Some of the deep conversations that happen around here

ME: Hey Z, what letter does banana start with?

Z: Cheese!



ME: Hey Z, stand up so I can wash your bottom.

Z: Say please, Mommy. Where are your manners?



Z: Mommy, I was scared at ballerina class.

ME: Why were you scared Sweetie?

Z: Because I say so!



ME: Hey Z, where are you going?

Z: Crocodile.



Z: I went poopoo in the potty!

ME AND CHRIS: Yay!!!!

Z: It was a Mommy and Daddy poop. Like you guys!

The wedding

I haven’t spent much time with the Lord in my lifetime. We are mere acquaintances, He and I. My family attended a Methodist Church briefly when I was about four years old. I remember a vacation bible school stint when I was nine. Then some informal schooling from my grandma George when we visited her in Phoenix the Summer I was eleven. And my Nana dragged me with her to a few services when I was a teenager.

In my adult life, the only times I’ve entered a church was for a wedding, a funeral or a baby’s Christening.

Each time I sit down on the hard, cold wood of a church pew, I get a little freaked out at first. The organ music feels so ominous to me. And the visions of Christ painted into the ceiling, or the back wall of the altar, feel like they’re leaning into me. Judging.

But after I sit there for a while, after the room falls silent and the booming voice of the pastor rises up into the air, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. My eyes are often unblinking, fascinated, as I listen to the sermon. I nod at the pearls of wisdom. It’s so replenishing, in a way.

I went to a wedding this weekend. This wedding took place in a church. I love weddings because I believe in the sanctity of marriage. I love watching old and new get out on the dance floor together. I love watching a happy couple go naively into the unknown.

But I also love spending an hour with the Lord.

I love being reminded what truly matters in life.

Spirituality.

And love.

Could it really be that simple?

Being scared

The ballet/tap combo high that we were on last month has most definitely gone awry.

Every class since has been torture.

On the second week, I stood in the lobby watching her through the video monitor as she stood on her little piece of tape in the chorus line. We're not talking about HDTV here. So it's hard to make out anything but their bodies. Her arm kept coming up to her face, wiping at something. I thought it might just be a nervous tick. Then I noticed her stomach caving in and out. When it finally began to dawn on me that she was crying, I actually heard her through the wall. Suddenly the teacher was holding her while she was teaching the other kids to heel, toe, heel, toe, together. Then she was set down on the floor again. Then she was running toward the door and I was there to catch her as she clawed her way out.

She could barely catch her breath. The tears streamed across her face. Her eyes darted around, looking for comfort, anywhere.

For some reason I couldn't offer it to her.

I wanted her to go back in and try. Try again. Maybe this time it won't be scary. Eventually you will get over it and things will begin to look fun. There's nothing to be afraid of.

But you can't tell someone that. I mean, you can. But that's not what helps them feel better about the fear.

She's been to the class three times, but she hasn't made it back to that piece of tape since the first day.

After three weeks of running from the room crying, what's a mother supposed to do?

The fact is, I never would have registered her for that class unprompted. She's not even three. But she said to me, in that high-pitched voice that was dripping in syrup, "I want to go to ballerina class." And something inside me scooped her up and rushed her directly to the dance studio.

So to speak.

Am I disappointed that she wasn't as radiant on days 2, 3 and 4 as she was on day one? Yes, I am. But how do I turn that disappointment into something that can ease her of her fear? How do I save her from the fear I understand all too well?

Is it just a matter of helping her see that it's okay to be scared? Or, explaining that everyone else in that room is scared, too. That even the Mommies watching on those monitors in the lobby are scared? That we're all scared. Aren't we? At some point in time. Every day.

She's too young to understand all that. Hell, sometimes I'm too young to understand all that.

How do we teach our children things we can't even teach ourselves?

Random stream of procrastination

I sit at a coffee shop down the street from my house. It's called Lola Savannah. I look up at the chalkboard and realize they have a shake called Chai me a river. The Beatle's "Let it be" sets the current mood. It's Saturday morning. I'm here because I have to work. I have to write a few hundred more headlines after writing what seems like thousands already. These headlines have to sell a Dell PowerEdge server to the CIOs of companies with 500 employees or more. My job is a breeze.

Four cyclists clomp in on their cleated shoes. Wait a minute, one of them is only wearing socks. Not even socks. But booties. Their clothes are made of lycra and spandex. Red, orange, yellow and all colors in between.

There's a television on at the far end of the coffee shop. The television is playing The Jetsons. It reminds me that I should be at home with my kids.

I'm here because I have to work.

This is perhaps one of the greatest inspirations for, instead, writing a blog post.

A dog is chained to a post just outside the window. This reminds me of the two basset hounds I used to have. I get a little weepy inside.

I go back to writing headlines for a while. I'm reminded of a line of advice given by Ron Carlson during a lecture at the Breadloaf Writer's Conference. The advice was: stay in the chair.

I try to follow his advice.

I sit here holding my pee.