Earthly Thoughts on a Grey "Good" Friday

There were those who sneered, those who wept.  But what of the others?  Did they watch?

A gruesome man in his final hours.  Not quite a haloed painting in a cathedral.

Did they turn away?  Block out the ugly? 

The climax of human suffering.

Did they bolster the moment with a smile, a psalm, a cheery bit about praising the Lord through all things?  Did they remind him that this too shall pass?  Did they want him to be joyful, be bold, fulfill his highest calling as the man and savior God sent him to be? 

A cry out to heaven. 

Did they cringe at his tone, chastise his language, roll their eyes at his suffering, doubt his faith?  Did they want him to act...a little more like Christ?

One Savior as man.  One earthly moment engulfing the raw, vulnerable condition of humanity.

Did they ignore, gloss, patronize, judge, demand an immediate testimony of a greater cause, a happy ending?

Or did they embrace a man in his frailty, support without spewing the answers, empathize instead of spiritualize, allow him and those around to feel, to grieve, and to question.  Did they?

Do we?

Like one who takes away a garment on a cold day,

or like vinegar poured on soda,

is one who sings songs to a heavy heart.

~Proverbs 25:20

Introverted Mom Visits the Library

Today is library day.  Introverted Mom and Introverted Son are going to the library.

The Children's Department is abuzz.  Today is Perky, Positive-Reinforcement Mom Day at the library.  Introverted Mom and Introverted Son scope out the scene.  The train table is empty.  So is an adult-sized chair.  Introverted Mom and Introverted Son stake claim.

While Introverted Son chugs the choo-choo, Introverted Mom scans the book titles.  Berenstain Bears Go on Vacation.  Berenstain Bears Visit the Dentist.  The Butt Book.  Clifford and the Kitten.

The Butt Book??  Who on earth would write a children's book about butts?

 Artie Bennett would.

Who on earth would read a book entitled The Butt Book?

Introverted Mom at the library would.

      Eyes and ears are much respected, but the butt has been neglected.

This is hilarious.

      We hope to change that here and now.  Would the butt please take a bow?

"How high can you count, Bryson?!"

Introverted Mom's train of thought crashes.  It's Angled Bob-Hair Mom, showcasing her children's special talents to Sexy-in-a-Sweatsuit Mom.

 Good grief...

 "C'mon, Bryson!  Tell us how high you can count!"  Bryson buries his nose in a book, one with chapters.

"And how high can you count, Trevor?  Can you count to 10?  Count to 10!  C'mon, Trevor, you can do it!  Onnnne.....twoooooo...."

 For gosh sakes, Trevor, just spit out a number!

 Trevor joins Introverted Son at the train table.

"He just says '100' because he thinks he can count to 100," Angled Bob-Hair Mom reassures us all.

I didn't hear Trevor say one word.

      In England, where they call moms "mums," people call their buttocks "bums."

"Where you live?"  Trevor destroys Introverted Son's solitude.  Introverted Mom glances up.  Introverted Son continues to play.

"Where you live?"  Trevor presses.  "Where you live?  Where you live?  Where you live?"  Trevor steps closer to Introverted Son until finally, a clear invasion of personal space.

 "By Sandy's house!" growls Introverted Son.  Introverted Mom smirks.

      Butts have cheeks just like our faces...

"Where you live?  Where you live?"

My gosh, Trevor...

"Oh Trevor, that's a personal question!" laughs Angled-Bob-Hair Mom, connecting eyes with Introverted Mom.

"It's ok," replies Introverted Mom.  "He said 'by Sandy's house.'  Sandy is our neighbor."

"Well that's a good answer!" cheers Angled Bob-Hair Mom.  "Good answer, buddy!  Way to be safe!"

Safe from all the perky people in this world.

      Fanny, bottom, heinie, rear...

Angled Bob-Hair Mom visits with Sexy-in-a-Sweatsuit Mom.  The children play.  The shower of positive reinforcement continues to rain.

Angled Bob-Hair Mom has such energy.  Angled Bob-Hair Mom stays so positive.  Angled Bob-Hair Mom would never yell at her children.  Angled Bob-Hair Mom probably says "bottom" instead of "butt".

"Let's not touch the fishies!  We don't want to get germies!"

Angled Bob-Hair Mom would never tell her children the fishies might bite their fingers off.

      Giraffe butts are supremely tall, but mouse butts are extremely small.

"Take off your hat and show everyone your new haircut, Trevor!"

Introverted Mom glances up.  Trevor has removed his ball cap.

Not too shabby, Trevor.

"I cut it myself!" boasts Angled Bob-Hair Mom.  "It's soo cheap and soo easy!"

Angled Bob-Hair Mom's children probably never look like they've battled a lawn mower.

      Best in show or just plain mutt, every doggy has a butt.

A rustling at Introverted Mom's feet jostles Introverted Mom.  Why it's Trevor, raiding Introverted Mom's library bag.  Trevor has found Buzz Lightyear, Introverted Son's best friend.

This ought to be interesting...

Introverted Son's back is to Trevor.  Trevor manhandles Buzz Lightyear's helmet. 

"No-no, Trevor!"  Angled Bob-Hair Mom sweeps across the carpet.  "That's not our Buzzy!  That's his Buzzy!"

"Buzzy"?

Introverted Son looks up.  Introverted Son's body tenses.  Introverted Son's eyes explain all:  Do I cry or slug him?

"Look here!  A book about butts!"

Way to understand your son, Introverted Mom!

      On their butts, skunks have a gland...

"Now Trevor, let's remember to not touch Buzzy!  That's not our Buzzy.  He just thinks all toys are his!" laughs Angled Bob-Hair Mom.

Was somebody talking to me?

Introverted Mom bristles.  Angled Bob-Hair Mom has relocated to another adult-sized chair...right next to Introverted Mom.

Am I supposed to converse?  Is that how this moms-at-the-library thing works?  What do I say?  Where did Sexy-in-a-Sweatsuit Mom go?

"It's ok.  He can see Buzz."

Trevor obviously complies.

I hate teaching my children to share.  If some stranger was molesting my favorite belonging, I'd want to slug him, too.

"We like Buzzy at our house.  This is a nice Buzzy.  We just have a small one," explains Angled Bob-Hair Mom.

I guess I have to chit-chat.

"He got this one for Christmas.  It's great because the wings don't pop out, and he doesn't make any noise."

"That IS nice!  So this Buzzy's like a friend for both of you!!!" chirps Angled Bob-Hair Mom.

Go away, Angled Bob-Hair Mom.

"Umm....sure."

      That sprays a stink no one can stand.

Angled Bob-Hair Mom spots Newcomer Mom and flits over with a bright greeting.

"You've been here before, haven't you?  I've seen you here before!  I just know I've seen you!"

Introverted Mom deftly slides the Buzz bag under her chair with her feet.  Introverted Son spies the sole Thomas engine, currently held by Trevor.

      When dancing, you can shake your booty...

Trevor abandones Thomas for a wooden car, then scampers over to race on the table.  Introverted Son seizes the moment and captures said tank engine.

Trevor returns.  Trevor spots Introverted Son with Thomas.

"Mine!  My Thomas!  You no like Thomas!  Me like Thomas!"

Trevor really does think all the toys are his.

Angled Bob-Hair Mom swoops in the middle.  "Now Trevor.  We need to share.  This little boy needs a turn, too.  Let's share with him.  It's fun to share!"

"NO!  My Thomas!  Aaaaaaaahhhh!!!"

Sharing really isn't very fun.

Introverted Son feels the injustice of Trevor's attempts to snatch Thomas.  Introverted Son has surpassed his people interraction quota for the day.  So has Introverted Mom.

"It's ok.  We really need to be going anyways.  Let's go pick out some Thomas dvds and go home to see Daddy."

And so Introverted Mom and Introverted Son pack up their belongings, Buzz Lightyear included, and dash out the door.

I wish somebody had warned me today was Perky, Positive-Reinforcement Mom Day at the library.  I may need a few weeks to recover.

Introverted Mom starts the car.

I bet Angled Bob-Hair Mom goes home to her perfect house and blogs about Anti-Social, Unstyled-Hair Mom and Her Socially-Deprived Child.

      Don't undercut your butt, my friend...

A muffled rumble stirs the back seat.

"Hey Mommy!"

"Hey what-y?"

"I have a stinky butt!"

"Excuse you.  I bet you feel refreshed."

"Hey Mommy!"

"Hey what-y?"

"I love you, Mommy!"

     Your butt will thank you in the end.

Take that, Angled Bob-Hair Mom.


*All quotes taken from The Butt Book, by Artie Bennet, illustrated by Mike Lester.  Yes, this book really does exist.  No, I do not read it to my son.  :)

Less Fever, More Cabin, please

It's April in Ohio.  The darn snow won't go away.  And our house is shrinking.

Help!

Don't get me wrong, I love our old house.  It boasts all the amenities one should expect from such an aged dwelling:  creaky floors, cracked walls, drafty windows, the occasional rodent in the crawl space.  Nevermind the continuously-clogged drain tile that creates a temporary pond in the laundry room.  All these features give our house character.  Only boring people live in stamped-out palaces of perfection, right? 

Today was just one of those long, winter-but-should-be-spring days when clutter multiplies, toddler energy intensifies, and that quaint little laundry room pond grows into a lake.  Suddenly, our cozy cottage in the country felt more like a special of Extreme Makeover than the latest restoration masterpiece on This Old House.

As my toes crunched the leftover Cheerio grit on the kitchen floor, taking me past the dried oatmeal decorating the wall, I elbowed my way into kneading homemade bread dough on a microscopic-sized space of counter as I snarled at the crack in the wall which I'm pretty sure had extended three more inches this afternoon due to two toddlers hell-bent on tearing this house to the ground.  And that obnoxious old crack probably stretched a few more inches as I pounded my mountain of dough down to the size of a frisbee.

And then I stopped for a moment.

The groaning floor protested my shift in weight.

Perhaps it was the magical calm that only comes from giving a blob of dough a good punch, or perhaps it was a moment of mental clarity when my children ceased tipping the living room furniture, but my internal tirade against our house-turned-shack slowly dissipated as I began to think of everything I love about this little home.

Immediately, the general list-toppers of a small home mean less to clean, less to upkeep, less expense.  But then I began to think in terms of "more".  Granted, I was not overly Pollyanna about my little epiphany.  For crying out loud, there's snow on the ground in April and toppled furniture in my living room.  Feelings of sunshine, bunnies and butterflies were somewhat tempered.  Nevertheless, I managed to compose a concise little list of what's "more" to love about our humble abode:

More Stimulating Conversations.  Our small house fosters an aura of intimacy.  People do not have to shout across the room to maintain a decent conversation.  There is less space for interruption, more encouragement for detailed discussion.  An introvert's dream come true, really.  I cannot tell you how many friends have left here two, three, or four hours past their originally planned departure, simply because they lost track of time.  Some might say over-staying company stinks like a dead fish, but I consider it an honor when people feel so comfortably welcome.

More Motivation to Toss.  Who doesn't love a good organizing purge?  Digging through closets and sifting through cupboards for unused, unecessary items is an exhilarating high.  In a small house, my packrat tendencies are curbed by my addiction to happily tossing clutter onto Mt. Annual Garage Sale.  Bye-bye ugly glassware.  Bye-bye childhood trinkets.  Bye-bye bass guitar and amp.  (Just seeing if you're checking up on me, Mr. Handsome Upholstery Man!).

More "Scope for the Imagination."  In the movie Anne of Green Gables, as an awestruck Anne and Diana ascend the magnificent staircase in Aunt Jo's mansion, Anne breathes, "That's the one consolation of being poor...you have to dream all this up."  Our house is never completely "finished"--in reality or in our dreams.  In our minds, there are always walls to paint, wood floors to refinish, shelves to install, bathrooms to remodel, additions to build.  And when we discover a new idea when browsing the latest home magazines on a hot date at Border's (hint hint, Mr. Handsome Upholstery Man), our imaginary renovations expand at no extra expense.  While we know it could take years to actually make our dreams a reality, our thoughts are forever running wild with creative ideas of improvement.  And the potential of our little house feels endless.

I know I love our house.  It's small.  It's old.  It's quirky.  Sometimes this crazy Ohio weather really does seem to shrink the walls down a few hundred square feet, and cabin fever sets in worse than a bad cold.

But our fingerprints are stamped all over this home.  Yes, even literal, toddler-sized, dried strawberry jelly ones on the living room wall.

Near the penmarks of a 3 year-old aspiring artist.

One creaky floor above Lake Laundry Room.

Across the Cheerio-encrusted kitchen.

Just around the corner from the caked oatmeal I forgot to scrape off the wall this morning.

Maybe it'll make good mortar for that obnoxious crack.