A few weeks ago, I was scrolling through my email, and saw one from our Village leaders. They send the most random stuff, I'm always curious when I see their names in my inbox. This email was an assignment for each family to complete a box:
Boxes - If you weren't at the last family village, each family
decorated a box. It is an example of something plain made into
something beautiful, just like when the Holy Spirit comes to live in our
hearts and transform us into something beautiful. Also, it was a
chance for each family to spend some time together, working on
something, together. We asked that each family fill their box with
something to tell the Village more about who they are as a family.
Different families will be sharing their boxes at each village. If you
were unable to join us this past village, use a box that you already
have and decorate it at home.
Filling the box :) Take the
opportunity, as you fill your box, to think about how you would sum up
your family. Maybe ask questions like - what's important to our
family? what's our mission, as a family? what are the priorities of
our family? How could it be summed up in a phrase or a few sentences?
When you have come up with something then talk it over with your kids
or present it to them. What can you put in the box to tell the village
about your family motto/vision? Also, get your kids involved in filling
it with some fun stuff - a favorite game, toy, food or movie. Whatever
they come up with - kids are going to probably be way better at it than
we are! Take this box and use it as a way to spend time with your
family :). Our awesome teachers are sharing their box next village. We
will ask for volunteers for the village after so be thinking!
I stared at the screen, dumbfounded. A family theme? Putting stuff in a box to explain who we are? What?! I felt, not for the first time, that the Codispotis are waaay more organized and intentional than we are. How on earth were we going to come up with something? Because when they ask for volunteers, it doesn't help to look at the carpet.
But just a few hours later, it hit me. Or hit my child, actually. Because we actually do have a family theme, although I never thought of it that way before. What is your strength for? When we were expecting our first baby, and reading lots of books and getting plenty of advice (wanted or not), Chris came across this phrase as something you could say to instruct your child. We told our friends, who had a 3 year old son at the time. The father turned to the boy, and sternly said, "That's not what your strength is for!" then promptly burst out laughing and admitted he just couldn't say that. But Chris and I thought it was perfect. And when we gave birth to a little boy, we found plenty of times to use it. Throwing the fire poker at a window...That's not what your strength is for. Kicking or hitting in anger and frustration...That's not what your strength is for. Taking a toy from a smaller child...That's not what your strength is for. We continued to have boys, and continued to have opportunities to impart this lesson. Carrying groceries in from the car...That's what your strength is for. Opening the door for Mommy, whose hands are full of baby...That's what your strength is for. Pushing your brother around the yard in his little car...That's what your strength is for.
Because our boys are constantly getting messages from all around about what it means to be a man, and how the world defines strength. And I will cheer them on if they excel at sports or grow terrific muscles, if they decide to spend their lives rescuing people from fires or making sure that their community has justice. But we will have failed them as parents if they use their strength to take from those who are weaker, if they don't honor their commitments to their families and neighbors, if they walk away from someone who needs their strength to cover her own weakness.
We included in our box some representations of the kind of strength we want our sons to emulate: Batman and Superman figures, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Harry Potter, and Where the Wild Things Are. And two books that we love to read together in the evenings, The Tiny Bears' Bible and the Mighty Warriors Devotional book. Because all of the superheroes and legends ultimately lead to the true source of strength: Our God in Heaven, who used His strength to sacrifice His Son for the good of all.
And when we searched the Bible for verses containing the word "strength", we found an exhaustive list. Some we already knew, like, "I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me." But some were intriguing, especially, "My life has been an example to many, because You were my strength." Each day, I try to find an opportunity to praise my sons for their strength, their courage, or their gentle kindness. I'm proud of the man I chose to be their father, who sets the example for strength through sacrifice. But most importantly, I look at myself, and try to show them the kind of strength a woman possesses. After all, at the end of Proverbs 31, which describes the woman of noble character whose children and husband praise her, it says, "She is clothed in strength and dignity."
Now its my turn to give the challenge: what are you using your strength for?
Monday, October 29, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Halloween
In some ways, I didn't have a normal childhood. I think I lucked out with a loving family and parents who instilled strong values from an early age, and I remember being happy as a kid. But there were a few things we did without. One of them is the annual tradition of Trick-or-Treating. I'm not sure the exact emanation of this restriction, whether it was a result of living in a large metropolitan area which made unsupervised kids prowling the streets at night (yes, ours was always the night of the actual Halloween, not this safe afternoon of family togetherness practiced in the Ohio suburbs), or if it had to do with religious convictions (after all, we did manage to attend our church's "Fall Carnival" in costumes). Either way, my sister and I were safely at home during Trick-or-Treating, sometimes passing out candy to the groups of children whose parents permitted them outside in the dark. One year, my sister decided we needed to at least have a photo of us going door to door begging for free candy, so one afternoon we put on costumes and walked down the street to a house that had just been constructed but was still vacant, and took turns posing for the camera like we were actually knocking on the door and treats were forthcoming. We moved to Ohio when I was 12, apparently not too old to keep participating in Halloween, and so I asked my mom to bring home scrubs and a lab coat from her hospital, put red paint on my hands, and walked around the block collecting candy. It didn't really seem fun, especially since that year it SNOWED on the afternoon in question, and I didn't know to put on extra layers under my costume to keep me warm. The next year, I joined my best friend, Melissa, and we went around her neighborhood. This time I dressed in the poodle skirt my mom had made for a choir performance the previous spring and a warm sweater, although the sun shone brightly and it was not so miserable to be outside. But then an old man yelled at me for walking on his grass, and I have been baffled ever since at someone chiding me for walking on grass. I mean, what is it for, except to play on and walk through? Otherwise cement your lot and paint it green. It's grass, not your collection of 45s dude.
So that was it. That was my lifelong experience of Halloween. When I had children of my own, it didn't seem like a necessary tradition to take part it; after all, the weather is sketchy most years, and why do we want to fill a basket with candy for our kids? It makes them hyper and cranky, and we spend 364 days a year trying to prevent them from eating it, then one day go out and let them load up on it. This makes no sense. But I think the ultimate reason for my embargo on Halloween is that I didn't do it as a kid. There is no special place in my heart for chilly walks in a thin Batman suit to talk to complete strangers, all for the purpose of collecting a hit or miss supply of free candy. But my husband does. As I posted previously, I value our differences. So every October, I put together costumes for my children (and luckily with boys, its pretty easy to find thick, fleecy ensembles that cover heads and hands), I charge the battery in the camera, and we stroll through the neighborhood trick-or-treating. I had to miss last year, due to my debilitating ankle sprain, and so I rested at home in a Vicodin haze while Chris carted around 3 little boys. This year, so far, I have stayed out of the hospital, and was therefore on hand to witness some Halloween fun. In the rain. With the temperature hovering right around 40 degrees. I watched my five year old confidently strut up driveways and collect candy and say "Thank you" as he was turning away, then pull his pant legs up so they wouldn't get wet around the bottom. Winston, my fearless boy, marched up to one lady and wished her a "Happy Ween". When she asked "How are you?", Winston spoke in a voice so loud I heard it in the street, "I'm 3!" And he proudly held his bucket in front of him and declared, "Oh, I get so much candy!" Our little Bubby, who is not yet walking and fell asleep after about 20 minutes outside, charmed everyone in his penguin suit. This is what I would have missed if I did everything my way. Even though I can't wrap my mind around the point of it, I forget to question when I have a Charms BlowPop in my mouth. Someday, my boys will decide for themselves what they want to do at the end of October. And I can go back to being the crank who turns off her lights and treats it like any other Sunday afternoon.
So that was it. That was my lifelong experience of Halloween. When I had children of my own, it didn't seem like a necessary tradition to take part it; after all, the weather is sketchy most years, and why do we want to fill a basket with candy for our kids? It makes them hyper and cranky, and we spend 364 days a year trying to prevent them from eating it, then one day go out and let them load up on it. This makes no sense. But I think the ultimate reason for my embargo on Halloween is that I didn't do it as a kid. There is no special place in my heart for chilly walks in a thin Batman suit to talk to complete strangers, all for the purpose of collecting a hit or miss supply of free candy. But my husband does. As I posted previously, I value our differences. So every October, I put together costumes for my children (and luckily with boys, its pretty easy to find thick, fleecy ensembles that cover heads and hands), I charge the battery in the camera, and we stroll through the neighborhood trick-or-treating. I had to miss last year, due to my debilitating ankle sprain, and so I rested at home in a Vicodin haze while Chris carted around 3 little boys. This year, so far, I have stayed out of the hospital, and was therefore on hand to witness some Halloween fun. In the rain. With the temperature hovering right around 40 degrees. I watched my five year old confidently strut up driveways and collect candy and say "Thank you" as he was turning away, then pull his pant legs up so they wouldn't get wet around the bottom. Winston, my fearless boy, marched up to one lady and wished her a "Happy Ween". When she asked "How are you?", Winston spoke in a voice so loud I heard it in the street, "I'm 3!" And he proudly held his bucket in front of him and declared, "Oh, I get so much candy!" Our little Bubby, who is not yet walking and fell asleep after about 20 minutes outside, charmed everyone in his penguin suit. This is what I would have missed if I did everything my way. Even though I can't wrap my mind around the point of it, I forget to question when I have a Charms BlowPop in my mouth. Someday, my boys will decide for themselves what they want to do at the end of October. And I can go back to being the crank who turns off her lights and treats it like any other Sunday afternoon.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Balancing the difference
I was scrolling through facebook the other day, and saw a status that gave me pause. One of my friends posted that anyone who wasn't voting for his preferred candidate for president should just unfriend him NOW. The rest of the day, I kept coming back to this post and trying to figure out why it bugged me so much, and this is what I came up with: I like difference. I don't want to scroll through facebook everyday and see people posting thoughts and photos and ideas that are exactly like mine. Granted, I have friends like me, and we are easy to spot since we are wickedly funny, extraordinarily intelligent, and humble as...maybe not the last one. But I would be bored, and probably a little annoyed if I had to spend every day with people who mirrored my own views and behaviors (and weaknesses and faults...yes, Chris, I can admit to having one or two). So I don't unfriend people who post opposing views on facebook. I don't change the subject or walk away from conversations with people who are impassioned enough to share their beliefs with me. This has caused unwanted follow-up visits and phone calls from a Jehovah's Witness, but we eventually moved and I managed to slip away from that one..
Another word came to mind...balance. I think I have to have a good balance in order to appreciate the differences. And this made me, of course, reflect on my marriage and the best husband ever. Because we have much in common. We love to pop popcorn and watch movies together. We like to watch football and read books and make a fire in the fireplace and just relax. We love the same God and enjoy attending church together. We like music and seriously cut the rug at weddings. We love these children that we made together, and we love kids that came from other parents. We care about children who are overlooked, or underfed, or need a little more. All of these similarities are great, and make our partnership great. But we are two different people, with different opinions and different tastes, and that can either be good for balance or really distressing if you can't appreciate it. Chris sees the big picture, and he helps remind me of it when I am too narrowly focused. In turn, I help him remember the details (someone has to print the boarding passes and pack clean underwear!) Although we both love history, my husband is more interested in Ancient times, while I prefer "Newer" history (anything after the Dark Ages, please!) He can't speak French, but he can update the software on my phone. There is nothing I love more than bringing up a news item or Fresh Air episode concerning immigration, because I know that Chris and I look at this issue from different perspectives, and we can discuss it for an hour, the whole time learning about each others' point of view. Just the other day, we were talking about the Dream Act, and Chris surprised me by saying he is in favor of it. BUT, for me, saying I am in favor of the Dream Act means I think it is okay right now for young illegals to be educated in our schools and continue living here. For Chris, until it is passed and becomes law, anyone acting in accord with it is a lawbreaker, and he doesn't approve. The way that man's mind works is amazing. But I never would have learned that unless we talked about something we know we don't agree on.
I do wish some differences weren't there. I wish the man could find his belt or deodorant or headphones by actually searching for them, instead of giving up after a cursory glance reveals them to not be in plain view. I wish he would stop at the store or even tell me when he needs a new toothbrush so that he could have his own and not use mine. I wish he cared a little more about gardening and landscaping and just general outdoor responsibilities so I didn't feel like I was doing it all alone. But if I try to change who he is, then I miss out on all the great differences. Like how he can so energetically wrestle and tickle our sons after he's been at work all day, and all I want to do is sit down or fold some clothes. Or when his interest in trying new food results in a really tasty new recipe or learning about a new ingredient (do you cook with fresh herbs? because it is a game-changer!) And sometimes he is braver than I am in trying something with the kids, and although I am wary and in my head thinking, This is going to crash and burn!, I go along and get to experience it with them.
So, casual facebook acquaintance, I'm turning the tables on your ultimatum. Because I've learned to value different opinions and also to respect the political convictions of my friends. So you can unfriend me, if you think our views diverge too far, but I will continue to enjoy your posts and rants and sometimes it will make me stop and think about what I actually believe, and I will appreciate your perspective even more.
And to my ever-loving, patient husband, I will try to be more considerate of your needs at bedtime. I will keep the computer off, and if I really have to, watch the Office with headphones. Because I love that you and I are different, and I'm not willing to give up your warm presence beside me all night. That is all.
Another word came to mind...balance. I think I have to have a good balance in order to appreciate the differences. And this made me, of course, reflect on my marriage and the best husband ever. Because we have much in common. We love to pop popcorn and watch movies together. We like to watch football and read books and make a fire in the fireplace and just relax. We love the same God and enjoy attending church together. We like music and seriously cut the rug at weddings. We love these children that we made together, and we love kids that came from other parents. We care about children who are overlooked, or underfed, or need a little more. All of these similarities are great, and make our partnership great. But we are two different people, with different opinions and different tastes, and that can either be good for balance or really distressing if you can't appreciate it. Chris sees the big picture, and he helps remind me of it when I am too narrowly focused. In turn, I help him remember the details (someone has to print the boarding passes and pack clean underwear!) Although we both love history, my husband is more interested in Ancient times, while I prefer "Newer" history (anything after the Dark Ages, please!) He can't speak French, but he can update the software on my phone. There is nothing I love more than bringing up a news item or Fresh Air episode concerning immigration, because I know that Chris and I look at this issue from different perspectives, and we can discuss it for an hour, the whole time learning about each others' point of view. Just the other day, we were talking about the Dream Act, and Chris surprised me by saying he is in favor of it. BUT, for me, saying I am in favor of the Dream Act means I think it is okay right now for young illegals to be educated in our schools and continue living here. For Chris, until it is passed and becomes law, anyone acting in accord with it is a lawbreaker, and he doesn't approve. The way that man's mind works is amazing. But I never would have learned that unless we talked about something we know we don't agree on.
I do wish some differences weren't there. I wish the man could find his belt or deodorant or headphones by actually searching for them, instead of giving up after a cursory glance reveals them to not be in plain view. I wish he would stop at the store or even tell me when he needs a new toothbrush so that he could have his own and not use mine. I wish he cared a little more about gardening and landscaping and just general outdoor responsibilities so I didn't feel like I was doing it all alone. But if I try to change who he is, then I miss out on all the great differences. Like how he can so energetically wrestle and tickle our sons after he's been at work all day, and all I want to do is sit down or fold some clothes. Or when his interest in trying new food results in a really tasty new recipe or learning about a new ingredient (do you cook with fresh herbs? because it is a game-changer!) And sometimes he is braver than I am in trying something with the kids, and although I am wary and in my head thinking, This is going to crash and burn!, I go along and get to experience it with them.
So, casual facebook acquaintance, I'm turning the tables on your ultimatum. Because I've learned to value different opinions and also to respect the political convictions of my friends. So you can unfriend me, if you think our views diverge too far, but I will continue to enjoy your posts and rants and sometimes it will make me stop and think about what I actually believe, and I will appreciate your perspective even more.
And to my ever-loving, patient husband, I will try to be more considerate of your needs at bedtime. I will keep the computer off, and if I really have to, watch the Office with headphones. Because I love that you and I are different, and I'm not willing to give up your warm presence beside me all night. That is all.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
My Life in Pictures
The first time we took James to the zoo, he was about 15 months old. I had a vision for how this trip would go; we would ooh and aah at the animals, James would be inquisitive and endearing, and maybe we would hold hands while Chris carried James on his shoulders as we left. I wanted a picture perfect outing. What actually happened was this: we carted James around to the different viewing areas, excitedly pointing out the animals ("Look James, snow leopards! James, look at the snow leopards!"), and he would giggle whenever he actually figured out what we were indicating. We got to the aquarium area, and James planted himself in front of the Amazon tank. How long were we supposed to let him look at one exhibit? Shouldn't we keep moving? What was so fascinating? When we tried to make him move on, he had a fit, as can happen with your children. The rest of the zoo trip sort of dissolved into this cry-fest, and we didn't continue on, but ended up heading for the exit, with Chris carrying James, who was now literally kicking and screaming. We got strapped into the car, handed the little guy some fruit snacks, and did the post-mortem. Chris was pleased that we did our zoo trip. I felt like a failure that my image of family perfection didn't materialize. My husband told me to stop expecting life to look like a Norman Rockwell painting. I was hoping to exist in the storybook world where Katie Holmes and Suri seem to to live. But Chris was right. Life is not sunshine and happiness all the time, with the family lovingly sitting around the radio, or marveling at my delicious cooking. Life, especially after kids enter the scene, is messy, emotional, and complicated.
Sometimes you don't get your perfect picture. And then sometimes...
Sometimes a mother has to dress her baby for a funeral instead of to bring him home. Sometimes there is a tiny casket holding all your dreams and your future. This week, especially, has been a good reminder of my husband's words, when reality is unlike any picture, to the point that it seems like aliens have crashlanded here and are redirecting the order of the world as we know it.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
A Mother's Heart
This morning my husband, in his usually loving fashion, told me that I am gorgeous. I replied, "Especially when I dress like a woman." He looked at me quizzically and asked, "How do you dress the rest of the week?" And my answer was simple: like a mom. We can distinguish them by the spit up on their shoulders, the mashed banana on their shins, the jeans that don't fit quite right, the sneakers that have clearly chased a toddler many times, the extra jackets or toys they carry. I love the SNL parody commercial for MOM jeans..."Because you're no longer a woman. You're a mom!" There are other indicators that a woman has become a mom, but they are less obvious, not necessarily visual. There is the usual stretching of the belly, occasionally the widening of the feet or a change in hair color. We see our husbands in a whole new way, we learn to appreciate their arms not for the comfort it brings us, but for how they so completely envelope our child. We see in them the father they have become. But the biggest change, the way I know that I am a mom first and a woman second, is in my heart. After the birth of my first son, I felt more. I hurt for others in a way that I never had before. Upon hearing the news that a baby who was due close to James was stillborn, while I held my precious newborn baby in my arms, I wept. I hurt for the parents who would not bring their child home. A few months later, a 9 month pregnant woman disappeared from our area, and was found later when her boyfriend confessed to murdering her and hiding her body. I followed this case all the way to his conviction, and cried and mourned for the lost lives of Jessie and her daughter, and for Blake, the little son whose mother was gone and whose father was now in jail.
Just one year ago, I was able to bring a baby home from the hospital to whom I had not given birth. I was so happy to introduce him to our family, yet I also hurt for the woman who had left the hospital with empty arms. I knew from my own experience of giving birth that her breasts would ache with milk that no one would drink, that she would have cramps as her uterus returned to its pre-baby size. I knew that she would have aches from the point in her body the baby had come out, and she would move differently to minimize this pain. But unlike me, she would not counteract these body aches by inhaling the sweet smell of her baby's head. She wouldn't be able to lay the small warm body against her abdomen to soothe the spasms. Knowing all this, I mourned for her loss, even as I delighted in my own gain. Once again, I am remembering these aches as I cry for another mom who is leaving the hospital without her baby. This time, she has not lost her son as a result of her own problems and poor decisions. Her son was diagnosed with a rare heart condition in utero, and this brave woman and her husband faithfully prepared for his arrival, calling upon the Lord to guide them as they became parents to a baby who needed more. They continued to place him in the Father's hands as he lived his short life here, and now he has left for the best possible place. I weep for this woman as she experiences the most painful loss, that of a child; she will not know the joys and sorrows of continuing to parent her baby as he becomes a toddler, a passionate whirlwind of boyhood, a strong and confident man. But as we all are, she is changed from the woman she was before. Now she has a mother's heart, and that is the greatest gift we could ever hope for.
Just one year ago, I was able to bring a baby home from the hospital to whom I had not given birth. I was so happy to introduce him to our family, yet I also hurt for the woman who had left the hospital with empty arms. I knew from my own experience of giving birth that her breasts would ache with milk that no one would drink, that she would have cramps as her uterus returned to its pre-baby size. I knew that she would have aches from the point in her body the baby had come out, and she would move differently to minimize this pain. But unlike me, she would not counteract these body aches by inhaling the sweet smell of her baby's head. She wouldn't be able to lay the small warm body against her abdomen to soothe the spasms. Knowing all this, I mourned for her loss, even as I delighted in my own gain. Once again, I am remembering these aches as I cry for another mom who is leaving the hospital without her baby. This time, she has not lost her son as a result of her own problems and poor decisions. Her son was diagnosed with a rare heart condition in utero, and this brave woman and her husband faithfully prepared for his arrival, calling upon the Lord to guide them as they became parents to a baby who needed more. They continued to place him in the Father's hands as he lived his short life here, and now he has left for the best possible place. I weep for this woman as she experiences the most painful loss, that of a child; she will not know the joys and sorrows of continuing to parent her baby as he becomes a toddler, a passionate whirlwind of boyhood, a strong and confident man. But as we all are, she is changed from the woman she was before. Now she has a mother's heart, and that is the greatest gift we could ever hope for.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Our Village
Just one year ago, Chris and I made the very difficult decision to leave our church. It took many months to realize that we were both feeling the same, which is burnt-out and unhappy. It took more months to actually depart; after all, this was the first church we had chosen together, and we had attended it as a couple who was dating, engaged, married, and starting a family. We served as greeters and adult leaders for the youth group. I attended the Moms group and taught in the 2-3 year old class every other month. We had friends, we had been part of a wonderful small group, not to mention the wonderful teachers our children had come to know, and who (especially for the oldest) were really trying to make a place for them. The biggest worry I had about leaving was about these people in particular. Would they feel rejected? Would they think they had done something to offend, or not done enough to reach out to us? And to them, I want to say vehemently, it wasn't you. It was us. We began attending Rivertree nine years ago, when we lived very close. Five years ago, when we bought our house, we only took into account what we could afford, and it ended up being a far haul from our church. Once, during December, we found ourselves in gridlocked holiday shopping traffic on our way to an evening service. We sat at one intersection for so long, that eventually we realized that church had already been going for 30 minutes. So we turned around and went home. That was one factor. Another was the dissolution of our small group. It happened that the 3 married couples in the group each gave birth to a baby within a few months time, and that combined with differing schedules led to a wind-down in meetings, until eventually we no longer bothered. And all those places where we helped and led and taught...we ended up doing more serving than sitting, to the point that when we finally had a conversation about church, we both wanted to just give up the whole practice. The actual break happened when we got our foster child, a medically fragile premature newborn who fed every 3 hours and demanded what little free time we had.
So we stopped. We left, without much fanfare, without even realizing it ourselves. Until a Sunday rolled around when I told my husband I was going to the church down the road to see what it was like. He hurriedly dressed the children so we could all go together, and we enjoyed it. As a sister church to Rivertree, it has much in common with what we had become accustomed to. Its large, with polished, streamlined children's classes, and the pastor is young and energetic and preaches great sermons. The music is performed by a band, and they played songs we knew by heart. It was nice, and we ended up returning several more times. But we weren't hooked. And so we continued to see other churches, to check out other options. That led us to Love Canton. We knew the pastor from his time at Rivertree; this church in fact, was a plant to meet the needs of people too far to get to the Tree. After the first service, Chris and I looked at each other and knew we were both thinking the same thing: this is where we wanted to be. Chris said it was the thing we needed without knowing we were missing it. It took some time to get used to the differences; after all, this church was new and small, and it seemed that very few people were in our same situation of having young children. The classes for them were small and less structured, although led by adults who were just as enthusiastic. The music was led by two or three people playing instruments or singing, but were powerful nonetheless. And, strangest of all, it only met every other week, so the first month or so proved a challenge just to remember which week it was on, and what to do with the week we were off. Not much later, when I had found myself helping out in the children's class, more to help my son adjust to the new teacher and style, I met two children with the most distinct names: a brother and sister named Nico and Francesca. The next evening, I was sitting in a foster parent class when a woman entered who looked familiar. Later she approached me and asked if I was from Love Canton, which I guess I was now. She then took on a fervent enthusiasm as we discussed my children, and I realized that she was the mother of Nico and Francesca, as well as another girl named Sofia. She wrote down her name and number and explained that she and her husband wanted to start a Village (the Love Canton equivalent of a small group) for families and would we like to come over for dinner sometime? I am actually a little shy with new people, and my husband was coming home from work at 9pm every night, so I took her information with little intention of following up. Then I saw her again a few later at Starbucks. Oh, the kids have been sick, its not a good time for us to go places in the evening...I felt so uncomfortable that we hadn't done anything about her invitation. I don't even know if I told Chris about it. Suddenly, it was March, and she cornered us after church to tell us that the Family Village was starting, that we should come to their house on the next off Sunday, and I was at a point where I was beginning to be interested in getting a little more involved (at least to meet some people at this church we'd been attending for months) and so I agreed. Chris was wary of trying to go somewhere with our unique crew, and its true, we have not had an easy time going places with a special needs son, a strong-willed son, and a baby just getting mobile. I laid down the law and got him to come "just once"...and that was all it took. We walked into a house that immediately set us at ease, from the children's artwork on the walls to the hardwood floors and furniture that had clearly been jumped on before. Our kids couldn't do too much damage here, as it had been not so much child-proofed but made child-accessible. There was a moment of intimidation that the pastor and his wife were there with their children, but otherwise, we looked around and saw families like ours, with active children weaving in between moms trying to balance coffee mugs and dads calling out to "Stop fighting with sticks!" We had found our people. We had joined a Village.
Here is what we have gained in the ensuing 6 months of actively participating in Family Village:
1. Even in our involved days at our previous church, we tended to feel isolated, like Lipford island. We didn't seem to have the same concerns as other families, the same priorities of other parents, the same struggles as other people. But now we have a group of people who are facing our same challenges, or (even better) have solutions to help our family interact better. We have parents to talk with who want the same things for their children, come from the same perspective about marriage and family, and actually encourage us as we go.
2. Each time our Village meets, our leaders (yes, the crazy lady from foster parent class and her equally crazy husband) give us challenges to make us pay attention to our kids or our spouse, to sacrifice or try harder, and then they check in. They really want us to be better and be empowered as we go through this sometimes difficult phase of child-rearing. They share their own struggles and successes with us, and they come up with creative ways of making time for everyone.
3. Our leaders are extremely frugal, so nothing they initiate or recommend is prohibitively expensive, yet they are so generous with their time. Sometimes I feel like they have discovered some secret to time management, when they describe a typical day and my head is spinning with all they have accomplished. Meanwhile, we managed to get everyone dressed! And in Winston's case, dressed again after he undressed himself and ran around the house naked.
4. We get fed. Literally and spiritually. I love having a venue to bake for again, although some weeks my contribution to our brunch is some bananas or graham crackers. But more than that, Chris and I always leave Village full of hope and encouragement, with new things to talk about with each other, new thoughts forming in our heads, new ideas about something we can teach the kids or a way we can serve each other.
So we stopped. We left, without much fanfare, without even realizing it ourselves. Until a Sunday rolled around when I told my husband I was going to the church down the road to see what it was like. He hurriedly dressed the children so we could all go together, and we enjoyed it. As a sister church to Rivertree, it has much in common with what we had become accustomed to. Its large, with polished, streamlined children's classes, and the pastor is young and energetic and preaches great sermons. The music is performed by a band, and they played songs we knew by heart. It was nice, and we ended up returning several more times. But we weren't hooked. And so we continued to see other churches, to check out other options. That led us to Love Canton. We knew the pastor from his time at Rivertree; this church in fact, was a plant to meet the needs of people too far to get to the Tree. After the first service, Chris and I looked at each other and knew we were both thinking the same thing: this is where we wanted to be. Chris said it was the thing we needed without knowing we were missing it. It took some time to get used to the differences; after all, this church was new and small, and it seemed that very few people were in our same situation of having young children. The classes for them were small and less structured, although led by adults who were just as enthusiastic. The music was led by two or three people playing instruments or singing, but were powerful nonetheless. And, strangest of all, it only met every other week, so the first month or so proved a challenge just to remember which week it was on, and what to do with the week we were off. Not much later, when I had found myself helping out in the children's class, more to help my son adjust to the new teacher and style, I met two children with the most distinct names: a brother and sister named Nico and Francesca. The next evening, I was sitting in a foster parent class when a woman entered who looked familiar. Later she approached me and asked if I was from Love Canton, which I guess I was now. She then took on a fervent enthusiasm as we discussed my children, and I realized that she was the mother of Nico and Francesca, as well as another girl named Sofia. She wrote down her name and number and explained that she and her husband wanted to start a Village (the Love Canton equivalent of a small group) for families and would we like to come over for dinner sometime? I am actually a little shy with new people, and my husband was coming home from work at 9pm every night, so I took her information with little intention of following up. Then I saw her again a few later at Starbucks. Oh, the kids have been sick, its not a good time for us to go places in the evening...I felt so uncomfortable that we hadn't done anything about her invitation. I don't even know if I told Chris about it. Suddenly, it was March, and she cornered us after church to tell us that the Family Village was starting, that we should come to their house on the next off Sunday, and I was at a point where I was beginning to be interested in getting a little more involved (at least to meet some people at this church we'd been attending for months) and so I agreed. Chris was wary of trying to go somewhere with our unique crew, and its true, we have not had an easy time going places with a special needs son, a strong-willed son, and a baby just getting mobile. I laid down the law and got him to come "just once"...and that was all it took. We walked into a house that immediately set us at ease, from the children's artwork on the walls to the hardwood floors and furniture that had clearly been jumped on before. Our kids couldn't do too much damage here, as it had been not so much child-proofed but made child-accessible. There was a moment of intimidation that the pastor and his wife were there with their children, but otherwise, we looked around and saw families like ours, with active children weaving in between moms trying to balance coffee mugs and dads calling out to "Stop fighting with sticks!" We had found our people. We had joined a Village.
Here is what we have gained in the ensuing 6 months of actively participating in Family Village:
1. Even in our involved days at our previous church, we tended to feel isolated, like Lipford island. We didn't seem to have the same concerns as other families, the same priorities of other parents, the same struggles as other people. But now we have a group of people who are facing our same challenges, or (even better) have solutions to help our family interact better. We have parents to talk with who want the same things for their children, come from the same perspective about marriage and family, and actually encourage us as we go.
2. Each time our Village meets, our leaders (yes, the crazy lady from foster parent class and her equally crazy husband) give us challenges to make us pay attention to our kids or our spouse, to sacrifice or try harder, and then they check in. They really want us to be better and be empowered as we go through this sometimes difficult phase of child-rearing. They share their own struggles and successes with us, and they come up with creative ways of making time for everyone.
3. Our leaders are extremely frugal, so nothing they initiate or recommend is prohibitively expensive, yet they are so generous with their time. Sometimes I feel like they have discovered some secret to time management, when they describe a typical day and my head is spinning with all they have accomplished. Meanwhile, we managed to get everyone dressed! And in Winston's case, dressed again after he undressed himself and ran around the house naked.
4. We get fed. Literally and spiritually. I love having a venue to bake for again, although some weeks my contribution to our brunch is some bananas or graham crackers. But more than that, Chris and I always leave Village full of hope and encouragement, with new things to talk about with each other, new thoughts forming in our heads, new ideas about something we can teach the kids or a way we can serve each other.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
My crisis of faith
Dear Prince William:
Its taken a long time to get to this realization...its taken centuries and soul-searching and letting go of my pride. But I feel like the time has come to say, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about that tea that got thrown into the Boston Harbor. Sorry about all those guys in red coats that were killed on battlefields and on roads and even that one Christmas Eve...it was my bad. As a Daughter of the American Revolution, I feel like I can take the responsibility for my ancestors on this one and maybe we can work something out. Because after months of campaigning and two debates and several conversations with my fellow countrymen, I feel like we should just give this whole independence thing up. It was great while it lasted, we had some really wonderful years where we even thought things were going better here than in your island nation. Certainly rights for women were enacted here first: first to give women the right to vote, first to pass an Equal Pay Act. We abolished slavery all by ourselves (with just a little bloodshed...). But then we decided that we should police the world, and got our military involved in all sorts of sordid international incidents. We supported puppet governments and despots and turned a blind eye in the name of cooperation. We saw our proudest traditions of self-reliance and hardwork and religious freedom become either obsolete or corrupted. The nation that we founded by rounding up the native people of this land and forcing them onto "reservations" is now divided over the issue of illegal immigrants and how to handle them. We let people smoke cigarettes that we know will kill them and incapacitate them, so long as they pay a hefty tax. We claim that corporations are people, then spend billions of dollars helping them survive while millions of our citizens are out of work and struggling to put food on their tables. And I can't decide which of our two candidates is going to mess things up less.
So my offer, the reason for my letter, is to ask you to reconsider. Think of that whole "Declaration of Independence" as a juvenile stunt that this nation, now much older and wiser, can look back on and say, "Things were pretty good under the Crown." I've read much about you and your lovely wife, Katherine (I even woke up at 4am to watch your nuptials! You don't know me, but that's a pretty big deal). I love your mutual love of service, how you are actively serving in the military and rescuing Russian sailors from drowning, and your many charities and philanthropic work. I also realize that you've got a long wait for your irascible grandma to pass and then for your father to have his turn at the helm. So maybe, in these intervening decades, you might like to spend some time on this side of the pond, and lead this wonderful country in a new, more civic-minded direction. Maybe you could set an example for all of us on how to serve each other and stop the bickering so that we can really figure out solutions that will be beneficial to the people, not the lobbyists and corporations. Maybe you could show American men how to be faithful husbands and fathers so that women are not left raising children on their own, struggling to find a house, pay the bills, buy groceries, while the men populate our penitentiaries. I know Kate could really dominate our media with tips for the women about how to keep your man happy, and we'd all love to imitate her fashion-sense. I personally would love to start wearing those little hats and feathers and whatnot.
Because, otherwise, I'm at a point of crisis. I was instilled at a very early age a love and respect for democracy, for the power of our vote and the voice of the people. I remember accompanying my parents to the poll, to protest, to help the less fortunate. My favorite class in school was always social studies, the government and history of our nation and our world. I even majored in it in college. I was so excited on my 18th birthday to fill out my voter registration card, even though it would be 7 months before I could exercise it. Now I find myself, a little more than a decade later, feeling like not voting. Sure I want to re-elect the family court judge who has so wonderfully proven herself in our community. I'll happily vote to pass the Park levy, as I enjoy their new trail many times a week. But when it comes to the national level, the man who will be our Commander-in-Chief, and the representatives that will pass laws in Congress, I'm not interested in being a part of it. We'll all talk about it until November 7th, when we'll just go back to doing the everyday and not noticing too much change regardless of the results. People will still be out of work. Schools will still imperfectly try to educate our children. Active military will still be on duty throughout the world, whether their presence is justifiable or not. Women will still be second to men, college graduates will face the indignity of moving back in with their parents because they're unable to support themselves, despite their higher education. And rich white men will still be rich (although not the one I married...). And executives will still be jumping out of burning buildings with their golden parachutes. And my faith in our government will continue to weaken.
Help me Prince William. You're my only hope.
Its taken a long time to get to this realization...its taken centuries and soul-searching and letting go of my pride. But I feel like the time has come to say, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about that tea that got thrown into the Boston Harbor. Sorry about all those guys in red coats that were killed on battlefields and on roads and even that one Christmas Eve...it was my bad. As a Daughter of the American Revolution, I feel like I can take the responsibility for my ancestors on this one and maybe we can work something out. Because after months of campaigning and two debates and several conversations with my fellow countrymen, I feel like we should just give this whole independence thing up. It was great while it lasted, we had some really wonderful years where we even thought things were going better here than in your island nation. Certainly rights for women were enacted here first: first to give women the right to vote, first to pass an Equal Pay Act. We abolished slavery all by ourselves (with just a little bloodshed...). But then we decided that we should police the world, and got our military involved in all sorts of sordid international incidents. We supported puppet governments and despots and turned a blind eye in the name of cooperation. We saw our proudest traditions of self-reliance and hardwork and religious freedom become either obsolete or corrupted. The nation that we founded by rounding up the native people of this land and forcing them onto "reservations" is now divided over the issue of illegal immigrants and how to handle them. We let people smoke cigarettes that we know will kill them and incapacitate them, so long as they pay a hefty tax. We claim that corporations are people, then spend billions of dollars helping them survive while millions of our citizens are out of work and struggling to put food on their tables. And I can't decide which of our two candidates is going to mess things up less.
So my offer, the reason for my letter, is to ask you to reconsider. Think of that whole "Declaration of Independence" as a juvenile stunt that this nation, now much older and wiser, can look back on and say, "Things were pretty good under the Crown." I've read much about you and your lovely wife, Katherine (I even woke up at 4am to watch your nuptials! You don't know me, but that's a pretty big deal). I love your mutual love of service, how you are actively serving in the military and rescuing Russian sailors from drowning, and your many charities and philanthropic work. I also realize that you've got a long wait for your irascible grandma to pass and then for your father to have his turn at the helm. So maybe, in these intervening decades, you might like to spend some time on this side of the pond, and lead this wonderful country in a new, more civic-minded direction. Maybe you could set an example for all of us on how to serve each other and stop the bickering so that we can really figure out solutions that will be beneficial to the people, not the lobbyists and corporations. Maybe you could show American men how to be faithful husbands and fathers so that women are not left raising children on their own, struggling to find a house, pay the bills, buy groceries, while the men populate our penitentiaries. I know Kate could really dominate our media with tips for the women about how to keep your man happy, and we'd all love to imitate her fashion-sense. I personally would love to start wearing those little hats and feathers and whatnot.
Because, otherwise, I'm at a point of crisis. I was instilled at a very early age a love and respect for democracy, for the power of our vote and the voice of the people. I remember accompanying my parents to the poll, to protest, to help the less fortunate. My favorite class in school was always social studies, the government and history of our nation and our world. I even majored in it in college. I was so excited on my 18th birthday to fill out my voter registration card, even though it would be 7 months before I could exercise it. Now I find myself, a little more than a decade later, feeling like not voting. Sure I want to re-elect the family court judge who has so wonderfully proven herself in our community. I'll happily vote to pass the Park levy, as I enjoy their new trail many times a week. But when it comes to the national level, the man who will be our Commander-in-Chief, and the representatives that will pass laws in Congress, I'm not interested in being a part of it. We'll all talk about it until November 7th, when we'll just go back to doing the everyday and not noticing too much change regardless of the results. People will still be out of work. Schools will still imperfectly try to educate our children. Active military will still be on duty throughout the world, whether their presence is justifiable or not. Women will still be second to men, college graduates will face the indignity of moving back in with their parents because they're unable to support themselves, despite their higher education. And rich white men will still be rich (although not the one I married...). And executives will still be jumping out of burning buildings with their golden parachutes. And my faith in our government will continue to weaken.
Help me Prince William. You're my only hope.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Miracle Worker
Through a joke gone awry this evening, my husband has got me thinking about Helen Keller. Thinking about a woman who had long been dead before either of us was born, and severely disabled by a childhood illness so that she was rendered both deaf and blind, and yet we both know her name and the name of her helper and later companion, Annie Sullivan. Why do we know these things? Because of the miracle. Because in her isolation and confusion, someone reached in and brought her out. Because she went from the almost feral child we see depicted in The Miracle Worker to a college graduate, published author, and outspoken advocate.
I read about Helen Keller in elementary school, then saw The Miracle Worker when it was performed at my high school. It still amazes me to think of losing both my sight and my hearing and being able to do ANYTHING other than sit in a rocking chair. But she did it, and we continually credit Annie Sullivan with the accomplishment of figuring out how to teach her. I wonder how often Ms. Sullivan lost her temper or cried in frustration or felt like a complete failure in the course of her teaching duties. I wonder if she thought about giving up, that maybe someone else would be able to do what she obviously couldn't, as Helen broke things and threw major tantrums. I don't know. But I do know how she must have felt when that crazy little girl FINALLY made the connection between words and objects. When she stopped having fits and started attending to tasks and making obvious progress. I know how she felt because its how I feel. When the car ride changes from tantrums to requests to stop at McDonald's for french fries. When bedtime stops being a battle and becomes a search for a specific car (and upon finding said car, the child in question calmly returns to his room and snuggles down for the night). When a day of one-sided conversations gradually turns into a series of back and forth verbal communication ("I want milk please!" "Here you go." "Oh, thank you mommy.") And in light of these feelings and changes and frankly, astonishing development, I find myself thinking about Annie Sullivan and wondering how she felt being labeled "a miracle worker." Because I am seeing the miracle, and I know that I didn't work it. Yes, I've been in the foxhole since day one. I was the arms of comfort during the evaluations that left us both feeling helpless. I was the one making flash cards and learning sign language and talking while wondering if it was making a difference. But I'm not the one who overcame the confusion and disorientation of living in a world that doesn't make sense so that I could reach out to those around me and be a part of it. I'm not the miracle worker...I'm his mother.
(Where would either of us be without the speech and occupational therapists, the early intervention specialists, special ed teachers, and school district representatives who make up our team? These people are amazing too, and I love them for their commitment to my special child, but I hope that they will not mind being labeled as witnesses to the miracle.)
I read about Helen Keller in elementary school, then saw The Miracle Worker when it was performed at my high school. It still amazes me to think of losing both my sight and my hearing and being able to do ANYTHING other than sit in a rocking chair. But she did it, and we continually credit Annie Sullivan with the accomplishment of figuring out how to teach her. I wonder how often Ms. Sullivan lost her temper or cried in frustration or felt like a complete failure in the course of her teaching duties. I wonder if she thought about giving up, that maybe someone else would be able to do what she obviously couldn't, as Helen broke things and threw major tantrums. I don't know. But I do know how she must have felt when that crazy little girl FINALLY made the connection between words and objects. When she stopped having fits and started attending to tasks and making obvious progress. I know how she felt because its how I feel. When the car ride changes from tantrums to requests to stop at McDonald's for french fries. When bedtime stops being a battle and becomes a search for a specific car (and upon finding said car, the child in question calmly returns to his room and snuggles down for the night). When a day of one-sided conversations gradually turns into a series of back and forth verbal communication ("I want milk please!" "Here you go." "Oh, thank you mommy.") And in light of these feelings and changes and frankly, astonishing development, I find myself thinking about Annie Sullivan and wondering how she felt being labeled "a miracle worker." Because I am seeing the miracle, and I know that I didn't work it. Yes, I've been in the foxhole since day one. I was the arms of comfort during the evaluations that left us both feeling helpless. I was the one making flash cards and learning sign language and talking while wondering if it was making a difference. But I'm not the one who overcame the confusion and disorientation of living in a world that doesn't make sense so that I could reach out to those around me and be a part of it. I'm not the miracle worker...I'm his mother.
(Where would either of us be without the speech and occupational therapists, the early intervention specialists, special ed teachers, and school district representatives who make up our team? These people are amazing too, and I love them for their commitment to my special child, but I hope that they will not mind being labeled as witnesses to the miracle.)
Sunday, October 7, 2012
The KitchenAid Workout
I am blessed to be the proud owner/operator of a KitchenAid stand
mixer. It was given to me as a gift by another blessing in my life, my
mother-in-law. She gave it to me for Christmas, maybe four years ago? I
had just broken our third hand mixer trying to make my yummy
Snickerdoodle cookies, which have proved too much for the tiny motors.
So I was bummed to have my Christmas cookie baking stopped by the loss
of the mixer. And then, Christmas evening at the in-laws', I opened the
best present I have ever gotten. Yes. You read that right. Unless
you want to call my kids presents, but none of them came at Christmas,
and when I had James I got to spend my birthday in c-section recovery,
so...the mixer is the best. If you are just starting out, living on
your own or with friends, and you have hand-me-down dishes from your
dead grandma and mismatched silverware that you swiped from various
restaurants and only 2 mugs to drink out of that you bought at the
airport giftshop the week you moved to a new city, get yourself a
KitchenAid mixer, it is totally worth the expense! It is the only item
in your kitchen that you absolutely need.
Its taken me a while to really test the abilities of my mixer, mostly because its foreign territory. I wasn't doing too much with the hand mixer beyond mashed potatoes and cookies. But recently, I heard, from a few different sources, how making bread at home is both cheaper and healthier than buying bread at the store. And it seemed as though I was constantly running back to the store within a few days to buy more bread. So as the summer craziness segued into the autumn calm, I started making my own bread. I got started by using my friend's recipe, which tasted pretty good, and made the house smell amazing. It took a few tries to figure out the best flour to buy, where to find a huge quantity of yeast, and how exactly to use the KitchenAid mixer to knead the dough so that my bread would come out fluffy, but I am now sharing here with confidence that I make good bread. The recipe my family is taking to with gusto is a simple white sandwich bread from the Bread Bible by Rose Levy Beranbaum. She is a big believer in the pre-ferment, which gives homemade bread the obvious advantage over storebought by making it taste and smell a little tangy. I have simplified her instructions to work within the constraints of a day filled with energetic children, so here goes:
Its best to start this recipe before 1pm, so that you are pulling it out of the oven before you want to collapse in bed. That being said, there are only a few steps to follow, which can easily be done in the lulls between active play, lunch, running errands, etc.
1. Make the sponge. This is the pre-ferment and it gives the bread an amazing flavor.
In the mixer, combine flour (2 1/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons), warm water (1 3/4 cups), yeast (3/4 teaspoon), and honey (2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon) and wisk for 2 minutes.
2. In a separate bowl, mix flour (2 cups plus 3 tablespoons), dry milk (1/4 cup), and yeast (3/4 teaspoon), then sprinkle on top of the sponge. Cover and leave at room temp for 1-4 hours.
3. Mix everything together with the dough hook on your mixer, and add one stick of butter that has been softened. Next add salt (2 teaspoons) and then turn your KitchenAid up to speed 4 for 7-10 minutes to really knead the dough well. This is when the mixer starts to "dance" and my 3 year old goes nuts in the middle of the kitchen trying to match its movement, so I stay right there and make sure that sucker doesn't go jitterbugging off the counter. The dough starts to pull away from the edges of the bowl towards the end, and you're about done when it starts flopping around like a rag doll being carried by a toddler.
4. Transfer the dough to an oiled bowl or dough-rising container. Cover tightly and let it rise until its doubled its size, at least 2 hours. You can do some additional kneading and poking, but I tend to just let it rise and move on to step 5.
5. Split the dough in two, and place in oiled bread pans. Allow to rise again, at least an hour.
6. Bake at 350 for 40-50 minutes. The bread will rise a little more in the oven, and come out with a golden crust and soft white insides. Let it cool and freeze your second loaf. Start slicing up the first and serve with peanut butter, turkey slices, grilled cheese, french toast, apple butter, or au naturel.
I hope you enjoy my recipe. Let me know how it goes for you, or if you find any other great recipes for making some kind of bread at home, be it rolls, loaves, muffins, dessert breads. And buy a KitchenAid for your daughter-in-law some day, she will revere you and hold you in highest esteem :)
Its taken me a while to really test the abilities of my mixer, mostly because its foreign territory. I wasn't doing too much with the hand mixer beyond mashed potatoes and cookies. But recently, I heard, from a few different sources, how making bread at home is both cheaper and healthier than buying bread at the store. And it seemed as though I was constantly running back to the store within a few days to buy more bread. So as the summer craziness segued into the autumn calm, I started making my own bread. I got started by using my friend's recipe, which tasted pretty good, and made the house smell amazing. It took a few tries to figure out the best flour to buy, where to find a huge quantity of yeast, and how exactly to use the KitchenAid mixer to knead the dough so that my bread would come out fluffy, but I am now sharing here with confidence that I make good bread. The recipe my family is taking to with gusto is a simple white sandwich bread from the Bread Bible by Rose Levy Beranbaum. She is a big believer in the pre-ferment, which gives homemade bread the obvious advantage over storebought by making it taste and smell a little tangy. I have simplified her instructions to work within the constraints of a day filled with energetic children, so here goes:
Its best to start this recipe before 1pm, so that you are pulling it out of the oven before you want to collapse in bed. That being said, there are only a few steps to follow, which can easily be done in the lulls between active play, lunch, running errands, etc.
1. Make the sponge. This is the pre-ferment and it gives the bread an amazing flavor.
In the mixer, combine flour (2 1/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons), warm water (1 3/4 cups), yeast (3/4 teaspoon), and honey (2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon) and wisk for 2 minutes.
2. In a separate bowl, mix flour (2 cups plus 3 tablespoons), dry milk (1/4 cup), and yeast (3/4 teaspoon), then sprinkle on top of the sponge. Cover and leave at room temp for 1-4 hours.
3. Mix everything together with the dough hook on your mixer, and add one stick of butter that has been softened. Next add salt (2 teaspoons) and then turn your KitchenAid up to speed 4 for 7-10 minutes to really knead the dough well. This is when the mixer starts to "dance" and my 3 year old goes nuts in the middle of the kitchen trying to match its movement, so I stay right there and make sure that sucker doesn't go jitterbugging off the counter. The dough starts to pull away from the edges of the bowl towards the end, and you're about done when it starts flopping around like a rag doll being carried by a toddler.
4. Transfer the dough to an oiled bowl or dough-rising container. Cover tightly and let it rise until its doubled its size, at least 2 hours. You can do some additional kneading and poking, but I tend to just let it rise and move on to step 5.
5. Split the dough in two, and place in oiled bread pans. Allow to rise again, at least an hour.
6. Bake at 350 for 40-50 minutes. The bread will rise a little more in the oven, and come out with a golden crust and soft white insides. Let it cool and freeze your second loaf. Start slicing up the first and serve with peanut butter, turkey slices, grilled cheese, french toast, apple butter, or au naturel.
I hope you enjoy my recipe. Let me know how it goes for you, or if you find any other great recipes for making some kind of bread at home, be it rolls, loaves, muffins, dessert breads. And buy a KitchenAid for your daughter-in-law some day, she will revere you and hold you in highest esteem :)
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Day 3: Stress Relief
I'm not sure how it happened. How did trading one job for another translate into exponentially more stress? I remember the long days of high school and college, working at two jobs and attending school full-time, and most of those semesters resulting in good grades. I remember the 12 hour days of being a flight attendant, when my feet and ankles would ache and *occasionally* I nodded off in the jumpseat from the mixtures of late nights and early mornings and hour long commutes. I remember training new employees at the bank and the math headaches that you get from balancing the vault at the end of the day, yet coming home and cleaning and preparing dinner for my husband. Having a baby and giving up the out-of-the-home work shouldn't have been so stressful, but it was. The days when he just cried and cried, and slept for 15 minutes, then woke up crying again. The nights when he just wouldn't sleep, or I wouldn't be able to fall asleep, certain that any moment he would be up again. With the first baby, I managed to deal with the stress productively. I took him out for a walk around the neighborhood every evening at 8, during which he would fall asleep, and when we got home I could finally attend to all that housework that went undone during the day, before my husband got home from work (I think he got off at 11 in those days). I went out by myself at least once a week, whether I was running errands or visiting the library for some new books. And even during those cry-fests, I had my Gilmore Girls on the tv, buoying my spirits to keep going.
With the second child, actually, just the second pregnancy was a doozy, it became harder to delineate that time for myself. I was so tired ALL THE TIME that nothing productive seemed to happen until the sixth month (the nesting month!). I even put off making Christmas cookies until January. It was during this increasingly stressful time of carting an active 1 year old to prenatal appointments and trying to contribute to our family finances and cleaning up leaves from the yard (see yesterday's post!) that I discovered the answer to my problems. The grocery store sold BOXES of candy bars. Like 25 packs. Of full size candy bars. For a fraction of the price of just purchasing a Snickers at the checkout. At the end of a tiring and stressful day, there was nothing me and my growing belly wanted more than several bites of chocolate covered caramel and nougat. Oh. The satisfaction and stress-amnesia my nightly candy bar brought. And the real kicker was how the extra calories needed during pregnancy negated the impact of these candy bars on my weight gain. I reached the same final weight that I had on my previous pregnancy, and, just like the one before, I actually lost a few pounds in the last few weeks of gestation. Probably a combination of the 9th month nausea I seem to be blessed with and the mile long walks I was taking to try to get the baby in position (totally worked too, delivered at 38 weeks!). As you can imagine, the stress of a second child only increased once he was out of my body and making demands on my time that so often intersected with demands already being made by his big brother. So I continued to buy the boxes of candy bars, upping my daily intake to 2 bars just to handle the stress, especially since I was breastfeeding, and that required some extra calories to keep up, so I could just burn off the baby weight as I had done the first time without really paying close attention to my diet. Um, WRONG. Whether it was the decreased exercise due to my now 2 year old not wanting to take evening strolls around the neighborhood or the increased junk food now catapulting down my throat, when it all settled and the breast milk dried up after the first birthday, I found myself still carrying a bulge around the middle and an extra 10 pounds. Which sadly made me feel more stressed, and so, coinciding with my new part-time job, I began stopping at Chipotle every other week to eat my feelings. I found that they went down better when covered with guacamole, mmmm. The ten pounds didn't go away, but neither did my weight go up for over a year.
Finally, I was jarred by two things. First, my neighbor saw me outside playing with the kids and asked if I was pregnant again. Nope, just hanging on to the baby weight from #2, but thanks for asking. Second, I saw some photos of myself that were really unflattering. Like, I'm not surprised she asked because, wow, that looks like I've got something growing inside me! Obviously, something needed to change, and I was finally ready to look myself in the mirror and take responsibility for my unhealthy weight. I started by using the Couch to 5k running program to get from a mostly sedentary lifestyle (sure, I carried kids up the stairs and chased them around the park and cleaned the house, but nothing that was a sustained, purposeful activity) to being the active woman I once had been. It was not pretty. My first run ended about 6 minutes early, as I burst in the door croaking for water and bent over, struggling to breathe. Thank goodness it got better. I got to a point where I actually looked forward to my runs; the half hour alone, the chance to listen to music I like, and even the running felt good. I am still struggling to get past week 4 on the program, but just taking this time to myself has really helped handle stressful days. Despite my increased activity, however, my weight didn't drop dramatically...or at all. Now time to face the other demon: junk food. I had stopped buying the boxes of candy bars, but was still frequenting Chipotle and other fast food restaurants with the kids...for the convenience of course! And had gotten up to a 3 pops a day habit owing to my early morning job and 2 energetic children. It seemed the only way to keep up. So this past January, I committed to dropping my 10 pounds through a combination of diet and exercise. After 10 months, I've actually managed to keep off 6 pounds, although it hasn't been easy, and I've certainly given in to my stress demons on more than one occasion. But I love looking down and seeing less belly protruding. I love having a little billow in my shirts and a little slack in my pants. I love having energy at the end of the day to slip into my sneakers and run around the neighborhood. And I'm once again carving out some personal time, to feel like I am Rachel for a few hours each month. I love my now 3 kids, my wonderful husband, and the life we live. And I love making healthier choices about how to handle the stress that is inherent each day!
With the second child, actually, just the second pregnancy was a doozy, it became harder to delineate that time for myself. I was so tired ALL THE TIME that nothing productive seemed to happen until the sixth month (the nesting month!). I even put off making Christmas cookies until January. It was during this increasingly stressful time of carting an active 1 year old to prenatal appointments and trying to contribute to our family finances and cleaning up leaves from the yard (see yesterday's post!) that I discovered the answer to my problems. The grocery store sold BOXES of candy bars. Like 25 packs. Of full size candy bars. For a fraction of the price of just purchasing a Snickers at the checkout. At the end of a tiring and stressful day, there was nothing me and my growing belly wanted more than several bites of chocolate covered caramel and nougat. Oh. The satisfaction and stress-amnesia my nightly candy bar brought. And the real kicker was how the extra calories needed during pregnancy negated the impact of these candy bars on my weight gain. I reached the same final weight that I had on my previous pregnancy, and, just like the one before, I actually lost a few pounds in the last few weeks of gestation. Probably a combination of the 9th month nausea I seem to be blessed with and the mile long walks I was taking to try to get the baby in position (totally worked too, delivered at 38 weeks!). As you can imagine, the stress of a second child only increased once he was out of my body and making demands on my time that so often intersected with demands already being made by his big brother. So I continued to buy the boxes of candy bars, upping my daily intake to 2 bars just to handle the stress, especially since I was breastfeeding, and that required some extra calories to keep up, so I could just burn off the baby weight as I had done the first time without really paying close attention to my diet. Um, WRONG. Whether it was the decreased exercise due to my now 2 year old not wanting to take evening strolls around the neighborhood or the increased junk food now catapulting down my throat, when it all settled and the breast milk dried up after the first birthday, I found myself still carrying a bulge around the middle and an extra 10 pounds. Which sadly made me feel more stressed, and so, coinciding with my new part-time job, I began stopping at Chipotle every other week to eat my feelings. I found that they went down better when covered with guacamole, mmmm. The ten pounds didn't go away, but neither did my weight go up for over a year.
Finally, I was jarred by two things. First, my neighbor saw me outside playing with the kids and asked if I was pregnant again. Nope, just hanging on to the baby weight from #2, but thanks for asking. Second, I saw some photos of myself that were really unflattering. Like, I'm not surprised she asked because, wow, that looks like I've got something growing inside me! Obviously, something needed to change, and I was finally ready to look myself in the mirror and take responsibility for my unhealthy weight. I started by using the Couch to 5k running program to get from a mostly sedentary lifestyle (sure, I carried kids up the stairs and chased them around the park and cleaned the house, but nothing that was a sustained, purposeful activity) to being the active woman I once had been. It was not pretty. My first run ended about 6 minutes early, as I burst in the door croaking for water and bent over, struggling to breathe. Thank goodness it got better. I got to a point where I actually looked forward to my runs; the half hour alone, the chance to listen to music I like, and even the running felt good. I am still struggling to get past week 4 on the program, but just taking this time to myself has really helped handle stressful days. Despite my increased activity, however, my weight didn't drop dramatically...or at all. Now time to face the other demon: junk food. I had stopped buying the boxes of candy bars, but was still frequenting Chipotle and other fast food restaurants with the kids...for the convenience of course! And had gotten up to a 3 pops a day habit owing to my early morning job and 2 energetic children. It seemed the only way to keep up. So this past January, I committed to dropping my 10 pounds through a combination of diet and exercise. After 10 months, I've actually managed to keep off 6 pounds, although it hasn't been easy, and I've certainly given in to my stress demons on more than one occasion. But I love looking down and seeing less belly protruding. I love having a little billow in my shirts and a little slack in my pants. I love having energy at the end of the day to slip into my sneakers and run around the neighborhood. And I'm once again carving out some personal time, to feel like I am Rachel for a few hours each month. I love my now 3 kids, my wonderful husband, and the life we live. And I love making healthier choices about how to handle the stress that is inherent each day!
Monday, October 1, 2012
Day 2: Leaf Collection
We are celebrating 5 years of home ownership this fall. Five years ago, we were but lowly renters, sharing a duplex with Debbie and her sometimes-live-in boyfriend, Dave. Five years ago, we were brand-new parents, with a sweet baby crammed into a second bedroom that also served as an office, with a twin bed where I often found myself sleeping for those 2-3 hour stretches in the first months of parenthood. We searched online for months, finally narrowing it down to four choices, which we then toured with our realtor. The first house was frightening, with nasty floors and trash bags in the corners from the previous tenants, but it had an amazing yard and was close to work. The next house had a first floor laundry and a spacious basement, but nothing else that appealed to us. The third house was a real contender, located in a quiet neighborhood, with a lovely kitchen and dining area where we could host our friends and family, and 3 decent bedrooms, not to mention a good yard and close proximity to an elementary school with a playground. We were impressed. But the last house...the one that didn't look great in the online photos...that was the one we fell in love with at first sight. The spacious yard. The attached garage. The adorable living room. The four tiny bedrooms. The clean basement. The quiet neighborhood, also within walking distance of an elementary school. And the price. Significantly cheaper than the third house! We made the offer, we signed the papers, we moved in. And then autumn began.
Suddenly, our spacious yard filled with fallen leaves. I went out every few days, laying my baby on a blanket on the cool grass, and raked and piled and loaded up trash bags. When I had the yard mostly clear, I looked around in pride. Then I looked up. Why hadn't we noticed how many trees lined our property? What had seemed so important that we overlooked that?! The new carpet? The 2 toilets? The wood-burning fireplace? And so I spent my first fall laboring in our yard to clear the leaves. The temperatures dropped, the rain fell, and the leaves began to stick together and weigh more than my quick-growing kid! When I pointed out our situation to my husband, he informed me that he hadn't wanted to live in a house with such a big yard to care for in the first place. I don't remember him voicing this concern when we were lovingly moving all our possessions into our new home, or taking walks around our new neighborhood with James lovingly tucked in his stroller. But when it came time to dispose of the leaves, I was alone.
I found out that in our area, leaves must be collected and then driven to a "yard waste" location, where the township then makes them disappear. I kept a running tally that first year, and I filled 85 trash bags with leaves from our yard. By the time the snow began to fall, I was so sick of leaves that I left the ones that blew into our bushes and flower beds and under the porch. I just couldn't do anymore. But when the snow thawed in the spring, and I once again returned outside with my now walking 1 year old, I discovered that the leaves hadn't vanished with the ice and cold. There they were, dead, wet, and still tangled in the bushes. The next year, my parents saw fit to give me their old leaf-blower, which turned out to be a huge blessing, since I was now pregnant with my second child, taking care of the ever-growing 1 year old, and back to work part-time. I struggled more, however, with taking care of our yard full of leaves. All winter, I could look out the window and see the piles of leaves under the snow. That spring, I realized that the leaf piles had killed the grass underneath, so now I had frozen leaves to dispose of and patchy grass in my yard. This trend continued, with my husband mostly refusing to take part in the leaf collection, and the snow falling too soon each December, and in my exasperation I would give up.
Each fall, I tell myself it will be different. THIS YEAR, I will get all the leaves before it snows! THIS YEAR, I will not get burned out until all the leaves are gone! Last year was the worst, with all my early fall resolution disappearing when I sprained my ankle in late October and couldn't walk right until the new year. My dad took pity on us, and came by one day with his truck, and together, he, my husband, and my two little boys loaded up as much as they could, leaving the rest in the dead area of the yard between the two maple trees. The leaves have begun their descent again, and today I went out to gather them up. This year, the three year old was actually helping me, wielding his Little Tikes rake, and tossing leaves into the bin just like mommy. Maybe this year really will be different. Maybe this year, Winston and I can handle these leaves together, and enjoy some hot chocolate with satisfaction as the snow begins to fall on our leafless yard. Maybe.
Suddenly, our spacious yard filled with fallen leaves. I went out every few days, laying my baby on a blanket on the cool grass, and raked and piled and loaded up trash bags. When I had the yard mostly clear, I looked around in pride. Then I looked up. Why hadn't we noticed how many trees lined our property? What had seemed so important that we overlooked that?! The new carpet? The 2 toilets? The wood-burning fireplace? And so I spent my first fall laboring in our yard to clear the leaves. The temperatures dropped, the rain fell, and the leaves began to stick together and weigh more than my quick-growing kid! When I pointed out our situation to my husband, he informed me that he hadn't wanted to live in a house with such a big yard to care for in the first place. I don't remember him voicing this concern when we were lovingly moving all our possessions into our new home, or taking walks around our new neighborhood with James lovingly tucked in his stroller. But when it came time to dispose of the leaves, I was alone.
I found out that in our area, leaves must be collected and then driven to a "yard waste" location, where the township then makes them disappear. I kept a running tally that first year, and I filled 85 trash bags with leaves from our yard. By the time the snow began to fall, I was so sick of leaves that I left the ones that blew into our bushes and flower beds and under the porch. I just couldn't do anymore. But when the snow thawed in the spring, and I once again returned outside with my now walking 1 year old, I discovered that the leaves hadn't vanished with the ice and cold. There they were, dead, wet, and still tangled in the bushes. The next year, my parents saw fit to give me their old leaf-blower, which turned out to be a huge blessing, since I was now pregnant with my second child, taking care of the ever-growing 1 year old, and back to work part-time. I struggled more, however, with taking care of our yard full of leaves. All winter, I could look out the window and see the piles of leaves under the snow. That spring, I realized that the leaf piles had killed the grass underneath, so now I had frozen leaves to dispose of and patchy grass in my yard. This trend continued, with my husband mostly refusing to take part in the leaf collection, and the snow falling too soon each December, and in my exasperation I would give up.
Each fall, I tell myself it will be different. THIS YEAR, I will get all the leaves before it snows! THIS YEAR, I will not get burned out until all the leaves are gone! Last year was the worst, with all my early fall resolution disappearing when I sprained my ankle in late October and couldn't walk right until the new year. My dad took pity on us, and came by one day with his truck, and together, he, my husband, and my two little boys loaded up as much as they could, leaving the rest in the dead area of the yard between the two maple trees. The leaves have begun their descent again, and today I went out to gather them up. This year, the three year old was actually helping me, wielding his Little Tikes rake, and tossing leaves into the bin just like mommy. Maybe this year really will be different. Maybe this year, Winston and I can handle these leaves together, and enjoy some hot chocolate with satisfaction as the snow begins to fall on our leafless yard. Maybe.
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