Apropos of Nothing

Many of you know that I am a convert to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and you may have wondered how the daughter of a Southern-Baptist-turned-nudist-hippy mother learn about a belief system that is so hated by both of the worldviews from whence she came. Saturday morning cartoons, of course.

One morning, little 5-year-old me was watching a teeny tiny black and white TV. A tiny cartoon Donny Osmond sang "Puppy Love," and I fell. Hard. In love with a cartoon boy. Not too long after that I saw the commercial for Donny Osmond's greatest hits and began the beg-a-thon. A successful beg-a-thon. I had the album in my possession at the next gift-giving occasion.

He sang songs about little girls with blue eyes who are much too young to know about love. I wanted to marry him. But he was SO OLD! Would he wait for me to grow up?

For five years, I hoped. Then one day my mom burst my bubble.

"He's Mormon. Mormons only marry Mormons."

"What?"

 "Mormons. It's a religion. Like Catholics or Jews. They only marry people who are in their religion."

 "How do I become Mormon? What do they believe?"

"You have to be born a Mormon. I know they aren't allowed to go sleeveless. All their shirts have to have some kind of sleeves."

I cried. A ten year old kid crying because Donny not only was ten years older than she was, but also would never marry her because she was (by this point) Presbyterian. Honestly, my little heart hurt SO much. I can still feel the memory ache today.

Three years later, I'd mostly overcome my puppy love, and one of my mother's facts on Mormons turned out to be false. You don't have to be born a Mormon. My step-mother joined the Mormon church and when I came to visit that summer, asked me if I wanted to meet with the sister missionaries. (Nuns? Mormons have nuns?) Sure. I guess.

Any guesses what my first question was? Yep. Why do Mormons have to wear sleeves? My second was related: What about Marie? She went sleeveless all the time! So my very first piece of legitimate information about the church was about temple garments as explained by two LDS sister missionaries to a bra-less 13-year-old in a tank top. (I'd gotten to the hippy part of my existence.)

Eventually, I joined the church, but the journey was quite rough, worthy of its own blog post (or two).

This story came up the other day, and I turned to You Tube to illustrate.

"Is that Justin Bieber?!" asked V, my besotted 9-year-old.

"No, but now that you mention it. . ."

                                           

The Gospel According to V

My V interprets her lessons at church in such a lively way. A little tweak here, a little extrapolation there and viola, a tale worth telling!

Take this recent exchange:

Mom, do you know what the gift of tongues is?

What?

It's when Jesus gives us a tongue! Do you know why he gives us a tongue?

Uh...

So we can talk to him. Before he gave us a tongue, he couldn't understand us because we couldn't make our words right.

Um...

The mutilated lesson from the week before:

Look, Mom! Look! Here's a glove. See how it's DEAD! It doesn't move because its really dead. But look, Mom! If I put my hand in it, the glove is ALIVE. Because my hand is alive. Do you know why Jesus made my glove alive? So that [she places a penny upon her gloved hand and moves it forward a few inches]...so that it can pay tithing! Isn't that great, Mom?

Uh...yes, babe. That's great.

And last but not least, here's my all-time favorite V-ism, from a couple years back.

Do you have any questions about Jesus, V?

Just one. How did Jesus get us all here to Earth?

Well...daddies and mo--

I know! He gave us a ride on a spaceship! He had a cart that he drives on little wire connected to earth and the moon and the planet God lives on. So he made us on his planet and then he carried us without life and as he put us on Earth he made us alive--with his magic.

Well...um...hm. Actually I'm really sure about Heavenly Father letting daddies and mommies make babies.

With s*x?

Yes, when a daddy and a mo--

Then Jesus brings us to Earth in the cart. Right?!

I love you, sweetie.

I love you too, Mom.

On Culling

The children scream down the hall, "MOM! THE CHICK IS DYING!" I rush to help.

A chick lays stretched out, a long twist of intestine protruding. He will die. Nothing I do can save him. Probably nothing anyone can do could save him. I cradle him in my palm and stroke him softly. He chirps an anxious dirge and arches against his agony. I stroke him back to a neutral position.

Poor baby. I should end his suffering, but I can't. Ways to kill him painlessly flit through my mind; I do nothing but stroke him softly. He arches again. My children's keening in the hall hurts my heart, so ask them to stop so their wailing is not the last sound the chick hears. The children weep their goodbyes.

Silence. Except for the heartless happy chirping of his brooder mates. A last arching. A final chirp. Death.

Oh crap.

What could I have done? Was it contagious? My online search reveals nothing. It's likely a birth injury or some kind of deformity. I should have culled him before his suffering became acute.

Monday morning, two more birds are drooping, their legs splayed in unhealthy directions. They will die. I should cull them.

Oh crap.

I'm not a farmer. I'm not a vet. I'm a mother, a doula: I cannot take life! They lay in my palm—again, sweet and helpless, dying. I must help them. I must. I prepare a small box, cuddle them together on the cloth and place them in the freezer.

Minutes later, I open the freezer door, whispering words, petting the doomed gently. I close it again. Then open it. I can feel their downy heads cooling, their breath slowing. I am doing the right thing. I am killing them. To reassure myself, I mentally replay the chick's death from the day before as I pet and soothe these two through their death. I am doing the right thing. Culling them. Saving them agony. I am doing the right thing.

That afternoon as my ten year old son lays gasping, awaiting an emergency appendectomy, I think of our dead chicks, of the one who suffered, of the two who chilled to death peacefully. I think of my son who would have been hours from death save for the surgeon. My mind wraps around the preciousness of his being, the beauty of him. I ponder the skill and technology being unleashed to save him. In a different era, he would have died. 

The irony digs at me. In the past two days, three lives have ended in the hands that now stroke my baby's head. This child will die too, but not today, not tomorrow. God willing, not within my lifetime.

When we return home again, we trade six of our Barred Rock chicks for six Buff Orpington chicks. It's a bad trade. One bird dies sometime in his first night within our home. Two more will die soon. I can see them fading, slowing, refusing to eat or drink. Steeling myself, I place the dying birds in a small box in the freezer and close the door. It is the merciful thing to do.

The miracle of my son's life in the face of death flashes in my memory as one of the birds peeps. I remove them from the freezer. They will not die by my hand. I'll not play God today. Today, I'll simply stand vigil, a witness to their suffering, powerless. Today, I will simply accept God's will.

Quick Update

I met with the Principal today. What a painful experience that was! The bottom line is that the school staff will now be checking the bathrooms during lunch. The principal was much less laissez-faire than his secretary. And that's a good thing.

Less Angry Today

Just a quick note to say that removing V from the dangerous situation known as the elementary school has really comforted her. The sobbing and constant whining is gone; my sweet little humming girl has returned. She and L still wrangle, but that's normal. 

In Which Jami Horrifies Two Lovely Young Teachers

I'm in serious overload mode with Girl Scout stuff right now. So I do not have time to craft a pleasant fiction in which I do not behave like a boor to those poor teachers. Background for those of you who missed the first post on this subject. Here we go! Details. Rough draft style.

I think I've frightened my mother off forever by bringing up the specter of Mr. Marshall which frees me up to discuss my crazy educational protectionism without fear of giving my sweet mother an aneurysm as she suppresses the urge to tell me off in front of the entire world.

ANYWAY...I met with V's two teachers last Monday after school. They had a nice neat rubric, with the smiley face, :), the flat line face :|, and the frownie face :(. They were certain that if they explained that the frownie face meant something other than "I'm mad/I don't like you/You have displeased me" that I'd say "OH! Thanks for explaining that. Whew! Glad we got that cleared up." Um, sorry, I'm crazier than that. A smile is a universal symbol for friendly acceptance while the frownie face is the universal symbol for "unable to complete assignment as given?" I think not.

So they kept saying, "Well, that's what we do."

And I kept saying, "Well, you can do it, but not to my kid. You aren't allowed to make her cry. I don't care if it is wimpy and silly that she cries over a frownie face. She's six, my friends."

Finally, I bent a bit. "OK, you can put a frownie face on her homework, but you can't let her see it. You can mail it home to me or stick it in an envelope and I'll get it," which was an unacceptable solution for them. They want the child to understand that they didn't complete the assignment correctly. Okey-dokey. More negotiations ensued until finally we settled on "1" = :( . Whew, glad we got that cleared up.

[OK Crash Test Dummy this next sentence is for you.] Nevermore shall my darling receive massive sorrowing visages marring her pulchritudinous, puerile endeavors toward scholarship.*

Then I told them I hated their reading program. That went over really well. I asked if there were any alternatives. Nope? OK...moving on then.

V's attention-seeking behavior? Ah yes. We locked her in a closet for six years, never paying any attention to her, and now she's a bit clingy. I sympathized with them. She does really seem to be a black hole for love. I told them that if they pay attention to her when she is making mistakes and acting up that she was likely to continue.

Did they want to keep trying what they have been doing or consider other options? My suggestions? They could have her move to a different classroom when she is seeking attention inappropriately, they could carry her in a baby backpack all day, whispering sweet words of encouragement and affection, or they could try something of their chosing that didn't involve frownie faces.

So then we discussed district standards for first grade which are the state second grade standards moved down a grade. That was fun. We discussed the wisdom of high pressure learning in the lower grades which led directly into the V's only attending their school because I need her out of the house during the day. Poor ladies, trying so hard to be nice to the crazy woman who pops this HORROR on them!

I offered reassurance. We totally follow their little homework routine for the hour and a half it takes to get done, roughly the same amount of time we'd spend on an entire day of homeschool. We parted on reasonable terms, but I would have paid hard, cold cash to be a fly on the wall for the conversation that followed our meeting.

In summary [that's also for CTD] they did not harm me, I didn't really stand on the desk and do a Tarzan yell, and security was not required to drag me off.

The end. For now. Until I get my knickers in a twist again.

*Translation: No more huge frownies on my V's beautiful, immature efforts at worksheets.

It's a Bug-Eat-Bug World Out There, Princess. . .

ya best toughen up.

WARNING: OUTBURST IS ABOUT TO OCCUR.
DO NOT READ, MOM!

Caution, gentle readers. I may swear.

OK, here's the deal—when you get all the answers right we like you and smile at you, friendship and affection galore. BUT—now get this straight—if you mix up your #%$& "cot" with your @^$$%* "hop" you get this:



Bad first grader, BAD! No smiles for you! No affection or approval. YOU LOSE. But that's OK. I'll like you again—if you do it right next time.

WHAT IN THE H@%%?
She couldn't have put 7/9 or -2 or no redo?

Here Mom! I made you this!

Home Emergency Kit Failure

I hate it when the kids get sick or hurt. I love them. I hate to see them suffering, hate to hear them suffering too. V is in a particularly whiny phase. So when she jumped off the bunk bed and began wailing, I told her to buck up, be quiet, and put some ice on it: I was in the middle of Homeworkland with L-boy.

I gave her little ankle a gander about an hour later.

"Oh crap," saith I. A swollen, tender, red ankle. V screamed her protest at the exam, then doubled her volume during the torturous ten minute ice application. I looked everywhere for the rolls of ace bandaging. No dice. Looked everywhere for the ibuprofen. Nada. I did find some low-dose aspirin. I checked for flu symptoms. As I calculated the odds of V succumbing to Reye's Syndrome, I tried to remember that I received baby aspirin a bizillion times prior to my twentieth birthday with no ill effects.

[In fact, I had this little nap-time ritual in Kindergarten. As I lay there in the dark, pondering the injustice of the grownup-controlled world, I'd get a hankering for the chalky, vaguely orangish taste of a St. Joseph's children's aspirin, and I'd take action. I would rub my face until it was warm and red. Then I'd squint up my eyes, walk out to the teacher, and pitifully whimper, "I don't feel so good."

"Hm, you look a little flushed." (Oh yeah!) She'd touch my forehead with the back of her wrist. "You feel a little warm." (That's right!) "Maybe I should give you an aspirin." (SCORE!)

"My mom gives me two," I'd whisper. Two it was. I'd munch them happily as I slowly limped my way back into the classroom.]

Anyway, I decided the odds of aspirin-related death were low and the lucky child got to swallow her first pill. Since the ace bandages had disappeared, a couple strips of cloth became an improvised splint. (Of course every pair of scissors we own had mysteriously disappeared and I had to use a paring knife to cut the cloth, but hey, par for the course around here.)

Yesterday morning we took a little trip to the ER for X-rays. We had the pleasure of meeting P.A. Chin again. She's doing well. (Oh, did I forget to mention V's stitches a couple weeks back? That was fun too.) We're pretty sure that Mr. Ankle is not broken, but there could be a hairline fracture in the growth plate. Those growth plates can mask the little breaks. They're tricky that way.

Broken or sprained, that ankle needs to be pampered—no weight at all for a week or two, the longer, the better. Since she monumentally failed the are-you-coordinated-enough-to-use-crutches test, Vi got a cute little walker. Which she loves.

Not that she's using it, mind you. Crawling like a baby and begging mommy and daddy to carry her around is much more fun—for her.

So my dear friends, learn from my experience. Be sure to throw a pair of scissors into your emergency supplies, don't forget the earplugs, and be sure to hide the whole kit and caboodle from the pre-pre-med little folk in your household.

V & W are right next to each other.

V & Westley

A Time to Kill

When V was born, I bought an almond tree and planted it with great care and ceremony in the birth tree spot. The almond tree has flourished and brought forth abundantly.

However, I have yet to eat a single nut from the beloved tree. In it's third year it bore a plentiful crop; the squirrels ate every last one, as they did in the tree's fourth year. They attack before the nuts are ripe enough to harvest. Last year, I decided to tackle the issue early and I picked them all early, before the fuzzy charmers got to them. I laid them neatly out on screens where they rotted. This year the squirrels got them again. Curse their furry little hides!

Wednesday, my husband said, "Look! It's a squirrel!"

"Kill it quick!" I shouted.

"But it's cute and furry. It can be the kids' pet."

"Dude, they are eating my flippin' nuts! They need to die! If they were eating your nuts, you'd want them dead too." (Well, it's true!)

I SO need a magic wand! So I can turn this little bugger:



into this useful kitchen tool:



Lacking magic powers, I may to go for a paradigm shift. (Oh, how wonderful. The squirrels won't go hungry this year!) Yeah, right.

Does anyone know where I can hire a hire a hit on a squirrel?

Is Santa Real? An odd question in May

"So Mom is there a Santa Claus?" asked my vibrant six year old this morning. It's a pretty standard question around here-in December. (I've got no idea what brings it up in May.)

I give my standard response. "No, honey. He's a nice pretend person."

[I now pause to defend my Santa-killing position. Every Christmas I teach my children that Christmas is about the baby Jesus being born to be the Savior of mankind. If I teach them that Santa is real, at some point I'd have to admit the truth.

"Sorry Sweetheart, I was lying (in the nicest possible way). Santa is a wonderful pretend person. But not Jesus. He's not a wonderful pretend person. Well, he's wonderful, but not pretend. I wasn't lying about Jesus. He's real. Sure you've seen Santa and he was a fake and you haven't seen Jesus, but I testify to you that he's real. Really, really real."

I didn't want to go there. So back to my standard answer.]

"No, honey. He's a nice pretend person."

"MOM! Don't say that. He is too. He's real. And he gives you one less present every time you say that!" V. informed me.

"Hm...I have noticed the take getting smaller every year. Maybe there's something to that, V."