Toothpaste Facial

While my last post was poignant and a sentimental walk down my childhood memory lane, I didn't cultivate my love of makeup or beauty products until junior high.

My daughter started at four.

Apparently, she felt her skin needed a bit of an exfoliation tonight before she headed to bed.  Earlier in the day I was reading the Hollywood Housewife and entering her clarisonic giveaway.  EG asked me what the picture was of and I briefly and absent-mindedly, told her that it was a machine to help wash your face.

Nothing about our exchange alerted me to her curiosity or interest in the topic.  But in true EG forum tonight at bedtime I heard the water running and running in her bathroom.  I heard her talking to herself about how was she was going to get this off her face.  I called out to her from LP's room and something in her voice made me head towards the bathroom.

There she stood, on the stool, staring at her face in the mirror.  She looked delighted and proud and puzzled all at once.  Her entire face was covered in a delicate film of watery toothpaste.  She was gently scrubbing it all over with her toothbrush. 

I took the brush from her hand and gave her an exasperated and probably crabby look.  I told her to close her eyes tightly and began to rise off her face.  She had nothing to say except for when it was done.  She hopped off the stool, shook her slightly wet bangs and proclaimed to no one in particular, "Ah, minty fresh."

Beauty At My Door

Last week would have been my Godmother's 66th birthday.  In honor of her birth and love for all things 'product' whether they be for one's hair, face or body, my Birch Box "membership" arrived via email.


BirchBox is this company I had heard about on a few blogs.  You sign up and each month a box of beauty products shows up at your door.  From what I understand they are generous sample sizes and presented in a lovely, gift type box.  There is a limited number of spots and so there was a waiting list when I went to sign up.  It's a nice marketing gimmick, as the excitement built over the weeks while I waited to hear back from them.

My first box will arrive in May.  I'm excited to see what is in it.  (Spoiler:  If you are directly related to me...don't run out and sign up...they have gift options, that's all I'm saying.)

+++

I have this vivid memory of standing in the hallway bathroom at my parent's home surrounded by my mom's friends.  I must have been trying on some eye makeup or lotion and pulled the skin around my eyes in the process.  I remember one of the women stopping me and teaching me to be more gentle with the skin in that area.  Something in her voice stuck with me.  Not the actual lesson, I still pull at my eye as I put on liner, but the reason behind her instruction.  She would have been around my current age...nearing 40.  

Throughout the day, when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, I am startled to see that face staring back at me.  I know it is me, but she looks nothing like what I thought I did.  Something is off, some wrinkles, less lashes.  My eyes are off and I can never quite put my finger on just what the problem is.  I imagine my aunt-like friend was just beginning to wonder who was staring back at her, and saw an opportunity to help me preserve my own youthful skin.

Many people scoff and write off the joy of a new sample sized beauty product.  I understand.  I know nothing will stop the march of my human condition.  I know my outward appearance isn't the most defining or important part of who I am.  But I still love a good 'gift with purchase,' a stroll through Ulta or Sephora is much too fun for me.  I'm not opening a miracle product or a way to make men notice me, I'm opening memories.  Despite my nostalgia for my eye lashes of last decade, I'm not looking to increase my self esteem.  I'm remembering conversations that took place in bathrooms and locker-rooms.  Scents take me back to nights when my mom and dad went out to dinner or as adults got ready for work.  I feel the arms and the sides of My Women as we huddled up around a department store counter weighing in on whether a color looked right or not.  

The most significant women in my life are all strong, funny, smart, caring people...who took me to a beauty counter and I stood watching them, as they bought lipstick.

And the older I get the more I want to remember the shades with which they colored my life.

18 months

LP has been alive outside of me for as long as he grew inside of me.  (not really, but 9 months is the proverbial amount of time it takes to grow a baby)  I've known this little guy for a year and a half now.  I have to say the last nine months have been way better than the first nine months.

If you look back over my blog for 2010-2011 you'll note that I didn't write much down.  I honestly didn't want to record my feelings or thoughts from that pregnancy lest one of the kids read some day in the future.  Their therapy will already be costly enough.  I kicked and dragged my feet as long and as hard as I could through those nine months.  Sullen.  Sad.  Annoyed.  Embarrassed.  Scared.  And, on top of all of that, ashamed, that I had any of those feelings.

But then he was born. We went to the Sun to give birth to him--no, wait, it was the HOTTEST day of my life.  Except for not wanting to be there, the entire experience was simple and straight forward.  He was born via c-section the morning of July 20th.  Screaming away, he came out peeing.  Yes, peeing.  My first memory of LP is a steam of urine shooting out of him, and nurses laughing.  When a nurse went to write down his stats she recorded 4 pee streams.  I remember her calling out whether that was "four or five?" My son.  So proud.  Forget Apgar scores, how many pees did your kid have?

My Husband had to repeat to me over and over that he looked fine.  I kept whispering to my Husband that his nose looked odd and he might have Downs Syndrome.  Now, I'm not kidding.  A rush of the anxiety and statistics that had surrounded my doctor appointments washed over me and I had to run down each scenario.  LP didn't want to hear it and decided to take a funny breath--due to odd chest sounds he was whisked away with my Husband.  He just wanted to get away for a while--he was fine.

After that short departure, he would not want to leave my side for the next...well, nine months.

LP would not stay in the nursery.  Or rather, due to his high, ear piercing cry/squeal/screech, the nurses did not want him IN the nursery.  LP was also a very sleepy eater.  A few gulps of milk and he'd fall asleep.  He wouldn't be full, but he'd fall asleep.  I would think that maybe I could sleep too, so I'd send him down to the nursery.  I'd fall asleep for about 10 minutes and I'd hear this distinct cry coming back down the hallway.  "He wants his Mommy." some well meaning nurse would sing-song as she plopped him back into my arms.

Then we'd try it all over again.  Hour, after hospital, hour.

I know why I didn't just cave and sit there with him.  I was in pain.  I was tired.  I didn't want to drop him out of bed when I dozed off.  I had some of my own bodily issues going on.  I knew these few days were the only ones I would ever again have with just one child.  I figured the nurses might be on MY side.  Not so.

Screaming LP made noise all the way out of the hospital.  I remember sitting in the hospital atrium with a nurse and LP as Husband went to get the car.  I couldn't get LP to stop crying and he needed to stay in his car seat, so he just cried harder and harder.  The look on her face was priceless--a mix of forced pleasantness and glazed over, "I'm going to my happy place."  He stopped the minute we pulled away from the hospital parking lot.  Which, ironically would be the only quiet drive he'd make for the next few months.

His arrival into our home was the stuff of movies.  He silently entered the house.  His brother and sister gently and calmly (albeit giddily) gave him hugs and kisses.  We took him out of his car seat and he snuggled up to his Dad.  Due to wisdom, and Motherhood Maturity, I made up a bottle of formula for LP.  It would be his only bottle of formula as I also set up the (awful) pump.  Tummy full, he settled into life.

+++

Nine months have passed since I met him.  He's charmed me and everyone else he has met along the way.  He delights in making people laugh.  Has a quick smile.  He still pees big, bold streams of pee if the diaper is left off too long during a change.  Delighting in the reaction each time.  He loves his brother and sister.  He can not be left alone--honestly, because we don't want to, and because he starts to cry.  The horrid screech went away after a few months.  He never did get the hang of breast feeding.  The slow pace of it made him fall asleep in the early months--when I didn't have time to sit there for hours on end--and once he out grew the sleepy phase, the pace frustrated him.  He's had a bottle for most feedings ever since.  (more on nine months of pumping once the horror is over.)  Right now he's crawling as fast as he can to keep up.  He enjoys feeding himself and promises he'll sleep longer than six hours at a stretch...sometime very, very, soon.

Bread and Wine...for me.

I woke up raging.  About the dog.  And, the living room carpet.  And, the gate that was suppose to block the dog from getting to the carpet.  There was a bigger, more important lesson behind the gate and the dog and the carpet but even the Bigger Lesson didn't merit my rage.

In my communication classes I learned about a type of fighting that is called "kitchen sinking."  It is a label assigned to the fighting style when one brings up every topic known to a relationship or, really, the human condition, in the course of one fight.

Example:  You wake up your husband demanding you know why he moved the gate and end up discussing mistakes he made on your vacation three years ago.

Just as an example.

I can be guilty of "kitchen sinking."

The rage, joined with the overwhelming mortification of realizing how I started off our family's morning, left me wiped out all day.  I was guilty of crazy behavior, and while my husband hung in there with me, saw the Bigger Lesson and said it was all ok, I still couldn't shake my remorse.

Even knowing it was hormonal wasn't helpful.  Because it was all still real.  Like a drunk person who tries to claim she didn't mean what she said at the party or didn't mean to break dance on your kitchen counter, spilling red wine and taco dip on the carpet, or intend to kiss your cat...it still all happened.  (not at my party, but I hear things)  Hormones are real.  Really powerful.  Really tiresome.  Really hard to control.

By that evening, I needed to step away for a while.  My Husband came home, and I left.  I decided to take myself to dinner.  (because I was sure I'd be such a fun date)  I sat at a real restaurant and ordered wine, a salad and ate the bread with olive oil and asiago cheese.  I ordered creme brule.  I read the book "Jesus Freak" by Sara Miles.

It is a memoir about Sara's early work at the food shelf she created.  It is about, as the subtitle says, feeding, healing and raising the dead.  I'm struggling with my current faith community, and in the day to day struggle, I forget what I believe we are to be about.  I need to be reminded of our greater purpose, I need the challenge to love others, I need the charge to be audacious and bold in my actions for the good of the Gospel.  I forget that the promises of word and bread and wine is real.  Even though I weekly go through the motions, teaching my kids what is happening at the altar, I forget to remind myself that what happens around the altar and through our hands, is real.

Words from the page convicted me, eased my rage and stirred my soul.

"The thing that sucks about being a Christian is that God actually lives in other people."  
"Being the body of Christ didn't allow a lot of room for sentimentality or waffling, and didn't depend on my ability or failure to like any particular individual.  It just demanded a new heart from me, a new way of seeing other people."
"Somebody told me a story,  And it turned out to be true."
"I tasted Jesus before I read about him and turned back to Scripture for clues about what I'd already experienced in my own body."

As I read about her conversion to Christianity through the shared bread of Jesus' body, and her continued faith development through feeding the lost and lonely, crumbs from my own bread fell into the book.  I sat in the booth made for six people and took in the lives being lived around me.

I dipped a piece of crusty bread into the olive oil.  Then I bit off a piece.  I took a deep breath and said to myself, "this is for you."  I picked up the solid wine glass, heavy with a merlot and drank in the smooth, berry liquid.  I sighed, and felt forgiveness.

I ended the day laughing in the kitchen with my Husband.  Amazed and aware of the transformation that took place in twelve hours.

feeding.  healing.  raising the dead.  

indeed.

Where do you find nourishment in your day to day life?

Spring Break--I'll be back Monday!

He is Risen! My Teeth are Missing!

On Sunday, when BB flashed a smile at a theologically inspired friend, the man said that the gaping hole reminded him of the empty tomb on Easter morning.  BB shrugged and then grinned some more.

The teeth were put in a plain cardboard box.  When we woke up, the box had been decorated.  There is a note at the bottom of the box...with tiny, tiny handwriting on it.  (or a very small font.)

Calling All Therapists.

Recently, I have been creating little 'spa' breaks in my car before or after I run an errand.  I sit in the car, in the parking lot and read a magazine or sip coffee.  Alone.  I've indulged in a bit of chocolate or snacked on my Kashi Go Lean (wonder) cereal.

While I have not found my rhythm when it comes to consistent exercise, I have done really well in regards to documenting my food and calories. 

Until the last few days.  I'm all pouty that LP won't sleep longer than 7 hours at night (8pm to 3am) and I just don't want to deal with figuring out his goofy personality and the day to day workings of our schedule just are what they are...he's going to have to deal.  Apparently, so am I.  So instead of sucking it up and getting on the treadmill at inconvenient times I...

sit in my car reading Shape magazine and eating 4 servings of Cheetos.  (one "snack" bag)


And, a Twix bar.


There are no words.

Why This Pastor Won't Send her Kids to Christian School...

(Most likely)  I've learned enough in six years to never say 'never' when it comes to my kids and my parenting beliefs.  I can however claim, with a bold amount of certainty, that I will never send them to a 'Christian' school.  My own denomination does not have many (any?) schools.  One branch of the Lutheran tree has schools, but the fact they don't allow women to hold leadership roles irritates me to the point that I can't see a day when I'd be comfortable giving them money to education my children.  There are circumstances where I may send them to schools founded by certain denominations or a Catholic school...but never a school claiming 'Christian' as their guiding principles.

Because really, I wouldn't be able to stomach it.  And. because they really mean a particular, narrow version of Christianity.

My thoughts of this topic were confirmed for me over the course of a few weeks by events at school (Presbyterian) that my kids both attend.

BB came home one day all excited about Heaven.  It seemed a bit odd to my ears.  He had the following knowledge about what would happen when people died and went to heaven:

They would all get a mansion.  The streets were paved in gold.  Their bodies would be put back together--whatever injuries they had acquired over their life would be healed.  They would never get sick again.  You'd get to be with your Grandpas and Grandma...

The next day I asked the teacher what BB had been talking about.  Often a six year old's version of a story and reality don't match up.

BB and his kindergarten class were talking about Heaven during their lunch time.  I wasn't there and my son isn't one to use descriptive words so I had to piece together what BB said, and what his teacher, who wasn't there either, knew.  He couldn't tell me too much more except that after overhearing the students talking at lunch, the lunch aid used part of their recess time to sit them down and tell them what Heaven was like based on scripture she felt helpful on the topic.

It became clear why his retelling of the his faith experience seemed 'off' to me.  He had been given all the answers.  I don't know what else she said to the kindergarten class but whatever it was, however based in scripture it might have been, I knew from the tone of BB's retelling that it hadn't happened within the confines of the prescribed religious education.

The religious education program of the preschool and kindergarten my kids attend, is the reason they go to this school.  I first found the school six years ago while searching for curriculum training on Godly Play.  This YouTube video gives a wonderful introduction to what my kids experience everyday at school.




The following week the Associate Director of the school shared with me a funny story from Godly Play time.  The students were hearing the story from Palm Sunday.

"I wonder why Jesus was riding on a donkey?" she asked the group.

One preschool boy spoke up and began to speculate that Jesus must be headed to Jerusalem because he was going to have a baby.  "That is why he's on the donkey."

The director has been trained in Godly Play and understands that the purpose of the story teller is to help the children wonder and discover God.  She was internally laughing and mentally sitting on her hands trying not to jump in and correct the child's idea.  Finally, a little girl jumped in.

"No, no...Jesus wasn't having a baby.  You are thinking of Mary on the donkey in Advent.  Maybe the donkey just wanted to be with him again."

Over the course of BB's three years at this school I have heard him retell countless Biblical stories.  Each time he has told the stories, they have come through his voice.  The basic truths of the parable are there but they are processed through the developmental stage and unique perspective of BB.  The same is true for EG in her first year of preschool.  They can retell each story from beginning to end with great detail.  Wondering in Godly Play has given each of them the confidence to wonder about the larger more complex questions faith brings to our lives.

"Aren't these seeds amazing Mom?  We need to find good soil for them to grown in.  Just like we need good soil to grow."
"I wonder how God can be in so many hearts at once?"
"I hope part of my journey isn't to a cross."

Up until very recently neither of my kids came at faith from a black and white place.  It was always prefaced in wonderment and questions.  It was theological in nature not regurgitation of Sunday School facts.  Not until the enticing lecture on golden roads and big mansions.  "That is what she said mom. God gives the people who go to heaven whole mansion for ourselves."

A small part of me began to cry inside.  Scratch that, I was seeing red as BB told me about it.  Because BB doesn't care that I have a M. Div. behind my name.  My 12 minutes of proclamation once a month don't really hold any weigh in his life.  His teachers and the women who make him lunch hold all the power.  And for one brief period of time they betrayed my trust and stopped wondering with my child and instead gave him their specific answer of how God works.

That isn't to say it was horrifically wrong or even theologically ill advised, it is the fact she felt she was suppose to give an answer at all that is bugging me.  (ok, lots of what she said bug me...)

The school my kids go to is unique.  It is a rare thing for a religious leader to 'wonder' with a child.  We are much more equipped to assume they have no faith than to listen to what they believe.  We have the impression that it is our responsibility to fill their hearts and minds with the Truth.  So, we talk. At them.  Often.  Sunday School.  Children's Sermons.  Christian Education.

Which is why I will mostly likely never send my kids to a school that professes a certain religious belief.  Chances are very high that I won't like how they present it.  Someone will teach something that rubs me the wrong way or is taken out of context by my child.

Science teachers know science and I accept that they know more than me, and my B.A. in Communications, but my M. Div. doesn't mean anything to most people.  When it comes to theology, everyone gets to weigh in on God with the same authority as everyone else.

So public school it shall be.  I'll allow our congregation and pastors to help shape their faith.  I'll get to have a bit more of a hand in shaping their theological thinking.

And, at least that way I won't have to 'wonder' about how God is being taught.

The photos were taken by EG on a particularly lovely Wednesday afternoon.

The Country Bunny...

We tolerate a bit of secular Easter Bunny festivities in our Lent and Holy Week.  Especially when it comes in the forms of One of My Favorite Books as a Kid.  There are a handful of books from my childhood that I can palpably remember hearing and experiencing.  The Country Bunny and The Little Gold Shoes by Du Bose Heyward (illustrated by Marjorie Flack) is one such book.

Above, is my absolute favorite page in the book.  Below you see the mother bunny with her adorable children all lined up to meet the Grandfather Bunny. (the pages are out of order). 

 What I didn't know is that the book would make me cry.  Last year was the first year we had the book and I sat down with my two little bunnies to read the book the message and lessons of the story hit hard.

The Mother Cottontail has dreams of becoming one of the Easter Bunnies (there are five in this story) but before these dreams are realized she has 21 bunnies.  That's a lot of work.  But she does a beautiful job of raising each bunny to have a job or hone a skill so that each of them participate in the life of the family.  Then one day the Grandfather Bunny calls for a competition to fill one of the slots for Easter Bunny.  By meeting her he sees that she is wise, kind, swift and clever.  So she becomes the fifth Easter Bunny....I won't ruin the rest of the story for you.  This book was written in 1939 and the messages it contains are well beyond its time period.

Although it fits in beautifully with my feminist-Free to Be You and Me childhood exposure.  You are never quite sure how you turn out the way you did until you see and hear the messages that were with you growing up.
Below is another page that captured my imagination.  The bunnies all snuggled up four to a bed always fascinated me.  My own daughter stared and stared at this page speculating how it would be to sleep with BB's feet in her face.

Exactly the message I was hoping she'd take away from the book.

Do you have any favorite Easter stories?  Movies?