My child thinks restaurants are free. He cannot be dissuaded. And his belief is strangely logical -- if you can see things from the 4-yr-old worldview.
We discovered Miles' misperception when we went to IHOP after church this week. He finished first, of course, and so was amusing himself -- coloring, counting things, opining -- while we wrapped up our high-caloric, Big-and-Tall-scale trays of breakfast bounty. Miles says, "You know why I like this restaurant best of all the others? You get to eat good food and you don't have to pay for it."
Me, quickly: "What?"
The Dad (slower, calmer, and with quizzical look): "We're paying for this food, Miles. We pay at the end, after we're done eating."
Miles (and Me, simultaneously): "Ahhhh..."
Me: "So, Miles, are you telling us that this is different from other eating places where we pay for the food BEFORE they give it to us?"
Miles: "Yeah. Like at Chick-Fil-A. But this kind of restaurant doesn't make you pay."
Dad: "Remember the Mexican restaurant, with the ice cream, where we went the other day? We paid them for the food. We paid at the end. Just like we will here."
Miles seemed accepting of the explanation -- and we seemed distracted by extraction of credit card (spouse) and completion of pancake (me) -- so I really can't remember how this portion of the conversation wound down. I do know we moved on to other topics until, some minutes later, the credit card statement arrived in its black plastic folder.
Jeremy opened it, nodded and began to sign about the time I glanced across the table. Our chipper, hyper, triumphant son was swinging his legs, chin resting on two hands. "See?" he stage whispered to himself, as he outstretched one upturned palm for drama effect. "I TOLD ya' we don't haffa pay here! It's just GREAT!"
So... as long as no actual green or coin money changes hands, we have not paid. And, in fact, when we do pay -- when he is presented with irrefutable evidence of some adult activity inside the black plastic folder -- Miles is pretty sure we're getting money back.
Crazy kid! But, also: OK. Why not? I see exactly where he's coming from. And I hope he has time for a few more wrong notions to (briefly) flourish before the world attacks and uproots them all. As I think about this (much as I do correct him and sometimes squelch his fanciful nature), I have developed a mantra. Reality tomorrow, I say.... Free food today!
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
7.31.2006
7.19.2006
What I Do
Oh, what a bad conversationalist am I!
A lovely visitor/poster to this blog (I don't have that many; you'd think I could keep up!) asked some days ago for more details on what I do for a living. She is curious about my job. And I -- inadvertently -- ignored the question.
Sorry, MaryBeth!
I work for a company that manufacturers formal attire. We make mostly bridesmaids dresses, plus some mother-of-the-wedding, after five/ social occasion dresses, and a few informal wedding gowns.
We work only with retailers, not consumers. (Until a really angry wedding party member sneaks in over the transom.) We place merchandise in interested stores and produce "special orders" for individual wedding parties who order through those stores.
I am the Customer Relations division. Officially, I open new accounts, close non-performing accounts, encourage and exhort and otherwise manage flagging accounts. I also handle problems that escalate such that customer service can't give satisfactory resolution to a retailer.
Unoffically -- just as everyone at my hard-working company -- I handle a lot of other crap besides.
:)
Today, I am trying deperately to remember why I needed this purple dress by 8/01. A flurry of emails have told me it might not be ready -- and they're speaking to me like I'm in charge of this problem -- but for the life of me, I cannot determine from the order why I was asking for it that early, anyway.
I am also trying to ensure that two broken zippers are replaced at no charge, and quickly. That multiple Return Authorizations are issued (ugh! paperwork!). That UPS labels are generated and emailed. That order corrections are input before cutting. That replacement orders are begun with faster-than-normal ship times. That I find an extra matte satin swatch card and a FAQ page for two different accounts who lost theirs. That I consolidate two accounts under once ownership, close an account that is doing no business but costing us a great deal of money, and make sure a repaired wedding dress ships to St. Louis overnight.
And, most days, that is just about what I do. :)
A lovely visitor/poster to this blog (I don't have that many; you'd think I could keep up!) asked some days ago for more details on what I do for a living. She is curious about my job. And I -- inadvertently -- ignored the question.
Sorry, MaryBeth!
I work for a company that manufacturers formal attire. We make mostly bridesmaids dresses, plus some mother-of-the-wedding, after five/ social occasion dresses, and a few informal wedding gowns.
We work only with retailers, not consumers. (Until a really angry wedding party member sneaks in over the transom.) We place merchandise in interested stores and produce "special orders" for individual wedding parties who order through those stores.
I am the Customer Relations division. Officially, I open new accounts, close non-performing accounts, encourage and exhort and otherwise manage flagging accounts. I also handle problems that escalate such that customer service can't give satisfactory resolution to a retailer.
Unoffically -- just as everyone at my hard-working company -- I handle a lot of other crap besides.
:)
Today, I am trying deperately to remember why I needed this purple dress by 8/01. A flurry of emails have told me it might not be ready -- and they're speaking to me like I'm in charge of this problem -- but for the life of me, I cannot determine from the order why I was asking for it that early, anyway.
I am also trying to ensure that two broken zippers are replaced at no charge, and quickly. That multiple Return Authorizations are issued (ugh! paperwork!). That UPS labels are generated and emailed. That order corrections are input before cutting. That replacement orders are begun with faster-than-normal ship times. That I find an extra matte satin swatch card and a FAQ page for two different accounts who lost theirs. That I consolidate two accounts under once ownership, close an account that is doing no business but costing us a great deal of money, and make sure a repaired wedding dress ships to St. Louis overnight.
And, most days, that is just about what I do. :)
DAY FOUR, FINALE: For Real This Time
I am obviously having a hard time letting go of my Fiesta 2006 journal! (Gotta get an editor for this blog!) But I don't feel Day Four is yet complete....
OK, so I could tell you about the crumbling mess of a boy who fell to the floor, crying and hissy-fitting, when I cut him off from his third or fourth Cactus Crispie. (Five minutes from an all-VBS snack time! As he was scrounging other kid's leftover plates like a stray dog! After he had licked the peanut butter knife!!) Then I would have to tell you about Rosemary, who is this bountiful blessing of a lady. Rosemary, who blindly volunteered for VBS duty and was assigned -- thankfully! divinely! -- to work in my room. Rosemary, who brilliantly reverse-psychologied the kid off the floor, after two other people failed, in no more than three minutes.
I could also tell you how GREAT it was to have a Karley (our second-day, drop in helper of age group "tween" -- another arrival via luck of draw/divine intervention). That girl ROCKS any task you give her! Karley just goes to it, all out, no matter what "it" is. She organized up a storm and efficiciencied me out of having enough to do! I had to hold her back, that girl. And I came to deeply appreciate her while doing it.
Then, again, I COULD mention the steep learning curve that was my Cactus Crispies (a little "I-can-do-better" snack -- and a food idea clearly not tested as extensively as those "pshaw-that's-so-easy" treats in the curriculum). We had a lot of gooey fingers, some very ameoba-like cactus, and BOWLS of leftover, sticky goo after Group One. Though we did steadily improve.
The visual I really want to end with, however, are the lines of children as they left Maraca Munchies for the last time. Each of our 4 groups had about 14 kids by Day 4, the bulk of them wearing tie-dyed T-shirts (courtesy Cactus Crafts!) they were eager to take home. I've done this VBS gig before, you know, so I've learned a few things. One thing I've gotten much better at is endings. I used to feel completely idiotic when I tried to create a "moment" to end on. But I was trying too hard. Then I learned.
So this is how it goes -- finally, my best advice for anyone wanting to become a VBS volunteer yourself. No matter how snotty or disrespectful they may have been earlier, no matter how manic or crazy-actin' on that final day, you must stop and GET OVER IT -- really, from your heart, let it ALL go -- about four minutes before they leave. You must line them up in a direction or curve they haven't followed all week. You must confuse them slightly, to make them listen for instructions, and then you must send them out, one by one, name after name.
"Goodbye, Kelly. I love you!"
"'Bye, Austin. I love you, too!"
"Mady: I love you, sweet girl! Goodbye."
"Kurt: Have a good day. I love you!"
"Bye, Haydn. I love you! Come back ANY TIME!"
And on it must go.... such that every child hears his or her name and the words, "I love you."
Now, I personally hand them candy -- just my particular weakness, not at all required. You must simply touch each child as he or she files by, small and big ones, sweet and belligerant ones. Touch every one, as if yours are the Hands that hold all the love. A squeeze on the shoulder, a brush of the hair, a pat on the hand. Touch them, speak to them, love them.
This is what I have learned. It is my ending. I sure didn't think of it; I figure I was led to it. You might try it, yourself, because I think then you'll know: You have lived a moment that is just, exactly right.
"Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you. Whoever has my commands and obeys them, he is the one who loves me. He who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I too will love him and show myself to him." --John 14: 19-21
OK, so I could tell you about the crumbling mess of a boy who fell to the floor, crying and hissy-fitting, when I cut him off from his third or fourth Cactus Crispie. (Five minutes from an all-VBS snack time! As he was scrounging other kid's leftover plates like a stray dog! After he had licked the peanut butter knife!!) Then I would have to tell you about Rosemary, who is this bountiful blessing of a lady. Rosemary, who blindly volunteered for VBS duty and was assigned -- thankfully! divinely! -- to work in my room. Rosemary, who brilliantly reverse-psychologied the kid off the floor, after two other people failed, in no more than three minutes.
I could also tell you how GREAT it was to have a Karley (our second-day, drop in helper of age group "tween" -- another arrival via luck of draw/divine intervention). That girl ROCKS any task you give her! Karley just goes to it, all out, no matter what "it" is. She organized up a storm and efficiciencied me out of having enough to do! I had to hold her back, that girl. And I came to deeply appreciate her while doing it.
Then, again, I COULD mention the steep learning curve that was my Cactus Crispies (a little "I-can-do-better" snack -- and a food idea clearly not tested as extensively as those "pshaw-that's-so-easy" treats in the curriculum). We had a lot of gooey fingers, some very ameoba-like cactus, and BOWLS of leftover, sticky goo after Group One. Though we did steadily improve.
The visual I really want to end with, however, are the lines of children as they left Maraca Munchies for the last time. Each of our 4 groups had about 14 kids by Day 4, the bulk of them wearing tie-dyed T-shirts (courtesy Cactus Crafts!) they were eager to take home. I've done this VBS gig before, you know, so I've learned a few things. One thing I've gotten much better at is endings. I used to feel completely idiotic when I tried to create a "moment" to end on. But I was trying too hard. Then I learned.
So this is how it goes -- finally, my best advice for anyone wanting to become a VBS volunteer yourself. No matter how snotty or disrespectful they may have been earlier, no matter how manic or crazy-actin' on that final day, you must stop and GET OVER IT -- really, from your heart, let it ALL go -- about four minutes before they leave. You must line them up in a direction or curve they haven't followed all week. You must confuse them slightly, to make them listen for instructions, and then you must send them out, one by one, name after name.
"Goodbye, Kelly. I love you!"
"'Bye, Austin. I love you, too!"
"Mady: I love you, sweet girl! Goodbye."
"Kurt: Have a good day. I love you!"
"Bye, Haydn. I love you! Come back ANY TIME!"
And on it must go.... such that every child hears his or her name and the words, "I love you."
Now, I personally hand them candy -- just my particular weakness, not at all required. You must simply touch each child as he or she files by, small and big ones, sweet and belligerant ones. Touch every one, as if yours are the Hands that hold all the love. A squeeze on the shoulder, a brush of the hair, a pat on the hand. Touch them, speak to them, love them.
This is what I have learned. It is my ending. I sure didn't think of it; I figure I was led to it. You might try it, yourself, because I think then you'll know: You have lived a moment that is just, exactly right.
"Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you. Whoever has my commands and obeys them, he is the one who loves me. He who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I too will love him and show myself to him." --John 14: 19-21
7.18.2006
DAY FOUR, FINALE: Part II
It's the last day of Fiesta '06. By 8:55, I can tell we're going out in first-class style.
The Amigos have shown up without much discernable "leadership" from their leaders (the teens are too tired for crowd control, I postulate, and won't be any good to anyone until they make a Starbucks run or get sugared up on donated cookies at breaktime). One of the many Julias has added to the frenetic energy by finding and cornering "a baby lizard" in the cubbies. Not only does she capture said creature in her plump, 5-year-old fist, she fends off three boys (two larger!) to maintain possession of it. Breaking up the scuffle, I find the unfortunate being's tail near a StarWars sneaker on the floor. I am pretty sure it's NOT a lizard. The tail is completely white except for a series of black spots running down each side. The skin appears, um, moist (just yeeck, I know), and it's twitching with a vengeance. A newt, perhaps? Lord, let that thing not be poisonous, I pray. Please don't let the child swell up and die as soon as she gets to Grande Games and accelerates her heart rate.
I send Julia out to the nearest patch of grass to let the "baby" go. (If this were Hogwarts School of Wichcraft and Wizardry instead of First Christian Church, I am suddently sure Julia would bethe student to rescue a baby dragon.) I continue. The treat is a demanding one to mix and assemble, and I, too, could use a Frappacino to get my synapses firing. Suddenly I notice a short little camper sneaking back IN the door -- baggy white T; bright blue eyes; mischieveous grin... it's Michael! AWOL alert! Michael has left the room, and no one has noticed or verified where he's been.
I call the teen leaders to duty, roughly (not my best moment but, HELLO! I'm a mother, and only in my worst nightmare are we EVER gonna tell another mother, "I'm sorry. We lost your kid."). I grab Michael's hand (well, "entire upper arm region" is more accuarte) and escort him QUICKLY out the door for a dressing down. We run into Julia in the hallway, and this Who's on First routine follows:
Me, to M: "Where have you been?"
J: "Outside. Like you said!"
M: (simultaneously) "Wif her!"
J: "Yeah, he scratched me, see?"
Me: (Notice angry red welt running from the back of Julia's hand to almost her elbow.)
"WHAT?" Then, addressing anyone: Why?"
J: "He was trying to get the baby lizard!"
M: "I WANTED the lizard!"
Me: "Julia, is the lizard safe?"
J: "Yes."
Me: "Did he bite you?"
J: "No."
Me: "OK. Do ya' have any, er, animal allergies I need to be aware of?"
J: (Blank stare.)
M: "Can I go now?"
Me: "YOU? You, mister, cannot go anywhere unless an ADULT knows -- not ever again? OK?"
M: (Nods and looks down.)
Me: (Channeling Muttley from the old Hanna-Barbera cartoons; internally saying something like, "Rassum brassum ricken-frasss!!") Aloud: "Well, OK, then. This was NOT COOL, little man. NOT COOL! But it's over now. Both of you, go inside and make some Cactus Crispies!"
...It takes at least 10 minutes for me to realize I never told Julia to rewash her hands.
The Amigos have shown up without much discernable "leadership" from their leaders (the teens are too tired for crowd control, I postulate, and won't be any good to anyone until they make a Starbucks run or get sugared up on donated cookies at breaktime). One of the many Julias has added to the frenetic energy by finding and cornering "a baby lizard" in the cubbies. Not only does she capture said creature in her plump, 5-year-old fist, she fends off three boys (two larger!) to maintain possession of it. Breaking up the scuffle, I find the unfortunate being's tail near a StarWars sneaker on the floor. I am pretty sure it's NOT a lizard. The tail is completely white except for a series of black spots running down each side. The skin appears, um, moist (just yeeck, I know), and it's twitching with a vengeance. A newt, perhaps? Lord, let that thing not be poisonous, I pray. Please don't let the child swell up and die as soon as she gets to Grande Games and accelerates her heart rate.
I send Julia out to the nearest patch of grass to let the "baby" go. (If this were Hogwarts School of Wichcraft and Wizardry instead of First Christian Church, I am suddently sure Julia would bethe student to rescue a baby dragon.) I continue. The treat is a demanding one to mix and assemble, and I, too, could use a Frappacino to get my synapses firing. Suddenly I notice a short little camper sneaking back IN the door -- baggy white T; bright blue eyes; mischieveous grin... it's Michael! AWOL alert! Michael has left the room, and no one has noticed or verified where he's been.
I call the teen leaders to duty, roughly (not my best moment but, HELLO! I'm a mother, and only in my worst nightmare are we EVER gonna tell another mother, "I'm sorry. We lost your kid."). I grab Michael's hand (well, "entire upper arm region" is more accuarte) and escort him QUICKLY out the door for a dressing down. We run into Julia in the hallway, and this Who's on First routine follows:
Me, to M: "Where have you been?"
J: "Outside. Like you said!"
M: (simultaneously) "Wif her!"
J: "Yeah, he scratched me, see?"
Me: (Notice angry red welt running from the back of Julia's hand to almost her elbow.)
"WHAT?" Then, addressing anyone: Why?"
J: "He was trying to get the baby lizard!"
M: "I WANTED the lizard!"
Me: "Julia, is the lizard safe?"
J: "Yes."
Me: "Did he bite you?"
J: "No."
Me: "OK. Do ya' have any, er, animal allergies I need to be aware of?"
J: (Blank stare.)
M: "Can I go now?"
Me: "YOU? You, mister, cannot go anywhere unless an ADULT knows -- not ever again? OK?"
M: (Nods and looks down.)
Me: (Channeling Muttley from the old Hanna-Barbera cartoons; internally saying something like, "Rassum brassum ricken-frasss!!") Aloud: "Well, OK, then. This was NOT COOL, little man. NOT COOL! But it's over now. Both of you, go inside and make some Cactus Crispies!"
...It takes at least 10 minutes for me to realize I never told Julia to rewash her hands.
DAY FOUR, FINALE: PART I
While most programs -- and our curriculum -- are designed for 5 days, it was decided last year that 4 days of Vacation Bible School are enough for this church. It's sufficient time, our logic went, for kids to develop a routine and internalize the lessons, but not enough time to hit that awful, sluggish, dim-witted wall of exhaustion that marks almost every "camp" experience.
OK, you're right -- but it SOUNDED good to say it was for the kids! Truthfully: The four-day-only concession was probably more for the grown-up helpers. This I realized at breakfast on Day Four (7:20 AM), when I glanced around the room and noticed we all looked like the collective parents of a newborn. Damp hair, hastily thrown-on clothes, each of us some combination of bumbling, stumbling, exhausted or cranky (not that the crankiness so much showed, just that we all readily confessed to it when asked).
We were dragging, for sure (my throat was killing me, whether from talking louder than the campers or from affecting a Frieda-Johnson-from-Wisconcin accent, I could not decide). But we dialed up the energy fast, because the kids deserved it and needed it. And because, as one leader said, "We can survive anything as long as it's Day Four." Around the staff room, this quickly became a mantra. " DAY FOUR. DAY FOUR. HALLELUJAH, DAY FOUR!"
OK, you're right -- but it SOUNDED good to say it was for the kids! Truthfully: The four-day-only concession was probably more for the grown-up helpers. This I realized at breakfast on Day Four (7:20 AM), when I glanced around the room and noticed we all looked like the collective parents of a newborn. Damp hair, hastily thrown-on clothes, each of us some combination of bumbling, stumbling, exhausted or cranky (not that the crankiness so much showed, just that we all readily confessed to it when asked).
We were dragging, for sure (my throat was killing me, whether from talking louder than the campers or from affecting a Frieda-Johnson-from-Wisconcin accent, I could not decide). But we dialed up the energy fast, because the kids deserved it and needed it. And because, as one leader said, "We can survive anything as long as it's Day Four." Around the staff room, this quickly became a mantra. " DAY FOUR. DAY FOUR. HALLELUJAH, DAY FOUR!"
7.14.2006
DAY THREE
So I want them to give back to me the names of Andrew, Simon, James and John. I had JUST read the calling of the first disciples story... not even 8 minutes before. "Andrew" is the first name tossed out -- a fine start that soon fizzles.
"OK! Anybody remember the OTHER men's names from our story?" I ask.
Twelve hands go up. I bravely call on the most spastic (you know, the kid who shakes his palm and says "ooh! ohh!" while squirming in his/her seat). She has ABSOLUTELY nothing to say after I speak her name. I call on a second waving hand, arm propped up by the owner's other hand while the head engages in conversation with a neighbor.
"Who, me? I don't know."
Hmm... then perhaps waving wasn't your best course of action. A third volunteer, then.
"GOD!"
"Well, not exactly," I say. "I want the human names."
One more child cannot contain himself. He is bouncing and contorting in his chair and possibly having a hernia waiting on me to say his name. Before I can get out one syllable, he bursts.
"BRUCE!"
Oh, Lordy! The children are brain damaged! (Do real teachers think this way? I love them and all, but these are NOT. HARD. QUESTIONS!)
As the day continues, the answers get a better and we begin to generate a list of 5 humans (Zebedee included) without any grave pronouncements and/or charades from me (I acted like a bumble bee and posed as the letter D to get that first group to say "Zebedee.") Funny stuff continues to come out, however.
Me: "You're just missing one name! It starts with a J. Anybody got it?"
Lanky, Tanned Girl: "Um... Is it in Spanish or English? Cause the most common names in Spanish are Juan and Jesus. It could DEFINITELY be one of those."
Me: "The dad of James and John. Who was he?"
(Random cachaphony of sounds... none exactly recognizable.)
Biggest Blondest Kid: "I KNOW! I KNOW! ZAZURUS!"
Me: "That was yesterday. And his name was Lazurus."
Blond Kid: "OK, tell us what it rhymes with today."
Me (too tired to resist): "Leb-e-dee."
BK: "Ooh! Ooh! JEBEDEE!"
Oh, children. Take your pixie sticks and MOVE ALONG. (This attitude sneaks into my head more and more towards the end. I want to be kind to them, to interact with them, to be patient with them. In 30-minute intervals. No more. Then I want them to MOVE ALONG. And, sometimes -- when six of them fold their bodies into the tiny, rectangular cubbies nailed to the wall, when they scuffle at the sink and send sprays of soapy water across the littlest, shriekingest girls, when they play the off-limits piano and when they pretend to WATER SKI with their feet on the paper towels I gave them as napkins, I want them to MOVE-FREAKIN'-ALONG. NOW!)
As always, however, they yank on my heart with the tiniest of tugs.
David of the no-sugar rule has been moved into his brother's group, and he duly hands over his LifeSavers to Stephen as they walk out my door. (Precious brown-eyed people -- they're actually two of three, those boys. TRIPLETS! In our very midst. I have their sister, Amanda, in my Red Hot Chili Peppers group and never noticed that they look that much alike. Stephen later tells me that his mom gets easily confused about their names. "She calls my sister by my name. But that's cause my sister sounds like a boy. Just listen to her! Oh, and she calls David by the dog's name." "That's OK," I tell him. "Your mother has three children so she's allowed. Besides, Indiana was the dog's name!")
Kendall's mom brings him late and asks, nervously while hovering by the door, "Is it OK if he stays? I understand if he can't. I can take him...." I am so confused until I realize she thinks we might be punitive here at the FCC VBS, punishing the kid for arriving at 9:30 instead of 8. "Of course he can stay!" I say. "What would a day at Fiesta be without our Kendall!?" Geez! It's BIBLE school, not Boot Camp. Makes me wonder what kind of thoughtless treatment this woman has received elsewhere. (Or, hey, maybe she's just really, really polite. Anything could be. Again, I shouldn't judge.)
Daniel and Isaiah are making a bit too much noise at the back table, so I head over to shush them. Their heads are leaning in towards each other as they hold up index fingers and try to chant in whispers, accentuating every first and fourth syllable with a little stomp on the stainless steel shelf under their workstation.
"God's NUMBER ONE! Who's NUMBER ONE? ...GOD'S NUMBER ONE!"
"Wow, boys, you're ... chanting! I sure like your enthusiasm. Please don't stomp my tables, but carry on, I guess!"
D: "Say it with us, Ms. Ginger! We'll teach you, because we made that up BY OURSELVES."
Me: "Well.. Way to go!"
I: "Do we get more candy for our cheer?"
Uh-huh. I have officially created a monster.
For all the other great moments, Justin is clearly my catch of the day. Cute, cute, crazy rowdy Justin. I went to Six Flags with a group of kids including Justin last year, and I learned his name when I had to yell at him before we got through the parking lot. "JUSTIN! Don't climb the fence!" Later, it was: "JUSTIN! OUT OF THAT TREE." His name became a kind of shrill, strangled cry on my tongue. "JUSTIN!!" But, then, today, I asked him about fishing. And Justin knows ALL about fishing.
Oh, how his blue eyes shined when I asked him if he catches and releases. Oh, and he once caught a baby shark down at the Gulf. And, of course, he loads his own hooks when he uses live bait.
What a cute, earnest kid as soon as he engages in the material! Disciples, schmiples... but Justin loves to talk about fishing! Maybe, for today, it's enough that he's a fisher of fish. Because who knows? In God's time, Justin might very well become a fisher of men.
"OK! Anybody remember the OTHER men's names from our story?" I ask.
Twelve hands go up. I bravely call on the most spastic (you know, the kid who shakes his palm and says "ooh! ohh!" while squirming in his/her seat). She has ABSOLUTELY nothing to say after I speak her name. I call on a second waving hand, arm propped up by the owner's other hand while the head engages in conversation with a neighbor.
"Who, me? I don't know."
Hmm... then perhaps waving wasn't your best course of action. A third volunteer, then.
"GOD!"
"Well, not exactly," I say. "I want the human names."
One more child cannot contain himself. He is bouncing and contorting in his chair and possibly having a hernia waiting on me to say his name. Before I can get out one syllable, he bursts.
"BRUCE!"
Oh, Lordy! The children are brain damaged! (Do real teachers think this way? I love them and all, but these are NOT. HARD. QUESTIONS!)
As the day continues, the answers get a better and we begin to generate a list of 5 humans (Zebedee included) without any grave pronouncements and/or charades from me (I acted like a bumble bee and posed as the letter D to get that first group to say "Zebedee.") Funny stuff continues to come out, however.
Me: "You're just missing one name! It starts with a J. Anybody got it?"
Lanky, Tanned Girl: "Um... Is it in Spanish or English? Cause the most common names in Spanish are Juan and Jesus. It could DEFINITELY be one of those."
Me: "The dad of James and John. Who was he?"
(Random cachaphony of sounds... none exactly recognizable.)
Biggest Blondest Kid: "I KNOW! I KNOW! ZAZURUS!"
Me: "That was yesterday. And his name was Lazurus."
Blond Kid: "OK, tell us what it rhymes with today."
Me (too tired to resist): "Leb-e-dee."
BK: "Ooh! Ooh! JEBEDEE!"
Oh, children. Take your pixie sticks and MOVE ALONG. (This attitude sneaks into my head more and more towards the end. I want to be kind to them, to interact with them, to be patient with them. In 30-minute intervals. No more. Then I want them to MOVE ALONG. And, sometimes -- when six of them fold their bodies into the tiny, rectangular cubbies nailed to the wall, when they scuffle at the sink and send sprays of soapy water across the littlest, shriekingest girls, when they play the off-limits piano and when they pretend to WATER SKI with their feet on the paper towels I gave them as napkins, I want them to MOVE-FREAKIN'-ALONG. NOW!)
As always, however, they yank on my heart with the tiniest of tugs.
David of the no-sugar rule has been moved into his brother's group, and he duly hands over his LifeSavers to Stephen as they walk out my door. (Precious brown-eyed people -- they're actually two of three, those boys. TRIPLETS! In our very midst. I have their sister, Amanda, in my Red Hot Chili Peppers group and never noticed that they look that much alike. Stephen later tells me that his mom gets easily confused about their names. "She calls my sister by my name. But that's cause my sister sounds like a boy. Just listen to her! Oh, and she calls David by the dog's name." "That's OK," I tell him. "Your mother has three children so she's allowed. Besides, Indiana was the dog's name!")
Kendall's mom brings him late and asks, nervously while hovering by the door, "Is it OK if he stays? I understand if he can't. I can take him...." I am so confused until I realize she thinks we might be punitive here at the FCC VBS, punishing the kid for arriving at 9:30 instead of 8. "Of course he can stay!" I say. "What would a day at Fiesta be without our Kendall!?" Geez! It's BIBLE school, not Boot Camp. Makes me wonder what kind of thoughtless treatment this woman has received elsewhere. (Or, hey, maybe she's just really, really polite. Anything could be. Again, I shouldn't judge.)
Daniel and Isaiah are making a bit too much noise at the back table, so I head over to shush them. Their heads are leaning in towards each other as they hold up index fingers and try to chant in whispers, accentuating every first and fourth syllable with a little stomp on the stainless steel shelf under their workstation.
"God's NUMBER ONE! Who's NUMBER ONE? ...GOD'S NUMBER ONE!"
"Wow, boys, you're ... chanting! I sure like your enthusiasm. Please don't stomp my tables, but carry on, I guess!"
D: "Say it with us, Ms. Ginger! We'll teach you, because we made that up BY OURSELVES."
Me: "Well.. Way to go!"
I: "Do we get more candy for our cheer?"
Uh-huh. I have officially created a monster.
For all the other great moments, Justin is clearly my catch of the day. Cute, cute, crazy rowdy Justin. I went to Six Flags with a group of kids including Justin last year, and I learned his name when I had to yell at him before we got through the parking lot. "JUSTIN! Don't climb the fence!" Later, it was: "JUSTIN! OUT OF THAT TREE." His name became a kind of shrill, strangled cry on my tongue. "JUSTIN!!" But, then, today, I asked him about fishing. And Justin knows ALL about fishing.
Oh, how his blue eyes shined when I asked him if he catches and releases. Oh, and he once caught a baby shark down at the Gulf. And, of course, he loads his own hooks when he uses live bait.
What a cute, earnest kid as soon as he engages in the material! Disciples, schmiples... but Justin loves to talk about fishing! Maybe, for today, it's enough that he's a fisher of fish. Because who knows? In God's time, Justin might very well become a fisher of men.
7.13.2006
DAY TWO: Addendum
I forgot to add three statements I especially liked from Tuesday. Each has a little background.
1. Among our church family is a girl of 9 or 10 with thick, wavy brown hair and an oft-knitted brow, whose name is Chelsea. Chelsea is one tough nut to crack, probably through no fault of her own but life circumstances. I've never made any headway with her until this week.
At the end of her Munchie time -- only half-way through the VBS adventure we call Fiesta -- Chelsea reached out to hug me. She said, “This is my very favorite part of Fiesta! I wanna come here every day!”
1. Among our church family is a girl of 9 or 10 with thick, wavy brown hair and an oft-knitted brow, whose name is Chelsea. Chelsea is one tough nut to crack, probably through no fault of her own but life circumstances. I've never made any headway with her until this week.
At the end of her Munchie time -- only half-way through the VBS adventure we call Fiesta -- Chelsea reached out to hug me. She said, “This is my very favorite part of Fiesta! I wanna come here every day!”
Oh. My. As my heart melts, I ask myself -- isn't that why we're here? So a sweet, stern girl can relax her facial muscles in a place she wants to visit every day. I want this child to be my youth helper next year! (Listen to my insanity... signing up again after ONE favorable review.)
2. Any VBS attracts a certain number of "repeat customers" whose families have nothing to do with the host church 51 other weeks a year. In our case, as the same intertwined group of "outside" kids keeps coming back "in," year after year, we count this as its own success. It's a little blessing, really, to get to love the repeats!
This year's Hot Pepper group had three such repeat boys -- all growing LARGER since last I saw them and nursing attitudes to go with their size. I confess: I didn't get these boys names straight until Day Three, so I can't say for sure which of the them made this comment to me on Day Two.
Large, Pre-Teen Boy with Marginally Bad Attitude: "I remember you from last year. And the year before.... (small pause, as if gatehring steam) ...Do you always have to play the weird roles?”
Me: Abrupt laugh. "I ... guess so! Should I be offended? Do you think it's typecasting?"
Boy: Confused expression. (Vocabulay word alert.) Then small smile. And, grudgingly: "Yeah, well, at least you're good at it."
Amen, brother! I am GOOD at being the village idiot. A life skill, for sure.
3. As VBS is about a whole group kids -- many of whom I don't get to see often -- I try not to sepnd that much time with my own kid during. In fact, I find things work best if I kind of ignore him once I hand him off to the Coyote group. I still think this is a good policy, but... In the car on the way home from buying bribe treats on Tuesday, my own little treasure let me know that he needs a little more.
Miles to me, back seat to front: "Um, Mom.... Next time, when you ask my group about the story, can you think of some easy questions that I can solve?"
7.11.2006
DAY TWO
Building and bribing -- this is how I would sum up Day Two. We seem to be building our comfort level, teens to kids, adults to kids, and sometimes kid to kid, while breaking down a few barriers. I noticed that the little people touch me more readily now. And they ask me questions. They have begun to learn the routine and anticipate the morrow. Even so, our pilgrims' progress almost came to a grinding halt as I ran out of Munchie time entertainment and -- with 20 minutes to kill in session two -- had to resort to bribing the children with Ginger's Big Fun Bible Story Trivia Quiz. I promised them "treats to make plus treats to take" tomorrow, if they answered 10 out of 12 questions correctly today. And, dammit, every group manages to do it, so 12:15 found me NOT recovering on my couch OR back at work, but cruising the candy aisle of the nearest grocery store, looking for discounts (does candy even go on sale?) and wondering if a single LifeSaver per camper would be enough to appease.
But summation may not be the real story of VBS, where it's ALL in the moments. Narrative form doesn't lend itself to the medium nearly so much as snippet form. (Plus, it's late and I am somewhat fried.) So, today in bullet points:
Mark was cleaner. (He's really cute under the scum and scowling.) Genesis was chattier.
David said "thank you" unprompted. And the other David happily stacked crackers with peanut butter (which I'm sure has plenty of sugar, but his team leader said he was cleared for it) -- right alongside all the other average, everyday, adorable kids.
I met a great new boy named Luke, but I decided to call him Lucas. He has these eager eyes and thick brown hair and busy hands -- into everything and not too cool to let you know he loves EVERY part of VBS, too. Luke/Lucas is just the kind of adorable post-preschooler/ pre-pre-teener who requires a special moniker.
My buddies Robbie and Brett did not act so eager today. Got a case of the too-cool-for-vacation-Bible-school blues... but they'll come around.
I met another Molly (she of the plastic butterfly visor and protective older brother Kurt) and another Julia. I learned to distinguish between Julia The Third and sister Allison. And we all gained a Jordan (who cried piteously at separation from mom AND faced a daunting bout of diarrhea during munchie time but who ended her day like a champ, smiling and bouncing in the middle of the Jackrabbit group).
Some skinny brown-haired moppet called Maddi (also new, with a twist-any-adult-to-her-bidding smile) made herself at home as my fifith appendage for about 10 minutes. She glued herself to my side, interrupting every direction I attempted to give in order to tell me her best, don't-funny-things-happen-at-my-house? stories. (Some were actually funny.)
Oh, and my alter-ego Fredia Johnson from Wackanack, Wisc. (the character I play during skits) had a little mishap. "She" broke a pot I brought from home as a prop. It was supposed to SOUND like breaking off stage, but we didn;t have the sound effect recording CD. So, as I am a method actor, I decided in the moment to lightly bounce the pot off the hallway floor. It didn’t so much bounce back.
Later, my new assistant Karley (a prickly tomboy sent to me because her dad sent her out of the house, evidently) confidently told me, "You know, my mom has a blue and white pot like that one from your skit." (How she saw it so clearly, I do not know. But I am about to be quite impressed with Karley's tchotcke-naming skills.) "It's called Blue Delph, and it's from Holland." I was thinking, "yes, well it probably WAS " about when Karley added, "and it's very valuable!"
...Great! Just GREAT!
But sacrifices must be made. Tomorrow, Fredia collapses from over-exercise and we make sea scenes in Jello cups.... Oh my! Gotta find my blue food coloring right now. And where did I drop that $15 sack of Pixie Sticks and Life Savers?
But summation may not be the real story of VBS, where it's ALL in the moments. Narrative form doesn't lend itself to the medium nearly so much as snippet form. (Plus, it's late and I am somewhat fried.) So, today in bullet points:
Mark was cleaner. (He's really cute under the scum and scowling.) Genesis was chattier.
David said "thank you" unprompted. And the other David happily stacked crackers with peanut butter (which I'm sure has plenty of sugar, but his team leader said he was cleared for it) -- right alongside all the other average, everyday, adorable kids.
I met a great new boy named Luke, but I decided to call him Lucas. He has these eager eyes and thick brown hair and busy hands -- into everything and not too cool to let you know he loves EVERY part of VBS, too. Luke/Lucas is just the kind of adorable post-preschooler/ pre-pre-teener who requires a special moniker.
My buddies Robbie and Brett did not act so eager today. Got a case of the too-cool-for-vacation-Bible-school blues... but they'll come around.
I met another Molly (she of the plastic butterfly visor and protective older brother Kurt) and another Julia. I learned to distinguish between Julia The Third and sister Allison. And we all gained a Jordan (who cried piteously at separation from mom AND faced a daunting bout of diarrhea during munchie time but who ended her day like a champ, smiling and bouncing in the middle of the Jackrabbit group).
Some skinny brown-haired moppet called Maddi (also new, with a twist-any-adult-to-her-bidding smile) made herself at home as my fifith appendage for about 10 minutes. She glued herself to my side, interrupting every direction I attempted to give in order to tell me her best, don't-funny-things-happen-at-my-house? stories. (Some were actually funny.)
Oh, and my alter-ego Fredia Johnson from Wackanack, Wisc. (the character I play during skits) had a little mishap. "She" broke a pot I brought from home as a prop. It was supposed to SOUND like breaking off stage, but we didn;t have the sound effect recording CD. So, as I am a method actor, I decided in the moment to lightly bounce the pot off the hallway floor. It didn’t so much bounce back.
Later, my new assistant Karley (a prickly tomboy sent to me because her dad sent her out of the house, evidently) confidently told me, "You know, my mom has a blue and white pot like that one from your skit." (How she saw it so clearly, I do not know. But I am about to be quite impressed with Karley's tchotcke-naming skills.) "It's called Blue Delph, and it's from Holland." I was thinking, "yes, well it probably WAS " about when Karley added, "and it's very valuable!"
...Great! Just GREAT!
But sacrifices must be made. Tomorrow, Fredia collapses from over-exercise and we make sea scenes in Jello cups.... Oh my! Gotta find my blue food coloring right now. And where did I drop that $15 sack of Pixie Sticks and Life Savers?
7.10.2006
DAY ONE
Julia is just as adorable as last year, with dirty-blond bangs not quite hiding the one-in-a-million sparkle of her 6-year-old eyes.
Elliott is taller and thinner than when he and Miles shared a preschool class, but still heatbreakingly beautiful with his black, black curls and eyelashes longer than exclamation points.
David has a heart under all that bravado and rule-breaking.
Austin just wants more attention. Anna is something of a genius. And Genesis is the quietest, gentlest pre-teen girl you will ever encounter.
Yep, you guessed it... VBS time again! Day One down; three more to go. I am exhausted but also overwhelmed with tender emotion for this motley crew of 60-some-odd kids who so recently got on my VERY! LAST! NERVE!
Yep. Vacation Bible School. I know all about it, and yet, each year, it hits me like a revelation.
Anthony and Kendall call themselves bothers, though they have different parents. "Our moms are best friends. We were born at the same time. In the same hospital." (By now Anthony's arm is around Kendall's shoulder.) "See? We've been friends since birth!" One boy is fair and pale, the other a perfect caramel brown.
David hates that he can't have the same sugary frosting as the other kids. He's so serious -- head and shoulders taller than the rest, olive skin and clean-cut hair surrounding big, dark eyes. A good rule follower who keeps his table in line ("It doesn't matter who gets a plate first; we'll all get a plate!"), he makes a face and puts one finger in his ear when I get too loud and his Austism makes him wince. A little part of me wants to cry when David tears up over the contraband frosting. He isn't so much sad, I think, as suddenly very, very angry. That little weasel Will says too-loudly, "But the REST of us will get frosting, right?" Oh, the rest of us! How we could use a David, just to remind us that God works in many ways, in many lives, and His mind, like David's, is something of a mystery.
Later, Will asks me why the sound of banging on a metal table is a peeve of mine. "I don't see what the problem is! Why do you not like this sound? Unless it's because every class does this. Whenever they come in here, if every class bangs their tables and it just gets to be SO much banging and you think it might make you crazy. Is that what you don't like?" "Will," I say. "You are a very wise boy. I can see we're going to be friends." Silently, I add: "after all...."
And, while we're talkin,' who does not love Robbie and Brett? How can one fail to absolutely fall in love with those brothers? Robbie's getting older now -- maybe 5th grade -- and developing a sharp, pre-teen wit I haven't seen in such relief before. He makes a crack today about "what if that Jesus thing hadn't worked out" for the paralytic. I shake my head slowly and do my best to shame him, but I'm not really upset at the test-the-boundaries blashphemy. Sweetness still oozes from his eyes. Ya' can't hide good raisin.'
Oh, and that Mark! Little Mark is an absolute MESS! Another boy, just like my own, who never found a napkin he preferred over a shirt sleeve. God Bless his optimistic mother for ever dressing him in white! (And, note to adult leaders: Perhaps we should choose a less staining color of punch?)
By the time the final group reaches my station, the teen leaders are fried and the bigger boys are out of control (if ever they were "in" it). I make the group snap and clap in rythym, then speak to them in my best skit voice (my roles this week are Kooky Tourist during the warm-up session and Munchie Maker extraordinaire afterwards). The semblance of peace lasts about 7 of 30 minutes.
Less than an hour later, though, I hear a blessed sound over the PA system -- my friend Jim wielding a mic from the portico, calling kids to their cars one by one. I dare to enter the demilitarized zone we otherwise call our sanctuary. A mother quickly taps my shoulder. "Are these ALL the kids," she asks? "Hmmm... Yes, I believe they are. Unless we lost one to the bathroom or the underside of a pew." She is not amused. "Well, that's a problem because I don't see mine." I ask who her child is, and she doesn't immediately answer, scanning the crowd in a 360-degree turn. Our fabulous secretary, Cindy, enters the conversation to ask if the woman's car is running in our driveway. It needs to be moved. Again, the mom is asked, "Which child are you looking for?" After a split-second too long, she replies, "His name is Eddie." I am now completely on kidnapping alert, because I'm feeling a weird vibe. But both Cindy and I answer "Oh, he's right there..." as the boy in question turns around and smiles in recognition -- they do seem related. Eddie stands up and moves easily towards the woman, no big hug but no discomfort, either. I'm trying to reassure her, and myself, that we have everything under control when she says, "Oh, it's his hair! That's why I didn't recognize him. It was a buzz cut the last time I saw him." The boy's hair is a floppy bowl cut -- about 4 to5 inches long on the sides. Disturbed, I am, but what do I know? So she hasn't seen her kid in a while. LOTS of things could conspire to make that happen. And maybe Eddie has special hair -- hair that just grows really, really fast. Not my call to judge.
So it was with a full mind but spent body that I turned and called my own kid away from his comfort zone, snug against his cute teenage leader. "Miles Cannon, your ride is here!" He takes my hand and dances out of the building. Once home, the Dad asks how things went today and if Miles thinks he'll go back. "OF COURSE, Duh! It was just Day One, Dad! We're GOING again and again!"
Yes, we are.
Of course we are.
Elliott is taller and thinner than when he and Miles shared a preschool class, but still heatbreakingly beautiful with his black, black curls and eyelashes longer than exclamation points.
David has a heart under all that bravado and rule-breaking.
Austin just wants more attention. Anna is something of a genius. And Genesis is the quietest, gentlest pre-teen girl you will ever encounter.
Yep, you guessed it... VBS time again! Day One down; three more to go. I am exhausted but also overwhelmed with tender emotion for this motley crew of 60-some-odd kids who so recently got on my VERY! LAST! NERVE!
Yep. Vacation Bible School. I know all about it, and yet, each year, it hits me like a revelation.
Anthony and Kendall call themselves bothers, though they have different parents. "Our moms are best friends. We were born at the same time. In the same hospital." (By now Anthony's arm is around Kendall's shoulder.) "See? We've been friends since birth!" One boy is fair and pale, the other a perfect caramel brown.
David hates that he can't have the same sugary frosting as the other kids. He's so serious -- head and shoulders taller than the rest, olive skin and clean-cut hair surrounding big, dark eyes. A good rule follower who keeps his table in line ("It doesn't matter who gets a plate first; we'll all get a plate!"), he makes a face and puts one finger in his ear when I get too loud and his Austism makes him wince. A little part of me wants to cry when David tears up over the contraband frosting. He isn't so much sad, I think, as suddenly very, very angry. That little weasel Will says too-loudly, "But the REST of us will get frosting, right?" Oh, the rest of us! How we could use a David, just to remind us that God works in many ways, in many lives, and His mind, like David's, is something of a mystery.
Later, Will asks me why the sound of banging on a metal table is a peeve of mine. "I don't see what the problem is! Why do you not like this sound? Unless it's because every class does this. Whenever they come in here, if every class bangs their tables and it just gets to be SO much banging and you think it might make you crazy. Is that what you don't like?" "Will," I say. "You are a very wise boy. I can see we're going to be friends." Silently, I add: "after all...."
And, while we're talkin,' who does not love Robbie and Brett? How can one fail to absolutely fall in love with those brothers? Robbie's getting older now -- maybe 5th grade -- and developing a sharp, pre-teen wit I haven't seen in such relief before. He makes a crack today about "what if that Jesus thing hadn't worked out" for the paralytic. I shake my head slowly and do my best to shame him, but I'm not really upset at the test-the-boundaries blashphemy. Sweetness still oozes from his eyes. Ya' can't hide good raisin.'
Oh, and that Mark! Little Mark is an absolute MESS! Another boy, just like my own, who never found a napkin he preferred over a shirt sleeve. God Bless his optimistic mother for ever dressing him in white! (And, note to adult leaders: Perhaps we should choose a less staining color of punch?)
By the time the final group reaches my station, the teen leaders are fried and the bigger boys are out of control (if ever they were "in" it). I make the group snap and clap in rythym, then speak to them in my best skit voice (my roles this week are Kooky Tourist during the warm-up session and Munchie Maker extraordinaire afterwards). The semblance of peace lasts about 7 of 30 minutes.
Less than an hour later, though, I hear a blessed sound over the PA system -- my friend Jim wielding a mic from the portico, calling kids to their cars one by one. I dare to enter the demilitarized zone we otherwise call our sanctuary. A mother quickly taps my shoulder. "Are these ALL the kids," she asks? "Hmmm... Yes, I believe they are. Unless we lost one to the bathroom or the underside of a pew." She is not amused. "Well, that's a problem because I don't see mine." I ask who her child is, and she doesn't immediately answer, scanning the crowd in a 360-degree turn. Our fabulous secretary, Cindy, enters the conversation to ask if the woman's car is running in our driveway. It needs to be moved. Again, the mom is asked, "Which child are you looking for?" After a split-second too long, she replies, "His name is Eddie." I am now completely on kidnapping alert, because I'm feeling a weird vibe. But both Cindy and I answer "Oh, he's right there..." as the boy in question turns around and smiles in recognition -- they do seem related. Eddie stands up and moves easily towards the woman, no big hug but no discomfort, either. I'm trying to reassure her, and myself, that we have everything under control when she says, "Oh, it's his hair! That's why I didn't recognize him. It was a buzz cut the last time I saw him." The boy's hair is a floppy bowl cut -- about 4 to5 inches long on the sides. Disturbed, I am, but what do I know? So she hasn't seen her kid in a while. LOTS of things could conspire to make that happen. And maybe Eddie has special hair -- hair that just grows really, really fast. Not my call to judge.
So it was with a full mind but spent body that I turned and called my own kid away from his comfort zone, snug against his cute teenage leader. "Miles Cannon, your ride is here!" He takes my hand and dances out of the building. Once home, the Dad asks how things went today and if Miles thinks he'll go back. "OF COURSE, Duh! It was just Day One, Dad! We're GOING again and again!"
Yes, we are.
Of course we are.
7.08.2006
Texas Talk
I have two precocious-son anecdotes -- both from today! -- that relate to the Lone Star state. Know that we live in Tyler, Texas before you begin reading...
I. ID by Drive-By
(Disclaimer: I don't know whether to be ashamed or secretly proud of this first one, but it is what it is. My father, certainly, will get a big kick out of hearing it. And, really, one out of two ain't bad when you're still in preschool.)
Miles and I were driving through a residential neighborhood today when he pipes up from the back seat, "Hey, look! That house has two flags!"
Without moving my head, only registering some flapping colors in the corner of my eye, I respond. "Yes, yes, so it does."
"One is the TEXAS flag," he says. (He likes to loudly enunciate and accentuate that word, much like the terms "PUMPJACK" and "COCOON." It's a Miles thing...) "And the other ... well, the other one must be the Tyler flag!"
Hmm. I wrinkle my brow. "Um, what did the other flag look like?" I ask.
"You know! The other one. Not the Texas one. The stipey one. With the lots of stars."
OH MY GOSH! The kid knows our state flag but not the AMERICAN flag?! I am concerned. I am dismayed. I am remiss! (It WAS the 4th of July, just this week, ya know!) I immediately launch into a wordy diatribe about the "UNITED" states, and how that one flag stands for all the states, like Texas and California and New Mexico. I am taxing my powers of explanation as we come to a stop near the edge of the neighborhood.
I pause for a breath.
"That's OK, Mom, most people just have the Texas one, so we don't have to keep talking about it."
II. Handcuffs & A Hanging Curve
We were standing in the kitchen when Miles launched into a now common non-sequitor about something he's seen on TV.
Him: "And, this one time, I saw a man on a white horse going very fast, and he drove his horse by two Army cannons, and they shot real high and shot each other! HAHA! But it was OK, because they were bad guys, and then some guys came to put handcuffs on them."
Me: "Are you talking about a movie?"
Him: "Yeah, yeah... but I don't know which one."
Me: "I think it's a movie called Dudley Do Right, and we watched part of it today. Remember?"
Him: "Oh, yeah. And the men who arrested the other men, they weren't the police. I don't know why. I don't know WHO they were."
ME: "Those were the Canadian Mounties. They're kind of like the police. They do some of the same jobs, in a different country than ours. They're like police with a different name. Like the Texas Rangers!"
Him: "Oh, but the TEXAS Rangers only have guns, not handcuffs."
Me: "Well... why wouldn't the Texas Rangers have handcuffs?"
Him: "I don't know. Maybe because they play baseball."
(PAUSE: It took a Herculean effort not to bust a gut right there at the kitchen sink -- I wanted to laugh SO BAD -- but his little face was so serious, and he wasn't done speaking yet...)
Him: "Those Rangers, they just fight with their guns a while, then they put them up and get out their gloves."
Who's to say, really? Who's to say. If any of you have photographic evidence of said ballplayers gunfighting, please pass it along. I'd almost like the little imagineer to be right!
I. ID by Drive-By
(Disclaimer: I don't know whether to be ashamed or secretly proud of this first one, but it is what it is. My father, certainly, will get a big kick out of hearing it. And, really, one out of two ain't bad when you're still in preschool.)
Miles and I were driving through a residential neighborhood today when he pipes up from the back seat, "Hey, look! That house has two flags!"
Without moving my head, only registering some flapping colors in the corner of my eye, I respond. "Yes, yes, so it does."
"One is the TEXAS flag," he says. (He likes to loudly enunciate and accentuate that word, much like the terms "PUMPJACK" and "COCOON." It's a Miles thing...) "And the other ... well, the other one must be the Tyler flag!"
Hmm. I wrinkle my brow. "Um, what did the other flag look like?" I ask.
"You know! The other one. Not the Texas one. The stipey one. With the lots of stars."
OH MY GOSH! The kid knows our state flag but not the AMERICAN flag?! I am concerned. I am dismayed. I am remiss! (It WAS the 4th of July, just this week, ya know!) I immediately launch into a wordy diatribe about the "UNITED" states, and how that one flag stands for all the states, like Texas and California and New Mexico. I am taxing my powers of explanation as we come to a stop near the edge of the neighborhood.
I pause for a breath.
"That's OK, Mom, most people just have the Texas one, so we don't have to keep talking about it."
II. Handcuffs & A Hanging Curve
We were standing in the kitchen when Miles launched into a now common non-sequitor about something he's seen on TV.
Him: "And, this one time, I saw a man on a white horse going very fast, and he drove his horse by two Army cannons, and they shot real high and shot each other! HAHA! But it was OK, because they were bad guys, and then some guys came to put handcuffs on them."
Me: "Are you talking about a movie?"
Him: "Yeah, yeah... but I don't know which one."
Me: "I think it's a movie called Dudley Do Right, and we watched part of it today. Remember?"
Him: "Oh, yeah. And the men who arrested the other men, they weren't the police. I don't know why. I don't know WHO they were."
ME: "Those were the Canadian Mounties. They're kind of like the police. They do some of the same jobs, in a different country than ours. They're like police with a different name. Like the Texas Rangers!"
Him: "Oh, but the TEXAS Rangers only have guns, not handcuffs."
Me: "Well... why wouldn't the Texas Rangers have handcuffs?"
Him: "I don't know. Maybe because they play baseball."
(PAUSE: It took a Herculean effort not to bust a gut right there at the kitchen sink -- I wanted to laugh SO BAD -- but his little face was so serious, and he wasn't done speaking yet...)
Him: "Those Rangers, they just fight with their guns a while, then they put them up and get out their gloves."
Who's to say, really? Who's to say. If any of you have photographic evidence of said ballplayers gunfighting, please pass it along. I'd almost like the little imagineer to be right!
7.07.2006
Stuff, in Short Bursts
Here's "a Short Meme for what was for many a shortened week:
tell us about five noteworthy short things in your life." -- prompt from the RevGals site today
I. Short People
II. Short Hops
III. Short Stories
IV. Short Lists
V. Short Stops
I. This one time, at day camp (imagine an American Pie inflection... but don't really go there), I was about 6 & wanted desperately to be in a group act at the talent show. Some older girls asked me to join their party, and I was delighted. Our talent? "Dancing" to the Randy Newman song "Short People." We stood on our knees, having stuffed our bent legs into HUGE men's jeans. (The bottom half of each leg must have been tucked inside or folded under our knees, because these jeans would have been far too long.)
We put white pillow cases over our heads, with small cut outs for eyes and arms. We drew BIG, awkward smiley faces on our cases and glued on little tufts of yarn hair. We tucked the pillowcases into our oversizsed jeans (cinched with teenager's 1970s stretch belts, I imagine). We hobbled on stage en masse, probably looking a lot like Playskool Weebles. ("Weebles wobble but they don't fall down.")
The "performance" is a blur, but I vividly remember, as soon as the applause ended, collapsing on the floor. My knees were KILLING me! And I couldn't get them out of the straight-jacket jeans -- though I tried, even while still on stage.
It must have been quite the moment. Can you imagine? Weeble down! Weeble down!
One of the kind-hearted counselors (or just someone who wanted to get on with the show) had to pick me up. Exit stage right. Ever since that day, I have tried very hard 1.) Not to take to a stage in a pillowcase OR on my knees, and 2.) NEVER to stuff an entire bent leg in one half a blue jean.
II. When our child was 2, he got a green bath towel with a frog face on the hood and frog "feet" dangling from each corner. He would get out of the tub, wrap this plush rectangle about 3 times around his skinny, bent body, then "ribbit"his way from the bath to his bedroom. Hop, hop, hop, dragging terrycloth and stumbling on the two back feet all the way. Me: "Slow down, honey!" Him: "Rib-BIT! Rib-BIT! I can't, Mommie! I am a FrWAG, a FrWAG! Rib-BIT!"
...Priceless.
III. I'm quite a reader. Or, I was. And am. In fits and spurts, nowdays. But, oh, have I fanned the flame for good fiction in my time! I'm more bent toward novels than short stories, but it isn't hard to list several noteworthy gems.
In the category of Cheesy Short Story Confession, I remember I had this powerful thing for "The Tale-Tell Heart" by Edgar Alan Poe. I read it over and over -- just loved it! Thinking from today, I can't really say why, but I was fairly captivated by the tale in high school. Some hard core, Puritanical stuff in there -- a lot like Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter in many less words.
Moving to the category of Still Gets to Me -- read these more than once; they're powerful stuff! -- we have "Hills Like White Elephants" (Hemingway), "To Build a Fire" (Jack London), "A Small Good Thing" (heartbreaking Raymond Carver), "The Lottery" (Shirley Jackson -- also a fine memoirist) and "The Artificial Nigger" (Flannery O'Conner). (An aside: I can't believe I just typed that word. It feels all wrong, even in a title. Oh, the power of language!)
In the category of If You Have Not Read These Fine Examples of Writing, Please Go Find Them NOW, we have "Leaf Storm" (Gabriel Garcia Marquez... oh, the man is a gift to words!), "Shiloh" (Bobbie Ann Mason -- required reading if you're gonna even TRY to understand The South) and "Breakfast at Tiffany's" (Truman Capote -- so it's a novella, it's still short. And great. Stop by my house, I'll loan you my copy.)
IV. What do I know? I never make any. See lengthy graph above.
V. Again, I'm not so good with "SHORT" anything. If I stop short, it tends to be a full-on work outtage for hours/ days at end.
...Now, if Jer were around, I could have skewed those two words another way and written several nice things (that he would first impart to me) about the joys of the all-American pastime. But, since my spouse is out WORKING to improve our home, I had better take his lead and get back to my own daily business.
This has been a very enjoyable, if not particularly short, interlude.
Cheers and happy weekend, mis amigos!
tell us about five noteworthy short things in your life." -- prompt from the RevGals site today
I. Short People
II. Short Hops
III. Short Stories
IV. Short Lists
V. Short Stops
I. This one time, at day camp (imagine an American Pie inflection... but don't really go there), I was about 6 & wanted desperately to be in a group act at the talent show. Some older girls asked me to join their party, and I was delighted. Our talent? "Dancing" to the Randy Newman song "Short People." We stood on our knees, having stuffed our bent legs into HUGE men's jeans. (The bottom half of each leg must have been tucked inside or folded under our knees, because these jeans would have been far too long.)
We put white pillow cases over our heads, with small cut outs for eyes and arms. We drew BIG, awkward smiley faces on our cases and glued on little tufts of yarn hair. We tucked the pillowcases into our oversizsed jeans (cinched with teenager's 1970s stretch belts, I imagine). We hobbled on stage en masse, probably looking a lot like Playskool Weebles. ("Weebles wobble but they don't fall down.")
The "performance" is a blur, but I vividly remember, as soon as the applause ended, collapsing on the floor. My knees were KILLING me! And I couldn't get them out of the straight-jacket jeans -- though I tried, even while still on stage.
It must have been quite the moment. Can you imagine? Weeble down! Weeble down!
One of the kind-hearted counselors (or just someone who wanted to get on with the show) had to pick me up. Exit stage right. Ever since that day, I have tried very hard 1.) Not to take to a stage in a pillowcase OR on my knees, and 2.) NEVER to stuff an entire bent leg in one half a blue jean.
II. When our child was 2, he got a green bath towel with a frog face on the hood and frog "feet" dangling from each corner. He would get out of the tub, wrap this plush rectangle about 3 times around his skinny, bent body, then "ribbit"his way from the bath to his bedroom. Hop, hop, hop, dragging terrycloth and stumbling on the two back feet all the way. Me: "Slow down, honey!" Him: "Rib-BIT! Rib-BIT! I can't, Mommie! I am a FrWAG, a FrWAG! Rib-BIT!"
...Priceless.
III. I'm quite a reader. Or, I was. And am. In fits and spurts, nowdays. But, oh, have I fanned the flame for good fiction in my time! I'm more bent toward novels than short stories, but it isn't hard to list several noteworthy gems.
In the category of Cheesy Short Story Confession, I remember I had this powerful thing for "The Tale-Tell Heart" by Edgar Alan Poe. I read it over and over -- just loved it! Thinking from today, I can't really say why, but I was fairly captivated by the tale in high school. Some hard core, Puritanical stuff in there -- a lot like Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter in many less words.
Moving to the category of Still Gets to Me -- read these more than once; they're powerful stuff! -- we have "Hills Like White Elephants" (Hemingway), "To Build a Fire" (Jack London), "A Small Good Thing" (heartbreaking Raymond Carver), "The Lottery" (Shirley Jackson -- also a fine memoirist) and "The Artificial Nigger" (Flannery O'Conner). (An aside: I can't believe I just typed that word. It feels all wrong, even in a title. Oh, the power of language!)
In the category of If You Have Not Read These Fine Examples of Writing, Please Go Find Them NOW, we have "Leaf Storm" (Gabriel Garcia Marquez... oh, the man is a gift to words!), "Shiloh" (Bobbie Ann Mason -- required reading if you're gonna even TRY to understand The South) and "Breakfast at Tiffany's" (Truman Capote -- so it's a novella, it's still short. And great. Stop by my house, I'll loan you my copy.)
IV. What do I know? I never make any. See lengthy graph above.
V. Again, I'm not so good with "SHORT" anything. If I stop short, it tends to be a full-on work outtage for hours/ days at end.
...Now, if Jer were around, I could have skewed those two words another way and written several nice things (that he would first impart to me) about the joys of the all-American pastime. But, since my spouse is out WORKING to improve our home, I had better take his lead and get back to my own daily business.
This has been a very enjoyable, if not particularly short, interlude.
Cheers and happy weekend, mis amigos!
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