The family business had prospered, blessed be, permitting them, not the tiny little four room affair that most families squeezed into, but a lavish two-story (with an open third story) wrapped around a small courtyard. Martha was in the kitchen, which opened on to the first floor looking out on the courtyard, but she could hear the laughing going on upstairs, in the dining room.
Her hands worked steadily as she plied the pita dough squeezing it, balling it up, and smashing each ball onto the heated brazier above her kitchen fire. She was squeezing the dough as if to strangle it and when she balled it, she smashed it on the hot metal she was using with rather more effort than the dough needed. She had just come down from dropping off the last pita’s, butter, and wine. The previous upstairs deliveries included olives, dates, and apples. She was tired from carrying all that food up and down the narrow stairs that led to her dining room above. There the Master was upstairs, on the floor in the center of the woven matt, with everyone hanging on his every word. He was saying something profound, he always was, but the person who sat directly in front of him now really annoyed Martha.
Mary was not at all disciplined. Martha wondered, Who would want to marry a girl who did not know her place? Martha certainly knew her place, but it had done no good: she was now the village spinster at 18. She had sent Mary up there to fill the water vat, knowing full well it would be a while before she ever came back. Well, it had been more than a while. Martha did appreciate Mary’s thirst for learning. Like Martha, she knew how to stand behind a curtained door or half way up the stairway so as not to interfere with the men’s learning and still partake of it. Much of Martha’s education had come from deliberately overhearing her father teach. Now the Master was upstairs with his emissaries, and a few others. Who was in the middle of all the men? Mary, of course!
The fourteen year old sibling just did not get that she was not a man and should never sit with them while instruction was going on. It wasn’t decent. It wasn’t seemly. And, no one was asking for her hand, in marriage either. It was getting late for Mary too. But, Mary was the pretty one. Men liked her. She got a lot of slack because she was gregarious, charming, and had a figure that could not be obscured by the robes she wore.
A cry of anguish slipped from Martha’s lips. She had not kept her mind on her work and the side of her hand had brushed the hot metal. She hoped that they had not heard that cry up above! What would you say about a homemaker who did not even know how to keep herself from being burned as she cooked? The skin was red all along the fleshy part of her hand. This was going to hurt. She was about to plunge her hand in the basin of water that was kept at the ready for such emergencies, when her nose reminded her that something was burning. It was the pita on the brazier! While she had been staring at her hand, the pita had blackened. Now, they were smoking. Could they smell that upstairs? She could already hear the gossip at dawn, the next day, at the village well. “Pitas get away from you, dearie?” “So much food you can burn it up? Warming the house with dough these days?” How they loved to laugh at her! (Of course, they were all jealous. That’s all.)
Tears leaked down her cheeks. Sure her hand hurt, but the shame of everyone thinking you are very competent and then you go and pull a small-minded stunt like this? Pull it together, girl! She swept the burned pita down off the brazier and into the fire below hoping that no one was the wiser. Then, she looked at her hand again. She thought, what to do?
Catching her completely by surprise, there was the Master scooping up her small hand in his great big ones!
“Martha,” his majestic, deep voice intoned, “you are working too hard. Come upstairs and sit with us.”
“Rabbi,” she stared up through her tears, “there is so much to do!” She knew it was unworthy to complain, but it slipped out, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work myself? Tell her to get back down here and help me out!”
He reached to her other hand and pulled her up to him, but merely said, “Martha,” as he held both hands. Somehow his hand was cooling against her burned hand. The pain seemed to be ebbing away…slowly.
Martha looked down. He did have beautiful, massive, well muscled hands. He lightly turned her hand side up and poured a little olive oil on the burned part. He worked it in tenderly with a gentle massaging motion. She still fretted in her heart that he would find her unworthy and stop staying at their home when he passed through Bethany or Jerusalem.
“Martha,” he said again, with such tenderness it made her heart ache with joy. He fixed his eyes to look squarely into hers. “You are worried and upset about many things.”
Martha nodded, of course that was true. She nodded fitfully that she understood.
He continued, “…but, few things are needed…”
She nodded again, transported by his gaze. Generally, she could not say that he was a handsome man. Yet, holding her wounded hand like this, he just seemed so beautiful. Would a man like him ever consider…?
He smiled as if he knew her thoughts, “or indeed, only…one…”
All the cares she carried seemed to leave like smoke in a wind. He was such a beautiful man!
He smiled again. “Mary has chosen what is better.”
Mary, she thought, why is it always ‘Mary this’ and ‘Mary that?’ Then, Martha’s mind became clear. Mary was so deliberate about knowing the Rabbi well. Carefully, she gleaned all that he shared. She went out of her way to really understand everything he mentioned –even the obscure stuff. Martha suddenly saw with clarity that it was not that Mary was younger or prettier (or luckier), it was just that she cared about relationships. Mary was all about relationships. Martha, realized (and it stung her) that she all about responsibilities. Mary and Martha. Relationships and responsibilities.
Martha lowered her head against the Rabbi’s broad chest. He whispered in her ear, “It will not be taken away from her.” But, she knew what it meant. You do everything so carefully, thoroughly, and well, Martha. Now, try Mary’s approach. She nodded to him as if he could hear her thoughts.
She looked down at her own hand. The redness was gone. The pain was gone. And he was sliding his arm around her back and gently leading her to the narrow stairs. Up they went. When they reached the dining room all the men were silent and noticing how the Rabbi was walking with her as if she were an adored daughter. People moved to get out of their way. Mary stood and vacated her place on the mat. Jesus pointed to that open place and indicated it was now Martha’s place. She realized that while Mary had taken this place, the Rabbi was giving it to her.
So I went to a conference this last Sunday for mostly female bloggers with my writer friend/hero Dani called Blog Sugar. Strangely enough, one solo dude braved the dainty pink estrogen laden gala…not sure why???
But I had to erase my speculations because they weren’t uplifting or good and true and noble. (They were snarky and bitchy and bad) and one of the things I learned was to be very careful what you put on the internet cloud.
(This is more difficult for some of us)
Regardless, it was fun to network and scope out the ladies who were dressed to the nines and tens and maybe even elevens. Seriously, I was in awe of their high fashion ensembles; the blown out hair, sparkly shoes and va va voom accessories.
I had a small moment where I realized how little I think about fashion and maybe that’s bad and I should care more about my attire because I look rather dreadful a good fifty percent of the time. But caring requires effort, that maybe I’m not willing to give, except for an occasional party when I can pull my crap together.
I wore my new riding boots (not that I ride anything except for…right, hit delete now) which I was very excited about and a bright yellow necklace from Egypt my husband bought me on our honeymoon that can only be called a conversation piece.
So, I felt cute and confidant and for being a slightly socially awkward person, I fared as well as could be expected. I learned some cool blogging tricks, made some new she-buddies, and ate way too many sweeties and got a tummy-ache. It was awesome– in a girly, Princess of Genovia, Annie Banks sort of way.
When I got home late in the evening, I spilled over with excitement to my husband and oldest son(who should have been in bed), about all the pretty women and the cotton candy and the decorations and how my new boots got many compliments.
My teenage son looked at me with a frown, “So let me get this straight, the conference was pretty and they liked your boots, but did they like your writing mom?”
I glared back, steam rising from my nostrils. “Yes, no…it wasn’t like that.”
And while I love my boys, they just don’t understand. Blog Sugar was an experience different from the serious writing conferences I have attended in the past. It was lovely and nurturing to the female soul and mostly, it just made me happy.
And someday, I aspire to have gazillions of readers and give motivating messages about just being yourself and using your blog for the greater good. (Ok, what does that really mean people? Not the good part, I grasped that despite my blonde hair, but all of the really successful writers say, “just be yourself” and the rest of us all scratch our heads dumbfounded because we are ourselves, it’s just they like you better)
Someday, when I am a famous novelist/blogger, I will give clarity to this statement. I’ll say, “Don’t suck, work hard, watch more Pink Panther, find your funny bone, take long walks and talk to Jesus…” Super clear, right? Actually what I think they mean when they say this is to find yourself, because many of us are still trying out and learning our voice and sometimes it takes us a while to figure it out.
In the mean-time, I think blogging rocks because it tells the unfolding story of people and we all need encouragement in our faith, an occasional slap in the face, and to our pee our pants laughing on a regular basis.
Seventy-four days ago I decided to be a good steward, get rid of our bi-monthly housekeeper, and try to shave off some rather unnecessary expenses from the budget. Seventy-four days ago I realized I have some big issues, and seventy-four days ago (I now acknowledge), I became Helga the cleaning Nazi.
I blame it on my step-mom, a darling German woman who believes tidiness is sacred and dirt is of the devil. I grew up in one of those homes-the kind where the living room was off limits-and if the mere trace of an errant footprint was spotted on the carpet, somehow frau-mama knew who had done it. I rarely saw her without a broom-seriously, I think she slept with it.
One time my best friend in high school climbed in through the window and had a small but secret soiree when our family was out-of-town. My friend cleaned up so well, none of us could tell the house had been violated, but my step-mom knew instantly, like one of those canine narcotic bloodhounds, she could smell the perpetrator and discern that her vacuum strokes on the carpet were millimeters off the usual pattern. It was CSI, Bourne Identity, and Murder She Wrote all wrapped up in her calculating sweep of an eye and I was in serious awe of her super-power cleaning prowess.
But now here I am, years later, with a home full of mess-makers (i.e. my husband and three kiddos) trying to maintain the elusive façade of cleaning Holiness that was modeled to me in my tender and formative years.
I have to be über clean like frau-mama. Right? It’s my step-birth-right; my pseudo German legacy.
My husband pointed out that lately I have been muttering under my breath ferocious threats to the dust balls as I stroll around our home fixated on destroying suspicious specks with a Clorox wipey. He says my obsession makes him feel like he can’t relax in his own home, because he might actually (gulp) mess it up.
And if I’m really honest, he’s right. Sometimes when he walks in the door I just look at him and get mad. When he appears, it feels like he immediately starts creating havoc. His backpack winds up on the floor and clothes too, his keys are dropped somewhere where he will never find them, cords are everywhere from iPhones, iPods, laptops and techie gear, cabinets are opened and never shut, dishes are left out,
And the best part is-he doesn’t even notice. I don’t know how, I mean it’s right there-this ginormous mess, like “how could you not see this?” But he doesn’t. It’s like he’s blind to it.
And my kids do the same thing-all three of them. It’s me against the dirt of the world and I’m so tired and it’s utterly exhausting being the only soldier in this battle, and I really, really…really miss my housekeeper, because she was my ally and I love her and I need her.
Because I miss being able to see a fully clean house (not half clean) and release it with a happy heart to get dirty again, because in the back of my mind I know it will be clean again in two weeks. And I can still clean myself in between and then it will be really really clean. And cleanliness is next to Godliness-right?
Does anyone share my pain?
And does anyone have the number of a good cheap housekeeper? Because if I don’t get some help soon, the therapy alone for my cleaning neurosis will be more than the money I saved on getting rid of the help.
An interesting article came across my inbox this morning from a friend and I almost fell over. I guess the days of persecution and End Times Big Brother are hitting closer and closer to home.
September 20, 2011 – cbs2.com
MISSION VIEJO (CBS) — An Orange County couple has been ordered to stop holding a Bible study in their home on the grounds that the meeting violates a city ordinance as a “church” and not as a private gathering.
Homeowners Chuck and Stephanie Fromm, of San Juan Capistrano, were fined $300 earlier this month for holding what one city official called “a regular gathering of more than three people” that requires a conditional use permit, according to Pacific Justice Institute, the couple’s legal representation.
The Fromms also reportedly face subsequent fines of $500 per meeting for any further “religious gatherings” in their home, according to the Pacific Justice Institute (PJI). “We don’t like lawsuits, but we have to stand up for what’s right. It’s not just a personal issue,” Stephanie Fromm told The Capistrano Dispatch. “Can you imagine anybody in any neighborhood, that one person can call and make it a living hell for someone else? That’s wrong … and it’s just sad.”
After city officials rejected the Fromms’ appeal, PJI, which represents both the Fromms and other Bible study participants, will appeal the decision to the California Superior Court in Orange County.
Neighbors have written letters to the city in support of the Fromms, whom they said have not caused any disturbances with the meetings, according to PJI.
Officials with San Juan Capistrano did not respond to requests for comment.
This blows my mind. A small gathering of people gathered in a home to study and worship God is breaking the law?
What about monthly poker nights, mothers’ play dates, bunko gatherings, holiday celebrations, wine groups, book clubs and my personal favorite, Monday night football groups? Do all these count as a regular gathering of more than three people? I think so!!!!!!!
Or is it just the name of Jesus that get’s people’s panties all up in a wad?
Bit by bit, our freedom to worship God, is crumbling before our very eyes.
I am generally not prone to getting involved in politics, but I will be writing a letter to the City of San Juan Capistrano in support of the Fromms’ appeal because I certainly don’t want some yahoo calling the cops on me for my crazy Christian shin-digs; like ministry meetings, New Believers picnics and so forth. (wild…I know).
Very soon, Bible Studies may have a cover charge if we don’t stand up to this absurd ordinance. Next thing you know we will be meeting in underground house churches like the Chinese.
(Then again, maybe we need a little persecution to light the church on fire and help us remember exactly who we worship) A Very Big GOD!
So I’m driving to work, shooting up some popcorn prayers to the big guy, when I turn my head and see these cool signs. I roll down the window, grab my iPhone and snap a shot.
I’m transfixed. There’s a sign that says ONE WAY with an arrow that got a wee bit cut-off in the picture and another sign proclaiming WRONG WAY.
It’s like God is whispering to me (maybe because he knows I’m attracted to danger).
Sam-You can go down the wrong way, the long way and the hurts like hell way to find me or you can jump straight into my arms baby girl.
I sat at that sign until the cars honked behind me.
Each day I get to choose between life and death, beauty or destruction, love or selfishness…
Choices, decisions, judgements…
I can choose to make the extra effort and snuggle into to my husband’s arms tonight or pretend to be asleep. (Yes…I’m referring to sex for all of you scratching your head about what snuggling means)
I can bite back my critical comments when I come home to a ginormous mess after a long day at the office and instead simply say, “Hi there kiddos, I missed you.” (Breathe in peace, exhale bitchy mommy)
I can make the effort to call my friends when I’m sad or I can park my butt in front of a basket of chips, salsa, and a skinny margarita nursing my emotional boo-boos all alone at Casa Ranchera (Not that I would…just saying I might).
I can choose to take baby Kolby to the park, rub Faith’s back, or listen to my son Kyle go on and on about expensive blue Nike’s until my head spins or I can check my Email and be distant mommy.
I can choose to not launch back verbal abuse to my co-worker after he has just asked me to cut up his steak for him at an office luncheon. (Ok, maybe that’s too much to ask of anybody?)
I turned my car towards the ONE WAY sign. At least for today, I’m heading in the right direction.
He caught my eye as I drove up O’Neil Parkway – straggly beard, matted hair, tattered clothes-it was the distinct look of the homeless and my head whipped around in a double take. He staggered down the street, eyes cast downward, muttering to himself.
For those not familiar with my So Cal neighborhood of Ladera Ranch, it is the Disney of master-planned suburbia. It’s manicured, lush and disturbingly homogenous. Deviation, unless it’s in Christmas light selection is seriously frowned upon. The Ladera association won’t tolerate any brown spots on our lawns and when we left our garbage can outside our backyard fence for a couple of days it provoked an association letter referencing a bylaw stating that no garbage cans can be visible from the street.
“Oh no…What are they going to do with this guy?” I groaned to baby Kolby in the backseat. She slurped on her pacifier in response.
I tentatively pulled my car over to the right thinking I would stop and talk to the man, but the vehicle on my tail honked at me for blocking the one lane road. Flustered, I drove on home and told myself I’d stop the next time I saw him, which turned out to be exactly two days later.
I turned the corner on Antonio to grab some nosh before church at the golden arches (yes I know, I’m an egg McMuffin addict) and noticed there were three police cars on the shoulder with lights flashing. I looked around for the cause of disturbance, figuring it must be pretty big to garner soooo much attention, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
And then I saw him, the devious criminal in question and my mouth fell open-it was the same homeless man I recognized two days earlier, only this time surrounded by five policemen. The cops had their arms folded and were questioning the man. I stared in bewilderment. Does it really take a posse of cops to deal with one guy?
After the recent death of Kelly Thomas in Fullerton, emotions are high, even in Ladera Ranch, and the police force are being very careful around delicate issues (like the mentally ill and homeless among our midst).
I entered the drive-through and picked up my food, straining to see what was happening, and then quickly drove back around. The police had cleared out and so had the man. I didn’t see him anywhere on the long stretch of road, so he must have been escorted in the back of their car to another location.
Now, Mission Viejo (which Ladera Ranch is a part of) doesn’t actually have a shelter for the homeless. When perusing the Mission Viejo Homeless Shelters & Services for the Needy website, I noticed the nearest shelter is 13.08 miles away in San Clemente. This alone is disturbing on so many levels because there is nowhere for the homeless man to go. Did the cops drop him off at the city border or did they take him to the nearest shelter in another city that accepts the poor?
Ironically, according to a blog contributor from Watchdog.com, Mission Viejo doesn’t have a homeless problem. “I’ve seen two people passing through who seem to be homeless, but I’m unaware of any homeless person living here. The homeless people I know of (a man and a woman) have mental issues, and they’ve already rejected the idea of going to shelters. The woman told me about her distrust for government and the system. She’s living on the street because that’s where she wants to live.”
In my opinion, if Mission Viejo doesn’t have a homeless problem, it’s only because the homeless are clearly not welcome here. Now, I recognize this isn’t about the police–the cops are just doing their job (and I am so grateful)–it’s a much deeper issue that goes to the very heart of humanity.
It’s as if we, in Ladera Ranch/Mission Viejo pretend the marginalized in society don’t exist, when the truth is-in this economy-we are all merely one natural disaster or bad decision away from being homeless ourselves. It’s just that most of us have become so skilled in image management you would never know the true state of our financial affairs.
Much of Ladera Ranch is in debt up to their eye-balls, properties are foreclosing every day and most people are desperately trying to hold onto homes whose value has plummeted by half. The only difference between this homeless guy and many of us is a credit card and a job we are clinging on to for dear life. And our coping mechanism may not be in a brown paper bag, but we find it in an old prescription for anti-depressant meds sitting in our medicine cabinet.
And yet despite the overwhelming economic woes, I get the impression, though no one says it out loud, that having the eyesore poor (i.e. homeless) in plain sight might lower our home values (even more) or somehow destroy the neighborhood. I can only guess the film crew for my Real Housewife neighbor would take every precaution to leave the homeless guy out of the shots in our little paradise.
Why are we so afraid of poverty and brokenness? It’s not a contagious disease. Is this really who we want to be- people living in a gilded cage with no room for the less fortunate?
I understand the appeal of a place like Ladera Ranch. It woos me with its Mr. Rogers charm, but a nagging feeling remains, at what cost have we created our idyllic little utopia?
From somewhere deep within dreamland I hear the distinctive cry of my eighteen month old baby,” Maaaaaa Maaaaaa.”
I rouse and stumble to her room, pluck her out of the crib, and gently lay her down on the changing table for a fresh diaper. Slowly we make our way down the stairs to the fridge.
Kolby desperately cries and moans, “milka, milka, mama,” over and over. I grab her sippy cup and pour the kiddie liquid gold. She claps and squeals in delight. Then I put her on the counter and we grind the beans, and make fresh Starbucks coffee.
The house is quiet. It’s a stillness so fragile, soon to be broken by the clambering steps of the older kids and daddy down the stairs.
With my treasured cup of coffee in hand, I hold Kolby close as we move to the sofa for morning snuggles.
I take my first sip…”Ahhhh” while Kolby slurps her sippy cup in delight.
I look at her and crack up at the absurdity of our morning addictions. I need my coffee and Kolby craves her milka milka with a fierceness that border lines cranky. We are two peas in a pod, grasping our cups like they are a life force.
But today Kolby has a treat for me.
She places her chubby little hands on my face and cradles it. She looks deeply into my eyes and says, “Happy… Kolby happy mama.”
Did my tiny little girl just tell me how she felt? (I know right? The kid is brilliant and reflective no less)
It took me about thirty years to be able to articulate my feelings and express them. Quite frankly, I am still an emotional stuffer. And now here’s my verbal toddler teaching her mama to stop and smell the roses.
And then it hits me, our morning ritual is far more than milk and coffee, it’s a snapshot of our relationship.
A stolen moment of bliss between a mother and her child.
