Happy World Autism Awareness Day!
Let Sleeping Bees Lie
Christmas Cards
Christmas Cards
‘Tis the season – to stress out over holiday cards!
Every year I am presented with a myriad of overwhelming choices of how to properly represent my family to people I only communicate with once a year, while maintaining the proper decorum (non-show-off-edness) to people that we see on the regular. I adore my family and am so proud of all of their accomplishments and who they are becoming. Thus the challenge! We want to put our best foot forward without crossing the line into bragging territory, while being inundated with ALL of the options out there for holiday cards!! It’s a lot! As I sit down to take stock of the year, and begin wading through the plethora of choices, I can quickly become overwhelmed.
As I’ve mentioned before, as an aspiring photographer, the pressure to have the ideal photographs of my cherubs presented to the world is REAL! And how best to rep those pics that I labored over? Multi-photo layout or single? Color photos or a more artsy approach in black & white? Soft focus? Foil card? Foil envelope? Family letter? Photo captions? Sentimental? Silly? ALL OF THE ABOVE?!?! Good news, there are only approximately 4 gazillion options to choose from!!! (Oh, and also don’t forget that simultaneously your kids schools have scheduled roughly 2/3 of their yearly activities for this month and you have family gatherings and gifts to organize and traditions to uphold!) “Smile!“
<sigh>
What I would like to propose is a different approach. Fewer choices, more realistic. (More sarcastic!)
Ladies and gents, I give you – “Cards For Reals” – my fake but fantastic holiday card company idea!
10 choices. That’s it, just 10. You make your selection based on your stress level at time of purchase.
Level 1: These are the top tier. Professional photographs of perfectly dressed and smiling people. Probably in a meadow at sunset. The layout is perfect and festive yet understated, inspiring just the right amounts of awe and envy. I don’t really know why you’re buying these here when you clearly qualify to buy fancy cards from some other major conglomerate, but ok.
Level 2: Still a nice option, and brag-worthy. Cute layout and decorations. This offering is for amateur and/or candid family photographs and pleasantly written little blurbs about everyone. They say to people, we are proud yet humble.
Level 3: At this level, something must begin to be a little … off. Still cute and festive and attempting holiday cheer. Maybe the picture is slightly out of focus, or someone is not smiling/looking at the camera? But hey, it’s the only photo you have of the whole group together that year.
Level 4: By now, someone in the picture(s) should be crying, or the dog should be mid-bark. And not in an ironic and funny way. A picture taken as the camera falls sideways off the tripod is acceptable. There will also only be one small space for writing text, leaving everyone to wonder just what the what is happening and yet understanding perfectly.
Level 5: At this level, you still care enough to send a “together” card, but you have abandoned the photo card idea. This is the old boxed card set. With a glittered snowman on the front. At least Frosty’s facing forward and smiling, you can tell yourself. People used to previous years attempts at higher levels may see this as quiet quitting, but it’s not. The real mess is coming up.
Level 6: You go back to the photo card idea, but have decided to let. people. know! Something in the picture must be on fire. Maybe it’s the turkey, or the tree, maybe it’s your nerves. You do not care. You sent a card. There.
Level 7: This can be any of the previous levels, but at this stage we take the extra step to crumple up the card in a fit of holiday rage and then smooth it back out. There will also be a circle stain ring on the corner of each card, your choice of either wine or coffee.
Level 8: At this level, the wheels have well and truly come off! The only option here is an unsigned generic card that has singed edges, much like your mood. You are beyond frazzled but still care enough to make some sort of attempt, thus level 8. The giving up stage is next.
Level 9: This is a stock photo of someone else’s slipper-clad feet propped up on the couch and holiday decorations in the background. But it has been ripped and taped back together. For a nominal fee it can also include the previous level’s stains, burns, crumples or pet chew marks. It says to people, ‘I have given up and do not care if you care.’ Others may wonder what had gone on with your family this year and how much everyone has grown and changed. Let them wonder. They are not at level 9 and that mess is NOT for amateurs! They are lucky you had the where-with-all to send them anything!
Level 10: The final echelon! This is simply a 3 x 5 index card stuffed sideways into a mangled envelope. It is crumpled. It is stained. Maybe it’s burned or torn. Is that a random staple? Who gives a flip?! Not you! There are no holly leaves or gingerbread decals. The only greeting is the word “whatever.” typed in lower-case comic sans. (That’s right!) This level comes with a coupon for a spa day and a free therapy session.
Dear reader, whatever level you find yourself at during this season of whichever holiday(s) you choose to celebrate, my wish is truly that you have peace and joy and laughter and hope. Because right now we all need those so very desperately!
Broken Wings
I don’t know who needs to hear this today, but broken wings are still beautiful!
Broken wings can still fly. Maybe not easily, but even more impressively.
Nature is full of perfectly imperfect wonders and beauty – and so are we.
Take a moment to look for them and try to see them in yourself and others. The world (and you) will be better for it!
Stained Glass
I’ve been thinking a lot about stained glass recently. In truth, for the past several years it’s been prevalent on my mind. Among my own family I’ve referred to these past challenging pandemic years as our “years of stained glass” for several reasons. First and foremost because I felt broken and needed something beautiful and hopeful to look to. Stained glass is undeniably lovely and awe-inspiring and is usually in reverently striking places.
I call it our years of stained glass because of what we’ve been through, how it affected us and wondering, as so many of us are, what should follow moving hopefully and purposefully forward. It’s comforting to frame it as taking the fragments of our post-pandemic? lives and making something beautiful out of them.
Creating stained glass is NOT an easy process! It’s messy and a little dangerous too. You take the broken pieces and painstakingly arrange them into a larger complex picture. Slowly and carefully selecting, shaping and soldering each piece into place, stained glass artists must keep the big picture in their mind, even as they work out the most minute details. Many of the pieces are broken intentionally with specific angles and shades already in mind. But not everything goes according to plan each time, and a true artist can make even the slightly wonky and misshapen pieces work in the grander scheme and use them to enhance the completed picture. The newly formed window is stronger than the original pane of glass was, not in spite of its brokenness, but because of it.
This is us.
This has been us.
We’ve been broken, sometimes with very sharp edges in ways we didn’t see coming. The world has become, it seems, an increasingly frightening and vulnerable place. In some ways it always was, but our collective and individual traumas from the past few years have brought that more sharply into focus. It would be easy to wallow in our brokenness or allow our sharp edges to be an imagined defense in such a scary world. But that’s not what we’re supposed to be. That shouldn’t be our finished product. We need to take our broken pieces and make something beautiful from them. A window of light and beauty for the world to see.
Stained glass windows have historically been used to educate and inspire. In medieval times, they were used to illustrate biblical stories to a vastly illiterate population, as well as serving as status symbols for the church’s power and influence. The churches that I attended as a child and an adult each had different versions of stained glass. Some were pictorial depictions of Biblical stories, others were merely lovely colors in interesting shapes. Nothing as magnificent as the gothic European cathedrals, but still pretty and both soothing and inspiring to look at. From within the building, stained glass is just that; soothing, inspiring, and impressive because that’s what it’s meant to be. The light from outside shines through all the colors and enlightens the room, and the people inside. But to the outside world, stained glass is dark, colorless and foreboding when the light is also from without. Too often, we’re content to take in the outer light, enjoy it for ourselves and keep it there instead of turning it outward. Stained glass shines brightest to the world when it’s dark, but only if there’s an inner light.
This needs to be us.
We each have the ability to take the seemingly broken pieces of our lives and make them into a new, more complex and interesting picture and shine that story out into a dark world that so desperately needs light and hope. All the light, in all the beautifully varied colors and all the intricate and unique designs! To tell each of our stories and say to the world, “Look, how broken I was and made something new from my brokenness. Isn’t it beautiful?!”
Acknowledging the brokenness is vital too because that’s how you begin to rearrange the pieces. Many of us associate stained glass with places of worship. Unfortunately, some of those places and some of the people there can be the source of brokenness for us. For me and my family, we lost our church and therefore our support community when I left my job at the school associated with that church. It was absolutely heart-breaking and foundation shaking. But as C.S. Lewis said, “You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.” Shaken faith can be refortified; not with defensive walls, but restructured as a stronger foundation for a new beginning. Believing that even when people let us down, we’re still worth lifting up, and worthy of lifting up others. A dimmed light is not extinguished. It can be rekindled and refocused and even brighter than before. We can be the light of the world, but it’s up to us to choose light and hope instead of fear and bitterness. As so many artists over the years have espoused variations of the sentiment – when things break, it lets in light. Even light itself must be broken into its component wavelengths to show it’s full spectrum of glorious colors.
We’ve all lost a lot, but we’ve hopefully gained a lot in these trying times too; resilience, patience, reorganized priorities, a new appreciation for good hygiene, just to name a few. The past few years have broken me down in some serious ways. I think that’s true for a lot of us. But broken doesn’t have to mean finished. It can be the beginning of something new, something rare and hard-won but ultimately stronger, undeniably and utterly fantastic.
So how do we do this? How do we put ourselves back together and shine our individual and collective lights into the darkness?
One piece at a time.
Keeping the big picture in mind while tending to the minute details; carefully arranging each selected fragment into place. Creating a masterpiece takes time and thoughtful effort, and each of is a masterpiece! We may be under-construction, but we’re a masterpiece in the works none-the-less. With each broken piece of ourselves that we fit into its new place, we move everyone forward. No one piece of glass is responsible for being the entirety of the stained glass window. Imagine how dull and plain a single pane would look compared to the kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that we typically associate with these works of art. No, each piece needs to play its own crucial part. We need to appreciate and support each other’s amazing individuality as we bring together our new complex creations. My stained glass window may not won’t look like my neighbors, or anyone else’s. Not only is that ok, it’s ideal.
So whatever particular shape that takes for each of us; volunteering, donating time or resources to a worthy organization, planting a garden, speaking up against injustice, learning a new skill, embarking on a new career, being kinder, being more patient, healing the past with therapy, or meditation, or prayer, or all of those. Whatever positive ways in which we can begin to be made whole after experiencing so much brokenness moves us forward, glues us back together, strengthens us and shines our rekindled lights out to illuminate the world.
A beacon of hope and beauty for the world to see.
It’s been plenty dark. Time to let this little light of mine, shine. Time for each of us to let all of our lights shine, together.
Waiting For My Wings to Dry
Waiting For My Wings to Dry
If you had asked me at the beginning of the pandemic, or even in the middle of the storm, what this was, I would’ve called it a nightmare. My nightmare. So many of my worst fears coming to life. A global plague, isolation, quitting my job, changing my 20-year career and with that losing my sense of identity, losing our support community, and so much more. Let me explain:
I was a teacher. Was. In the before times, specifically March of 2020, with a middle school science classroom full of science fair projects, we were preparing for the next week’s upcoming science fair. On that fateful Friday the 13th, with only an hour and a half notice, the other teachers and I frantically scrambled to prepare our students for the looming disaster. “Send everything home with them that you can,” we were told. In addition to passing out notebooks and materials, I spent much of that frenetic time reassuring worried kids that it would all be ok. We’d pick up where we left off with presentations and projects in 2 weeks, when school reopened. For me, it never did.
I finished out the school year virtually, like everyone else. Stumbling my way through recorded lessons, virtual labs, and frustrated phone calls. To the best of my ability, I learned new programs and formats as fast as I could trying to help reach and support struggling families and impart information from a distance, which was not an easy task with my subject. The stress on the faces of my colleagues during our virtual staff meetings became replaced with apathy and resignation. I don’t think I’m the first person to liken what we went through to trying to fly an airplane while building the airplane … on fire.
It was never enough.
Teaching is very often a thankless profession in normal times and these were definitely not normal times! Don’t get me wrong, as the daughter and grand-daughter of multiple career teachers, I went into this profession with very open eyes and a full understanding of it’s necessary sacrifices and short-comings. But this was something else. There were a few “How do they do it?!” on-line videos of appreciation for teachers across the country, but for the most part what we received was frustration. And for every “Teachers should be paid a million dollars!” post from a frustrated parent on social media, there were double or triple that directly to us in the forms of demanding e-mails and phone calls. I don’t know if parents forgot that we were human or that so many of us were parents too; trying not only to shepherd their children through this crisis, but trying to get our own children through it as well? All of my efforts for going above and beyond were met with either silence or complaints, deepening the growing senses of isolation and failure. I tried to take it all with a grain of salt and understand that parents were lashing out due to their own stress and frustration. It’s much easier to send an angry e-mail to the person you perceive as making your struggles harder than to an invisible virus. We became verbal punching bags for angry parents whose lives felt out of control. Even some people who I had considered friends and allies distanced themselves and relationships became instantly frosty. It was devastating.
At the end of the school year, I returned masked to my time capsule of a classroom, and prepared to send home the tri-fold boards for students’ unfinished science fair projects. I tearfully put encouraging and colorful stickers on the boards before loading them into the gymnasium for parents to collect, along with any other forgotten supplies, like an education dumping ground. It was both a completely anti-climatic and completely fitting end to the school year.
I retreated to the sanctuary of my home and tried to both recover from the stress of the year and prepare for the next. Over the summer, it became increasingly clear that I would need to leave the classroom to be at home with my remote-learning children. I was so burned out and singed that when that year ended, I decided not to go back to the classroom again. At all.
“So what now?” became my daily nagging question. What do I do? Teaching is what I’m trained for and what I believed I was called to do. It seems I’m not the only one with these questions. In due course, every member of my immediate and extended family, former coworkers and well-meaning friends have asked some variation of the question, “Do you think you’ll go back to teaching?”
No.
No, I don’t think I will. Which breaks my heart. I was a 3rd generation teacher. And to be clear, I still believe in education and its power to change lives and be a force for good in the world. I have so much respect for those who are still persevering in these unprecedented times in the classroom! But too often I have been bruised and battered by this system that I was trying so hard to work with and improve; it’s time to preserve myself for my family and find another way to do good in the world.
So now what?
Transformation takes time. Reinventing yourself takes time. It takes effort and patience and grace. A lot of grace, especially toward yourself. I am not particularly adept at that part. Grace and understanding for others I can do, but for me? I needed to get my mess together yesterday! Added to that is the weight (self-imposed of course!) of producing something tangible and worth-while; something to show not only to myself, but also to my former colleagues, and to the world, to prove that I still have ambitions and capability and therefore, value.
I’ve always liked the image of butterfly metamorphosis and transfiguration as metaphors for major changes we go through in life. That helps in these times, because even though I want so badly to take off and fly freely in a new direction, most days I feel as clumsy and slow as a lumbering caterpillar, plodding along routinely and unsure of what’s to come. Do caterpillars know what to expect? I’ve always assumed they do, that somehow when they begin to curl up in their chrysalis, they aren’t afraid of what the uncertain future holds. But maybe they don’t? If not, that takes an impressive amount of faith and bravery to move forward not knowing what or who you’ll become!
Let’s be very clear, metamorphosis is an unpleasant process! The caterpillar basically melts inside its chrysalis and is rearranged and reformed into a butterfly. That doesn’t sound like a lot of fun to me though I can certainly relate to feeling like you’re melting from within and everything you think you know is fading away! But that moment of emergence – of being made new – that must be worth it!
Here’s a cool thing I learned recently about butterflies, their wings were always there. Even in their larval caterpillar stage, the blueprint for their future selves is encoded in their DNA. So, when they go through the very challenging and one would assume painful process of metamorphosis, the spectacularly beautiful end result is assured even if it’s not visibly obvious yet. The caterpillars don’t design their wings or will them into existence. So maybe I don’t need to fretfully try to find my new form and new path with so much pressure. Maybe I just need to rest and wait and trust that my wings, which have really always been there, will emerge.
Ugh, waiting! But that’s what caterpillars do; rest and wait for new wings to present themselves. And while that might be (is) extremely difficult for me, (for many of us) to do, it is an important part of the process. Even when the new form is achieved, and the chrysalis is opened, the butterfly doesn’t flit off immediately. They hang upside-down from their chrysalis and let their amazingly beautiful and delicate wings slowly unfold and dry in the sun before taking off into the sky. That’s where I am now.
Throughout the past few months, I’ve rediscovered a passion for writing, for creating art and photography. These are things I’ve always loved but never believed that I could make a living at. That may or may not end up working out, but I’m willing to at least give it a try. Finding a way to use talents as a force for good in the world, take care of my family, and my own heart at the same time is not easy, but it’ll hopefully be worth it.
If you had asked me before what this pandemic time was, I would’ve said it was a nightmare. But now, I’m choosing to call it my chrysalis. I cocooned at home, was broken down, rested and reformed into a new version of myself. I think I may have found my new wings. They were always there. Now I’m just waiting for them to dry so I can soar.
The Adventures of Danger-Man
The Adventures of Danger-Man
The Adventures of Danger-Man
an unfortunately continuing saga…
We find Danger-Man where we left him last, terrorizing the family cat. Beginning his day as mild-mannered Little-Man, Danger-Man attempts to fool his enemies and his mother into believing that this could be a normal and productive day. After enjoying his morning cartoons and healthy breakfast, Little Man convinces his long-suffering mother, Mommy-Nerves-On-Edge, into taking him and the family dog for a walk. Actually this was his mother’s idea, as it was finally above 40 degrees and there is very little snow on the ground. But I digress. He completes this charade by reverting to his earlier toddler cuteness and referring to the wagon as “Ya-Ya.” His poor mother cannot resist this charming ploy.
It’s a lovely morning, the walk is a great success, and playtime outside ensues. This is great fun until his grandmother calls with news about a violin for his greatest nemesis, “The Sister!” Infuriated by his mother’s insistence that they move their playtime inside for her to take this call, he opens the outside door when no one is looking, thereby letting sister’s indoor-only cat outside. Amazingly enough, when questioned later, he has no recollection of this event.
But that’s a small matter for our hero. A bath for the cat means more playtime for him.
Lunchtime brings spilled juice and another installment of his running diatribe, “good pizza vs. bad pizza.”
Mild-mannered Little-Man takes a nap to prepare himself for the afternoon return of the “The Sister.” It should be mentioned that The Sister, a.k.a. Distracted Artist Girl, has her own set of difficulties this day. Apparently a pair of robins in the front yard was too mesmerizing to keep her from remembering that lifting the latch on the backyard gate would let the dog loose, resulting in another chase for their poor mother. I feel a pattern developing here.
Upon awakening from his nap, Little-Man begins to cough. Since The Sister is recovering from a sinus infection, his mother is quick to recognize the sound and begins preparations for making chicken noodle soup. While she is distracted, Little-Man quietly slips downstairs and transforms into Danger-Man!
Using his stealth-like retrieval skills, Danger-Man extracts a shadowbox from under the sofa. Then using his trusty toy tool set, he pulls the back free from the shadowbox and proceeds to explore it’s contents. Mission accomplished, he heads back upstairs to once again race Lightning McQueen against Chick Hicks in his room.
Realizing that the toys from the morning’s outdoor adventures will be in the way of Dad’s imminent return home, his mother goes downstairs to remedy this situation. She is confronted with an upturned shadowbox and pieces littering the floor around it. An emergency family meeting is called to ascertain which cherub is responsible for this catastrophe. The Sister walks in, takes one look, and announces, “ITWASN’TME!” Danger-Man also professes innocence. But, as The Sister points out, since neither cat nor dog can do it, it has to be him. Danger-Man is unaffected by this ray of logic and continues grinning sweetly at his mother.
Deciding that fixing the problem is the more immediate task, his mother tables the ‘who done it’ issue for a later time. She then asks that they help her look for any additional pieces on the floor around them. Danger-Man immediately puts up his Mommy Request Force-Field and continues his quest to see how many times he can circle the coffee table. When a rather irritated request breaks through his defenses, Danger-Man calmly replies that he should not look for the missing pieces, as he is not a girl.
Faster than a mood swing, mild-mannered mommy transforms into Feminist-Chic! Righter of all wrongs against woman-kind, especially when uttered by her own seeds! Feminist-Chic informs Danger-Man that he is lucky she does not believe in spanking and should take himself to time-out right away!!
A few minutes later, all the pieces are accounted for, crisis is averted, and mild-mannered Little-Man has retired his Danger-Man suit for the day. His mother wonders, as she shakily sips her tea to soothe her jangled nerves, what adventures tomorrow will bring. Perhaps tomorrow will be the long dreamed about day of an outing without a tantrum, or a day of unobstructed cooperation. She dreamily drifts back to his sweet request for extra snuggles at bedtime, but is jolted back to reality when she remembers…tomorrow is dinosaur day at story-time.
God help us.
*note* – This was written a few years ago, when Danger-Man was younger, and smaller, but no less precocious. I felt it necessary to introduce this story now to lay the groundwork for future, more updated Danger-Man sagas.
Worn out with Winter
It would be an understatement to say that growing up, I liked Little House on the Prairie. I LOVED Little House on the Prairie!! The show, the books, the scenery, the characters, the adventures, all of it was perfection! I may have even dressed up as Laura Ingalls for 2 Halloweens.
Okay, fine, it was 3 Halloweens. And a few random weekdays. Don’t judge me.
My admiration and appreciation for Laura Ingalls Wilder’s classic stories have remained strong through the years and getting to enjoy them again with my daughter a few years ago rekindled that flame. So it doesn’t really surprise me that often throughout these last few frigid months, her book “The Long Winter” has been on my mind.
This has been a record breaking winter for us, up here in the South Arctic. (3rd snowiest, 4th coldest, most consecutive school days missed without parents and kids alike going completely stir crazy!) I’ve run the gamut of emotions this winter. At first, it was exciting and fun. Yay! So pretty! Let’s go sledding!
Then it settled down into an accepted part of the daily routine. Get everyone bundled up to go outside, make sure the kids have their plethora of snow gear to take school each day. We bragged to family who live further south about how deep the snow was getting and how cold it was. This is real winter.
I appreciated the artistic shapes the wind carved into the deep snow with each new storm. I made sure to marvel at the growing height of the snow banks and drifts. I laughed at the irony that one of this year’s most popular movies was “Frozen!” But as the weeks of relentless bitter cold and snow wore on, I struggled to let it go. I began to silently dread getting everyone bundled up just to go outside, and grudgingly made sure the kids had their plethora of snow gear…again.
I kept a stiff upper lip about the weather (Not by my own choice, really, it was frozen that way!) until last week when some well-intentioned meteorologist pointed out that when it warmed recently it would be the first time it had been above 40 since the start of December! 3 months! A quarter of the year! *sigh* I felt defeated. Don’t get me wrong, I love my cozy sweaters, pretty scarves, and boots, but I was ready to move on. Apparently, Mother Nature was not.
So as I sat in bed last night, listening to the wind howl and sleet and snow pound against the house in the middle of March, I thought of Pa Ingalls listening to yet another spring blizzard rage against their house on the plains. While my family is not stranded, out of fuel, freezing, and on the brink of starvation, but thankfully, warm and safe in our house, I understood in a way that I never had before his impulse to jump up, shake his fist at the blizzard and shout defiantly at the wind, “Rage on all you want! You won’t beat us!”
When I awoke this morning to a renewed blanket of snow outside and was greeted with a message of yet another snow day, I resigned myself to be as resilient as my childhood hero and make the best of the situation. So we made pancakes and colored pictures and watched the wind swirling the snow outside. It may be “the everlasting winter,” as my son calls it. But it will make that warm spring sunshine just all that much sweeter. When, and if, it ever comes!
Mommy Blessings
I’ve heard the saying, “There’s a special place in Heaven for mothers of little boys,” and it had better be true! My precious little man is full-out into his terrible twos and really putting me through the paces! Despite years of previous teaching experience, this one tiny seed of mine has been able to push me to my limits of patience and restraint like no one else. I often wake up not with a sense of renewed vigor and optimism, but with already beaten down get-through-it-ness. Most days, my first thought is usually, “Coffee. Need coffee.” I didn’t consistently drink coffee before I became a mother. I’d never experienced that level of constant fatigue.
Erma Bombeck says that raising children is like being slowly pecked to death by chickens. True, and if Erma had boys, those chickens likely had small plastic tools and growled like dinosaurs. So in my experience, it’s less like being pecked to death and more like being hunted and bludgeoned. I say bludgeoned because my son’s latest transgression is hitting; me….his sister…the floor….the time-out chair.
We went through the terrible twos with our daughter and all survived just fine. Her weapon of choice was the scowl and she could really give you the business with her little folded arms and narrowed eyes. At times it was almost comical. The hitting is a different story. It has me at a loss. Previous generations’ answer to parenting dilemmas was to spank, but I fail to see the logic in teaching my child not to hit….by hitting. So we employ the time-out technique.
It follows a fairly simple, but predictable pattern. He hits after being told ‘No’ for something like, say, not leaving the cat alone for once in a row this morning.
BAM! Take that, Mommy!
So to the time-out chair we go. I tell him, “No hitting!” in the sternest voice I can muster. He grins and stands up. I say, “Sit back down, you’re in time-out.” He informs me that he will get out of the chair. Reaching into my teaching bag of tricks, I tell him calmly but firmly that if he does, his time-out will start over. Sadly, this does not usually faze him. It does however, anger him, and he hits again. I tell him that is additional time in the time-out chair. He grins at me again. Round and round we go.
5-10 minutes later, we’re completing a 2 minute time-out. He feels refreshed after his little rest in the chair and runs off to play again, while I am wearily resting my head against the wall. Repeatedly. (Not really, but sometimes I wonder if it would help.) I’m keeping my eyes on winning the war, but these daily battles cost me dearly. I fear that one day soon my artillery will be wiped out and I will be over run.
As I gather myself, my mother walks past and pats me on the arm. “You’re blessed,” she grins. Which puts me in mind of a baby book I saw once relating the Be-attitudes from the Bible to babyhood. I would like to add my own derivations to that list.
Blessed are the mothers of small boys who show more patience than they deserve, for theirs will be a thankful graduation speech.
Blessed are the mothers who won’t let their little boys play with all the rough toys they ask for, for their sons will grow up with their fingers intact.
Blessed are the mothers who teach kindness and respect, for they will raise gentlemen.
Blessed are the mothers who carry their tired little tyrants, despite the day’s previous transgressions, for one day those boys will be their mothers’ greatest advocates.
Blessed are the mothers who tirelessly read the story about steam engines again, and again, and again, for they will find rest….someday.
Blessed are the mothers of little boys, for they just deserve it.
And after every trial of the day, my little man gives me a glimmer of hope as he hugs my neck and sweetly asks for a lullaby with his blankie. Maybe I’ll win the war yet, and maybe the battles are worth it. As for a special place in Heaven, I’m still hopeful. But for now, I’ll settle for a quiet couch and some chocolate during nap time.
Building their future
Lego’s have been in the news and public consciousness a lot lately, with the Lego movie sweeping the box office last weekend. But not everything has been positive feedback. And I don’t just mean the collective scream of parents having to listen to “Everything is Awesome” being sung again for the 473rd time! There’s been a small uproar recently about the newest Lego offerings, the Lego Friends sets, which are marketed toward girls. Critics claim that the sets are gender stereotyping with their pastel colors and building things like cafes and yachts, as opposed to fortresses and pirate ships. Having two Lego obsessed children, I get to see both sides of this played out daily in my house. They both love their Lego’s equally and it’s usually the first toy both of them run for when they have free time. I love Lego’s for the imagination and creativity they foster, as well as being a quietly engaging toy in a era of electronic toys and phones and instant gratification.
When she was small, we bought our daughter primary colored mega blocks and Duplos, refusing to set her into any preconceived gender roles. Now she likes the Friends sets, and I think they’re great! There’s been some criticism of the sets not being “active” enough or only doing “girl things.” I can understand having a problem with stereotyping, but look closer and that’s not what they’re doing. The Lego Friends are business owners, veterinarians, rock stars, scientists, and soccer players. Aren’t those some of the things we’d like to encourage our little girls to be?
Yes, the sets come designed for building bakeries and high schools and stables instead of intergalactic star bases and construction trucks. But just like the girls who play with them, that’s not all they can become. The first time out of the box, both my kids follow the instructions and build the newly acquired set just as shown.
President/Lord Business would be proud.
But after that’s done and Mommy has snapped a picture of their proud creation, they take it all apart and start creating on their own. Usually making something even more impressive than before. Which seems to me to be one of the main functions of the toy; create and build yourself, regardless of gender.
There’s a new article circulating the web right now with a side-by-side picture featuring the same girl holding Lego creations from a 1980’s ad and now. The problem with this ad is that it’s not an even comparison. In the first picture, she’s holding an original creation. In the second, she’s followed the instructions and built it into a news van. “What it is is different,” the tag line reads. Yeah, different… she followed the instructions. I’ll bet that if you gave her a pile of Lego Friends blocks and no instructions, it wouldn’t look like that. She, or any little girl with a hint of imagination, would build something awesome. Should it matter that it’s pastel?! I’ve seen another new Lego ad recently of a little girl holding an original (and impressive-looking) creation with both pastel and primary colored pieces. The tag line says something about “She’s not just showing you what she’s made, she’s showing you what she’s made of.”
Lego is trying to reach out to girls and encourage them to play with a toy that in the past has been overwhelmingly purchased by boys. The primary colored sets haven’t been off-limits to girls all these years. But they simply weren’t buying them in the same numbers. And that’s not up to Lego, it’s up to the parents! So why get upset now? Don’t want your daughter playing with pink and purple colored toys? Buy her the primary colored ones! We shouldn’t vilify Lego for trying to raise interest and encourage our daughters to build and think. The new GoldieBlox toys, aimed also at girls and encouraging engineering and innovation, are pastel colored. With cute little animals. Why? Because that’s what often draws their attention. If that’s what it takes to get a girl to put down a barbie and start building, should it matter what color it is?
I don’t believe that my daughter is going to grow up to be a mindless, smoothie-swilling shopaholic devoid of all ambition from playing with Lego Friends, any more than I believe that my son will grow up to be a bulldozer-driving space policeman from playing with Lego Creators. It’s just a …hmmm….building block for their future.
Our daughter informed us the other day, after a marathon Lego Friends building session, that when she grows up, she wants to be an architect. “I’m really good at math, and I like building and designing things like this,” she told us.
Thanks, Lego!
sunflowerblessings 