This post ought to put a whole new meaning to the phrase "sleeping around." Although any parent will know what I'm talking about immediately.
Our first child was a dream sleeper -- after I put the Ferber boots to him, that is. After six months, he slept all night and in his own bed. Baby #2, who's now 6 and three-quarters if you please, was a different matter altogether. I remember many nights on the floor beside her bed, shoulder bone to hardwood floor. The other night, the older one, at 13, decided to get into the act. I woke at 4, unable to sleep -- like so many other women of my age around the world -- and about 15 minutes later, Anna came into our bedroom. So Tom went to her bed, but the dog was in it. So he took his comforter and pillow and slept on the floor of that room. Ten minutes later, Aidan came into our room, and said he couldn't sleep. So I suggested he sleep with Anna and I would take his bed. (Confused yet?) Apparently, Anna kept moving and Aidan couldn't sleep, so he went into to his dad in Anna's bedroom, on the floor, and woke him up to tell him. Tom told him to go back to bed. By then, the dog was roused and had to go out to the bathroom. The bed was now free, so Aidan grabbed it. Tom gave up and got up. It was 5 am.
I have since started a new method with Anna. She gets my watch, and is told she cannot bother us until it's five minutes, six minutes (one minute more each night), and this seems to work.
At least it has the past two nights. And they say, I'm told, that three nights makes a trend.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
What's wrong with Christian Kids?
I've had an ongoing discussion with some of the parents at my church about our children's dis-ease and seeming inability to fit in at school. These kids aren't nerdy, geeky, weird, or bizarre, either. When I was pregnant with my 13-year-old son I was looking for a warm, nurturing, spirit-filled church in which to bring him up, because my husband isn't a church-goer. So when I came to Little Trinity I found what I needed. Aidan's been with these kids -- about six boys in total, and a couple of girls (those poor girls throughout Sunday school, but more on that another time) -- since he was a baby.
I've also had most of these boys over at one time or another, plus I taught them for several years in Sunday school. They're all intelligent, fun, active kids, some more high energy than others.
When the other moms tell me that their boys sometimes have trouble fitting in at school, I have to wonder.
Is this because we've created a Christian ghetto, with a language and lexicon only Christian kids understand? Do all kids suffer from social problems in their early teen years? Are we Christian parents so worn out toeing the line between faith and culture, that we've become anxious and hovering and created kids who are likewise? Are we becoming schizophrenics, living one way on Sunday and another during the week so that our kids can never really fit in? Is this just the tension that Christianity always finds itself in with current culture, and the more antagonistic toward faith, the greater the tension?
I'm going to look into this a little further. But if anyone out there is reading this and has any answers, I'm all ears!
I've also had most of these boys over at one time or another, plus I taught them for several years in Sunday school. They're all intelligent, fun, active kids, some more high energy than others.
When the other moms tell me that their boys sometimes have trouble fitting in at school, I have to wonder.
Is this because we've created a Christian ghetto, with a language and lexicon only Christian kids understand? Do all kids suffer from social problems in their early teen years? Are we Christian parents so worn out toeing the line between faith and culture, that we've become anxious and hovering and created kids who are likewise? Are we becoming schizophrenics, living one way on Sunday and another during the week so that our kids can never really fit in? Is this just the tension that Christianity always finds itself in with current culture, and the more antagonistic toward faith, the greater the tension?
I'm going to look into this a little further. But if anyone out there is reading this and has any answers, I'm all ears!
Monday, June 26, 2006
Family as God
If I call attention to the fact that I haven't posted on my blog for two months, then perhaps I shall set a trend, and it'll be three months til I post next. So I won't make reference to that, officially at least.
While busy the last few months, researching and working on a book project about family, I've come across a lot of information related to families that makes me think, in spite of our good intentions to make healthier families, we're practicing that long-held human habit for distortion. In other words, we've made families into gods. Much is sacrificed on the altar of family -- from women's hard-won educational/career backgrounds (left behind in favour of making organic cookies and home schooling) to hobknobbing with those wholly at odds with the notion of family. A lot of stay at home moms have channeled their previous work-related energy into make-work projects with their kids -- and it's been well documented in Judith Warner's book, Perfect Madness: Motherhood in an Age of Anxiety. On the other end of the scale, there's the bubble-boy behaviour of some Christian parents to keep their kids from all that's bad in the world. Like meeting a real life gay or lesbian person, which might lead to an understanding about sexuality/homosexuality and might allow them to really get in touch with what it means, concretely, to separate sin from sinner. Or to look at the thrice married pastor of their church and wonder if, perhaps, there's something wrong there too.
We parents tend to fluctuate wildly between Hyper Parenting (or helicopter parenting as some are now calling it) to outright neglect. Mea culpa -- too worn from working all day to actively engage with my kids, I let them cruise the nintendo (my 13-year-old) while my 6 year old plays her imaginary school game, while I do "just one more email." My spectrum (which can be navigated several times a day) ranges from neglect to the lecturing, in your face, kind -- how did you play today, did your teacher say anything about your history project, if you commit yourself to soccer you have to go to every practice, dropping towels on the bathroom floor is the sign of a weak spirit, and then there's my ubiquitous work-first, play-later mantra.
It's like sculpting something from a kit, sort of like paint-by-number art, you poke and prod and chip away until it takes on some sort of shape. I've found, sadly, that the shape ends up a little like the circle I tried cutting out of construction paper when I was in kindergarten. Intent on perfection, I kept cutting round and round until there was nothing left of it.
And so it is with these false gods we set up -- when there's nothing concrete, real, and incarnate within what you're setting up to worship, it ends up on the floor in a flurry of little paper bits. Pity the poor family that's being molded into this kind of stultified and studied perfection -- high marks, professional sports development programs, extra tutoring (Kumon sources say that most kids are taking classes fully two grade levels above what they're in at school), and scheduled play.
I am desperately trying to break out of that rut and have decided that prayer, really and truly, is the only way out.
While busy the last few months, researching and working on a book project about family, I've come across a lot of information related to families that makes me think, in spite of our good intentions to make healthier families, we're practicing that long-held human habit for distortion. In other words, we've made families into gods. Much is sacrificed on the altar of family -- from women's hard-won educational/career backgrounds (left behind in favour of making organic cookies and home schooling) to hobknobbing with those wholly at odds with the notion of family. A lot of stay at home moms have channeled their previous work-related energy into make-work projects with their kids -- and it's been well documented in Judith Warner's book, Perfect Madness: Motherhood in an Age of Anxiety. On the other end of the scale, there's the bubble-boy behaviour of some Christian parents to keep their kids from all that's bad in the world. Like meeting a real life gay or lesbian person, which might lead to an understanding about sexuality/homosexuality and might allow them to really get in touch with what it means, concretely, to separate sin from sinner. Or to look at the thrice married pastor of their church and wonder if, perhaps, there's something wrong there too.
We parents tend to fluctuate wildly between Hyper Parenting (or helicopter parenting as some are now calling it) to outright neglect. Mea culpa -- too worn from working all day to actively engage with my kids, I let them cruise the nintendo (my 13-year-old) while my 6 year old plays her imaginary school game, while I do "just one more email." My spectrum (which can be navigated several times a day) ranges from neglect to the lecturing, in your face, kind -- how did you play today, did your teacher say anything about your history project, if you commit yourself to soccer you have to go to every practice, dropping towels on the bathroom floor is the sign of a weak spirit, and then there's my ubiquitous work-first, play-later mantra.
It's like sculpting something from a kit, sort of like paint-by-number art, you poke and prod and chip away until it takes on some sort of shape. I've found, sadly, that the shape ends up a little like the circle I tried cutting out of construction paper when I was in kindergarten. Intent on perfection, I kept cutting round and round until there was nothing left of it.
And so it is with these false gods we set up -- when there's nothing concrete, real, and incarnate within what you're setting up to worship, it ends up on the floor in a flurry of little paper bits. Pity the poor family that's being molded into this kind of stultified and studied perfection -- high marks, professional sports development programs, extra tutoring (Kumon sources say that most kids are taking classes fully two grade levels above what they're in at school), and scheduled play.
I am desperately trying to break out of that rut and have decided that prayer, really and truly, is the only way out.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Sacred Females
It's been almost a month since I last blogged. Too busy finding candidates for a recent TV contract on grooming shaggy men and making them worthy of their women. I am the first one to say my husband could stand some improvement, but if truth be told a lot of the women who nominated their men actually had greater need of sprucing up.
There was the woman who called the show and asked that we do something with her boyfriend of ten years, who has rotting teeth. His breath stinks, she wailed. After he got his teeth kicked in, he's done nothing with them.
What happened -- was he in a fight, I asked innocently.
No, I kicked him in the mouth ten years ago, she replied.
Oh. He must have done something pretty awful to warrant that.
I was behaving badly, she admitted. That's when I was drinking.
Since the producer insisted we follow up on this "love story" I chatted next with the man who said their issues were way deeper than a shave and a haircut and that he wouldn't go back to her.
That's just one example. There were many others.
This brings me to the Da Vinci Code, and the worship of the sacred feminine. And the Last Supper, since this is Maundy Thursday, and Mary Magdalene who is supposedly reclining on Jesus' right side in Da Vinci's Last Supper painting.
The way that Mary M is portrayed in the DVC (da vinci code) is about as conniving and manipulative as the lovely lady who kicked in her guy's teeth while drunk.
The gospel accounts portray Magdalene as worshipful -- not lovesick, not queenly and presiding over the table as the chatelaine -- but emptied out. When women are engaged in an intimate relationship with a man, they simply are not emptied out, unless there's an abusive or co-dependent thing going on.
I have more problems with the DVC than just that, however. First of all, the priory which worships the sacred feminine is ALL MEN! It's a brotherhood.
Secondly, the secret rituals which are supposed to cause the divine spark are ugly romping sex acts -- imagine this: a grey-haired overweight woman astride an old gray-haired man, in the midst of a secret society of folks chanting like Druids.
Contrast that to The Song of Solomon, with its spiritually erotic verse illuminating the heart that pants after its Maker. As a mom, I have never once considered myself the creator of my two kids -- and to confuse the divine spark that occurs when we search for God with the sex act is more than bizarre.
And now to the Last Supper. The metaphysical divine consumed by the merely human. Now that's intimate.
There was the woman who called the show and asked that we do something with her boyfriend of ten years, who has rotting teeth. His breath stinks, she wailed. After he got his teeth kicked in, he's done nothing with them.
What happened -- was he in a fight, I asked innocently.
No, I kicked him in the mouth ten years ago, she replied.
Oh. He must have done something pretty awful to warrant that.
I was behaving badly, she admitted. That's when I was drinking.
Since the producer insisted we follow up on this "love story" I chatted next with the man who said their issues were way deeper than a shave and a haircut and that he wouldn't go back to her.
That's just one example. There were many others.
This brings me to the Da Vinci Code, and the worship of the sacred feminine. And the Last Supper, since this is Maundy Thursday, and Mary Magdalene who is supposedly reclining on Jesus' right side in Da Vinci's Last Supper painting.
The way that Mary M is portrayed in the DVC (da vinci code) is about as conniving and manipulative as the lovely lady who kicked in her guy's teeth while drunk.
The gospel accounts portray Magdalene as worshipful -- not lovesick, not queenly and presiding over the table as the chatelaine -- but emptied out. When women are engaged in an intimate relationship with a man, they simply are not emptied out, unless there's an abusive or co-dependent thing going on.
I have more problems with the DVC than just that, however. First of all, the priory which worships the sacred feminine is ALL MEN! It's a brotherhood.
Secondly, the secret rituals which are supposed to cause the divine spark are ugly romping sex acts -- imagine this: a grey-haired overweight woman astride an old gray-haired man, in the midst of a secret society of folks chanting like Druids.
Contrast that to The Song of Solomon, with its spiritually erotic verse illuminating the heart that pants after its Maker. As a mom, I have never once considered myself the creator of my two kids -- and to confuse the divine spark that occurs when we search for God with the sex act is more than bizarre.
And now to the Last Supper. The metaphysical divine consumed by the merely human. Now that's intimate.
Friday, March 17, 2006
The Religious Imagination
I am becoming very curious about the making of the religious imagination -- is it nature or nurture?
On Tuesday, A (aged six and a half) got a sliver in her finger while she was running her hand under her dad's closed office door trying to get in while he was working/on the phone. Much howling and tears, as he carried her up the stairs for me to examine it.
She was wild about this sliver -- first she wanted me to look at it, then her dad to remove it, then she didn't want it done, then questions about how much it would hurt, then lamentations on why did this have to happen to me? As I held her on my lap, preparing to investigate further, a sterilized needle cleverly concealed in the folds of my sweatpants, she set up the sobbing anew.
"I think God should do this, not you," she said. "God can make this better."
"But God gives those jobs to his angels on earth, like mums and dads, who are here to care for you and feed you and take slivers out," said I.
The howling increased, and A ran to her room to pray. She knelt on the floor, hands clasped in desperation, and directed her mumbled request heavenward. She then scuttled back and asked if the sliver was gone. I said it didn't look like it, but maybe. She ran back into her room for more prayers, all the while sobbing.
This drama continued for a couple of days until going to her grandparents. Her grandfather looked at the finger and said if she didn't get the sliver out, then the finger would have to come off. Finally, she tossed a coin, saying if it's heads the finger comes off, and if it's tails, she'd let grandad take it out. As she described it, "the first time was her finger was to come off; the second time, the finger to come off; the third time, K (grandfather) to take out." So she let him use the needle to take it out. She told me later, that during the operation, she filled her mind with pleasant thoughts -- a particularly special playdate she'd had with her little friend Sydney.
On Tuesday, A (aged six and a half) got a sliver in her finger while she was running her hand under her dad's closed office door trying to get in while he was working/on the phone. Much howling and tears, as he carried her up the stairs for me to examine it.
She was wild about this sliver -- first she wanted me to look at it, then her dad to remove it, then she didn't want it done, then questions about how much it would hurt, then lamentations on why did this have to happen to me? As I held her on my lap, preparing to investigate further, a sterilized needle cleverly concealed in the folds of my sweatpants, she set up the sobbing anew.
"I think God should do this, not you," she said. "God can make this better."
"But God gives those jobs to his angels on earth, like mums and dads, who are here to care for you and feed you and take slivers out," said I.
The howling increased, and A ran to her room to pray. She knelt on the floor, hands clasped in desperation, and directed her mumbled request heavenward. She then scuttled back and asked if the sliver was gone. I said it didn't look like it, but maybe. She ran back into her room for more prayers, all the while sobbing.
This drama continued for a couple of days until going to her grandparents. Her grandfather looked at the finger and said if she didn't get the sliver out, then the finger would have to come off. Finally, she tossed a coin, saying if it's heads the finger comes off, and if it's tails, she'd let grandad take it out. As she described it, "the first time was her finger was to come off; the second time, the finger to come off; the third time, K (grandfather) to take out." So she let him use the needle to take it out. She told me later, that during the operation, she filled her mind with pleasant thoughts -- a particularly special playdate she'd had with her little friend Sydney.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Out of the Mouths of Babes
My six year old daughter has been keeping my family and friends howling with laughter for most of her verbal (and even non-verbal) life.
Recently, she has developed a severe case of religious imagination, and in some instances has taken up evangelism with a vengeance.
She has a thing for the popes, which has caused her lapsed Catholic dad a lot of consternation -- what did he, a good and religious atheist, do to deserve a daughter who plasters her walls with pictures of old men in white robes and tall white hats? Good question.
A few months ago, she was outside on the porch by herself and my husband went by the screen door and was able to witness the following: she was looking up at the sky and saying "God? Where are you? Are you there? God? Gawd? Where are you?"
One time, she and her dad were having a conversation about Joseph -- who he was. Her dad said he was Jesus' father, and A said no, that God was Jesus father. So her dad said Joseph was the earthly father. And A said no God was that too. Then she said to him: You don't know these things, Daddy. You don't know Jesus. You did as a child, but you don't know him now.
About a week or so ago, I got after her about some behaviour, and told her that was naughty and not at all nice, that it was hurtful to one of her friends (I think she had laughed about one of the little boys in her class because he'd not made it to the bathroom and pooed in his pants.) A broke down in tears, and sobbed that she couldn't help being like this, because God had made her like this, and how could she go against what God made. I explained to her about freedom and human will, and about choices to commit either sin or goodness. She was unconvinced as she continued to sob out her excuses.
Another time recently, she asked (on the way to church) why Daddy didn't go to church, and when I said it's because he doesn't believe in God, she was shocked. "Whaaaat? He doesn't believe in God? How could you NOT believe in God?!?! He's EVERYWHERE!!!! He's in the car, beside me, he's outside, he's on the sidewalk, in the trees, in heaven,........"
What ensued was a lengthy conversation about the nature of belief, with A saying that Daddy couldn't believe in God because he didn't see Him, and that was very hard for him. She also said that sometimes some people will not believe anything unless they see it.
When we got home later she asked her dad point-blank why he didn't believe in God. (He couldn't answer.) And she struck up the same hue and cry she gave me in the car.
It says that a little child shall lead them, and I fervently hope and pray that in my husband's case this is true, because I've failed miserably. Perhaps Anna will do better.
Recently, she has developed a severe case of religious imagination, and in some instances has taken up evangelism with a vengeance.
She has a thing for the popes, which has caused her lapsed Catholic dad a lot of consternation -- what did he, a good and religious atheist, do to deserve a daughter who plasters her walls with pictures of old men in white robes and tall white hats? Good question.
A few months ago, she was outside on the porch by herself and my husband went by the screen door and was able to witness the following: she was looking up at the sky and saying "God? Where are you? Are you there? God? Gawd? Where are you?"
One time, she and her dad were having a conversation about Joseph -- who he was. Her dad said he was Jesus' father, and A said no, that God was Jesus father. So her dad said Joseph was the earthly father. And A said no God was that too. Then she said to him: You don't know these things, Daddy. You don't know Jesus. You did as a child, but you don't know him now.
About a week or so ago, I got after her about some behaviour, and told her that was naughty and not at all nice, that it was hurtful to one of her friends (I think she had laughed about one of the little boys in her class because he'd not made it to the bathroom and pooed in his pants.) A broke down in tears, and sobbed that she couldn't help being like this, because God had made her like this, and how could she go against what God made. I explained to her about freedom and human will, and about choices to commit either sin or goodness. She was unconvinced as she continued to sob out her excuses.
Another time recently, she asked (on the way to church) why Daddy didn't go to church, and when I said it's because he doesn't believe in God, she was shocked. "Whaaaat? He doesn't believe in God? How could you NOT believe in God?!?! He's EVERYWHERE!!!! He's in the car, beside me, he's outside, he's on the sidewalk, in the trees, in heaven,........"
What ensued was a lengthy conversation about the nature of belief, with A saying that Daddy couldn't believe in God because he didn't see Him, and that was very hard for him. She also said that sometimes some people will not believe anything unless they see it.
When we got home later she asked her dad point-blank why he didn't believe in God. (He couldn't answer.) And she struck up the same hue and cry she gave me in the car.
It says that a little child shall lead them, and I fervently hope and pray that in my husband's case this is true, because I've failed miserably. Perhaps Anna will do better.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
A Rose by any other Name
Tis true that a person is still that same person no matter what their name. But I was reminded again, on Sunday, of the weight placed on names in the Bible. One of the readings involved Nathanael, who saw Jesus and knew who He was. My son's middle name is Nathanael, given to him in hopes that he, like the young man in the Bible story, would grow up to see and recognize Christ.
While names are just words, it's good to remember that words also contain meaning, and moreover, memory. Whenever I hear that Bible story I am called anew to make sure my son grows in wisdom and stature so that he'll be able to know Jesus.
My daughter's name was likewise given to her so that she, like the old prophetess who greeted Mary and Joseph and the Babe arriving at the Temple in Jerusalem.
In times such as these, it's good to remember that words can act as symbols, secrets almost, the meaning only apparent to those who have ears to hear or eyes to see.
While names are just words, it's good to remember that words also contain meaning, and moreover, memory. Whenever I hear that Bible story I am called anew to make sure my son grows in wisdom and stature so that he'll be able to know Jesus.
My daughter's name was likewise given to her so that she, like the old prophetess who greeted Mary and Joseph and the Babe arriving at the Temple in Jerusalem.
In times such as these, it's good to remember that words can act as symbols, secrets almost, the meaning only apparent to those who have ears to hear or eyes to see.
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