Light Refreshments Served

ON AMERICAN IDOL 

I had high hopes for the new American Idol judge.  After all, the only other female counterpart is a little flaky, more than a little needy, and has been known to say, “Two words:  PHE. NOMENAL.”  This new judge seems easier to watch, more articulate, and she’s prettier than Paula Abdul.  And looks are everything!  I mean, Charity Never Faileth!  But then the new judge had to go on and say this last week:  “Six words:  One of the best performances of the night.”  Hmm….One…two…three…seven…eight.”  I give up.  I also had a moment while watching the show recently when Randy Travis was the guest artist.  During one contestant’s performance they panned the audience and I saw a gentleman sitting in his seat and I thought, “Hey, there’s Sting!” and then I went, “No, wait a minute, that’s Randy Travis.”  And then I thought how if Kacy and Lisa learned of my mistake they might never forgive me.  Sorry guys.  Still friends? 

ON MY NEW CALLING 

We gave my daughter a cell phone for her birthday.  She’s thirteen now, and needs unlimited texting like I need oxygen.  I’ve never really texted before, so I’m still on a learning curve.  Yesterday I had to google ROTFL.  Most of the texting garble I’ve been able to figure out, just because I’m naturally smart that way.  But FTLOM I have not been able to decipher certain ones.  Incidentally, ROTFL means Rolling On The Floor Laughing, but you probably already knew that.  And FTLOM?  For The Life Of Me.  Duh! 

ON THE RADIO 

I was listening to a program on the radio the other day when I heard the DJ ask his guest a question, and the guest answered, “I’m on it like Oprah on a baked ham.”  I promised myself to commit that to memory just in case I ever end up on the Dr. Phil show and need material.  

ON WEDNESDAYS 

Cory is no fun when it comes to baked goods.  He would rather have stir fry vegetables over brown rice than a chocolate chip cookie, and it makes our ability to communicate very difficult sometimes.  Like last week.  He came home and discovered a fresh batch of cookies on the counter, and noted out loud, “Oh, you made cookies,” to which I responded, “Yep.”  “What’s the occasion?” he asked.  “Um…” I thought deep and hard, “…it’s Wednesday?”

ON ROSIE O’DONNELL

Don’t tempt me. 

It was bound to happen: a Rachel who is not me is our guest blogger. Don’t get confused. But this new Rachel has also done something I have never done. She has borne children without painkillers. I am always very curious about this perspective and invite you to welcome it, and the “new” Rachel, this morning.

When I gave birth for the first time, I didn’t realize how lucky I was. Well, that might be subjective. I gave birth in Arizona in one of the first free standing birth centers there. It was a beautiful place that I felt comfortable in without the stark floors and drab walls of a hospital. All they did there were natural births…they knew how to help women with a natural birth. I was in 24 hours of labor in pain, and surprisingly enough I came away from that with a very positive view of birth and my abilities to give birth. At that time, I didn’t know that things were done differently at the hospital. I didn’t know that having a natural birth was something that most women did not do. So, I had my second there. With both of these births I found great meaning and application to my beginning life as a mother.

Then I moved and the birthing possibilities were not the same. It was either at home, which I didn’t feel entirely comfortable with, or in the hospital. I did not mind the hospital as much, but no one knew quite what to do with a woman who did not take pain medication. They simply had not had enough experience. It was at this point that I began to really explore why I still chose to have medication free births. Why would any of us choose to feel pain when it can easily be taken away? It’s a question that I’m not sure I can still answer, except to say that somehow, I have found meaning in that pain.

This exploration has also led me to write my own blog…one in which I have explored the meaning of pain, fear, becoming a mother, and how this applies to motherhood. Part of this exploration has also led me to explore art in the context of birth also. I have felt like the meaning in birth and motherhood can be very difficult to explain and touches on emotional aspects that can sometimes only be expressed by art, either in writing, painting, sewing etc. Explaining the joy that came to me is like trying to explain why seeing the smile on my child for the first time makes me so happy. It is one of those experiences that has the ability to touch the inner core of who we are as women. As such, sometimes the only way we can express this is through art.

I myself am not an artist, but I appreciate and enjoy looking at and experiencing other peoples art. As a part of my own exploration, I began collecting pieces that showed what birth and motherhood meant to them. You can find that on my blog.

I am still accepting more and see this an ongoing project, so if any of you would like to submit something send it my way. I would love to see how this process has changed you and how you have found meaning in your own roles as mothers.

I knew that adjusting to the new summer schedule would be a little difficult, but not for the reasons I anticipated. For example, I thought the big kids would bug me all day about playing video games, but they’ve been really cool and fun.  They’ve kept themselves entertained, done chores when I asked, and only bug me a little bit about playing video games.  The big ta-dah has been how Hugh, whose life I foolishly assumed was staying pretty much the same, thinks that he’s calling the shots at home.  He’s our own little dictator. This summer we really have created our own little world.  Our own little totalitarian state. 

From the moment this kid wakes up, slamming the door open and yelling “I want BREAKFAST!” to the moment he goes to bed insisting “I need WATER!” he’s ordering something–anything.  He goes around ordering the kids to “Go find my Batman!” and “Go outside and push me on the swings.  NOW!  You can do it!”  ”Give me a popsicle!  NO:  THE GREEN ONE!” The kids were mildly amused by this in the beginning, but now his demands are getting out of hand.  

For example, today I found myself showing the kids how to shuck corn (I’m from Nebraska, so it’s my obligation to teach my children how to be a proper “cornhusker.”  It’s part of their birthright, really). And, naturally, Hugh wanted to do it HIMSELF.  He quickly became annoyed that it wasn’t working so I helped him, carefully handling the corn cob like a ticking bomb lest I would unknowingly offend Hugh in any way. He was, again, naturally angry that I had to help him.  It made him look less powerful, so when I told the kids to give me the corn so I could cook it, he tipped the power scale in his favor by eating the raw corn to spite me.  I told him it would taste better if I cooked it, but the more I insisted, the more he insisted the corn was “delicious.” Oh well, at least it’s a vegetable, right?  So, in the end, I really won, right?

I’ve tried reasoning with him.  That did actually work with a couple of my kids at this developmental stage. I’ve explained to Hugh that eating, say six fruit snacks in ten minutes would make him sick.  He just yells back “No it won’t!”  What does he expect me to say? “Who can argue with a retort like that?  Well played, Hugh.  Well played.”  

I tried giving him more attention, making sure he was eating and sleeping regularly, sticking to a routine, every bit of advice I’ve heard (after-all, this isn’t my first picnic, you know), but nothing affects him.  I have a creepy suspicion that he just delights in power and control.  Like more than a normal three year-old should.  And dealing with Hugh makes me feel like a terrorist negotiator.  I find myself constantly saying things like “Okay, okay, just tell me what you want–don’t freak out!  Stop yelling–let’s just calm down. Let’s just all CALM DOWN!”

I know it’s a phase. I know he’ll grow out of it.  And I try, I really try to be patient, like all the parenting gurus suggest, and “hear him” by echoing his feelings with phrases like “I know it’s hard.  I know you want to eat candy for lunch, but today we’re having sandwiches.”  But it’s getting really hard to pull that off a) with a straight face, b) without sarcasm, or c) without throwing the sandwich.

Good thing he’s so good-looking.

I’m confident that most people have imagined what kind of superpower they wish they possessed. For many it’s invisibility, flight, super-strength, or x-ray vision. For most who actually HAVE superpowers, it’s an overnight revelation. Peter Parker (Spiderman) had to deal with his spidey senses and abilities overnight and alone–imagine the pressure he felt at the discovery! And, if that wasn’t enough, Peter Parker had to make his own costume! I don’t think many people stop to realize what that entails. At least Superman was lucky enough to know about his super speed at a young age, and as he developed he knew how to hide it and use it for good: farming. But I digress.

My revelation has come slowly, over the span of years. It started out simple–I’d change the roll of toilet paper or empty the dishwasher, and hardly notice anything extraordinary about it. But then I’d realize, maybe after being out of town and coming home, or taking it easy after the birth of a baby, that these things wouldn’t get done. Could. Not. Be. Done. I wasn’t ready to accept my fate and make my own costume, partly because I didn’t want it to be true–I didn’t want the responsibility that naturally comes with superpowers– and partly because I don’t know how to sew, and I wish I did.

When I watch the TV show Heroes, the most fascinating part is how the characters come to discover their hidden power. Like the time Claire (the cheerleader) jumps off a building just to make sure she her body can heal from anything, and SHE DOES. What a literal leap of faith! So I reluctantly experimented with the strength and extent of my powers. Sure enough, days would pass, the toilet paper roll would stay on the back of the toilet, on the counter, but NEVER back on its designated roll. Dishes would pile up in the sink, and no one knew if the dishes inside the dishwasher were clean or dirty. They would ask me and, somehow, I always knew. Once my eyes were opened to my new powers, I came to see ones that I had lived with and never knew. For example, while writing this post, I have been interrupted twelve times and I’m still, technically, returning to the same topic–twelve times, and it’s only the third paragraph! Also, I’m typing with the cutest newborn on my lap and I know Batman never did that. AND he had Alfred to help him. And a Bat-Mobile and loads of cash. I don’t mean to openly criticize Batman (we super-heroes need to stick together), our powers are just apples and oranges (thirteen times).

The most frightening power I posses is the ability to see clutter. It’s like a super sense, really. Last Saturday (fourteen times) I asked my older boys to make their beds and pick up their room. They did it, or thought they did, because there were little bits of paper, a penny, and two Lego guys on the floor that they had missed. I told them they needed to pick up EVERYTHING off the floor and they insisted they did. In that moment, that defining moment, I realized that they didn’t see the little bits, only I did.

We’re all familiar with the saying, with great power comes great responsibility, and, believe me, you don’t need to remind me! The other day my husband told me he couldn’t take all five kids to Home Depot by himself, and I didn’t think anything of it. I take them everywhere with me all the time. But now I’m thinking, maybe he can’t. So now, while utilizing my superpowers, I find myself wondering if a costume would really help or hinder my abilities, not to mention which colors and what fabric. . . I’ll be honest, it’s a lot to think about.