I’m at “Stuff,” the local and trendy consignment shop in town. “Stuff” is so trendy, in fact, that it sports four locations in the area, houses a coffee shop in one of them, and sells children’s easels for a whopping $19.99—the same price you would pay at Target. But not all their stuff is overpriced. For example, the very-new looking, two-toned hot pink Converse baby high-tops in Evvy’s (almost) size were $2.49 (with the day’s 25% discount special on clothing).
My eyes leapt to the converse shoes on the baby shoe shelf immediately. They were the prettiest, cleanest, newest pair there, and I thought of my good girl, Kate (another stay-at-home mommy), and her two children who are consistently bedecked in Chuck Taylors.
“Look, Ev. These are like Emma’s shoes!” I said with excitement that Evvy reacted to.
“Emma’s shoes. Emma’s shoes. On.” She lifted a foot.
I checked the size. Half a size larger than the shoes Evvy just started wearing--the ones with extra growing room, the ones I bought for full price at Stride Rite. I put the All Stars on Ev. They were too big in the length, and there’s no telling whether her foot would slim down enough to fit into a regular width in sixth months. Still, she loved them (I loved them), and I thought: They’re only three bucks. Of course we’d get them.
I paid and left with the spoils of my plunder, and it’s then that I felt my first wave of guilt, thanks to Judith Levine’s new book Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping, in which Levine discusses the concept of our ecological “footprints.”
Ecological footprint: In square miles, how much of the earth’s resources will I use up in my lifetime?
Or: In baby shoes, how much of my money will I spend in a lifetime? It occurs to me that the hot pink, very cool Chuck Taylor All Stars might be a complete waste, since Evvy might never actually wear them.
“You’re worried about three dollars?” you might ask. Two forty-nine to be exact. I’m worried, yes--because I make far too many Converse-baby-high-top sorts of purchases: The items are always cheap, always cute, and never (or under) utilized.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Judgments
"What does this have to do with Joyce Meyer?" you might be asking right now. One of my best girlfriends emailed today with news of how touched she's been by Joyce Meyer because--yes--her husband was a big fan and got her to start listening to Joyce. My girlfriend was so encouraged by what she says is one of Joyce's core messages: be yourself. Don't apologize. Apparently Joyce got lots of heat from the church for being the personality that she is. And, sadly, I am probably part of the group making overall judgments on the ten-second television clips I've seen of her preaching.
Flash back to last Sunday: I am ranting in the car to the husband on the way home from church. "Of all the conferences, why is our church going to a JOYCE MEYER conference???"
"I don't know," he confesses. And then: "Steve [the husband's best friend] started listening to her."
"He did? Why??"
"I don't know. He said he needed something new--and he really likes her."
We are both quiet. Steve is Mark's longest-standing friend, and very much respected and loved by the two of us.
Huh.
So, when my best girl's email came barreling into my inbox at 6:30 this a.m. I had to come to terms (again) with the fact that God works in my small world in ways that defy my abilityto explain, i.e., I have friends who he's blessed through Joyce Meyer. I know my bewilderment is owed to cultural differences for the most part: Joyce wears old-lady pumps and power suits; I wear floral New Balance sneakers; Joyce says the verbal equivalent of "dagnabit." I say "shit." I love Dashboard Confessional. She loves Darlene Zschech. I read Global Woman. She reads...Joyce Meyer. But apparently we love the same Jesus. And if Jesus is involved, he finds a way to bring himself glory through a plethora of pump-style and explitive-loving personalities.
In case it's unclear, I'm repenting for my judgments.
Flash back to last Sunday: I am ranting in the car to the husband on the way home from church. "Of all the conferences, why is our church going to a JOYCE MEYER conference???"
"I don't know," he confesses. And then: "Steve [the husband's best friend] started listening to her."
"He did? Why??"
"I don't know. He said he needed something new--and he really likes her."
We are both quiet. Steve is Mark's longest-standing friend, and very much respected and loved by the two of us.
Huh.
So, when my best girl's email came barreling into my inbox at 6:30 this a.m. I had to come to terms (again) with the fact that God works in my small world in ways that defy my abilityto explain, i.e., I have friends who he's blessed through Joyce Meyer. I know my bewilderment is owed to cultural differences for the most part: Joyce wears old-lady pumps and power suits; I wear floral New Balance sneakers; Joyce says the verbal equivalent of "dagnabit." I say "shit." I love Dashboard Confessional. She loves Darlene Zschech. I read Global Woman. She reads...Joyce Meyer. But apparently we love the same Jesus. And if Jesus is involved, he finds a way to bring himself glory through a plethora of pump-style and explitive-loving personalities.
In case it's unclear, I'm repenting for my judgments.
Monday, August 28, 2006
In the Rain to the Chiropractor and Home Again Jiggity Jig
The kids and I scurried out the door this a.m. at 9:35. This was my second scurrying out the door in one morning. At 7:55, I'd left in a downpour to get my blood drawn at the med lab in the neighborhood. Back again at 8:30 to do some bills, pack up the kids and get to the chiropractor's by 10:00. We bring a DVD player/TV along that I plug in the wall of the chiro's personal office, right next to his three pairs of shoes (orthopaedic, exercise, and business casual). On a good day, the kiddos sit wedged between the window and his desk and watch Bob the Builder while I get an adjustment. On a bad day the 1 year old cries in fear of the adjustment table that zooms to a horizontal plain and tilts back up again.
But that is the easiest part of the trip today. Today, the fact that M. had put "away" my raincoat when I got home earlier is causing me not to be able to find it. So I'm wet and cold in the car to the doc. The worst part of the doc visit with the kids is the waiting room. There are no toys here. Only drying peace lillies and bookshelves full of meticulously arranged supplement bottles. I rely on banana bread, ring around the rosy, and a land version of "motorboat" to fill the time. But my kids get feisty during the half hour wait. Una begins shrieking, running and jumping onto the leather loveseat in the waiting room and Evvy follows suit. Una flings her stuffed puppy high into the air and it comes crashing down on a display table. Evvy throws her puppy.
To curb the behavior, I have civilized talks with the four year old, and in civilized fashion order her to time-out on an office chair (for running and jumping on me). The 1 year old gets a time-out too for the same thing. Then the receptionist saves the day with news of her grandmotherly status: a granddaughter was born at midnight last night (!). This is enough to elicit a wide-mouthed nod from the 4 year old as she contemplates the news.
With time outs over and Madelyn at the computer again, it's back to imaginative play. I say to the girls, "Let's pretend we are flowers opening up in the morning light." I describe the first pink hint of sun rising up from the eastern sky, the dew drops on our petals, our straigtening up as the morning light chases the darkness to the west, our unfolding into full bloom. This is met with unabaited enthusiasm and calls of "let's do it again! let's do it again!" I'm feeling pretty proud of myself with not only my educational game, but my apparent amplitude of patience and creative generosity. More patients wander into the waiting room and find a spot, watchfully eyeing my girls (and me) as we "blow in the light breeze, and whip around in the strong wind."
After the fourth run through flowers-opening-in-morning-light I am starting to lose my enthusiasm and become aware of how dopy it feels to be a grown-up waggling around on the floor of my chiropractor's waiting room in pretense of sunflowerdom. But this game is what keeps boredom in my children at bay. And boredom is just the appetizer for jumping on couches, which precedes hysterics. So I keep going.
On our way out the door after my adjustment, one hip-looking, middle-aged woman calls to me from her spot in a far corner. "You're really good with them, and patient," she says authoritatively. "Those games you were playing were fantastic."
"Thanks," I say sheepishly, and admit that, in regard to patience, I am sometimes screaming "on the inside."
I zip up the girls raincoats, pack away the dvd player to the sounds of them chirping like a nest of baby birds. "Can we go to Playland, Mommy? I want to go to the Mall." "Mall, mall. Playland."
In the hall way outside the chiropractor, we stand in wait of the elevator that will take us to the ground floor. When the door barrels open, a middle-aged man looks down at them, aghast. "Oh! Oh my," he breathes in an effeminate honeyed tone of concern, and steps quickly out of the elevator while keeping one arm across the door slot. I thought he'd utter something about the girls' "cuteness", which is what I usually hear when strangers in elevators are surprised by the presence of my children, but the man seems truly alarmed as he looks from them to me and back at them again. He reiterates: "Oh. Oh my!"
When the girls and I were safely in the elevator and he was safely out of it, he removes his arm from the door and finds a sextuplet of panicked words.
He looks at me with wrinkled brow and soothes, "Oh my gosh, Mom! Good luck."
But that is the easiest part of the trip today. Today, the fact that M. had put "away" my raincoat when I got home earlier is causing me not to be able to find it. So I'm wet and cold in the car to the doc. The worst part of the doc visit with the kids is the waiting room. There are no toys here. Only drying peace lillies and bookshelves full of meticulously arranged supplement bottles. I rely on banana bread, ring around the rosy, and a land version of "motorboat" to fill the time. But my kids get feisty during the half hour wait. Una begins shrieking, running and jumping onto the leather loveseat in the waiting room and Evvy follows suit. Una flings her stuffed puppy high into the air and it comes crashing down on a display table. Evvy throws her puppy.
To curb the behavior, I have civilized talks with the four year old, and in civilized fashion order her to time-out on an office chair (for running and jumping on me). The 1 year old gets a time-out too for the same thing. Then the receptionist saves the day with news of her grandmotherly status: a granddaughter was born at midnight last night (!). This is enough to elicit a wide-mouthed nod from the 4 year old as she contemplates the news.
With time outs over and Madelyn at the computer again, it's back to imaginative play. I say to the girls, "Let's pretend we are flowers opening up in the morning light." I describe the first pink hint of sun rising up from the eastern sky, the dew drops on our petals, our straigtening up as the morning light chases the darkness to the west, our unfolding into full bloom. This is met with unabaited enthusiasm and calls of "let's do it again! let's do it again!" I'm feeling pretty proud of myself with not only my educational game, but my apparent amplitude of patience and creative generosity. More patients wander into the waiting room and find a spot, watchfully eyeing my girls (and me) as we "blow in the light breeze, and whip around in the strong wind."
After the fourth run through flowers-opening-in-morning-light I am starting to lose my enthusiasm and become aware of how dopy it feels to be a grown-up waggling around on the floor of my chiropractor's waiting room in pretense of sunflowerdom. But this game is what keeps boredom in my children at bay. And boredom is just the appetizer for jumping on couches, which precedes hysterics. So I keep going.
On our way out the door after my adjustment, one hip-looking, middle-aged woman calls to me from her spot in a far corner. "You're really good with them, and patient," she says authoritatively. "Those games you were playing were fantastic."
"Thanks," I say sheepishly, and admit that, in regard to patience, I am sometimes screaming "on the inside."
I zip up the girls raincoats, pack away the dvd player to the sounds of them chirping like a nest of baby birds. "Can we go to Playland, Mommy? I want to go to the Mall." "Mall, mall. Playland."
In the hall way outside the chiropractor, we stand in wait of the elevator that will take us to the ground floor. When the door barrels open, a middle-aged man looks down at them, aghast. "Oh! Oh my," he breathes in an effeminate honeyed tone of concern, and steps quickly out of the elevator while keeping one arm across the door slot. I thought he'd utter something about the girls' "cuteness", which is what I usually hear when strangers in elevators are surprised by the presence of my children, but the man seems truly alarmed as he looks from them to me and back at them again. He reiterates: "Oh. Oh my!"
When the girls and I were safely in the elevator and he was safely out of it, he removes his arm from the door and finds a sextuplet of panicked words.
He looks at me with wrinkled brow and soothes, "Oh my gosh, Mom! Good luck."
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Church Culture
It's finally happened--for the last nine months I've been wondering when my hard-sought-after new church would turn a church culture trick that shocks my sensibilities. I've been anticipating this sort of thing b/c our pastors come from a denomination that is just a little bit more to the mainstream of charismatic christian culture. I'm find myself a little off-center in one direction or another--usually to the left. And I don't use "left" to indicate political leftist ideology necessarily--but "left" as tendency to forgo tradition and convention.
It happened indirectly. A very sweet, generous woman in the church stumbled upon news of a women's conference next month and it was announced this morning that the women from our church will be traveling to a Joyce Meyer conference in September. The Speakers, other than Meyer, are Lisa Bevere, and John Maxwell (at a women's conference, go figure). At the very mention of these ministers' names, I was trying hard not to giggle at what I perceived to be the absurdity of this development: the idea of me going to a conference hosted by the likes of these folks? For the past few years I've cringed at the televised snippets of Joyce in her power suits on cable tv. I read Lisa Bevere's husband's book and felt eternally condemned by a legalistic framework. I can't say I know much about John Maxwell, but that doesn't matter. I've already judged him.
I've judged each of them abstractly, based on cultural cues--Meyer's haircuts, suits, and diet references. I've judged Bevere because of the man she's married to. And I've judged Maxwell for being so obnoxious as to feel the need to speak at an all-women's conference. (Does he invite female speakers to all-men's conferences? I doubt it, though I stand to be corrected). Obviously, I wont' allow these judgments permanence--my assessments can only be fairly made on a more thoughtful investigation, which I'll conduct sometime.
After church I talk to the woman who initated this conference-going movement in our church, and find out that Lisa Bevere's work and teachings have radically altered her life. She was not a Christian until the early part of her marriage, and Bevere gave her some compass, some sense of direction for living out a relationship with Jesus or, as the woman put it, "becoming a good Christian wife."
I google Joyce Meyer and pull up her official website. Up at the top left corner of the page is a thumbnail of Meyer and a man I can only assume is her husband. Assumed-husband is wrapping an arm around Meyer's shoulder and towers over her to such a degree that I wonder if the height variance was exaggerated or staged thanks to a well placed stool under Meyer. This is how a professional photo was recently taken of me and Mark. I am the taller of our pair, so they cranked his swivel stool up a few rounds so he could visually dominate the photo. But beyond the annoyance at a cultural glorifcation of man=big and woman=small, I wonder if assumed-husband's towering presence exists to satisfy the new testament sensibilities of some of Meyer's following. Meyer has a man towering over her. She believes in submission?
After a bit of perusal of Meyer's site (which, I admit, doesn't alarm me as much as I anticipated), it's on to a google search for Lisa Bevere. I land at Amazon's page for Bevere's book "Kissed the Girls and Made Them Cry: Why We Lose When We Give In. Here is the dust jacket summary:
"Women are admitting promiscuity isn't really getting them what they wanted after all--because as women we always stand to lose so much more than men when we give in.
Men love adventure and intrigue while women crave intimacy, romance, and passion. We were created for so much more than a sexual outlet for men, and as women, we want and deserve more than just sexual release for ourselves."
***TIME OUT FOR VOMITING BREAK***
Kissed the Girls was published in 2002. Four years ago. Really? Are we still saying crap like "it's worse for a woman to sin sexually"? Are we still somehow upholding a wacky version of the sexual double standard? (Men don't suffer through promiscuity. In fact, it might be an adequate expression of their personalities to engage in promiscuous sex. But women, now--we are something special--too special to wreck with that sort of behavior. )
Okay, so I'm probably not going to the conference.
If you really care, you can read the 25 reviews on Amazon. Some women's lives were radically changed by Bevere's message. Others--the "1-star" reviewers--have accomplished a group rant.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/customer-reviews/0785269894/ref=cm_cr_dp_2_1/103-1769874-8691862?ie=UTF8&customer-reviews.sort%5Fby=-SubmissionDate&n=283155
It happened indirectly. A very sweet, generous woman in the church stumbled upon news of a women's conference next month and it was announced this morning that the women from our church will be traveling to a Joyce Meyer conference in September. The Speakers, other than Meyer, are Lisa Bevere, and John Maxwell (at a women's conference, go figure). At the very mention of these ministers' names, I was trying hard not to giggle at what I perceived to be the absurdity of this development: the idea of me going to a conference hosted by the likes of these folks? For the past few years I've cringed at the televised snippets of Joyce in her power suits on cable tv. I read Lisa Bevere's husband's book and felt eternally condemned by a legalistic framework. I can't say I know much about John Maxwell, but that doesn't matter. I've already judged him.
I've judged each of them abstractly, based on cultural cues--Meyer's haircuts, suits, and diet references. I've judged Bevere because of the man she's married to. And I've judged Maxwell for being so obnoxious as to feel the need to speak at an all-women's conference. (Does he invite female speakers to all-men's conferences? I doubt it, though I stand to be corrected). Obviously, I wont' allow these judgments permanence--my assessments can only be fairly made on a more thoughtful investigation, which I'll conduct sometime.
After church I talk to the woman who initated this conference-going movement in our church, and find out that Lisa Bevere's work and teachings have radically altered her life. She was not a Christian until the early part of her marriage, and Bevere gave her some compass, some sense of direction for living out a relationship with Jesus or, as the woman put it, "becoming a good Christian wife."
I google Joyce Meyer and pull up her official website. Up at the top left corner of the page is a thumbnail of Meyer and a man I can only assume is her husband. Assumed-husband is wrapping an arm around Meyer's shoulder and towers over her to such a degree that I wonder if the height variance was exaggerated or staged thanks to a well placed stool under Meyer. This is how a professional photo was recently taken of me and Mark. I am the taller of our pair, so they cranked his swivel stool up a few rounds so he could visually dominate the photo. But beyond the annoyance at a cultural glorifcation of man=big and woman=small, I wonder if assumed-husband's towering presence exists to satisfy the new testament sensibilities of some of Meyer's following. Meyer has a man towering over her. She believes in submission?
After a bit of perusal of Meyer's site (which, I admit, doesn't alarm me as much as I anticipated), it's on to a google search for Lisa Bevere. I land at Amazon's page for Bevere's book "Kissed the Girls and Made Them Cry: Why We Lose When We Give In. Here is the dust jacket summary:
"Women are admitting promiscuity isn't really getting them what they wanted after all--because as women we always stand to lose so much more than men when we give in.
Men love adventure and intrigue while women crave intimacy, romance, and passion. We were created for so much more than a sexual outlet for men, and as women, we want and deserve more than just sexual release for ourselves."
***TIME OUT FOR VOMITING BREAK***
Kissed the Girls was published in 2002. Four years ago. Really? Are we still saying crap like "it's worse for a woman to sin sexually"? Are we still somehow upholding a wacky version of the sexual double standard? (Men don't suffer through promiscuity. In fact, it might be an adequate expression of their personalities to engage in promiscuous sex. But women, now--we are something special--too special to wreck with that sort of behavior. )
Okay, so I'm probably not going to the conference.
If you really care, you can read the 25 reviews on Amazon. Some women's lives were radically changed by Bevere's message. Others--the "1-star" reviewers--have accomplished a group rant.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/customer-reviews/0785269894/ref=cm_cr_dp_2_1/103-1769874-8691862?ie=UTF8&customer-reviews.sort%5Fby=-SubmissionDate&n=283155
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Welbutrin, Children
The marriage and the counseling continues to progress at a snail's pace. In the meantime, I've developed crazy bouts of listlessness, hopelessness, and inactivity, a.k.a depression. A. (therapist) encouraged me to take St. John's Wort about two months ago, but these bouts are only getting worse, lasting 4-5 days at a pop. So yesterday, at my annual ob/gyn check up I found myself confessing to the stranger-doctor all aspects of my mental health. Welbutrin, she said, has no sexual or weight gain side effects. This was in response to my question regarding those two specifics, because God knows the first thing on my mind these days is preserving my sex drive in a marriage where sex is almost nonexistant. God also knows how important weight maintenance is in the face of paralyzing depression.
Typically I am anti-drug, that is except for the life-saving inhalers I've been puffing daily for sixteen years. I declined the regular use of birth control pills, acid reflux meds, and alleve. In their places, I did fertility "charting", diet alterations, and enzyme therapy. Yesterday I decided St. John's Wort is just not cutting it.
*
This morning M. went to a men's group, leaving the house at 6:30 on a Saturday. I suppose it's scheduled this way so that men with families can get back to them at a reasonable hour, but damn, Saturday morning alone with a 1 and a 4 year old is something to contend with when the 4 year old sobs at every other thing you say and the 1 year old cries because the 4 year old is melting down. When M. finally did get home, the plan was for me to get some writing time in. Or, I tell myself, some sanity. However, the crew ends up accompanying me to the basement (location of the computer) so they can do painting. Within minutes the 4 year old is screaming at all manner of unpleasant painting parameters: she wants to make purple, and white with yellow but the white's "not showing up." Her tray brims to overflowing but she wants more paint. M says 'no' and is then too busy with 1 year old armed with loaded paintbrush to talk 4 year old down from the peak of meltdown. I can't work this way, so get up and talk her down. The crying stops for five minutes. Then 1 year old is done and M. chases her around the basement to get hold of her before she touches the white curtains and leather chair with messy hands. "I'll be right back," he calls to 4 year old, and doubles up the stairs with 1 year old in tow.
While M. is gone, the screaming begins.
"I want to make pink!"
"I want to make pink!"
"I WANT TO MAKE PINK!"
"I WANT TO MAKE PINK!!"
God help me. I don't even have time to respond, nor does she have opportunity to hear my response with this sort of communication in play. There should be a law against it. Usually we get eye-level with her and have a civilized chat about how it's not okay for her to just keep screaming. But I can't help looking at the situation from her 4 year old point of view: Mom and Dad are nowhere in sight, she may as well think she's as good as forsaken. Therefore her only option is to scream out into the universe and hope that some well-meaning grown-up responds to her need. For pink.
Typically I am anti-drug, that is except for the life-saving inhalers I've been puffing daily for sixteen years. I declined the regular use of birth control pills, acid reflux meds, and alleve. In their places, I did fertility "charting", diet alterations, and enzyme therapy. Yesterday I decided St. John's Wort is just not cutting it.
*
This morning M. went to a men's group, leaving the house at 6:30 on a Saturday. I suppose it's scheduled this way so that men with families can get back to them at a reasonable hour, but damn, Saturday morning alone with a 1 and a 4 year old is something to contend with when the 4 year old sobs at every other thing you say and the 1 year old cries because the 4 year old is melting down. When M. finally did get home, the plan was for me to get some writing time in. Or, I tell myself, some sanity. However, the crew ends up accompanying me to the basement (location of the computer) so they can do painting. Within minutes the 4 year old is screaming at all manner of unpleasant painting parameters: she wants to make purple, and white with yellow but the white's "not showing up." Her tray brims to overflowing but she wants more paint. M says 'no' and is then too busy with 1 year old armed with loaded paintbrush to talk 4 year old down from the peak of meltdown. I can't work this way, so get up and talk her down. The crying stops for five minutes. Then 1 year old is done and M. chases her around the basement to get hold of her before she touches the white curtains and leather chair with messy hands. "I'll be right back," he calls to 4 year old, and doubles up the stairs with 1 year old in tow.
While M. is gone, the screaming begins.
"I want to make pink!"
"I want to make pink!"
"I WANT TO MAKE PINK!"
"I WANT TO MAKE PINK!!"
God help me. I don't even have time to respond, nor does she have opportunity to hear my response with this sort of communication in play. There should be a law against it. Usually we get eye-level with her and have a civilized chat about how it's not okay for her to just keep screaming. But I can't help looking at the situation from her 4 year old point of view: Mom and Dad are nowhere in sight, she may as well think she's as good as forsaken. Therefore her only option is to scream out into the universe and hope that some well-meaning grown-up responds to her need. For pink.
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