Tonight I interviewed an atheist for an article I’m working on, and I found the conversation to be both enlightening and frustrating. It’s difficult to keep the objective journalist’s hat on when you’re listening to someone who rejects all religion as being “a brand of mental illness.” To each his own, but it’s hard not to take that as a put-down of my own mental capacities, being the spiritual person that I am.
He was telling me about raising his daughters, ages 15 and 20, to be atheists despite his wife’s Christian beliefs, which is the scope of my article (the challenges of raising children in one faith or another — or, I guess, raising them to be faithless — in a household where the parents have different spiritual beliefs).
Toward the end of the conversation he said, “If (someday) they find Jesus, that’s their life.” But he was quick to add, “If they come home and say, ‘I found Jesus,’ I’m gonna press ’em for evidence.”
Evidence? At first I thought, “Man, the evidence of God is all around us. How can he not see it!”
But then I thought, “Needing proof is soooo not what religion — what faith — is about.”
I mean, faith is a piece of cake when things are going your way, isn’t it? When all your dreams are lining up, you can point to the heavens and say “He did it.” When you get that promotion or new job, when your CT scan comes back clear, when your baby’s born healthy. In your heart, those blessings can really feel like “proof.” And I’m sure, in a way, they are.
But life continually teaches us that faith is not about proof. It’s not about getting the results that we desire, the things we think we deserve, the blessings we believe will make our lives happier or easier.
Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows that Chris and I have struggled to meet our mortgage and sell our house in South Carolina these last several months. And when the “Today Show” picked OUR HOUSE to be featured, out of the thousands and thousands on the market across the country, boy did that feel like an answered prayer. And when a woman in California saw it on TV and put an offer on it two days before Christmas, well that was just about all the proof we could handle that God had everything under control. Here was the evidence, astounding as it was, that He was looking out for us, and that our house was finally sold — on His time, not ours.
Our mortgage company approved the sale, the closing date was set, and paperwork was being signed ... all steps that had us sending up prayers of thankfulness, finally able to breathe a sigh of relief and look toward our future here in PA.
Proof.
And then three days ago the woman pulled out of the deal. Her ex-husband had just taken her to court and the judge ruled that if she moved out of state, she’d lose custody of her son. And just like that, the turn of events we were sure was an act of God (I mean, the freakin’ “Today Show”?! Al Roker talking about our house, showing pictures to the world of Our Furniture??! You gotta be kidding me!) suddenly seemed like a dead-end.
It was the third time someone had put an offer on the house, only to withdraw it, and I’m not gonna lie: When I got the call from our Realtor, I hung up the phone and sobbed like a little girl whose puppy had died. I threw a great big pity party for myself that lasted most of the evening. (Seriously, you should’ve seen the size of the brownie sundae I ate that night. And I never turn to food in times of crisis. Wine? Yes. But food? No.)
But then I bucked up and realized that faith is faith. We either have it or we don’t, and God help us if we lose it. Luckily, I’m nowhere close to losing it.
So, our credit might land in the crapper, and our retirement funds might be nonexistent, and we might not be able to buy another house for seven years. But I promise you that at the end of the day, my last thoughts are ones of overwhelming thankfulness for all that we do have, and all that is promised to us in the future.
I still think the "Today Show" segment was an act of God. I still have faith that He has a plan for us, and for that house. Right now His plan might seem like it’s a hundred years and a thousand miles away from our plan, but I’m willing to bet that once it’s made clear to us, it will seem completely obvious.
Like proof.
Sudzzzzzzz
When you reach this point in pregnancy, certain symptoms kick in that are not just annoying but downright aggravating. It’s not enough that your belly is so big you can’t bend over easily to tie your shoes anymore. You have to worry about things like maintaining bladder control when you sneeze, too.
For me, one of the most annoying “side effects” of late-stage pregnancy is Restless Leg Syndrome, which honestly I would never even believe is a real affliction if I wasn’t suffering from it night after night. The same thing happened the last time I was pregnant. All of a sudden somewhere in the third trimester, when I’d lie down to sleep at night — just as my body was relaxing and my mind was shutting down — one of my legs would get a mind of its own and NEED to move. Not like in a “twitching involuntarily” sort of way, but more like a “Your left leg cannot be still any longer, you need to move it or flex it or something” mind trip sort of way. I’m telling ya, it’s excruciating.
Anyway, I was suffering from this most annoying affliction while visiting my in-laws a few weeks ago, and my mother-in-law said, “Have you tried a bar of soap?”
“Huh?” I asked. (I’m so eloquent around my mother-in-law.)
She told me she’d heard from more than one person who suffered from RLS that once they tucked a bar of soap beneath their bed sheet, the feeling went away.
Now I’m a skeptic when it comes to shit like this, but it was my mother-in-law, and she was just trying to be helpful, so as loony as it sounded, when she emerged from her linen closet with a new bar of Dove, what could I say? I tucked it under the fitted sheet in the guest room that night .... and I Slept Like A Friggin’ Baby. No twitching. No mind trip. No lying silently next to my husband, flexing my leg muscles to try to ease the tension without having to physically get up and walk around. It was amazing!
Fast-forward to two nights ago, when Chris got sick of listening to me bitch about the restless leg thing every night, and sick of lying awake as I tossed and turned because of it, and sick of asking me night after night if I’d put a bar of soap under our sheet. Which I hadn’t. Because, really, a bar of soap? Come on.
So he got out of bed and shuffled downstairs sometime near midnight, returning with a brand-new bar of Irish Spring. He shoved it under the fitted sheet on my side of the bed, shut off the light and climbed back under the covers.
And I’m tellin’ you, it was like instant relief. My leg muscles just totally relaxed, even as my mind was saying “There is no way this is going to work.”
That night Kostyn woke up (as he does every night) and as I lay next to his bed, comforting him back to sleep, the restless leg syndrome reappeared. I had all I could do to stay still so he’d drift off again. But as soon as I got back into my own bed It. Went. Away.
I guess all I’m sayin’ is, I now believe soap can give you both a 'clean, fresh scent' and a good night's sleep.
For me, one of the most annoying “side effects” of late-stage pregnancy is Restless Leg Syndrome, which honestly I would never even believe is a real affliction if I wasn’t suffering from it night after night. The same thing happened the last time I was pregnant. All of a sudden somewhere in the third trimester, when I’d lie down to sleep at night — just as my body was relaxing and my mind was shutting down — one of my legs would get a mind of its own and NEED to move. Not like in a “twitching involuntarily” sort of way, but more like a “Your left leg cannot be still any longer, you need to move it or flex it or something” mind trip sort of way. I’m telling ya, it’s excruciating.
Anyway, I was suffering from this most annoying affliction while visiting my in-laws a few weeks ago, and my mother-in-law said, “Have you tried a bar of soap?”
“Huh?” I asked. (I’m so eloquent around my mother-in-law.)
She told me she’d heard from more than one person who suffered from RLS that once they tucked a bar of soap beneath their bed sheet, the feeling went away.
Now I’m a skeptic when it comes to shit like this, but it was my mother-in-law, and she was just trying to be helpful, so as loony as it sounded, when she emerged from her linen closet with a new bar of Dove, what could I say? I tucked it under the fitted sheet in the guest room that night .... and I Slept Like A Friggin’ Baby. No twitching. No mind trip. No lying silently next to my husband, flexing my leg muscles to try to ease the tension without having to physically get up and walk around. It was amazing!
Fast-forward to two nights ago, when Chris got sick of listening to me bitch about the restless leg thing every night, and sick of lying awake as I tossed and turned because of it, and sick of asking me night after night if I’d put a bar of soap under our sheet. Which I hadn’t. Because, really, a bar of soap? Come on.
So he got out of bed and shuffled downstairs sometime near midnight, returning with a brand-new bar of Irish Spring. He shoved it under the fitted sheet on my side of the bed, shut off the light and climbed back under the covers.
And I’m tellin’ you, it was like instant relief. My leg muscles just totally relaxed, even as my mind was saying “There is no way this is going to work.”
That night Kostyn woke up (as he does every night) and as I lay next to his bed, comforting him back to sleep, the restless leg syndrome reappeared. I had all I could do to stay still so he’d drift off again. But as soon as I got back into my own bed It. Went. Away.
I guess all I’m sayin’ is, I now believe soap can give you both a 'clean, fresh scent' and a good night's sleep.
A letter
Dear Kostyn,
At the very start of your life, you already are blessed in so many ways. You’ve been blessed to be born into a loving family, with a roof over your head and food on the table every single day. You’ve been blessed to be strong in both mind and body. But you’ve also been blessed because you were born a white male in the United States of America. It will be years before you understand the implications of those three blessings put together, Kostyn, but trust me — they’re big.
The thing is, though, the color of your skin got a little less important today. And that’s a beautiful thing. Today when Barack Obama became our first African-American president, he redefined the American dream for millions of people, people of all colors and ages and social backgrounds.
Years from now you will read about it in your school’s history books and hear about it at our dinner table — like many other tales from the past we’ll probably bore you with. Your life is one that will blossom with the simple reality that a black man can hold the highest office in the most powerful country in the world. For you, this will seem like a simple statement of fact. For your father and I, on this day, it is an astounding, awesome revelation.
It’s true God has already blessed you in many ways, little one. But today, He blessed us all.
Love,
Mama
At the very start of your life, you already are blessed in so many ways. You’ve been blessed to be born into a loving family, with a roof over your head and food on the table every single day. You’ve been blessed to be strong in both mind and body. But you’ve also been blessed because you were born a white male in the United States of America. It will be years before you understand the implications of those three blessings put together, Kostyn, but trust me — they’re big.
The thing is, though, the color of your skin got a little less important today. And that’s a beautiful thing. Today when Barack Obama became our first African-American president, he redefined the American dream for millions of people, people of all colors and ages and social backgrounds.
Years from now you will read about it in your school’s history books and hear about it at our dinner table — like many other tales from the past we’ll probably bore you with. Your life is one that will blossom with the simple reality that a black man can hold the highest office in the most powerful country in the world. For you, this will seem like a simple statement of fact. For your father and I, on this day, it is an astounding, awesome revelation.
It’s true God has already blessed you in many ways, little one. But today, He blessed us all.
Love,
Mama
Musical memories
Anyone who’s hung out with me in these last seven months knows that I’ve been less than enthusiastic about going through the whole ‘caring for a newborn’ stage again. Some people adore that stage in a child’s life. They don’t mind the sleepless nights, the constant feeding, burping and diaper changes, the crying (both yours and the baby’s) for seemingly no reason. They apparently forget about the frustration of always wanting to make your baby happy but often being mystified by how to make that happen. I am not one of those people. I love my son and cared for him with great tenderness and abundant patience (way more than I thought I had) during that time, but I’m not exactly psyched to do it again. With a toddler in tow.
When I see photos of Kostyn as a tiny baby, I am not exactly filled with nostalgia. I do not pine for him to be that small again. Don’t get me wrong -- I still “aww” and sigh and smile and say “I can’t believe he was ever that little!” But there’s no silent wish for him to be 7 pounds again.
I say all this to confess that I’ve always felt bad about it. Guilty. Cold. Like there’s obviously something wrong with me, some short-circuit in my heart that makes me not daydream about those days gone by, back when he fit perfectly in the crook of my arm.
So this weekend when we started shaping up the third bedroom — which had previously been used as an oversized closet — into a nursery for Evan, I was reminded over and over about that guilt. Chris painted a nice shade of green over the pink walls, rolled out a new area rug we bought and started arranging furniture. And honestly, I started to get excited. But as I sorted through mounds of tiny onesies and sleepers and outfits Kostyn had worn, trying to cobble together a sufficiently warm wardrobe for my newest little guy, I was not holding back tears of nostalgia with every itty bitty onesie I held up.
But then. I wandered upstairs to see what Chris was up to in the nursery and saw that he had put together the crib and had just replaced the batteries in Kostyn’s old musical mobile. He was holding it in his hands with this odd look on his face, and when I reminded him that we’d bought a new mobile to go in Evan’s room, he said, “We did? But ... listen ...” and he turned on the little mobile in his hand.
And I lost it.
There was something about hearing that nameless little tune that sent me back in time about 18 months. I was suddenly in Kostyn’s sunny yellow room, rocking him to sleep with those soft tinkling notes playing while the mobile projected little stars and fish swirling on the ceiling. I’d listened to that music every day, several times a day (and night), for months, yet hadn’t thought of it since we’d disassembled the crib and stored it all away when he turned 1.
But there it was, this simple reminder of such a special, God-given time in our lives, the most blessed and fulfilled and overwhelmed and awe-struck we’d ever been. I looked at Chris and, as the tears rolled down my cheeks, I said, “I have no idea why I’m crying. They’re not tears of joy, or tears of sadness.”
They were just tears of pure emotion. Love. And suddenly my heart ached, literally ached, to recapture even one of those moments. To have him in the crook of my arm again, to smell the baby powder and hear him sigh and caress his tiny feet until he falls asleep.
And that’s when it hit me, with overwhelming thankfulness, that I get to do it all again.
When I see photos of Kostyn as a tiny baby, I am not exactly filled with nostalgia. I do not pine for him to be that small again. Don’t get me wrong -- I still “aww” and sigh and smile and say “I can’t believe he was ever that little!” But there’s no silent wish for him to be 7 pounds again.
I say all this to confess that I’ve always felt bad about it. Guilty. Cold. Like there’s obviously something wrong with me, some short-circuit in my heart that makes me not daydream about those days gone by, back when he fit perfectly in the crook of my arm.
So this weekend when we started shaping up the third bedroom — which had previously been used as an oversized closet — into a nursery for Evan, I was reminded over and over about that guilt. Chris painted a nice shade of green over the pink walls, rolled out a new area rug we bought and started arranging furniture. And honestly, I started to get excited. But as I sorted through mounds of tiny onesies and sleepers and outfits Kostyn had worn, trying to cobble together a sufficiently warm wardrobe for my newest little guy, I was not holding back tears of nostalgia with every itty bitty onesie I held up.
But then. I wandered upstairs to see what Chris was up to in the nursery and saw that he had put together the crib and had just replaced the batteries in Kostyn’s old musical mobile. He was holding it in his hands with this odd look on his face, and when I reminded him that we’d bought a new mobile to go in Evan’s room, he said, “We did? But ... listen ...” and he turned on the little mobile in his hand.
And I lost it.
There was something about hearing that nameless little tune that sent me back in time about 18 months. I was suddenly in Kostyn’s sunny yellow room, rocking him to sleep with those soft tinkling notes playing while the mobile projected little stars and fish swirling on the ceiling. I’d listened to that music every day, several times a day (and night), for months, yet hadn’t thought of it since we’d disassembled the crib and stored it all away when he turned 1.
But there it was, this simple reminder of such a special, God-given time in our lives, the most blessed and fulfilled and overwhelmed and awe-struck we’d ever been. I looked at Chris and, as the tears rolled down my cheeks, I said, “I have no idea why I’m crying. They’re not tears of joy, or tears of sadness.”
They were just tears of pure emotion. Love. And suddenly my heart ached, literally ached, to recapture even one of those moments. To have him in the crook of my arm again, to smell the baby powder and hear him sigh and caress his tiny feet until he falls asleep.
And that’s when it hit me, with overwhelming thankfulness, that I get to do it all again.
Boy crazy
Today the nurse at the OB’s office asked me if I knew what I was having. “It’s another boy,” I smiled.
With a sympathetic look, she said, “Aww. Well, maybe you’ll get a girl next time.”
Isn’t it funny how we all believe in a different version of “the perfect family”?
I had to tell her that I actually was thrilled to learn I’d be having two boys. Brothers to grow up together, play sports together (or not), wrestle and fight and dream together, and perhaps most of all, stick up for each other (except for when one of them blames the other one for something, of course).
Plus, hello!, way cheaper on the clothes and toys fronts.
Anyway, consider this a warning: With less than 2 months to go, my mind and heart are swimming with expectations, excitement, insecurities, fears, dreams and revelations. I’ll be spewing at least some of it here. Gotta get it outta my head, man. I can’t sleep!
Stay tuned. (Or not.)
With a sympathetic look, she said, “Aww. Well, maybe you’ll get a girl next time.”
Isn’t it funny how we all believe in a different version of “the perfect family”?
I had to tell her that I actually was thrilled to learn I’d be having two boys. Brothers to grow up together, play sports together (or not), wrestle and fight and dream together, and perhaps most of all, stick up for each other (except for when one of them blames the other one for something, of course).
Plus, hello!, way cheaper on the clothes and toys fronts.
Anyway, consider this a warning: With less than 2 months to go, my mind and heart are swimming with expectations, excitement, insecurities, fears, dreams and revelations. I’ll be spewing at least some of it here. Gotta get it outta my head, man. I can’t sleep!
Stay tuned. (Or not.)
Oooommmmm
I read a quote today that stuck with me.
“Tension is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are.”
It’s been rattling around in my brain all evening, and what kills me is I can’t think of many people I know who, by this definition, are “relaxed.” Including myself. Oh boy am I tense.
I’m not going to bore you with all the ways I think I should be better or different or more, because it’s not all that interesting and by now you’re probably thinking about your own tensions anyway.
I just thought I’d put this quote out there in hopes it would rattle a few other brains....perhaps those who’ve been struggling with the visions of the kind of parent they should be, or the kind of person they should be with, or the kind of job they should have (or at least aspire to).
Let’s all just take a deep breath and Relax, huh?
“Tension is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are.”
It’s been rattling around in my brain all evening, and what kills me is I can’t think of many people I know who, by this definition, are “relaxed.” Including myself. Oh boy am I tense.
I’m not going to bore you with all the ways I think I should be better or different or more, because it’s not all that interesting and by now you’re probably thinking about your own tensions anyway.
I just thought I’d put this quote out there in hopes it would rattle a few other brains....perhaps those who’ve been struggling with the visions of the kind of parent they should be, or the kind of person they should be with, or the kind of job they should have (or at least aspire to).
Let’s all just take a deep breath and Relax, huh?
Haaaat
Been awhile since I posted pics, so I thought I'd share a few.
My guy has been slow to speak real words, though he's been chattering nonstop in a language known only to toddlers for a long time. Anyway, he is experiencing a real vocabulary explosion now, eagerly learning his A,B,C's, trying to say just about any word we ask him to, and repeating over and over (and over) new words he learns. A few of his favorites are "hat," "on" and "offffffff," and these pics show a bit of his joy at being able to demonstrate and say all of them.
My guy has been slow to speak real words, though he's been chattering nonstop in a language known only to toddlers for a long time. Anyway, he is experiencing a real vocabulary explosion now, eagerly learning his A,B,C's, trying to say just about any word we ask him to, and repeating over and over (and over) new words he learns. A few of his favorites are "hat," "on" and "offffffff," and these pics show a bit of his joy at being able to demonstrate and say all of them.
Reason No. 147 Why I’m a Total Tool
Chris’ office holiday party is Friday. Don’t ask me why it’s so far after the holidays; this is not the point. The point is that as soon as I found out there would be a holiday party, I started to fret about what I’d wear. Rather, what I’d fit into when the time came. I knew I’d be meeting all of his bosses and co-workers for the first time and wanted to make a good impression, notwithstanding the very pregnant figure I'm sporting these days.
A couple weeks ago I was overjoyed to learn that the attire would be “holiday casual,” not because I own any sort of Christmas tree sweater, but because I would not have to buy a dress to squeeze over this belly. Instead, I could get away with the decent maternity dress pants or dare-I-say-stylish maternity corduroys I already own. But a shirt was another matter.
I tried the few blouses I had in the back of my closet that I hoped might work. No go. By this time in my last pregnancy I was wearing T-shirts and tank tops, as it was spring in South Carolina. So nothing I owned would do for a holiday party in January in frigid PA.
I’ve previously mentioned how much I hate shopping, especially while pregnant, so I put it off until last weekend when we were in New York visiting relatives. While there I found time to sneak away to the neighborhood Marshall’s to pick through their racks in search of something — anything — that might suffice to look “festive” without looking “frumpy,” and hopefully nothing I’d have to pay an arm and a leg for, seeing as how I’d most likely be wearing it just once.
Within 10 minutes I found a sweater that fit the bill — and it fit the belly, too! It was a true post-Christmas miracle. A non-maternity black cardigan sweater with a deep V-neck, extra long and form-fitting with stylish sleeves in a super-soft, light fabric. The lines made it clear I was pregnant without a lot of extra fabric billowing around my middle like a tent. It was $58, marked down to $29, on clearance for $20. Sold.
I brought it back to my mother-in-law’s house and tried it on for her. “Ooh, Demi Moore,” she said, which at the time seemed like a compliment but in retrospect is a little puzzling, because anyone who remembers anything about Demi Moore when she was pregnant probably remembers her posing naked on the cover of some magazine. Which is not exactly the look I was going for.
Anyway, when I got back home I found everything else I’d need to pull the outfit together, jewelry and all. Feeling satisfied and frugal, I tossed the shirt into the washer today so that it would be fresh and clean and ready for Friday. I even shifted the dryer setting to “delicate” so that it wouldn’t dry using much heat so the sweater would retain its shape.
I never once thought to take a look at the damn tag. To see that the sweater was 100% merino wool. To read “DRY CLEAN ONLY” stitched on there, clear as day.
Now my great find is three sizes too small; I essentially just shredded a perfectly good twenty-dollar bill. And I have less than 48 hours to find a replacement, or scrap the whole outfit and start from scratch.
Anyone have a tent I can borrow?
A couple weeks ago I was overjoyed to learn that the attire would be “holiday casual,” not because I own any sort of Christmas tree sweater, but because I would not have to buy a dress to squeeze over this belly. Instead, I could get away with the decent maternity dress pants or dare-I-say-stylish maternity corduroys I already own. But a shirt was another matter.
I tried the few blouses I had in the back of my closet that I hoped might work. No go. By this time in my last pregnancy I was wearing T-shirts and tank tops, as it was spring in South Carolina. So nothing I owned would do for a holiday party in January in frigid PA.
I’ve previously mentioned how much I hate shopping, especially while pregnant, so I put it off until last weekend when we were in New York visiting relatives. While there I found time to sneak away to the neighborhood Marshall’s to pick through their racks in search of something — anything — that might suffice to look “festive” without looking “frumpy,” and hopefully nothing I’d have to pay an arm and a leg for, seeing as how I’d most likely be wearing it just once.
Within 10 minutes I found a sweater that fit the bill — and it fit the belly, too! It was a true post-Christmas miracle. A non-maternity black cardigan sweater with a deep V-neck, extra long and form-fitting with stylish sleeves in a super-soft, light fabric. The lines made it clear I was pregnant without a lot of extra fabric billowing around my middle like a tent. It was $58, marked down to $29, on clearance for $20. Sold.
I brought it back to my mother-in-law’s house and tried it on for her. “Ooh, Demi Moore,” she said, which at the time seemed like a compliment but in retrospect is a little puzzling, because anyone who remembers anything about Demi Moore when she was pregnant probably remembers her posing naked on the cover of some magazine. Which is not exactly the look I was going for.
Anyway, when I got back home I found everything else I’d need to pull the outfit together, jewelry and all. Feeling satisfied and frugal, I tossed the shirt into the washer today so that it would be fresh and clean and ready for Friday. I even shifted the dryer setting to “delicate” so that it wouldn’t dry using much heat so the sweater would retain its shape.
I never once thought to take a look at the damn tag. To see that the sweater was 100% merino wool. To read “DRY CLEAN ONLY” stitched on there, clear as day.
Now my great find is three sizes too small; I essentially just shredded a perfectly good twenty-dollar bill. And I have less than 48 hours to find a replacement, or scrap the whole outfit and start from scratch.
Anyone have a tent I can borrow?
Holy crap, I'm a mom
Know how I know? Kostyn was just sitting on my lap, minding his own business, and I was looking at his hair and noticing that it was sticking up on top, and without a second thought I licked three fingers and wiped my own spit onto his head, plastering down the unruly tuft.
We're not even going anywhere!
I'm deeply disturbed by this behavior.
We're not even going anywhere!
I'm deeply disturbed by this behavior.
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