Fractions

I was in fourth grade when my teacher, Mr. Liu, taught fractions.

He drew a pie shape on the chalkboard. (Yes, CHALKBOARD.) He asked us if we would prefer to have ONE THIRD of a pie or ONE FOURTH. His impish smile should have forewarned us that our answers would probably go against our normal train of thought. An entire classroom greedily exclaimed, "ONE FOURTH! ONE FOURTH!" With a swift flick of his wrist, he divided the pie shape into thirds and fourths, showing us that when the number 4 was a denominator, it took on a whole new meaning.

Over the years my math classes built on those fractions.

Two halves equals one whole.

Four quarters equals one whole.

All wholes can be broken into fractions of itself and then added back together to be a magical whole.

In everyday life, fractions are amazing: A quarter point in our mortgage allows for thousands of dollars in savings.

Further down the road I tried to apply mathematics to myself as a mother, as a wife and as a contributing member to the human race and this is what I found: Numbers apply to things, not people.

Allow me to illustrate: If I do not have enough time in one day to join a PTA meeting, make dinner for a friend, drive my children to various activities and write thank yous to a half dozen people, then if I divide myself (mentally) into four pieces and attempt to achieve all of these things, I will find myself not cloned but crumbling.

Four quarters of a person do not a whole make.

Human beings are not divisible.

They do not have replacement parts.

They're not made on a conveyor belt, one piece at a time. They're knit together carefully and mysteriously in the womb, all cells attaching to one another, building on each other.

 

You can't send your scalp to your hair stylist without your head and body attached. If you need to eat lunch, it's preferable to not just have your digestive system sitting on the kitchen table. Best to arrive with hands and and heart and head as well. Gross, but true.

More practically: I have found myself giving wide girth to people on the road who think they can text and drive at the same time. I see their eyes in the rearview mirror looking down at their lap and up again repeatedly. Down and up. Down and up. Unless there is something immensely interesting on their seat... like a tarantula... I see no reason to not keep eyes on the road, straight ahead, minding the two ton vehicle they steer with their hands. In fact, I'm thinking about starting a petition to have texting drivers pass a breathalizer test (text-alizer test?) before they can operate a vehicle. Seriously.

Recently I had 3 hours to myself in which I spent every last blessed one of them setting up a bank account and ecommerce for my boutique design company. At the end of the 3 hours, I marveled that I actually got it done. But ever more than that, I realized that I had thought I could do ALL that work with my preschooler in tow and maintain some level of mental acuity. It took all my brain power to listen carefully to all my financial institutions about passwords and credit card information and setting up websites; how on earth did I think I could dole out lollipops and granola bars to my preschooler while securing internet passwords at my local bank?

It's a budgeting issue, really. I have to ask myself: Do I want to be a whole person today or do I want to mince my day into indecipherable fragments, allowing no margin, no joy and no fun?

Perhaps my internal clock is a little louder lately, but I have no joy in showing up to life with half of me missing.

I'm here. And I'm striving to be wholly so.

Gospel for the Mother

Recently my husband was home on a Saturday which he found particularly difficult. The weather was rainy; we were stuck inside. He tried to keep busy but the children were bored and cranky. He was all too glad to put us to bed that night.

The reality of motherhood for me is that a lot of days are about taking something particularly bland or small or seemingly insignificant and choosing to make it enough for that day. Some days seem to drag on so I try to break up each day into sections. Some days I only have enough energy to schedule breakfast, lunch and a nap time in the afternoon. Other days I begin the day with coffee and a three mile run. Then I take the children to the zoo followed by a movie at home in the afternoon. Those days I feel amazing and energetic and worthwhile. The bland days? Not so much.

Because of these experiences, I am more impressed with people who faithfully show up every day (even if life offers mediocrity) rather than people who drink Red Bull, bench press twice their weight and own three companies.

The joy of motherhood is this: If you lay down your life, you will find it again. If you give your life for another, you will find that a seed is planted.

If you find yourself crying in the bathroom because your ears are ringing with mayhem and monotony, I have good news: That is death. And the good news about death is that it has no hold on the person who follows Jesus the grave-spurner. Death heralds resurrection.

Many people try to paint Jesus as an ascetic. Plain. Boring. Too heavenly minded for any earthly good.

But here is how I see Jesus: He took corneas which refused to refract light and opened the floodgates of the spectrum.

He took suffering and made it into compost. Then he planted a seed and watched it grow even more lovely than without the suffering.

He turned scars into beauty marks.

He turned victims into vivacious, life-loving people.

His creation doesn't stop ever. Ever the Creator, ever the Renewer.

He takes autistic children and uses their quirky sense of communication to change the world, turning it topsy turvy.

He takes tired churches and breathes new life into them.

He tells retired people to roll up their sleeves because he has some amazing adventures planned.

He has done marvelous things in my life.
He spared my husband when he was on a plane from Baltimore to Chicago on the morning of September 11th.
He has given me strength during post-partum depression.
He has given me two lovely, interesting, fantastic daughters even though when I was in college I prayed that I would never have children. (Thank God he didn't answer that prayer with a yes.)
He has taught me how to love difficult people, how to stay during a crisis and how to choose life even though my body bore death.
He has kept the fire of dreams in my heart.

I tried to embrace death, but it doesn't stick to people who love Jesus.

Because for me the Christian faith is not about one big momentous death. It's about a thousand tiny deaths, a thousand miniscule disappointments, a hundred thousand irritants and a myriad of sadnesses turned into countless "do-overs" and redemptions and resurrections.

If you go into today wondering what you will create, that is something admirable.
But if you go into a day which looks bleak and wearisome and wonder what redemptions will take place, that is celebratory.

It's a day which has held bickering children and cranky mothers and threadbare fathers getting indigestion over a burnt dinner and deciding to stop everything, make ice cream cones and go swing on the outside playset.

It's a man who has no hope left in his resume and little hope of getting a job take a portion of his unemployment check, smile cheekily and give it away. "If we're going down, let's go down in a blaze of glory."

It's artistic me, shunning the mediocrity of laundry and doing it anyway. 

A thousand deaths, a thousand resurrections.

It's why our Creator is also our Redeemer and our Friend.

Why I Wouldn't Recognize Jesus

The Jesus I know is not one who I would recognize.

He doesn't choose to be in the spotlight.

And when he catches someone in a scandalous place, he compassionately loves.

He hates for people to carry burdens.

He takes a lot of walks. A lot.

He smiles at children and loves to hang out with them. He blesses them.

He is like the craziest lawyer I know. He has memorized the entire Torah just for the purpose of exposing its emptiness. For the purpose of knowing the law so he can find a way through it to show grace. He is the defense attorney, the judge, and the prisoner all in one. He loves to turn a story on its head.

He hung out with all the wrong crowd. The people with the worst reputation... He liked them the best.

He chose the poorest people to be his parents. And the most annoying people to be his disciples. I'm sure he was constantly rolling his eyes about their shenanigans. One time he found them arguing about who was the best. Seriously.

He spent his days teaching, loving, healing, hiking, fishing and marveling.

As a weary parental figure, he found that he needed times to get away. So he escaped to the lake. To catch his breath. To pray. To converse with the Father. And then he came saw his squabbling, hungry people on the shore, eager to tattle on one another; he had compassion.

He didn't hate government.

He didn't put anyone in their place unless they really needed it.

He used his power for good. The ultimate superhero.

He allowed himself to be poor and hungry and tired. He didn't elude suffering; he engaged in it and showed it how to turn into redemption and power and life.

People said a lot of lies about Jesus. They still do. Because no one understands how a deity so steeped in human history would have chosen to live in such conditions.

I have tried to not believe in Jesus. But the stories of his humility and power and simplicity and trust bring me back to the mystery.

I have tried to make marriage my god, but Dan is not strong enough.
I have tried to make wealth my god, but it has no floor; it's a pit.
I've tried to make image my god, but I'm too weary to hold up the mask for long.
I enjoyed a season of life where I chose to be a victim, but my healed heart could not wear it.
I've tried to be the kindest, most honest person I can be, but I am by nature a woman of wrath.

So I come to lowly Jesus. And the bizarre stories of him with his comrades who walked great lengths to tell simple stories of love to ordinary people.

I long for him to snap, to go "gangster" on someone snarky, to crack the whip on crimes.

But his annoying faithfulness continues. And beckons.
And stirs the mystery of Christ in me.

Summer, Baby!

Summer vacation started this week for both my girls. Every year before my munchkins come home, I envision us holding hands, going to the park, doing cutesie, simple crafts and having loads of picnics. This year was no exception.

It has been 4 hours since my third grader-- um--fourth grader?-- came home from school. I was armed with a picnic basket packed a la Eve. The car keys were not far as I anticipated saying, "Hi, Morgan. Welcome home from school. Hop in the car-- we're going to the zoo."

Which is exactly what I did.

It was a test run. I wanted to dip my toes in the edge of summer vacation and see how much my children will call my name. Or how well they will play with each other. Or how many snacks they would ask for in a half hour period. For the record, they only said "Mom" one hundred and thirty seven times at the zoo this morning. Which made me breathe deeply knowing that summer was going to be a cinch. *ha*

Truthfully, I somewhat fear summer vacation. For 9 months my offsprings' schedules have been filled with a veritable army of teachers who come to the classroom equipped with techniques and curriculums (curricula?) and scheduled activities. It is unfortunate for my munchkins that I am not naturally an organized person. Anything "organized" inside my brain is put there on purpose by watching other parents. If you're one of my organized friends, please know that I am totally mooching off of your ideas. Idea robbery. You've been warned.

So on the first day home for summer vacation, they look at me with big blue eyes and say, "What now, Mom?"

I have a few crafts. And movies. And a few adventures planned.

If the weather is nice this weekend, I hope to take my children camping. For those of you who know my dis-inclination towards this event, rest assured that I am referring to backyard camping, where the toilet is only 15 yards away and not covered with mosquitoes. Also, when I say "I" will take them camping, I am referring to my husband. I will be in bed, resting well. This is only fair that he take them camping because I have the immense pleasure of giving them "the talk" one day.

He takes them camping.
I tell them how babies are made.
We're both happy.

Also, I have finally succumbed to the notion that I might be living in Chicagoland all my life. And since my children were born here, I might want to teach them a few things about Navy Pier and Chicago Jazz and maybe the mafia. Some day trips to the city are planned.

Eve is at a brilliant age for exerting energy. We plan on running her like a Kentucky Derby race horse: full throttle. Think canoeing, biking and swimming.

Most of the activities I have planned for them are immensely simple or cheap. The reason for this stems back to the summer of 2008. I spent $75 on a Ralph's World concert (for kids) and another $12 for beer for Dan. I was pregnant and hot, but I enjoyed it. Halfway through the concert both my companions were begging me to take them home. The next day I took Morgan to the park (for free) and she said it was the best day of her life. I have never forgotten that moment.

Most kids want to go to Disney World.
My muffins will be happy finding worms in the garden.

I do have some sanity strategies for my summer:
There will be a mandatory quiet time every blessed day.
And there will be chores as well.

Overall, I plan on keeping their little buns so busy that by the time school starts up, they'll be begging me to let them go. And when that day comes, I'll wipe the tears from my eyes, tell them to have a nice day at school and take a 4 hour nap.

Summer? Bring it.

Eve's First Movie Theater Experience

When my children are old enough to go to the BIG theater to see a movie, it's difficult to put into words what a huge rite of passage this is for them. Essentially I am telling the world that I am ready to truly bring them into the public light. That maybe they won't bounce from seat to seat for 2 hours straight. And maybe they won't point out the girth of a pregnant woman who... oopsie daisy... wasn't pregnant after all.

When Dan and I recognize that our child MIGHT be able to sit through an entire movie, there's no question: We always start them off at the discount theater. The reasons for this are numerous, but it mostly comes down to: "IF our child started howling like a hyena in the middle of a film and we had to leave, how much dough would we lose?" Followed closely by, "IF our child spilled an entire soda or scattered 6 ounces of Skittles merrily down the slanted floor of the theater, WHICH venue has the creepiest, stickiest floor?"

For Eve's first theater experience, we took her to see "The Croods."

We went to the movie theater to see a movie, but most of my entertainment was found in the wide eyes of my 4 year old.

We walked into the theater and gave our tickets to the gentleman taking them. "This is her first movie in the theater," I explained. Eve blushed a grin and hurriedly grabbed her ticket stub. We arrived at the theater a full 30 minutes early because, well, it's the "cheap" theater so you never know how full it will get and it was a rainy-ish day. Plus, Dan is religious about getting good seats.

A word about Dan: Dan was probably expecting a more serene movie experience.
He was probably expecting to sit in the aisle seat.
And to have Eve sit quietly next to him.
And to not have Eve get up and need to leave the theater three times before the movie started.

I, on the other hand, was expecting complete chaos.
So when Eve dropped her entire bucket of popcorn on the floor immediately upon sitting at our seats, I wasn't surprised.
And when she began to dance on the fallen popcorn pieces, I was just glad that I didn't have to clean it up.
And when she was frightened by the scary parts of the movie and began kicking the seat in front of her repeatedly, I understood.

When we found our seats, Eve promptly asked for popcorn.
Did we NEED popcorn? No. Three bags of candy were plenty.
But wait... we NEEDED popcorn because, well, we were teaching her about culture. We HAD to teach her the proper junk food to eat while watching animation on the big screen and to teach her the right ratio of sugary candy to salty popcorn. It was a necessary evil.

All those days of saying "No dessert before dinner" and "Let's find a healthy snack" were meant to build up their immune system so that on THESE occasions we could throw the rule book out the window and say, "How about POPCORN with GUMMY WORMS and M&MS?" and watch their eyes twitch as they contemplated if the question was a trick.

As parents it's immensely important to make rules so that when you teach your children to break them they'll have fun.

If you're an offended health nut, take heart: Eve's continuous bouncing on the retractable theater seats burned 473 calories. I counted.

By the way, I know it's considered wrong, but we smuggle candy into theaters. It goes against every fiber of my being to pay $5.00 for twenty Junior Mints. I just won't do it. I refuse. I'll buy the overpriced popcorn, but not the candy. And until they institute a theater "pat down" for rule breaking ticket holders, I intend to continue this tradition and teach it to my children.

For friends of mine who would prefer to have a review of the movie "The Croods," here's what I can tell you: If you like Pixar movies, you'll dig this. If you prefer the more demure and old fashioned "Snow White" flicks, then you should pass on this or go back in time and live in the 1950s.

This whole experience wasn't really about the movie anyway. It was about Eve, growing up, having fun and being a big girl.

I was not disappointed.

Language Lessons

A little fictional writing exercise I did to convey the way I feel about autism and learning about Eve.

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I am on an island. It's a beautiful island. It has two residents. Me and Eve.

On this island, I need to communicate to her that I have some food for her. But whenever I speak, she doesn't understand my words and she bawks. She screams. She runs.

When I see a storm coming, I warn her of the darkness and rain. She bawks more. She squawks like a parrot.

In fact, everything I do causes her to scream "no" and bawk and cry.

One day a lone boat comes and a single person is on the boat. The person on the boat tells me that they have the answer to communicating better with Eve. They tell me that all I have to do is talk backwards.

"You mean," I clarify, "If I want her to eat food I call it 'doof' instead."

The person smiles. "Actually, if you want her to 'eat food,' you'll tell her to 'doof tea.' All your sentences and words need to be completely backwards."

For days I sit in frustration and continue my own way of communication with her, but it's not working. I call for help, but there are only insurance monkeys and labrador pediatricians on the island. No one speaks in words I understand.

When I see my daughter crying for an hour because she wants to wear plaid shorts and not pink ones, I finally tell myself that the stranger from the boat might be right.

I sit on the beach. With my finger in the sand, I begin writing sentences and then translating them backwards.

Love you.
Uoy evol.

Please come.
Emoc esaelp.

I try the phrases out on my daughter. My daughter is calmer. She's responding well. She comes when I call her. Sometimes she skips and does a little dance before she comes, but she comes without bawking, without crying.

The language before me is not one I know, but I will learn it because I love her and I want to connect with her. And because one day, we may be able to get off this island.

Epoh i.

Mount Everest

 Author's Note: I wrote this blog post last fall, but didn't have the ability to post it until now. While we are gratefully employed, I thought maybe someone else might benefit from reading it. If nothing else, it was cathartic to write.

Also, my husband gave me permission to write this. Especially the part about the dishwasher. :)
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Every week some well meaning friends ask, rather timidly, "How is 'it' going?"

What they mean is, "How are you faring with unemployment?" Their eyes reveal that they want to care but they don't want to pry. They want to "be there" for us but they don't want to burden us by having us retell our story again and again.

I've never climbed Mt. Everest, but I imagine that climbing that majestic mountain is a lot like unemployment. You can't really see the destination, but you're constantly going in a direction which you believe will lead you there. Along the way, people ask, "How are you  getting there?" and you say, "Well, I walk that way..." and you point up. There's a general adrenaline rush at the beginning and a sweet pep talk and then, I imagine, there's a lot of ho-hum step, step, stepping. Nobody asks, "Are we there yet" because, sweet mercy, wouldn't you know when you reached the summit? Some inquire, "Do you have a guide?" and you point to your Sherpa. Unemployment is a lot like that. Except without the Sherpa.

When I was a post-college grad, I heard a speaker tell a story about "letting go." He had been on a whitewater rafting trip and had gotten caught in the current under a log. He kept trying to climb over the log, but the water was too strong from him. When his strength was spent, he let go and the water's current sucked him out from under the log into the main current. He just had to let go.

I wobble between letting go and holding on.

I don't look at our bank account because 1) Savings are there for these type of emergencies and 2) I will not feel better by looking.

I have a new perspective on people who are poor but who spend money they don't have. I'm starting to understand that angle.

I have found that I am prouder that I thought I was.

I have determined that I am so tired of this economy and seeing my sweet, strong, talented husband being disrespected by this faceless entity, that I will sell everything and move in with my mother in North Carolina if it doesn't improve. I have not told my mother about this, so maybe you shouldn't either. But I have told Dan and his eyes droop playfully as he says, "Please don't make me move to the south."

I find that I wane in patience more than usual. My boiling point is reached faster. I'm much more protective and proud of my children than I have ever been. And my husband is simultaneously a saint and the most irritable man I have ever met. He keeps loading my dishwasher (saint) but he loads it the wrong way (grrr)... And this revelation makes me feel incredibly small, like a woman who is complaining that her ruby slippers aren't red enough.

I vacillate between being extremely efficient and then spending some days playing with Eve, napping, playing with Eve, napping. If we're honest, we know that the days spent being efficient feel more successful and less like we're trapped.

God is not allowing for depression to set into my life. I launched my small business last month. And by small business, I mean: It's so small that I only sell one thing. One. Thing. It's a calendar and it seems to be faring well in the marketplace. That marketplace is largely my sphere of friends, but I swear that they bought the calendars of their own freewill. In any case, it helps my mind stay nimble.

And two sweet pixies who call me "Mom" keep making my day brighter and busier.

I have amazing friends and some of them happen to be blood relatives which makes life feel more stable.

It's not all wine and roses, but none of life is, so I'll strap on my hiking boots; I'm climbing Everest.