Little Booger

For just a moment, I thought I would go back to the original theme of this blog . . . the thoughts that whirl through the mind of a newlywed.

This is a picture of my cousin's little girl, Aly.
Three and a half years old.
Six hours togehter.
And this is the best picture I could get of her.
Honestly.
Finger up the nose.

Here we are 14 months into this thing and as I think about having our own children, I am suprised at my mixed bag of emotions. There are moments when I am ready to have a big fat belly and the impending 25 years of obligation . . . I always thought I would be ready to start our family at the obligitary two year mark . . . but most moments . . . when I am feeling most sane . . . I can't imagine that!

We still have so much to learn and so many ways to grow before we throw little ones into the mix. Really, it wouldn't be fair: "Sorry little Johnnie, you will have to wait for your breastfeeding until mommy is not pissed at daddy anymore . . . I would hate for all of these angry hormones to get passed over to you through my breast milk." I mean truly, can you imagine! Naming a newborn baby "Johnnie"! I just couldn't do it!

The truth is, we actually don't fight the way we did during our first year of marriage. We have made a lot of movement and growth. But I just can't imagine the energy it would take.

I think we drained all of that kind of energy from each other during the days of "Mine! MINE!!! MINE!!!!!" "That's my way of doing things . . . those are my issues that your are pushing! That's MY set of dishes that I never cared about before but I will not give them up because of you! They are mine!"

We certainly didn't need kids around here, we already had two big babies! And now, we are toddlers . . . not much better. I suppose once we make it past the third grade phase of "ooooh, girls are gross!", we might be able to consider it.

There Should Be a Required Screening Process Before People Are Allowed to Reproduce.

Me: "Our kids will not call us 'mommy' and 'daddy'. We have to come up with some cooler, more interesting names."

Herb: "Okay. They will call me Steve. Or Steven. Steven with a "V" or a "ph". There are options."

Me: "Great. Sounds good, Steve. I think I will have them call me Pretty."

Herb: "Yeah! 'NO! Pretty did NOT tell you that you could do that - I know her better than you do and she would not have given you permission for THAT!"

Good thing we are a ways off from kiddos!

Well, the guest room is complete. And later, I will post some pictures.

For now, let me share the joys of painting with a four year old . . . .

A few days ago, Herb asked if it was cool if he had a few friends over to join him in his man cave (IE: the basement on a sunny, beautiful Colorado afternoon) to watch the Wolverines play some football.

I said, "Sure".

We had a few "stop-by'ers", and one tried and true . . . our friend Russ came over with his two boys.
And stayed for five hours.

Nathan, or "Na-Na" as they call him, is two.
The NA in "Na-Na" is pronounced, nae.
Between the fact that he is two, and my theory that the entire second year of human development is just one big drunken acid trip, he is a very rambunctious boy.
Made of rubber.
Doesn't cry or whine.
Just throws himself across the room until he hits a hard surface.
His brother actually rolled over his head and he just laughed.
And is always ready to fight.
I think it is because he is twerked that they call him Na-Na.

Christopher is four.
The differences between two and four amaze me.
It is the difference between,
"I need a bobby (bottle)!!!!" and a consistent need to have your butt wiped by another human being

and

"Miss Cara, excuse me, but there is a bad guy behind you. I am just going to shoot him real quick."

After a few hours of watching the boys catapult themselves off of the couch and onto a pile of pillows and cushions, I decided to start working on the guest room.

Christopher could not have been more fascinated by this.

I pretty much felt like a celebrity.

"You're going to PAINT?!?!? NIIIIIICCCCEEE!"

Okay, first of all, I LOVE that these two little people say "dude", "nice", and "sweet". SO funny!

Second, you need to understand that Christopher has bright red hair, glasses, and yesterday - an eye patch!
I do not have words for the cuteness here.
And unfortunately, I am still learning to take decent pictures . . . plus, he kept posing with his gun, so I don't have any great photos to show you.

Christopher was convinced that helping me paint was the best way to spend the rest of the afternoon. I figured that the 20 minutes it would take me to set things up would be long enough to disinterest him and cause him to move on.

Not so.

He waited with baited breath, perched on the edge of the bed.
And sometimes standing over the unopened paint can, lunging, with the roller in hand.

Being that I might have some sort of inner-Montossori school teacher dwelling inside, I decided to let him help me. It is the same place inside that, several years ago, felt it was good idea to let the baby I nannied for feed himself . . . his mother finally asked me to stop, because, while it was "sweet to let him help", the squash and mashed pea stains were a little excessive.

Apparently convenience and cleanliness outweigh exploration and discovery.

But what do I know, I am not a mom.

Turns out, Christopher was actually quite good at painting.

And fun to paint with.

You can always count on a four year old to keep things real.
At one point, after switching places, Christopher said, "Thanks for trading, Miss Cara."
Well, you are so welcome Christopher.
Really, what a lovely thing to say.
Us grown-ups should try being sweet like that.

At one point, we heard the grown-up boys yelling at the game on TV. Christopher looked at me and said, "Miss Cara, don't you think my dad and Herb are CRAAAZZZY?!?!!?!?"

An hour later, they yelled again.

Chrisptopher, "Really, Cara, don't you think they are crazy?"

Maybe.

At one point, Christopher decided that it was a good idea to paint with the enormous rubber glove that he found in the painting box.

ME: "We are not going to paint with gloves on."
Christopher: "Yes. I can do it."
ME: "No, we are not going to paint with gloves on."
Christopher: "But I want to."

And then I had the gratification that parents who use "Parenting with Love and Logic" must feel all of the time! I can't believe this stuff works!
You give two choices.
Both of which you will be equally satisfied with if the child chooses.
Then they get to decide which one they will do.
In the end, they are happy because they think it is THEIR choice.

Suckers.

Too bad this doesn't work with bosses.
"You can either give me a year off, at double pay OR let me have an early retirement while continuing to pay me 75% of my salary."

So, I said, "You can wear the glove. That is fine. But you won't be painting. You can either wear the glove OR paint. It is your choice."

Christopher: "I am wearning the glove."

This lasted about three seconds, until he realized how boring glove-wearing alone can be.

Christopher: "No, I want to paint."

Glove off.
Reinstatement of free and effective child labor.

Score!

Eventually, after the first wall was painted, I realized that I no longer had the patience to have a four year old help. Not because he was not useful - we really should re-examine those child labor laws - but because with a four-year old comes a two-year old brother on an acid trip. Na-Na periodically decided to "help". This mostly comprised walking in the room, picking up something random and trying to dip it into paint.

SO, the guest room had to become a no-kids zone.

But later, when I was cleaning up in the laundry room, Christopher ran in, took one look at our space-age looking, front-load dryer as it spun a load of darks, and said, "NIIIICCCCEEE!!!! That's so cooool! I can SEE what the clothes are doing!"
And then, pointing to the washing machine (which was not running at the moment), "I wonder what THAT one does?"
"I wish I could be clothes, so I could spin around and around in there too!"

Christopher, I wish you could live at my house so I would have a constant flow of entertainment by a little person that actually says, "I wish I could be clothes . . . "

Seriously.

It makes you want to rent a four year old.

Girl World

Today I pulled up to X High School to pick up a certain 14 year old for coffee. Over the years she has been a lot of things in my life. We began in an organized mentoring relationship. Now, it is safe to say, she is my friend.

I try to be cool. And listen. And let her order the extra big size of whatever snack we happen to devour. I am kind of like a backwards grandparent.

We have gone ice skating, gone to the library, watched dozens of movies, visited craft stores and even traveled together. We used to see each other weekly . . . and then after a few years, bi-weekly. Now a few months can pass between our times together.

But the beginning of her high school years has caused me to pray for her in a way I never have. I am scared for her. High school is tough. I am reading "Queen Bees and Wannabes" to help me understand what she might be going through. It makes me even more scared for her. As I read about the different roles girls take on to survive this time, I can identify where she fits. And I hate it for her. So I pray for her to meet Christian women at school who see beyond her attempt to look Goth without being Goth because it is not cool to fit into any certain group. She wants nothing more than to be completely unique.

In addition to all of this, she drinks coffee. When did children start drinking coffee? This, to me, is the major distinction between my generation and the one charging up behind me. With a mere 15 year age gap, I would have normally considered her to be in my generation. In ten more years we be peers. It would not be unusual for us to be co-workers or neighbors or even mommies that attend the same Gymborie with our children. But currently, she is 14 years old and her caffeine exposure causes me to think we might be living in separate universes.

A few things have change since she was 9 years old. I used to know where to pick her up at school. First the elementary school and then the middle school. We had a spot. We had a plan. But this high school thing has thrown me for a loop. I missed the turn off for the school but I spied the football stadium so I just started driving the opposite direction of the exodus of cars that were being driven home by children who can't decide if they want to have sex or get out their old Barbie dolls. I felt old. I pulled up to the school but knew I was in the wrong place so I called the 14 year old.

"Where are you?"

Okay, when did teenagers start getting cell phones? I did not have a cell phone until I was 25! And that was only because I was living in the home of an older couple who didn't really want me using their phone.

And who taught this kid to answer an adult's call this way? Wasn't she nine years old just five minutes ago? She used to answer all of my calls with a quizzical "Hellllooooo?" Once I identified myself, her voice rose two octaves and I received an elated "HIIIIIIIII!!!!!!" She spoke to me with anticipation and appreciation.

I think this has changed since the last time I called her. Which would have been two weeks ago. How did she go from bated breath to irritation and entitlement in two weeks?

So she saunters over to my car. I poked my head out and waved. She ducked her head and picked up her pace before sliding into the front seat. I try to be cool. It is hard. I am not cool. Not in a "I could tolerate being seen in public in front of my friends with you" sort of way. I am cool in a "I wear groovy skirts from Europe and have a garden nome in my shower because it is funny and watch documentaries just because I want to and I have a stack of scrapbooking paper in the trunk of my car just in case" sort of way.

The teenager is secured in the car. She is no longer interested in coffee, but smoothies. Apparently the only decent coffee anymore is at her new high school . . . and she has already had enough today.

"Can I use your cell phone to text this girl? She wants to know if I like this boy and I need to tell her what I want her to tell him! But I am not allowed to text from my phone."

"Um. Sure. Yeah. (then, trying to be cool) Sounds like a real teen emergency, huh? (told you I am not cool)."

But, she is still young enough to give me a break every once in a while.

"Yeah! It totally is!"

"Would your mom be okay with it?"

"Yeah, I just can't text on my phone because it is expensive."

Right, because in teen brain land, it doesn't cost a penny on MY phone.

Five minutes later . . .

"HI!!! How are you?"

She looks at me oddly.

"Well, we have not actually talked or said hi yet. Hi!"

Laughing. "Oh, hi! I bet you are dying to know about this boy that likes me."

Boy. Boy? Oh yeah, the whole reason for the text. Get excited.

"Oh yeah!! Tell me about this!"

From here on out, it was a horserace. Only, I realized, I was not supposed to talk. At all. No commentary, feedback, or even active listening . . . simply put, saying back what she just said. None of it.

So I listened. And tired not to laugh. And kept my opinions about her choices in books, boys, and clothes . . . and just about everything else . . . to myself. Mostly.

Then we went to the book store. I thought we would do the adult tandem bookstore thing but once I finished up at my section and joined her in the Young Adult section, I realized I was missing out on prime teen talk time. Next thing I know I am being handed a book about every 90 seconds followed by a quick synopsis and commentary. We even talked about "doing it".

Wow.

Nirvana

There is something about floating in water that makes me so happy. Maybe it is because my childhood summers were spent at the neighborhood swimming pool. Or the fact that many of our vacations were spent at the Lake of the Ozarks or "creekin'" in southern Missouri while staying at our friend's cabin.

About three years ago, my mom and I discovered a delicious treat - the community pool near her home had a small water park, complete with a lazy river. For $7, we could sit on a tube and float for hours as we rested and chatted. Last summer, I discovered Pirates Cove here in Denver. Herb teases me about my adult outlet for my water love. My friend Libby teases me for yelling at the children who get too rowdy and splash me. I blame it on my time working at the treatment center. I still have not gotten the idea that it is my responsibility to discipline rowdy boys out of my head.

I have been hard pressed to convince Herb to join me on the lazy river. But I think deep down inside, he knows what he is missing. After all, as I pack up to head to Pirate's Cove, he says, "Have fun at Nirvana!" He knows. But until recently, he has refused to give into the joy of the Cove. It took the Whitefords visiting with their three children to convince Herb to give it a chance. Guess what? He liked it!

Dear Jake, The Answer is YES!

Yesterday, Jake asked, "Are there modern day ninjas?"
These are the quetions us singles and marrieds without kids have the leisure of asking as we lounge about on weekend mornings.

Yes Jake, yes there are modern day ninjas. Just look at this little guy:



Any other questions?

Tough Toenails!

Today I overheard what appeared to be a mother and her grown son in conversation:
He said, "I'm NOT borrowing problems, I just . . . "

I love it! If I may be so bold as to fill in the blanks, I like to imagine this is a phrase that the mother has been using for decades to remind her son not to create unnecessary drama in his life. What a wonderful gift it must be, as a parent, to create ridiculous and annoying catch phrases and then inundate your unsuspecting children with them. And when Herb and I have children some day, I will do the same because, well, "I'm the grown up and you're the kid . . . "

Our kids have no idea what they are getting themselves into! Well, it would be odd if they did understand what they are getting themselves into, considering they are currently imaginary.

Growing Up Is Hard to Do

Six years ago, a (former) roommate who works for a mentoring ministry asked if I would be interested in going through the training program to become a mentor for an at risk teenager. My response: "I know your program is focused on teens . . . but unfortunately, I don't do teens. I didn't understand them when I was one and they certainly didn't understand me! If by some chance you found a child for me to mentor, I would talk about that with you."

Six months later she stood in the doorway of my room, "Well, I met your child today. She is your twin - totally how I picture you when you were a child - looks, personality - everything!" And it was true, this child and I were meant for each other. Even the way we got connected was phenomenal. When I was a counseling student, I randomly ran into the seminary's on-site cousneling center to say hi to somebody. I bumped into a woman who asked if I knew of any mentoring programs in town. She had a young clinet that needed a friend more than she needed thearpy. I directed her to Becky. And a few months later, Becky stood in my doorway - "I found your child!"

From her creativity, to her sensitivity, to her family dynamics, and her questionable sense of style/structure/and time management - we are so similar! Over the years, we have grown together, traveled together, and eaten our weight in ice cream together (I got two scoops for every one she had). It has been a serendipitous experience.

In the last year or two, we have seen less and less of each other. I have been busy and she doesn't call. We get together once every two or three months and go to a movie or something. I try talking to her. Sometimes she talks back. She handed out programs at our wedding. That's about it.

I got an email from her mother this week. My sweet little girl friend is now 14 years old and *gasp* kissing boys. She isn't supposed to be kissing boys. No, really, she isn't. It is against the rules at her house. But her little sister told on her. Oops. So, now, her mom wants me to start meeting with her again on a regular basis. It is a good idea. Teenagers need adults beside their parents to support them. But remember, I don't do teenagers.

Now, since the time that I originally declined working with a teen mentee, I have worked professionally with many teenagers. But most of them were boys - and we all know that drug and porn addicted teenage boys are much more reasonable and kind than any 14 year old girl.

But despite my fear of teenage girls, Herb and God have been talking to me about it and they both feel it is a good idea - for my friend and for me. So, next week, I will eat ice cream with the cute nine year old girl who has grown up into an adolescent who signs her emails "Vampire Freak". I guess I will wear a necklace of garlic bulbs around my neck.

Beauty

This is a picture of my cousin's daughters. The big one is my birthday soul sister and the little one is our family peanut. I love them!