Sunday School Rebel

feeling quiet

 

I'm feeling a bit like this turtle here, just quiet. All is well, no worries. I'll be back with tales from a quick road trip I'm taking tomorrow with a sweet friend, and yet I have to share this hilarious image with you. I snapped this at my family reunion this weekend, can you believe it? 

 

Jesus - a paper Jesus, painstakingly painted by my great-aunt, who was married to the scariest Baptist preacher I've ever encountered - reading the Bible. It's simulataneously funny and frightening, don't you think? Please discuss. 

dizzy dancing

dizzy from Samantha Rebel on Vimeo.

I have fallen down on recording much video footage of my child in the past few months, and it's all his fault. He's at that age where, if he spies the camera, he stops whatever cute thing he's doing and then demands to see the camera. I made the mistake of letting him watch the videos stored on the Flip and he DOESN'T FORGET THESE THINGS. 

Yesterday, he was full of the spirit of dance. I caught him dancing and jumping several times in front of fireplace, which is he obsessed with, as he can see his reflection in the glass cover. I don't know if he was grooving out to the music (that's Feist in the background) or he was just feeling froggy. We had a really good afternoon, a long nap and then a late lunch for him. Later, we went outside for some playtime at our little playground behind our building, a ride in his deluxe wagon to check the mail. Eventually he got bored with sliding and swinging and led me on several walks around our building, inspecting sticks, lamp posts, fire hydrants, a beguiling yellow boat, with plenty of practice climbing up concrete steps. He even hung out awhile in the bushes with a particularly enthralling stick. It's the most cliche thing in the world to say, but they really do force you to slow down and celebrate the little things, or notice something entirely ordinary with a new appreciation. Really, when was the last time you tried to explain a fire hydrant to someone? 

As for new baby news, check out Carrie's blog for news on her new daughter! Carrie was a rock star at birth, as always. I need her body to tell my weird birthing body its secrets for my next go-round. In the meantime, I've downloaded the song this sweet baby is named after - though I can't find it by Ben Folds, only the Hotel Lights one - and I'm dreaming of June, when I'll finally get to meet her, this new star in the constellation of my heart. 

hold my place?

This is a placeholder sort of post, since I'm tired of looking at the Easter pictures on my page, and I haven't gotten all the things I want to write written in proper fashion. 

If you would like to enter a fun giveaway, go over to my dear friend Lindsey's blog. The giveaway is all Mississippi goodies, with some New York goodness thrown in. There aren't many entries, so you know what that means! More chances that you will win the prize! I want to enter myself, but don't think it would be quite fair, since I live here already. I don't miss Mississippi, just a certain part of it. 

In other news, I'm leaving in just a few minutes to go pick up a friend at the airport. I'm weirdly excited about this, even if I'm just going to pull up to the curb and wait. Since moving here, I'm just a short drive from the airport, and I have been DYING to pick someone up at the airport! So easy! So convienient! So helpful! And they have a Starbucks in the airport, so if I get stuck waiting, at least I can get a yummy drink. 

Send your good thoughts to my darling Carrie, who is going in sometime tomorrow to have her new baby girl! I can't wait, and am wishing I was there so I could smell that new baby goodness. And take pictures, but mostly I am longing for a hit off the sweet baby noggin, you understand. 

germs, ham, and chocolate (and Jesus, too?)

Last Saturday, in preparation for our tiny Easter roadtrip, we gave Thomas his Easter basket a day early. Having a little kid is so easy in that you bend holidays to whatever works for you, even if techically on the Christian calendar, Jesus is still not quite 'up from the grave He arose!'

His Easter basket was totally secular, whatwith a heavy emphasis on Backyardigans and springish animals. Can I just say, it was very hard to find a PLAIN stuffed sheep or bunny or chick? I really wanted to find a duck since he calls all birds DUCKS at this point. Most of the places I shop had stuffed dogs with bunny ears, or ducks with bunny ears - everything with bunny ears. It was ridiculous. Cute, but a little confusing when you're still in the learning stages of animal identification. I can just hear Thomas confessing in a couple of years, "Well, I had this stuffed dog, but it had bunny ears, so for years I thought this was a real animal, the dog/duck combination." 

Also, for Easter: a new haircut! I always hate to cut the Boy-o's gorgeous hair, but when it's in his little eyes, I get twitchy. As for the Backyardigans CD, I can't believe I bought it. I've been studiously against kids music, but I love the Backyardigans as much as Thomas does, and I figure it won't hurt to have a CD. I'm ashamed to admit how much I wanted to buy it, honestly, and got excited over the songs I knew. We even listened to it on the way home, and it was fine. At least these kids can SING, right? 

And now I have no pictures until the next day because I was very busy feeling sick to my stomach, literally. At first I thought it was just a weird fluke, oh a little tummyache. Thomas had thrown up the day before, which I had chalked up to coughing very hard, and also had suffered from some loose diapers. I wasn't thinking this was a bug, but it turns out it was most definitely a wee, gut-wrenching bug. I had Beaux stop not far out of town and pick up some Pepto Bismol at a gas station, and I despise Pepto Bismol. I almost cry when I have to take it, like I'm five years old all over again. I spent the rest of ride and then the afternoon at Beaux's grandparents house feeling awful. I took a nap with Thomas and woke up running for the bathroom. Is there anything worse than being sick, and not at your own house? Beaux was in the garage, working on various projects with his dad for his grandpa, but I had to hand the One Who Yearns to Be Outside over to the menfolk, while I drooped on the couch, watching some awful Lifetime movie Beaux's grandma had playing. (She was very excited about the final Nora Roberts movie coming on that night, apparently.) I skipped supper save for a roll, which I later threw up in the yard as we were leaving. Immediately, I felt better, either for throwing up or knowing that we were heading to an infinitely more comforting place, my dearest Other Parents' home. 

After we arrived there, there was an incident that involved poop escaping from a diaper, and yet we were safe and loved-on; dosed with medicine, Thomas's drug of choice being some illicit strawberries. My poor dear Other Parents, they are ever good to us. Thomas and I made it through the night without being sick in one form or another and I felt strong enough to go to church. The weirdest thing about being sick is that coffee was just not happening for me. On Saturday morning I thought it tasted funny (and NO I'M NOT PREGNANT, thanks) and of course on Sunday I didn't feel strong enough to introduce into my system. Maybe my body was having mercy on me, but I didn't suffer from withdrawal symptoms. I didn't even feel overly tired. 

Easter Sunday is the Big Wahoo in the life of the Church, and I was happy to be home amongst my people for it. The music was beautiful and immediately I began to cry, silently, to be in the midst of praise. Thomas made it through the music and sat irrationally still until it was time for the sermon. Thankfully, it was Beaux's turn to take him out, so I got to hear the sermon in perfect adult peace. They played on the church playground, which is a pretty good alternative to the nursery, I admit. 

We descended upon my family for Easter Sunday togetherness, and it was very good. It just wouldn't be Easter without being with family. My brother and his lady ended up not coming home at the last minute, and of course, we missed them. But still - more chocolate for ME. 

While the (delicious, did I mention delicious?) ham roasted to perfection in the oven (poor Jesus, he never gets any Easter ham, after he did all the heavy lifting) Thomas was ready to explore. He knows all the (nice) dogs are down the lane at Lovie and Gramps' house, so he headed that way. 

I was thankful to feel good enough to enjoy the Easter lunch yumminess, in small doses. The sun showed up and warmed up the chilly afternoon. We attempted another Easter Egg Hunt, which was another FAIL, but we didn't care. It was much more fun to dump all the eggs out and then stick back in the bucket. Even more wonderful was the total family nap we all succombed to - oh, glory. 

We stayed for as long as possible, playing in the yard and Thomas climbing on and off his beloved four-wheeler. Loaded up with goodies, as always, we headed back in the Easter night for home. Unfortunately, we scattered our stomach bug germs along the way, so far, my daddy and Beaux's grandpa have succombed to the sickness. Next time, I'll be more careful about a trip when we're not well, but I seriously had no idea we were *that kind* of sick when we left. I'm still selfishly glad we could spend Easter with those we love, even if they are not left with such loving memories of our germy sharing selves. 

The Easter Egg Hunt that Wasn't

If you and I are friends on Facebook, then bear with me here. I've already vomited out my frustration there, and everyone was very kind, but I figured I'd flesh things out with a little more detail here and also share a few pictures. I keep thinking about why the whole thing bothered me so and so it must be written out. Also, one day it will be a funny memory, a story I'll tell around a holiday table. 

Every month I attend a MOPS group down the road at this huge-mongous church, which is full of very lovely ladies. Once a week I also attend a Bible study, which is a much smaller group of MOPS ladies. This Tuesday was a MOPS-wide Easter Egg hunt at the home of our leader. I was excited to go, because apparently I care very much about Easter Egg hunts. It's a Thing for me, and I'm not sure why. I always loved attending our church wide Easter Egg hunt at home in Hattiesburg, mostly because it was a chance for me to admire all of our very cute church children, especially the Green Bean Kid. I loved the whole experience, in the fabulous backyard of a church member, cookies and punch, and the kids zigzagging all over the place to find eggs. One year Beaux was even the Easter Bunny, sweating to death in a huge bunny suit. In fact, I felt more than a little regret that we missed Parkway's annual hunt this year, and had even considered driving home for it, until my sensible husband quashed that idea.  

It's just one of those Things that I anticipated, having Thomas. Some people probably can't wait to have their kid's picture taken with Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny, and I could care less for that tradition. Last year, we took Thomas and he was fabulous, crawling across the lawn toward some eggs, hanging out with all the other babies who didn't really know what in the hell was going on. 

See? Totally great. Nom-nomming on eggs is what Peter Cottontail WANTS you to do when you're a baby!

Anyway, so I loaded up Thomas for our scheduled Easter Egg hunt. He wasn't in the greatest of moods, and Beaux had sat on the couch with him and fed him breakfast by trickery. There was buzz all over Facebook of mamas debating whether to go, as the temperature had taken a nose dive. I wasn't too worried, and dressed Thomas in sensible warm clothes. My grandma has requested a picture of him in his overalls, and there was a lady slated to take official pictures, so I dressed him in his overalls with a long sleeved shirt under a short sleeved shirt, and bundled him into a warm jacket. No precious Easter bunny-emblazoned outfits for this dude. With plenty of tissues stuffed in my pockets, we were ready to go.  

As soon as we arrived, Thomas spent some quality time on a rocking horse in the living room. Then he realized that all the good stuff was outside, in the backyard. A trampoline, a swing set and slide, a car on a track, a riding tractor, and a huge sandbox full of sand toys. Can you say, little boy heaven? 

He's gotten pretty good at the trampoline, and was not happy when I pulled him off to go take pictures. This kid is not used to 'sitting still' for a picture, since most of his life has been documented by patient people who follow him around. He did not want to sit in a small wicker chair, absolutely did not want to go on the front porch. When I set him down, he galloped straight back to the yard, with all the fun stuff, like some small heat seaking missile. There was no wrestling him into place, so I sighed and let him play. And then wiped his nose. And let him play, and wiped his nose. I could write this sequence for a whole paragraph. The wind was cold, and all the kids were running around with snot, many of them wearing HATS and MITTENS. In April in Mississippi. It boggles the mind. 

Soon enough, it was time to hunt Easter Eggs. Well, first, all the kids were supposed to gather round and hear about Resurrection Eggs. I think this is something the Baptists do, and I didn't get to hear about it much since my child refused to leave the play area. At least there were a few other mamas with some under-two kids in the same boat, so I didn't feel like the heathen of the bunch. 

When it was time, for sure, to hunt eggs, I grabbed Thomas's bucket and hauled him towards the wooded area. Eggs of every color were peppered in easy sight. "Let's find some eggs and put them in your bucket!" I suggested brightly, and yet when his feet hit the ground, he was headed back for more fun. Eggs schmeggs! Who needs eggs, or the candy hidden inside? I could not get him to come back, there was kicking, and screaming. I knew it was not going to happen, not with a play tractor only yards away, with no other kids around to hijack it. He was the ONLY child not out hunting eggs, though, the ONLY ONE. Thomas ended up with two eggs to his name, and that's just because I threw them in his bucket, trying to convince him that eggs were more fun than a tractor or a trampoline.

This is the same tractor that later he threw a fit over because he got frustrated with a lever on it. At this point, I was aggravated. I'd been surpervising him playing, only getting to have scraps of conversation with whoever wandered by. All my tissues were well used, and there was still snot, lots of snot. I know some people can let the snot flow, but I cannot. I will wipe my child's nose with my own shirt, if need be, and not blink. And there were SNACKS on the back porch that I was not enjoying. GOOD SNACKS. 

Later on, the photographer lady came over and oblingingly followed Thomas around. She was so kind and understanding, which is good, because I was frustrated. I wanted my child to cooperate. I wanted him to find some eggs, let me snap a few cute pictures, and eat some cookies. Somewhere deep inside I knew I needed to let it go, that I was mad because my expectations were in the dust. Part of me really did understand that there was too much for him to do, in this private backyard playground, for him to think Easter Egg hunting was more fun than playing. Now that I think back on it, I should stashed some M&M's in my pocket for bribing purpose, especially for the pictures. I've never bribed him with candy before, but I'm not above trying. Still, it was an eye-opening parenting experience, expecting a reasonable outcome, and getting something totally different. Sometimes I forget that he's still barely past the baby stage, that I can't expect him to act like kids older than he. It wasn't that Thomas didn't have a good time, it's that I wasn't translating his experience as the good time I wanted him to have. He had a fabulous time, I was too busy worrying that he wasn't doing what he was SUPPOSED to do to enjoy it. 

Sometimes, you just have to let it go. Eat a chocolate chip cookie on your way out. 

And hope that next year, things will go differently. 

prayer for the broken-hearted

These days, it seems so much is going wrong. Not in my life, but in the lives of those I love, those I care for, those I worry over. It is that ongoing mystery of life - why some people get the short end of the stick, the choppy waters, the never ending valley that just stretches on and on, with no still waters on their GPS. The mountains are high and snowy and no sherpa in sight. You want to help, you want to lift whatever milimeter of burden that you possibly can, you want to say the right words, something that will spackle over the broken edges of their hearts. You want to do this, partly out of selfish ego reasons, because deep in your heart you're a fixer, a mender, a mother to all, but mostly because you don't understand how they can keep going, putting one foot in front of the other, choosing to get out of bed each morning. You want them to know that they're strong enough, good enough, that they're loved. You don't understand how they can withstand the unfair circumstances, the nibbling anxiety over how the bills will be paid, the lonely nights, the once love that has spiraled into unlove, into madness and ugly hate. Sometimes loss is so deep, whether it's a relationship or a baby that isn't anymore, that you can't wade in after someone. You just have to hold the raft and raise the torch and hope they make it to the shore, that they dodge the crocodiles. 

Really, I know the one thing that I can do, the single act that cannot hurt but only help. When you can't do anything, except for love in the face of big problems, you turn that love into prayer. When I rummage around in the pockets of my heart, despite wherever God and I stand in relation to each other, I always know I can pray, unfurling the banners of the hurt and broken names across heaven. I lay in the dark, as my son releases his hold on the waking world, and I pray. I'm not a good person because I pray, it's just what I know to do. Often, I astound myself by forgetting to pray, that it's not my first response in the midst of big problems. I know that, in reality, there is very little I can do, except for ask for help. I can't write big checks that would solve problems, I can't repair relationships with a mild scolding or a fiery confrontation. I can't will someone to be well, but I can hope for it. I can't bring back the dead, and even God doesn't do that particular miracle much these days.

I say the names, of all the ones that I know need help, and I ask God to hold them. I don't have the wisdom to ask for what is best, most days. I think I know, but I don't. Sometimes I ask for what I think is best, anyway, and trust that God sees through my little human expectations. Most comforting is that belief that when I can't think of what to say, what to ask, I can trust that the Spirit is translating my heart into whatever heavenly language they're speaking these days. I just want people to be okay in the end. I want for them to be happy, eventually, or in the midst of the hurt, even for short bursts, like when the sun blinds you unexpectedly on a cloudy day. I want for Love - that Capital Love - to cascade down, around, and through. 

And I have to trust that somehow, it's enough. 

(This post is for so many dear friends. I didn't want to get too specific, to honor your privacy, but trust that you're on the inside of my heart and on my little telegraph wire to God.) 

beach day

My dad had the brilliant idea during our spring break week to take Thomas to the beach. I think he could tell Mom and I were already worn out from chasing a small boy around the farm amusements,  and figured a tiny road trip was in order. We ate McDonald's in the truck, and then he took us down some back roads to Pass Christian, with many of her beautiful beach homes rebuilt and a surprisingly pristine beach. 

We were lucky to have cool temperatures, somewhere in the low 70's. It's so nice to be at the beach and not sweat to death. Still, sunglasses are a must, with all that blindingly white sand for miles in each direction. 

Thomas was not in the least bit hesistant of the water. He was happy to squeeze the wet sand in his hands and helpfully throw it back into the Gulf. Any and all sea gulls were proclaimed to be ducks, always with the ducks! 

Lovie had brought a slew of good toys for the beach, plenty of trucks and shovels and sand castle building stuff. Yet the water was calling to him, and soon enough, we were back in the surf. 

The child was happy to wade in the water up to his waist. We spent many sweet moments holding his hands and chanting "1-2-3, swing!"  Thomas was thrilled and when we was ready for another go, would look up at me with this tremendous grin. There was a moment where I wondered if this could become one his first memories, all the shining water around him, the adrenaline rush of being splashed in and out of the briny Gulf, hands being clutched by the two women who love him most. 

Later on, the lucky duck himself got to flash all of Highway 90 with his nekkidness, drying off in the bed of Gramps' truck. A perfect day, surely only enhanced by the trip home, eating boiled peanuts along the way...