Sunday School Rebel

doing better

especially for auntie rebekah, originally uploaded by sundayschoolrebel.

Everything is really much better around here.

It's amazing what a few meltdowns, a new tire, a really good mama (mine), plenty of pancakes, a few phone calls with sweet, good friends, and the waning of a full moon can do for a girl. Oh, and brownies. Your suggestions were all so fabulous, all that pest control advice.  Here's our action plan so far: glue traps, especially under the couch where all the mouse action seems to be happening (maybe it's like a resort, in their mind?) and the poisonous pellets have been placed in strategic areas outside.  It made Beaux really nervous to have anything poisonous inside the home.  I also had the brilliant idea of ramping up the glue traps with peanut butter.  You should have seen me, cackling, as I administered dollops of peanut butter to each trap, like some wicked witch.  Just a little while ago, I heard the unmistakable sound of a mouse screaming (it's so sad! but I have hardened my heart against you, little mouse!) and it seems that it is stuck under the dryer.  Beaux is hanging out with friends tonight, and though we had the whole "what to do if a mouse is caught" talk, I think I will leave this one for him. 

As for the ants, I did use Jill's dish soap idea, simply because it was easy and I didn't have to go to the store for anything. I wiped down the walls of the pantry and also drizzled it outside.  Today we bought two different kinds of ant bombs, but I haven't seen any since I tried the dish soap trick.  Let us hope they will find another pantry to party in, thank you very much.

things fall apart

Let's talk about all the ways that everything seems to be going wrong, all at the same time, shall we? In the meantime, I've made brownies, and I'm not sharing.  I'm licking the spoon as I write.  Because you know what they say, when the going gets tough, the tough breaks down and tries not to cry, and so she makes brownies.

month two, a little late

Dear Son,

Okay, so you are already far into your second month, and here I am just getting around to writing you the obligatory two month letter.  I'm sorry.  In this past month, life has gone a tad bit haywire, and you're lucky that I have time to smooch you as much as I do, which is only - and this is a rough estimate - three hundred times a day.  Your cheeks are the most kissable cheeks in all recorded history of cute cheeks, and I do my best to express my appreciation. 

What really does get confusing is the whole weeks vs. day of the month thing.  You were nine weeks old and yet officially two months old on the 16th, and while I like to say how many WEEKS you are, uh, well, like I said.  It gets weird.  All I can do is promise to do this a little better, especially as I pretty much refuse to make you a scrapbook.  Because God doesn't make a table large enough for the mess I could create, if I took up scrapbooking. 

This month, I went back to work.  Or started working all over again, because it's a brand new world, everything is, now that you're here.  I swear that I could feel my brain creaking, like some rusty suit of armor suddenly reinhabited by the ghost of its old self.  It's taken me awhile to really get back into a routine that includes anything besides pajamas and time for elevenses and the random ride in a car, that is, when I have a car that agrees to actually run on a regular basis.  I have decided that everyone who has a new baby should automatically receive a brand new car for at least six months, because maybe then there will be no car problems, because really? Having a small child is not the time to have car trouble, too.  I think that car dealerships should hop right on my great idea, don't you?

Unless, of course, there is the possibility that since you pretty much sleep through the night, God has decided to give me car problems, just in case my life was feeling too easy.  In that case, I'll take the car problems.  People come up to your daddy and I and ask very nicely, "So how's he's sleeping? Are you doing okay?" Honestly, and I pray that this doesn't jinx anything, but you seem to be a good sleeper.  Many nights, after I'm done feeding you, your daddy will stretch out on the couch, and I'll lay you in the crook of his arm.  You two snooze happily on the couch, and I have a few moments to read the entire Internet.  Sometimes I'm the one on the couch, and having you snuggled against me is the best sleep I've ever slept.  I marvel at how I used to fall asleep - with a book, lulling the constant ticker in my head to a quiet buzz, and then, finally, sleep. Now, it's you, me, a pillow under whatever arm is holding you, and we're good to go. 

But anyway, I'm working, and you're being taken care by a virtual team of people who really, really love you. You seem to be okay, most of the time, now that I've found bottles that don't give you unbearable gas.  Not to mention that I've given up Taco Bell, which is an act of love if I've ever known one.  I don't know how early babies experience separation anxiety, and sometimes when I hear that you're fussy, I think it's just because you miss your mama.  The only comfort I have is to know that I leave you with people who truly love you, and we're all so blessed and lucky to have that.  And while I don't think you're going to hold my decision to work against me, I want to say for the record that in a perfect universe, I would stay home with you, if only to make sure I never missed a smile or a dirty diaper.  In the meantime, there are lots of others to love you and care for you, and I think you'll be a really well adjusted kid because of it.

Already, you've bonded solidly with your daddy.  You've learned that he can comfort you. He's figured out lots of good tricks, like running the water faucet, or doing a certain maneuver to help you burp.  He thinks you've inherited his propensity towards gas, and was the first to figure out that the first set of bottles was not working.  You've lucked out when it comes to having a good dad, one who holds you during church, and complains that I didn't let him snuggle you enough. 

You are the smiling-est baby - you wake up smiling. Your smile is like the slow ascent of the sun - a lazy unfurling of pink lips. You smile when you sleep, as if you are dreaming of a mama with eight boobs, and rivers of milk, all for you and you alone.  You smile when we change your diaper, too, but I think it's because you relish being naked, and who could blame you?  This month you've filled out, a lot, and your legs aren't the skinny legs like all the boys in your daddy's family, but chubby milkfed hamhock delights. And Lord, how you like to kick.  All the time.  Kicking when you're happy, kicking the edges of your changing station and your crib.  Kicking your daddy in the bed.  Kicking when you're fighting sleep. You are truly Baby Kicking Feet.

You've definitely discovered your voice this month.  I don't know exactly when it started, all the cooing and ah-gooing, but it's so much fun to have long nonsensical conversations together.   We talk, and you sometimes you let out a good old-fashioned SCREECH!  You smack while eating, especially in the early morning hours, lots of smacking and grunting, with some kicking thrown just in case I would like to try to sleep through you and your never ending feast at the mama buffet.  Just a few days ago you started coughing, but as far as I can tell, it's not from any sort of sickness - I think you just like the sound of it.  You also seem to like it when I sing, which is something I've been told I'm pretty okay at - so it's good that you like it, because I don't think I could NOT sing if I tried.  I mostly make up little songs and weird melodies, things I can never remember the next day.  We're pretty much about the improvisation lullaby at this house, but one that always makes you happy is 'Rise, Shine, and Give God the Glory, Glory!'  Somewhere, your Baptist ancestors are very proud, not to mention Susanna Wesley.

There are so many funny things you've done this month - such as this morning, where everytime it was time to pray during church service, you let out a hearty poot. Of course we laughed, because how could we not?  And then there was the Saturday I insisted we all go to the bookstore.  You fell asleep on the way, and so we stuck you in the sling.  I wandered around the store with you snuffling and snoring inside the sling.  I'd just gathered a stack of magazine to browse through when I heard the unmistakable sound of you pooping.  Immediately, I headed towards the bathroom, the icy cold bathroom that is colder than the inside of the White Witch's heart, and managed to change you.  The loud toliet flushing woke you up, but soon enough I had you back in the store, and your daddy and I managed to find two empty chairs.  We got all settled, and at some point your daddy handed you back to me.  You had fallen back asleep, and then, interrupting the quiet joy of shiny magazines and nothing to do but read, there was the unmistakable sound.  Again.  You and the poop.  Dripping. 

Without any debate, your daddy and I packed everything up in two seconds flat.  It was like a military operation on the move.  We hustled out the store with blameless faces, and managed to hold in our laughter until we made it to the car.  The only thing to do was lay you down in the backseat, and carefully remove your diaper and sodden onesie.  I think we threw the onesie away, actually.  The best part was when I was wiping you down with the eighty-fifth wipe, and you, realizing you were totally naked in a whole new place, started smiling and possibly, giggling.  There was total glee on your face.  We plopped you into your car seat wearing only your diaper, and promised to remember the funniness. 

It was a good day.  You make every day a really good day.  No matter how bad it may seem, it's always good because you are in this world, and you are our very own kid.  I love you, silly boy.

Love,
Mama

 

 

as the world turns

more stripedy, originally uploaded by sundayschoolrebel.

For the record, Thomas did great after getting his shots. I'd read somewhere to dose him with Tylenol before his appointment, so that I did, and all went as well as anything with four sharp needles can be expected. Of course, my mama came with us. We both cried as he got those nasty shots, which I honestly didn't expect. I couldn't watch the needles biting into his delicious chubby legs, so I just focused on his face. Then I started to feel awful, because I was cooing and saying, "It's going to be fine - " and feeling like such a liar. This kid trusts me, as far as I can tell, and here I am tricking him into getting shots. That's what made me cry, and then of course I felt so ridiculous, crying in the doctor's office. Thankfully, it was soon over and he calmed down right away.

In other news, he's now twenty six inches - !! - and fourteen and a half pounds. Apparently, my milk is made of pure fat. It must be all the chocolate chip cookies.

It's been a busy week - by Wednesday, I'm so beat. I never can stay up late enough to see the end of Top Chef, which is totally unfair, because I look forward to it, and there I am, fifteen minutes in, snoring on the couch. This morning, I relished my Thursday morning of going nowhere and wallowing in my pajamas. It was a very productive wallowing - clothes were washed and put away (but dang, there are still some on the bed) and dishes and I even Swiffered the kitchen floor. Do you know how long it's been since that floor was cleaned? I really can't explain my burst of productivity, maybe it's because there's a babysitter who comes over all the time and I just couldn't take the embarrassment of basically not cleaning very much since she'd last been here. Or maybe my idea of fun is totally skewed. It's hard to tell, these days.

Sometime in the morning, I checked our bank balance and saw that the rental car company had gone hogwild in my account - charged me for days AFTER I'D TURNED IN the car. (I had a rental car while my car was getting fixed, you know that little fender bender I had the week before I gave birth?) So I spent quite a bit of time on the phone, trying to straighten that particular mess out. It's still not all resolved, but I am determined that it will be. And the resolution is that they will give me ALL MY MONEY BACK.

The end.

pass the milk

Today, Thomas is going for his first round of shots.  I've heard this definitely ranks high the "not fun" list of being a parent - for obvious reasons. (Not to mention the whole debate about immunizations - that one will keep you up at night.) Of course, I've already had to hold my child down, many times, so that nurses could stick him with needles, so I'm hoping that it won't be quite as traumatic as everyone says it will be.

You know me, the eternal optimist.

Anyway, other than a fever, is there anything I should expect? Any good advice for dealing with the post-shot aftermath? In the meantime, I'll be self-medicating with chocolate chip cookies, thanks.

let the stars sing

Today, in a tiny corner of Connecticut, they are celebrating Madeleine.

Star-gazer.  Dedicated writer, poet, artist, actor.  Beloved, cherished daughter of God. 

They are celebrating their mother, grandmother, friend.  They are celebrating all of who she was and still is - yes, part of the joy in believing that we live on is simply that - that we are still very much ourselves, somewhere, yet becoming more. And since I can't be there, because well, it is very far away and let's just leave it at that - I am having my very own celebration right here. 

Last week, after reading that my friend had died, I immediately went to my bookshelves and started pulling out my favorite Madeleine books.  The daily readings Glimpses of Grace.  Walking on Water. Bright Evening Star.  The Irrational Season.  A Circle of Quiet.  You see, while I loved her fiction, loved her characters, loved the truth her stories told, it was her nonfiction - which, of course, is truth - that helped to save my soul. Madeleine L'Engle's words are deeply woven into my story of faith.

Last Friday night, when life was feeling muddled and tired and very-grey-Wednesday, I turned to September in Glimpses of Grace, and found this for September 8th:

All I have to know is that I do not have to know in limited, finite terms of provable fact that which I believe.  Infallibility has led to schisms in the Church, to atheism, to deep misery.  All I have to know is that God is love, and that love will not let us go, not any of us.  When I say that I believe in the resurrection of the body, and I do, I am saying what I believe to be true, not literal, but true.  Literalism and infallibility go hand in hand, but mercy and truth have kissed each other.  To be human is to be fallible, but it is also to be capable of love and to be able to retain that childlike openness which enables us to go bravely into the darkness and towards that life of love and truth which will set us free.

And this, on September 10th:

There may be a handful of people who are prepared for the unveiled vision of God.  But most of us are not, most of us still have a vast amount to learn.  I don't know how God plans to teach me all that I need to know before I am ready for the Glory, but my faith is based on the belief that I don't have to know.  I have to know only that the Maker is not going to abandon me when I die, is not going to make creatures who are able to ask questions which simply cannot be answered in this life, and then drop them with the questions still unanswered.

And here's today's reading, which fits so well:

Who is this creator to whom I cry out, "Help!" How can I believe in a God who cares about individual lives on one small and umimportant planet? I don't know.  I just don't know.  But I cannot turn away from the hope and the mystery which can never be understood.

That is the beauty that is Madeleine, and what helped to save me - a stumbling, despairing child, longing for all that is right and good about Christianity and yet hating the narrow, skewed view played out in front of me - the utter honesty of not-knowing, but believing anyway.  The poetry in being fallible, in being very human, and yet hungry to dance with the infinite.  Browsing through the memoir section in the library one sunny afternoon, I don't know what or why I picked up A Circle of Quiet. I figured that the woman who wrote A Wrinkle in Time had to be a fairly interesting person. A simple decision, a book added to my stack, but when I open those pages, these handful of years later, there is lectio divinia.  There is grace. At a point where I felt like walking away, believing there was no place for a questioning, wondering faith, her words led me back into the arms of God.  No longer was he the frightening dictator, the vengeful tribal god.  Her voice was so fresh, so different, from anything else I'd read or heard before. 

I wrote her a letter, and I have no idea what I said.  It was long, and probably painful to read.  I do remember that I decorated it with stars, using all my gel pens, All I remember is that I wanted to connect; I wanted to let her know how much she meant to me.  "How beautiful are the feet that bring good news," indeed.  And I remember going home one weekend and finding a letter with the Cathedral of St. John the Divine as the return address, ripping it open, tears flowing down. Her gracious response was a blessing, an affirmation, and absolutely remains one of my most treasured "things" - in a frame, nonetheless. 

I feel as those I could write and write and never touch on exactly what her writing, her witness, gave me and so many others. Here was a woman who was born to create, and who did, steadily, in the face of terrible doubt and failure, believing that our acts of creation bring us before and connect us to God.  Perhaps one of the most important things she helped me to understand was this very concept - in doing what we're born to do, whether it's writing or singing or painting or mothering or simply putting together a really fabulous pot of soup - is a creative act, and it is of God.  It doesn't need the "Christian" label to make it of God. That we shouldn't produce bad art in the name of God, or throw the name of Jesus around and believe it makes something mediocre better.

And while she definitely helped shape my own theology and ideology, and gave me utter hope as an artist, she also wrote about her family with such love and awareness. Her writings on her marriage were probably the best things I could read as I developed my ideas on what a wife is and can be.  Her tenderness for her children and her mother and the way she honored her ancestors - oh, and I know I unjustly put her on a pedastal.  One can't help it, with ones we look up to, but I do know, somehow, that she was imperfect, vastly human.  I know she had to be grumpy and terribly opinionated and bad-tempered.  She confessed it herself.  And it makes me love her, truly, all the more.  And while it sounds like she was awfully free and easy with God, perhaps, she strongly believed and advocated the disciplines: prayer, Scripture, confession, the mystery of Communion. 

Simply, I'm thankful for her life.  I'm thankful for her courageous questions, for her witness, for her beautiful humanity.  One day, I'll sit on a rock with her, in some other time and place, and know together, a good God.  The stars will sing, and we will sing with them.  And it will be very, very good. 

my favorite people

, originally uploaded by sundayschoolrebel.

the hardest part

Let's just say that last Friday? I nearly lost my ever-loving mind.

It was the end of a very long week, even if that week only included four working days.  Many, many times I have questioned my decision in going back to work so soon.  My child is barely two months old, and I am working - sure, it's not full time, but it's a full time hassle, one way or the other. I just can't get my mind wrapped around everything, and everyone is being very kind, but I feel guilty.  Guilty for thinking I could do everything. Guilty for complaining about having to do what I do.  Guilty for daring to complain when I've had so much help and love. Guilty for leaving my child, and feeling like I constantly inconvience everyone in my life to do so.  Guilty when I look at my son and realize that really? like really, really? I just want to be with him.

It's more than guilt I feel.  It's anger, pure and simple.  I don't want to be doing this, in so many ways.  Angry because I feel caught - caught between being sensible and responsible, and my emotions.  I don't know if I'm expecting too much or too little of myself.  I'm feel like I'm running as hard as I can to keep up with the world, and yet I'm eating dust. 

If I don't carry part of financial responsibility, it would mean my husband would take up the slack.  And I would much prefer that I work some rather than never see my husband, not to mention, have the role of primary caretaker.  We've gone for so long, it feels, living off of one paycheck, that when all this work translates into cash, it's going to feel a lot better around here.  It's going to feel like we've won the dadgum lottery. I know that some people are able to make certain sacrifices and live on one income, but we're just not there yet.  It really is a luxury, in many ways, the ability to stay home and wipe your kid's poopy butt.  I feel like I'm doing the very best I can, in that I'm working enough to keep the wolves at bay.

But on Friday, I was ready to resign. Not from any jobs, but from the general sense of responsibility.  I was tired of being the grownup.  Tired of making lists, and calling yet another insurance company, or doctor's office, or whatever.  Tired of feeling like nothing ever really gets done.  There's always more laundry, or dishes, or that person you forgot to call back two weeks ago. Tired of no matter how hard I try, it doesn't seem like I get very much done.  Tired of feeling like a rotten friend.  Tired of being me, or this new me, who doesn't know where the new fault lines are in this brand new land.

(It didn't help to read sad news, that my beloved Madeleine L'Engle was no longer walking on this earth , in this chronos, any longer. I'm still trying to pull together my thoughts on this, and do justice to how much she meant to me.  I picture her with Bach, joyfully playing through a fugue. I picture her completely whole.)

Amazingly, all these tumultous thoughts and heartpangs do not mean I resent Thomas.  I absolutely do not - taking care of him? Is a joy. Being his mother is what I was, I believe, born to do.  I love it when he wakes up from a nap, all that wonderful blazing boyness that he is, precious kicking kid. Even when I'm frustrated and tired, I still find myself dealing with him, calmly and lovingly, from a very deep place inside, like some secret pool hidden away in a cave. I love who I am when I am with him, and I feel very sure of myself when it comes to being his mom.  If I could shut the door on the world, especially on those rotten egg days like Friday was, I would, and it would just me and him and Beaux, our little family.  Sometimes I think if I could just look at him long enough, I would actually be able to literally see him grow. 

I know it will get better.  It really has to get better. I'm trusting that it will get better. 

uninspired but informative bullets

• It's 4 a.m.! And we're up! Nothing like a 4 a.m. wakeup when you've worked until 8 p.m the night before! Whoo baby!
• That was a lot of exclamation points.  I do apologize.
• Actually, it's not too horrible.  Thomas mostly slept last night after I was home from class, so I'm just really happy to see my favorite pair of eyeballs. 
• Last night I had TWENTY FOUR students show up.  TWENTY FOUR.  That's about what the main site is running in attendance.  Sweet Jesus, help me.  Help me NOW.  Trying to keep up with twenty-four folders and various sheets of paper nearly drove me off the edge of my sanity.
• The good news is that if I keep having so many people show up, I definitely get an assistant teacher.  Or co-teacher.  Whatever.
• And don't worry, I did have help with all those people last night.  Otherwise, I would have definitely lost my mind, and run screaming from the building. 
• I was terribly happy to watch Grey's Anatomy reruns when I did get home.   
• And then...the new Tim Gunn show.  Oh, the joy.  Oh, Tim Gunn. you are so beloved.  It's a great show, definitely a nice, fresh take on the makeover formula.  Of course, I would tune in to watch Tim Gunn go grocery shopping.  Or organizing his sock drawer. 
• Not only did I watch the wonderful Tim Gunn show, but someone else in the house did, as well.  And it wasn't Thomas.  Who do you think that leaves?  Even Beaux can't escape the love for Tim Gunn. 
• It turns out that my mole is abnormal...and they didn't remove it last week, just took a bit for a biopsy.  Of course, I asked that it be removed completely, but apparently they didn't listen.  (Dang stoop shouldered, creepy doctor!) So now I have an appointment for the end of the month to have it removed.  Because I love going to the doctor, all the time! It's just so much fun!
• Twitter was down (for me, anyway) for most the day yesterday and it was just terrible. 
• Okay, and now I'm going back to bed.  Good night, for a couple more hours, until it is officially morning. 

mississippi beauty

mississippi beauty, originally uploaded by sundayschoolrebel.

There's no time for a real post this morning. Just thought I'd share this oh so lovely picture from the family farm, taken by my dad. Hope everyone is having a good week so far...