Sometimes Other People's Junk Is Also Your Junk

Several years ago I discovered Freecycle. For someone like me, Freecycle is dangerous because most often I collect more things rather than give things away. You never know when you might need that such and such that you just gave away. The things that I did manage to give away? I don't miss them. Not one thing. In fact, I can't remember what I've given away. So obviously I didn't need those things.

The OFFERS posted on Freecycle were seductive. FREE THINGS! I could use that! I didn't know I needed that but I do now! I received some things I really could use. A metal swing set for my kids. Peony bulbs. Clothing.

Most of the people I received things from just left the items in a bag outside their door. I preferred this method of retrieval partly because it is sort of embarrassing to me to take other people's cast-offs and partly because of my own social anxieties. It is also the method I used when people wanted my cast-offs. Whether I was home or not, I left the items in a bag on my deck. No face-to-face contact. I liked it much better that way.

That said, the woman who allowed me to dig up some of her peonies was very gracious. And the woman who had lost so much weight her clothes no longer fit her was sweet.

The one encounter that I will probably always remember was brought about by my husband's and my desire to try to lose weight (back when I didn't even have as much to lose...sigh). I posted a WANTED ad for a treadmill. I figured there would be people who bought them and never used them and just wanted the space back in their houses.

I was completely unprepared to meet the man who offered his used treadmill. Craig and I went to pick it up together, along with Baby M. I can't remember if K was born yet by then or not. We got directions to the man's house and found it with no trouble.

His house was unique, which matched him perfectly. He was a lingering hippie, I was pretty sure of that. He'd built his house himself. It was shaped like a hexagon or something weird like that. I always wonder where you put your sofa in a place like that. Anywho, his garage was packed with things and this is where he was puttering around when we arrived to pick up the treadmill.

The treadmill. I use that term loosely because it was a NordicTrack but quite possibly the first model ever invented. It was made from wood and had no power to the tread. You literally had to push the belt with your feet. As soon as I saw it I knew we would never use the thing but it seemed rude to not take it after going all that way to get it. So we loaded it in our minivan.

The man. He chatted continuously while we were there, telling us about constructing his house, demonstrating how to fold the treadmill...farting. I can only think the man must have had a meal of broccoli before we arrived because he tooted his way through the conversation but never once flinched or acknowledged his gas.

Oh yeah, this was a (toot) top of the line model (toot) when I got it. (laugh) (toot toot toot)

You want help (toot) getting that in (toot) there? (tooooooot)

I am not a classy woman. It is terribly hard for me to maintain a straight face when someone so blatantly needs to stick a cork in it.

But I did it. I think.

But you can bet your butt I laughed the whole way home.

An Ordinary Day For Most

It is snowing. (Maybe it was or maybe it wasn't, it doesn't really matter.) It is the tiny, dry pinging kind of snow that bites at your face if you brave the outdoors. It's the kind that doesn't take much strength to remove, but still makes you groan at the idea.

She's stayed inside as much as she can. There are chores that must be done regardless of the weather or her own mood. She rarely allows herself the luxury of a good cry. The few times it has happened have been in the late-night hours after her boy is tucked in bed and deep in slumber. She values strength. Strength of emotion, strength of character, strength of body.

There is a fire flickering softly. The boy toddles toward it occasionally, curious at the dance of orange and red. She calls after him, distracting him from harm. The fire is meant as much to take the chill from her heart as it is to warm the room.

The boy is determined to explore every inch of the room, touching things and stopping just for a moment to see if his mother is watching him. She notices only intermittently. He smiles when she admonishes him for touching the same forbidden object he's touched four times before she noticed. She sighs with exhaustion, not realizing he is testing her and looking for her attention.

She is distracted. She loves her boy beyond imagination and can only see his father when she looks at him. She wonders when her husband will be home again to help her teach this precocious boy. She is strong but not invincible. What does she know of little boys beyond her brothers? She finds some comfort knowing that she at least has brothers. Boys are still a bit mysterious. Motherhood is different than she pictured.

She keeps the tiny, shrunken letters in a pocket in her skirt. She doesn't know what else to do with them. They are optimistic, confident, breezy. They paint a picture very different from her world. She feels none of these. Her boy points to the one photo she keeps out. "Dada?" She merely nods at the daily inquiry. She knows she should probably do more but she can't.

The fire needs more wood. She has some dry in the house, but it will run out. She leaves the boy with a quick preemptive reprimand, bundles herself and goes to the shed to gather more firewood. She's thankful for the family who have stockpiled firewood on her behalf. She's strong, but she'd rather not split wood. On her way back from the shed she notices the lights of a car in the distance. It's not dark, but the snow has reduced visibility enough that the few out driving (and she wonders who is out driving in this?) turn on their headlights in the futile attempt to see more than a few feet ahead.

Head down, arms laden with wood, she trudges toward the house knowing her boy is probably getting into mischief, also knowing she can't waste time bundling him too and bringing him with her. Once inside, she finds him sitting on the bench just inside the door. "Hi Mama!" he smiles brightly.

He follows her progress to the fireplace and the stack of wood nearby. "Help you?" he asks in typical toddler fashion. She absently hands him a small log from the top of her stack. She's become a veteran at handling a stack and balancing just right. He beams with pride as he places it on the pile.

The knock on the door barely registers between the clatter of stacking the dry wood.

"Whas that?" the boy's eyes are huge.

Relieved of her wooden burden, she approaches the door. She's not expecting company. There is a twinge. She's not sure what the twinge means.

Opening the door, she's confused at the sight of the young man before her.

"I'm sorry Ma'am..." is all that she remembers hearing.

Gone. Gone. Gone. DEAD.

When she closes the door she collapses in tears, her boy frantically wiping them away.

**************
This is a romanticized, fictionalized version of my grandmother's day of learning that my grandfather (my dad's father) was killed in WWII. I dedicate this to my dad and to all the other veterans out there...and those we have lost.

Blogging on Blogging

This space came about as a whim, a lark. I was cavalier about it. I would write about my life, things that were on my mind, the funny things my kids said, the things about parenting that make my blood boil. I wanted to tell my story. My story includes my children. They are an inextricable part of my life, especially since I am a stay-at-home-mom. Some would say that I don't have the right to tell my children's stories. Their stories are their own and not mine to tell. And those people may be right.

The line is blurred between my story and theirs.

When it comes to my husband the line is more clearly marked. Even our story together is often off limits for me to write about here. Our story is not mine alone. So I do not write Craig's story here. It is only his to tell.

This blog is my story. It's a story that sometimes features cameo appearances from my parents or my brother or my brother's kids. But their appearances are superficial. You will never know them because of what I've written here. They have their own stories. I know only a small part of their stories anyway.

I realized in the last few years that writing about my in-laws is also generally not helpful and is probably hurtful to my husband so I have limited my writing about them as well. As far as I know, they do not know about this blog but I cannot be sure. I do not want to hurt my husband's family for the sake of comedy or whatever I thought my goal was there. I try. I do not always succeed in curbing my urges. This too is a part of my story.

Even as this blog is my story and I write fairly openly about things in my life and my experiences make no mistake. I do not share it all. There is much more to my life than will ever be shared here.

I chose to share my blog address with some of my family members. For the most part this has been a good thing. My family enjoys reading about my kids and laughs about the misadventures of Heather and Amma. My parents like to see the photos I take of my kids.

Sometimes though, having family read this blog is not a good thing. Feelings get hurt unintentionally. Some may wonder why they are not a part of this story. So I question the wisdom of writing so publicly. It suggests to others that they know me better than perhaps they really do.

This is only a small part of me. And I wonder if even that small part is too much to share.

Children in Church

I wrote this for, and it was originally published in August, on my friend Gunfighter's blog. It created a bit of conversation there, so I thought I'd post it here and see what kind of dialogue it would create here.

We are sort of a cold-weather church-going family. When the mercury rises (as it is supposed to do in the summertime but has not really happened these last few years here in Minnesota) we make ourselves scarce from the church. It’s not that we think church is less important in the summertime, but as with most things, a little break from routine is helpful to rejuvenate the desire.

Come September we are back in the routine of our church life. Wednesday afternoon choir practice for the two big kids, Sunday school on Sunday, attending church services mainly when the two big kids sing with choir during the service.

We don’t attend the service every week. We’re Presbyterian, and Presbyterians are sort of laid-back in general so we’re on the very laid back end of the spectrum. I don’t think I need to attend church every single week in order for God to love me or for Him to hear me.

Ironically, it’s our kids that want to go to church every week. They enjoy seeing their friends and learning about the Bible. They are a vital part of our church community. The congregation knows them because they are active and visible in the church. I was too, up until last year when the baby was born. I just couldn’t continue as a Sunday School teacher when I had a nursing infant with me. I actually have really enjoyed the break. (see above, about breaks being helpful to rejuvenate) I don’t know when, or if, I’ll return to teaching, but I did enjoy feeling a part of the community.

I also enjoyed the surprised looks I would get from people when I mentioned I was a Sunday School teacher. I don’t wear my religion on my sleeve and I rarely talk about it, even with my own family. I believe what I believe and you can believe what you believe. I don’t need to debate about this aspect of my life. In fact, I’d rather not talk about it (and so naturally I’m writing a blog post about it!).

Our church is dying. It is old, and beautiful and old. We have had encounters with less-than-Christian fellow members, that made us feel less-than-Christian toward them. Honestly I still see these people and feel stabs of hate. I am fairly certain that our encounter with these people led to a new pamphlet at our church that informs the older members that children are welcome in worship and that the parents should be encouraged rather than maligned for bringing their children to worship. I worry for these people who are so filled with negativity that they would attack a young family with words of hate.

Churches, in order to survive, need to adapt to the modern lives of families. If young people and young families are not welcomed, even courted, then the church will die.

I know my husband and I are not the only parents to feel unwelcome in worship because we have a noisy baby or preschooler. There is no “cry room” in our church. There is a nursery, but I am unwilling to leave my children in settings like this when they can’t communicate any issues with me. Our associate pastor’s wife had even had older members reprimand her for her noisy children (did these people know who they were talking to?).

I believe the sounds of a baby playing happily during a church service add to the joy of being together, alive. If my baby was crying uncontrollably I would definitely leave the service until she quieted, but a few fussing sounds should not be a big deal, in my opinion.

What do you think?

Is your church of the antiquated idea that children should be seen and not heard? Should children be welcome in worship?