Welcome to the Funny Farm Page 8

  Besides, Kacie’s probably already going to need therapy, what with having to kill Tito off like that.

  In any case, the other day Kacie and I were wrapping up a day spent in the garden. Kacie had just spent the afternoon with many of her favorite critters. She had collected rollie pollies, chased crickets, prodded worms, studied ants, and befriended several moths.

  It had been a well-populated afternoon, although if I remember right, Tito was nowhere to be seen (which, come to think of it, is probably to be expected for an invisible dog).

  On our way inside for dinner, Kacie needled me with several dozen questions about worms and crickets and pill bugs and ants. I found myself explaining how all these critters and many others form a sort of community. I told her that the worms aerate the soil, and the bees pollinate the flowers, and the crickets . . . well, I don’t really know what crickets do, but I’m sure I made something up and managed to sound fairly credible in the process.

  I told her that each critter was important, and that our garden just wouldn’t be the same without them all.

  And I’ve been thinking about that conversation ever since.

  I’m part of a community, too. I won’t say if I’m more like the hardworking ant or the social butterfly (nectar, anyone?), but my point is that I am part of a community of critters, and every one of us has a unique role to fill. There are the quiet laborers, the encouragers, the movers and the shakers, the problem solvers and the huggers. In my community (as in yours, no doubt) there are even a few well-meaning pests.

  What a privilege it is to have these folks in my life.

  You know, the Bible encourages us not to forsake fellowship with other believers. I think it’s because we really do need each other. Not a one of us can thrive isolated and on our own.

  Not even Tito.

  He might be a little shy around Herschel and Condall, but I hear he’s sticking close to Kacie and Marie these days.

  They knew right where to find those magic stones, after all.

  26

  Motherhood’s Unsolved Mysteries

  BEFORE I WAS A PARENT, I HAD NO CHILDREN, but I had lots of theories about parenting.

  Now I have two children and no theories.

  Actually, the person in my home who believes she knows the most about parenting is my fourteen-year-old daughter. Of course, she thinks she knows the most about everything under the sun. She will, no doubt, get smarter and smarter until the day she gives birth to her first child. At that point, it is virtually guaranteed that she will experience a massive knowledge deficit.

  Some experts believe that this “brain drain” is, in some mysterious fashion, related to the detachment of the placenta during childbirth. Others believe it is actually triggered in the months and years following childbirth, probably as a result of a prolonged exposure to seven-foot birds and purple herbivores.

  Whatever the reason, the bottom line is this:

  Even though you and I grew up believing that Father (and Mother) really did know best, once we became parents ourselves we suddenly discovered the Big Secret: Moms and dads don’t have a clue. We just make that stuff up about being omniscient to keep knowledgeable kids in check until they, too, become parents and experience a two-thirds drop in their IQ. Then they can be in charge.

  The truth is, I’ve been a parent long enough to know that every morning brings with it some new challenge for which I am nominally prepared. Why can’t kids come with instructions? Both of my babies came home from the hospital with one of those nasal suction devices they tried to adopt as pacifiers. Why don’t doctors send babies home with something their parents can really use . . . like a how-to manual?

  I am constantly amazed by the number of times my kids have left me scratching my head in confusion or wonder (and I’m not even referring to the time they put dish detergent in the shampoo bottle. That’s another head-scratching story altogether).

  Do I know best? Sometimes I think I don’t know squat.

  A few of the many topics about which I don’t have a clue include the following:

  How serious is it when a two-year-old has a toe fetish? When Kacie was two, several times a day she demanded to have her shoes and socks removed so she could examine her feet. Is she destined to spend her adult life wearing sandals for easy access? When she’s in seventh grade and has to write an essay on “Someone I Admire,” will she choose Imelda Marcos? And is podiatry a good career choice for someone with a foot fetish, or does that border on the unethical?

  And that’s not the only mystery.

  What in the world does it mean when you are setting the table for company and find a hard glob of chewed gum under the rim of your best china? Whose gum is it? Your teenage son’s? When did he last eat on the good china anyway? And if it wasn’t him, could one of your previous guests have done it? Shouldn’t the dishwasher have melted the gum and whisked it away when the plate was washed? And if chewed gum is indeed impervious to scalding soapy water, then how long has it been there? Was it there when you served Christmas dinner to your in-laws or when you entertained your husband’s boss last month?

  Where do all the missing socks go?

  Why is meat loaf served at a friend’s house more enticing to your kids than pizza served at home?

  What do teenage girls do in the bathroom for three hours?

  And what exactly does it mean when your ten-year-old loses a tooth at school, brings it home in a tiny plastic box, and then leaves it sitting for two months in a corner of your kitchen counter? When Kaitlyn was ten, my countertop was adorned with an abandoned baby molar for two months. I had to ask myself, did Kaitlyn forget it was there? Had she lost sleep at night wondering where she left her tooth and longing for her dollar from the tooth fairy? If so, why hadn’t she mentioned it to me? What if she didn’t think her tooth was lost? What if she knew exactly where it was? What if a visit from the tooth fairy was the last thing on her mind? What if . . . what if my baby’s growing up?

  From potty training dilemmas to disciplinary decisions to debates about dating, driving, and the decorative piercing of body parts, motherhood offers a smorgasbord of challenging questions that promise to stump even the wisest of moms and dads.

  Maybe Robert Young had all the answers when he was raising Princess, Kitten, and Bud.

  But for the rest of us, parenting is a leap of faith . . . an unending series of mysteries . . . an adventure that takes us daily to our wits’ end and beyond.

  Do fathers know best? Do mothers?

  No way.

  But there is one Father who does.

  It’s an amazing thing, but when we enter into a relationship with God’s own Son, Jesus, we find ourselves adopted into the family of God. What we used to think of as some nebulous cosmic power suddenly becomes real to us in a way we never could have imagined. The Force becomes family. That higher power turns out to be a heavenly Father. We discover that the distant deity is more along the lines of . . . well, actually, a dad.

  I may be a mom, but I don’t come close to having all the answers I need in my life. I need a heavenly Father to help me make sense of it all . . . to help me meet the challenge of raising my family . . . to help me achieve my potential as a parent, spouse, and human being.

  You need that kind of a Dad, too.

  He’s got all the answers, after all. And whatever answers he doesn’t give us here on earth, I’m sure he’ll be willing to provide once we get to heaven.

  Just remind me, when we get there, in case it’s a long time from now and I forget to ask.

  I’d still love to know about that gum under my china.

  27

  It’s the Heart That Counts

  I’VE BEEN OUT OF TOWN.

  I spent Mother’s Day weekend speaking at the Terre Haute First Assembly of God, enjoying myself and falling in love with the wonderful folks at that church. I returned home Monday morning, pulling into my driveway at 2:00 A.M.

  Four hours later, I was awakened by Kacie calling m
y name from her bedroom. Thinking she was having a bad dream, I hurried to her side.

  She was still half asleep—in fact, her eyes were still closed—as she heard my voice and blurted, “Have you been to the kitchen table yet?”

  I said no.

  She tumbled out of bed with excitement. “Your presents are there! Let’s go!”

  “Kacie, it’s six in the morning! Can’t we sleep a while longer?”

  She flashed me a look of sheer horror. “No! Your Mother’s Day presents are there! We have to go right now!”

  And so we did.

  That’s how I ended up, at 6:15 Monday morning, ooohing and aaahhhing over refrigerator magnets, a potted ink pen with a flower glued to the top, a handmade card, a new curling iron, and an iridescent purple blow-dryer. Larry’s gift to me was a Mr. Coffee Iced Tea Maker.

  I loved every gift.

  I told Kaitlyn the curling iron was a brilliant idea, since my travels have made sharing the same curling iron a challenge (I never mentioned the fact that I bought my own curling iron in Terre Haute this weekend).

  I told Larry the iced tea maker was great (I didn’t mention that this is the THIRD iced tea pot he’s bought for me, and that the other two are on a shelf in the laundry room because, in order to make tea, these machines require a pitcher full of ice, and I don’t have an icemaker).

  It was my turn, then, to give a few gifts. While on my trip, I picked up some sand-art kits for the girls and some candy.

  Kacie was particularly excited about the candy. She gripped it tightly in her hand and beamed. “I had this kind of candy once before!” she said happily. “But it was too much sugar and it made me throw up!” She paused then, her smile frozen on her face and one eyebrow raised, as the implication of her statement sank in: Maybe candy that resulted in getting intimate with a commode wasn’t such a great gift after all!

  Thinking back on the morning, I had to laugh. So many good intentions! But even the best intentions didn’t keep us from missing the target by a few inches on several of the gifts.

  Did that diminish the experience for me?

  Nah, somehow it just made the morning more precious.

  And I realized that the real gift—the one that really glimmered against the backdrop of beautifully wrapped curling irons and tea makers, refrigerator magnets and blow-dryers—was the enthusiasm of the givers.

  The real gift was the fact that Kacie’s first thought after our separation was not about what I could do for her, but about what she could give to me.

  The real gift was hearing from Kaitlyn that the iridescent purple blow-dryer cost more than the noniridescent purple dryer, but that she had been glad to pay the difference because she wanted me to have the very best one.

  The real gift was the sacrificial efforts of a dad who has severe allergic reactions to malls and who has been known to wrap presents in trash bags.

  God must understand this principle better than anyone.

  That’s why he cherished quarters from widows more than big bucks from hypocrites.

  Have you ever thought about giving something to God—a song solo during worship service, an hour a week teaching Sunday school, participation in a local outreach or ministry—and then didn’t do it because you were afraid your efforts would be less than perfect? Because you figured someone else could do the job better? Because you were terrified of making a mistake?

  Yeah, me too.

  What a shame.

  Because the truth is that our heavenly Father cherishes the quality of our passion over the quality of our performance. He values sincerity over perfection. And he loves the givers more than he loves the gifts.

  I need to remind myself of this often. Maybe even daily. In fact, maybe I should write myself a note and tape it to my bathroom mirror. It could remind me that my Father loves my heartfelt gifts to him—not because my gifts are perfect, but because he loves me with a perfect love.

  I could ponder this each morning as I brush my teeth and wash my face.

  Not to mention as I curl my hair, a shiny new curling iron in each hand.

  28

  We’re Definitely Getting Older . . . But Are We Getting Wiser?

  RECENTLY A YOUNG MAN NAMED BAYLEN SHOWED ME his two front teeth. Or, rather, DIDN’T show me his two front teeth.

  Baylen just turned seven. There’s a gap in his smile that means he’s growing up. It also makes a neat place to stick a straw and drink Dr Pepper while his jaws are clamped shut. It also makes a neat window through which he can squeeze the tip of his tongue and gross out anyone who may be watching.

  Missing teeth are a welcome milestone of maturity.

  Well, they’re a welcome milestone of maturity when you’re seven. If you’re my age and older, they can mean gum disease and an artificial bridge. But when you’re seven, they’re way cool.

  Teenagers, on the other hand, have other rites of passage. Two days ago the teenaged daughter of one of my best friends got her tongue pierced. Among her age group, this is considered a brilliant thing to do.

  She called me the next morning, a note of desperation in her voice: “I need your advice. How should I tell my mom?”

  I don’t know why she called me. Maybe the fact that I’m the only grown-up she knows with a belly button ring had something to do with it. (Don’t ask, it’s a long story. Let me just say that I’m having my midlife crisis and it was far cheaper than a Ferrari.)

  So I tried to be helpful. Basically, I suggested she take this approach: “Mom, I did something you’re probably not going to like, but before I tell you what it is, I want you to know that keeping your trust and having a good relationship with you is really important to me, and that if you want me to undo what I’ve done, I will. All I ask is that, before you decide, you give me a chance to explain why I’d like to keep it.”

  I reminded Rachel that these couldn’t be empty words. I reminded her that her relationship with her folks SHOULD be far more valuable to her than a three-quarter-inch piece of metal in her tongue.

  Rachel had the talk with her mom. Amazingly, she still has her piercing. Of course, she’s temporarily living on chicken broth and ice cream and talking like Scooby Doo, but she still has the stud in her tongue.

  She sees it, as do her friends, as a sign of independence. But maybe the real sign of maturity is the fact that she was, indeed, willing to remove it so as not to offend her folks. She’s testing boundaries, but when push came to shove, she was willing to put relationships above personal expression.

  Either that or she really pulled one over on her mom and me.

  Other signs of maturity? How about the fact that when you’re my age and you have a birthday, you truly cannot have your cake and eat it too. This is because, in the time it takes everyone to finish singing “Happy Birthday,” the cake has sustained far too much smoke and fire damage to be edible.

  Other signs? I could also mention that my body’s going south—like the fact that my hair is leaving my scalp and showing up on my chin—but there’s enough material on THAT subject to fill an entire book, so I think I’ll save it for later.

  Spiritual growth is another matter. Those milestones don’t come automatically with the passing of the years. It’s possible to be a Christian of forty years and still have your baby teeth, so to speak. Possible to be a believer of many decades and not have learned really basic stuff, like the fact that relationships are to be cherished. Possible to have gone to church for a lot of years, but still have the naivete of a baby Christian, without any of the wisdom that tends to accompany spiritual laugh lines, hot flashes, and age spots.

  Growing older is guaranteed.

  Growing spiritually is a choice.

  Are we growing spiritually?

  What milestones should we look for?

  Let’s think back to when we were new believers. Think about how often we prayed, the kinds of sermons and teaching we digested, how hungry we were to read God’s Word, the temptations we were struggling against. Then thin
k about our lives today. If we can’t see a lot of progress, we may be caught in a time warp: We may be forty-year-old Christians in diapers.

  Of course, spiritual growth, just like physical growth, has one prerequisite: Before you can grow, you have to be born.

  If you’re not growing spiritually, is it because you’ve yet to be birthed into the family of God? If so, this is a great time for a birthday. A spiritual birthday. Talk to a pastor or a friend who attends church and tell them you’re ready for a new life with Jesus. Or e-mail me and let’s talk. Either way, time’s short. We’re not getting any younger, you and I. No use being spiritual embryos when Jesus desires to give us a full and abundant life!

  So let’s grow.

  Good-bye baby teeth, hello molars.

  The stud in the tongue is optional.

  29

  C’mon In, the Water’s Fine

  WE’RE APPROACHING BATHING SUIT SEASON.

  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so shockingly blunt. I should have broken the bad news gently.

  But it’s not like we’re not thinking about it already.

  I’ve already passed racks of bathing suits in the stores and moaned.

  I’ve already gotten bathing suit catalogs in the mail and rolled my eyes.

  But it’s unavoidable. Here it’s June and school’s out and my kids are already begging to go to the city pool. What’s worse, I’m going to have to go shopping for a new suit because the last one I bought was during the Nixon administration and it’s beginning to show some wear. (The suit, not the Nixon administration.)

  The good news is that there are swimsuits these days designed to hide problem areas. There are skirts to hide tummies. Vertical stripes to slenderize. Bras with water-filled cups to maximize certain assets, and spandex bottom-control panels to minimize others.

  I keep waiting for a suit with long sleeves.

  Or maybe some flesh-colored elastic leggings to smooth out the fat deposits above my knees.