Family Fridays

~ Outside My Front Door ~

This last weekend I received a call from my neighbor. She had been noticing a lot of bees around the yard and in looking; found that they had a permanent residence near our second story window. So naturally, we took a look and called a few experts. Turned out they were wasps. A fumigator came and took care of it but I couldn’t help but think about what the potential threat symbolized for me. Dave and I seek to make our home a place of refuge. A place that is secured. Knowing there are families without a safe home much less a home at all, I know we are privileged. 

You know, inside my front door: we can eat, sleep, walk about safely while hopefully gaining confidence and security. Inside we can be loved. But once we walk outside the front door, there is the unknown. Threats are everywhere in the world buzzing about and we can be hurt emotional, physically…spiritually. Of course, outside isn’t always so bad, but it is the unknown. Outside there are things that sting.

So what then, in the meantime are we doing as a family while inside? Intentional living? Intentional parenting? What does that even mean?

It won’t be long until my kids are teenagers – going out with their friends on Friday nights, making memories to giggle about and snap pictures for their photo albums, not thinking twice about their parents at home. Don’t get me wrong – there are days I can’t wait to have a night or a weekend to myself! But I know that when it comes right down to it, I’ll be just a little bit lonely once they’re grown.

So I was thinking…. while the time is still mine, and while Mom and Dad are still the coolest cats around to hang out with on Friday nights… I’m starting a ‘lil thing called FAMILY FRIDAYS. Not sure where it will go, what we will do or how long it will last -but I thought it was something I can give them….while they’re still on the inside of my front door.

Mommy Hour

This was it. The time had finally come at last. The small joys of stay at home motherhood. BEDTIME.
After a day of errand running, lawn mowing, diaper changing, snack making and attitude taking – I was ready for those little rugrats to slip off to sleep for 12, 15, 20 hours.
I scampered downstairs feeling exhaustion as if I had ran a summer marathon in Phoenix. This whole summertime no school thing can get a hard workin’ momma a run for her money. My kids are still so young; school barely makes a dent since it’s a few hours… but for some reason I keep checking that calendar with the big red words “SCHOOL STARTS” nearly every week. So the kids were “put away” but there were the dishes, the garden, laundry and have course the puppy. Finishing up those end of the day obligations with my eyes half closed all I could think of was this desire to fall onto the couch and stare at some mindless entertainment. At this point, even commercials would do.
I grabbed a nice tall glass of water, a blanket, the remote, my phone, baby monitor and any other possible item that I might have to get up for and then, I sat. Eli, our 12-week puppy plopped down on the floor beside me. Of course he drives me up a wall most the day, chewing pacifiers and traumatizing the children with his lil razor sharp puppy chops. But at least he’s adorable and obeys me for the most part. I enjoy snuggling at the end of the day after we’ve played and he’s calm enough to just lay down. You know, man’s best friend and all. Is Eli the only one in the house that knows how to just kick it?
So, I flipped on some John Stewart and sighed with relief. Aaahh. It’s now “mommy hour”. As quickly as I relaxed – the TV kept flipping channels. SERIOUSLY? Does this have to happen? Infomercial, sports, soft jazz, infomercial…. It went on and on. “WHAT THE HECK!” I yelled. I glanced around getting more irritated by the minute. I got down and stared at the labyrinth of black boxes and wires, pushing some familiar words, turning things on and off and occasionally yelling or hitting the ground. I don’t even watch TV everyday let alone every week so the one time I’m going to be lazy and park it on TV lane – this happens. Nice.
After about 9-10 minutes (which felt like 30) I hear it, the ever so soft sound of a TV remote being eaten. I turned and stared a little longer at the dog. Chew toy? Nope. The remote tucked covertly under his thick black fur with just the tip peeking out between bites.
I grabbed it, put a button or two back on and sent “man’s best friend” to bed. It wouldn’t be “mommy hour” if I didn’t earn it, right?

A piece of paper speaks a thousand words

I was astonished! In complete disbelief. How could this happen?

I started out at the same time as he did…..was found and cut of the same wood. I knew that we were both being delivered to the same corporation because we both had the same blue and black stamp on the letterhead box we were in.
The work schedule was identical.
The title was the same.

The work output was equal or sometimes even greater by my lady.
I’d seen her dedicate extra hours into her job. She balanced her children and other engagements she had. She even went the extra mile when often times he checked out early or didn’t even care.

So why am like this? Why can’t I be like his or better yet- even larger?
It’s funny…. We look the same, same size, same color. But he has bigger numbers than I.

I didn’t know that just because I was made to be a woman’s paycheck – that I would be so much smaller than a man’s.
It doesn’t add up.

April 20th is Equal Pay Day. Because on average by April 20th 2010, a woman has finally reached the equivalent of what a man made in 2009 for the same position.

Home.

It usually comes back with distant familiarities. The scent of the trees I used to walk to school by….the smell of the ocean…. or the familiar sites of alley ways and crowded breakfast joints.
It’s been nearly 4 years since we officially moved away from home. It was always a place that we could bounce back and forth between. Come back to relax. Home provided a respite with a familiar solidarity.
I was surprised to see how small that piece of the world actually seemed upon visiting it again. The football bleachers that were so grand and mighty were but a few rows of metal stacked next to each other. They didn’t come close to representing the fame and adrenaline of Friday night games but looked more like a small field with little significance.
The house I grew up in was still quaint and small, but not the home I knew.
There remained the consistency of the people. I witnessed the same church members working whole-heartedly in the kitchen for a potluck, or teachers teaching their classes. It’s as if years had only passed with the graying of hair but not the changing of they’re commitment. There’s a certain degree of security in the routine.
I drove back and forth visiting friends and seeing the faces of those who represented my past, my childhood and deep friendships. I took in the ocean which was as big as I’d remembered it and happily watched my girls splash about as I did at their age. To a child, everything is big. Larger than life…fun and exciting…. Although everything seems different to me now, I smiled as my daughter spoke from the back seat: “Momma! Look at the huge football field, have you been there before?”
You can’t go home again, no matter how hard you might try. It’s a bit saddening but there’s joy in knowing that home isn’t a place anymore – it’s my family.

Lunch Break

It seemed like the perfect day to head to one of the places that brings me joy- the mountains. Despite the weather report of snow flurries and dropping temperatures, the sun shown brightly down onto Denver that morning (besides, during the months of December through March when does the weather reports not include flurries and cold temps?). I threw a quick bag together and headed up. The skies were turning darker with every mile I drove but that was no matter. After all, a girl can still go hiking in the snow and enjoy her day!

I was heading to the same place I had been a week prior with my three little girls. We didn’t manage to get too far since it was a fairly steep incline near the trailhead. After venturing up the trail a little while, I realized there was no way that I could have dragged the girls to the top. But since I didn’t have a 25 pound baby on my back or a 32 pound 3 year old clinging to my neck, it was no problem today for me to trek to the glacier that awaited me.

The air was bitterly cold and bit at my nose every now and then. All I heard was the crunching of my steps and my breath racing in and out. It appeared that someone had broken the trail earlier that morning and admittedly, I was glad for it. I hadn’t come as prepared as I should have (famous last words…literally) and I was wishing I had brought some poles and snowshoes since it was snowing and the traction was difficult.

Once I reached the glacier I took some moments to take it all in. I’ve always felt so vulnerable in the mountains, particularly during the wintertime. During the past year I’ve witnessed policy makers build coalitions and senators act as judges…I’ve had weeks of running around with papers and meetings while cramming in the occasional room parent hours at my kid’s school and late nights of research and phone calls. It’s easy to fool yourself into thinking that you have control of your life or that you’re a pretty important person - but out here - none of that matters. The simplicity and the silence of the mountains trump any personal agenda and all that really matters is getting to where you’re going. I like that.

I sat down on a rock high above the frozen glacier and far below the towering peaks. The wind whipped the snow off the peaks as quickly as it brought it more. I grabbed an apple out of my pack and took note that my only lunch company appeared to be the tree from A Charlie Brown’s Christmas and the squirrel that raced around it. There’s something invigorating about being alone with nature that has always brought me a sense of peace. I wondered about the children I’ve worked with throughout the years as a social worker and if any of them have had the opportunity to enjoy the beauty of the mountains the way I have. It’s one thing to know about outdoor recreation and not enjoy it but entirely something different to have never been exposed to it. My thoughts then turned to my own kids and I hoped I would be able to introduce the little miracles of everyday life from the evolution of a pinecone to the dozen points on a snowflake. When I take the time to think about my surroundings, I can’t help but be in awe. I took some time to pray and be still…. I felt renewed. When hiking, I often turn towards the scriptures in which Elijah obeyed God’s instruction and went to the top of Mount Horeb. The wind blew fiercely and fire passed by but God was not in either of those. He came in a still small voice. God didn’t come to Elijah because he conquered some great feat of climbing a mountain but He came to him because Elijah was listening and because Elijah obeyed.

Time passed quickly and I decided after sinking thigh deep into the snow banks, that I had better turn back. My heart sank a bit when I knew it was time to head back just like it always does. It had been a great day. I breathed in the evergreens while glancing around the glacier and took a step back down the trail. And although I usually feel like I leave a small part of myself behind, I smiled inside because I know – I can take the peace of the mountains anywhere I go. There may not be wind whipping off my roof at home or fire in the sky every sunset, but there is the space for that still small voice to guide me…. as long as I am willing.

Sam's 1st Birthday!

Prima

She is a princess. She is a treasure. She captures fun and fancy all in one and it makes me smile. She dresses with intention and delicacy with her many layers of pink tulle and then jumps on the bed giggling as if forgetting about her perfect hair....

The power of a small brown make-up bag

So, I was running late. I decided to just find a random parking lot downtown instead of my usual spot that required me to walk a few extra blocks. It was a usual day and I was feeling pretty good about the day despite the hurried schedule. I wore a comfy jeans and sweatshirt combo. Given my rush out of the house that morning I threw on a hat and neglected my make-up bag. No big deal, I usually don’t get too bothered about appearances while doing street outreach.

As I pulled in I handed the parking attendant my credit card. Without taking it he shook his head no. “We don’t take credit cards. Cash only.” His bright plaid shirt seemed a bit loud in appearance but it was his abruptness that was even louder. “OK” I thought except I really was in a hurry and could use the help….. “I’m so sorry” I apologized, “is there any way you could just let me run to an ATM on my way back?” Given his disinterest I wasn’t surprised at his response. “Nope, sorry. Cash only. You’ll have to just drive in and turn around, I’ll let you out.” Well, that was that. Of course he had rules to follow and it would be unfortunate if he got in trouble for disregarding them.

I didn’t think twice about it until this Tuesday. I was heading to the Capitol that morning to lobby with some other people from a coalition. I made sure to have my best dress pants on, full make-up... the whole enchilada. I even underwent the annoying task of blow drying my hair, which is a rare occurrence. I had plenty of time that morning but it seemed like everyone else in the metro area had the same idea and they all took my parking spot. I didn’t realize that I had turned into that same lot until I saw the same man standing there, bright plaid and all. I realized I had made a wrong turn. I pulled into the lot ready to explain to him that I just needed to turn around and find another spot but he unfolded his arms and flagged me to stop. I rolled down the window and before I could get a word out he asked “Looking for a spot? Number 23 is open.” I grinned and told him no thanks but I didn’t have cash on me and I just needed to turn around to find another place that takes credit card. “No need to do that, Sugar.” He unfolded his arms and bent down to lean on my window “You can take that spot and just pay me when you come back.” It seemed like 2 entire minutes of confusion but really it was more like a few seconds until I caught on. “Oh really?” I said with a sweet smile, “I thought you didn’t take cash.” He smiled back a little more interested “well, technically we don’t but I’ll make an exception.” So, I decided to take advantage of my lip gloss and straight smooth hair and I parked, waving thank you as I walked on. I could almost feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck as I walked away, leaving only the sound of my high heels clicking on the pavement.

I was gone about 4 hours and returned with my ten dollars to pay my debt. This time there were two men inside the entrance booth. One took a clipboard off the wall as I walked up and then he asked if I was number 23. I said "yes", a little curious how he knew that the white car in that spot was mine. Perhaps I was the only one who hadn't paid that morning or perhaps the man next to him in the bright plaid shirt told him. None the less, I paid my dues and turned to the flannel lover asking “you know, I was just here last week and you didn’t let me park. You said that you didn’t take credit cards.” He looked at me bewilderedly and replied with an intelligent “humph”. Noticing his limited vocabulary, I continued “Do you remember me?” I asked. “I’m driving the same car but I might look a little different, I wasn’t working that day.” He wore an honest blank stare on his face and murmured “Nope sorry, don’t remember you. Maybe you were thinking of someone else."
“Hmm…..maybe” I said.
Oink Oink.

Kassigau Weavers

This video was created to educate our communities on how the women of the Kasigau, Rukunga village live from day to day. Their struggles, hardships and resilience are remarkable examples of Kenyan lifestyles. We can take action NOW by partnering with them in their efforts for sustainable living!

All Hope Is Not Lost

The last time I saw her she seemed happy and unusually talkative. She explained that the night before was pretty rough. She had done a line or two in a bathroom stall at the Ice House downtown. Apparently her friends had gone on without her maybe even unknowingly. The next morning she remembered hearing the janitor’s mop sloshing near her head. She had spent all night there, passed out. She giggled a bit and fidgeted with her sweatshirt that was two sizes too big. She was still riding it, I could tell. Otherwise her eyes wouldn’t be as lively as they were now and she definitely wouldn’t be interested in talking to me.

We asked her if she needed anything and she just smirked, nodding no. She said she had a place to stay but we couldn’t know what she might be trading or what she had to do, if anything, to receive that shelter. The minutes rushed past us while she jabbered about a few other street youth that she hadn’t seen in awhile. Mentioned she was doing her part to “move up in society” or at least that’s how most service providers describe the task of job hunting. I wondered if she was wearing her finest interview clothes. The pin stripped pants were worn and matched perfectly with the overall baggy theme. Drugs had withered her shape down to an outline and I wasn’t sure what she might have looked like a year ago.

This week was different. I hadn’t been on the streets for over a month now and was uncertain I would remember any one’s name. Since so many youth might have two or three names the task always seems impossible to me. But then – out of the corner of my eye, we caught a glimpse of her. She was bundled in a sweatshirt, not quite as baggy as the last one. She hunched over on a curb and I could tell she saw me too. The sun had decided to grace Denver with it’s warmth that afternoon so I couldn’t imagine that she was chilled. About a foot down from her sat a gentleman. They were together. I had never seen him before but that didn’t mean anything. If it weren’t for the indentations in her arms and neck, I wouldn’t have placed her either. She was different today. Her eyes were solid dark brown, heavy and dead looking. I noticed she had put on some weight since last time I’d seen her, which was a relief. She didn’t make eye contact and wasn’t interested in talking. Took a few bottled waters and snacks and pretty much ended the conversation. She was coming down from a high. “Recovering” you could say although it was painful to witness for the mere minutes I was there. If I had just been walking to work or out shopping I wouldn’t have even noticed her. It was as if she melt into the cement pattern, camouflaged by her peers. Someone said that this was her norm. Not too personable and sometimes even mean. The day we saw her energetic and happy was only a facade. A façade that many youth experience and it can change overnight. It made me wonder what the past month was like for her. How many ups and downs? How many nights on the street or crashing in some dangerous situation?

The sun looms lower and before you know it, your day has folded into evening. A week or two might go by before talking with a friend that you planned on meeting with months ago. Perhaps your to-do list never seems to end and your chasing that task till the end of the year. But what about those whose survival changes in days, hours, even minutes? When you blink and all the options you thought you had before have now dwindled down to: what can I swap for food or cash…or where’s my drug that makes my reality a little bit better? One day you’re surrounded by your street family and the next, you didn’t pull your weight with them so there you sit, alone indefinitely.

It took me about 20 minutes to get home from downtown. I parked the car and sorted through the images I’d just seen. “Focus now” I think to myself  “you have dinner to help with and baths to give”.

That night, when all is settling down, I ask my girls what they want to pray for. The usual requests go out for their “cousins who live far, far away” or a safe night, their teachers at school. But tonight, my oldest looks at me and says “I have an idea Mommy”. “Oh really?” I said, “what is it?” Proudly she replies “let’s pray to God for the boys and girls far away that don’t have a house or toys". I remembered earlier that week talking to her about Haiti and what had been going on there. But tonight, my mind replayed the events of that afternoon… and I thought of her. “Well,” I reminded her, “there are lots of girls and boys right here that don’t have a house or toys”. She stared towards her bed for a moment as if trying to process what I had just told her. Was she picturing her friends without a bed? No piles of stuffed animals to cuddle with at night? Was she wondering what kids do all day without newly polished toys or dress up clothes? I’ll never know what goes on in her young mind but one thing I do know is that she’s pretty intuitive The next sentence out of her mouth summed up why I feel inclined to do what I do. She reminded me that all hope is not lost.“Ok” she said “then we should pray for the whole wide world and Jesus can help them”. I looked down at her, her eyes burning with enthusiasm, “that’s right” I said softly, ”so, let’s pray”.

Mackenzie's 3rd Birthday

Fun times. 3 years and counting!

Young Girl, Young Girl, What Do You See?

After some time of deliberating, the Doc walked in with the results. "A herniation of your L4 and L5 discs is causing them to bulge and give you nerve pain" he said, unseemly disturbed. Seriously? I'm 29 years old and I already have degenerative disc disease? Sure it's common, by the age of 50, 85% of us will show signs of this back pain. But again, I reiterate : I am 29. I have three little kids, grad school, part time work, church responsibilities, hiking trips...the list went on. The plain and simple truth of the matter is, I don't have time for this.

I hobbled to my car, easing my way in like I had just given birth while Dave drove as gently as possible back to the house. I had used the walker in the hospital to ease some discomfort, so I suppose I could secretly use it at home. After all, I hadn't seen any young suburban moms hobble to the park with snacks in their walker basket lately I would wait until this inflammation died down then I would go back to life as normal. Back to how I want to define myself. A definition that didn't include a walker, a bent over crouch or a medicine cabinet full of little orange bottles. Sure I had seen lots of people that needed assistance walking. A few girls at school in wheelchairs, older adults at church, grocery stores, heck, I constantly urge my own family members to do what's best for them and use a cane or whatnot. They were still themselves, weren't they? They were the same friends and family I loved. Nothing had changed except for a superficial adjustment of their physical ability. A walking stick wouldn't define them. I never thought poorly of them or considered them inferior to me.

BUT - then it dawned on me. Of course I did. I formulated my opinions of them, opinions that had some sort of negative connotation. I had to have. For when it came time to accept my lot of back pain, I denied it. I refused to use a walker in public. I pushed myself beyond my abilities because it's what I've always done and I won't be stopped by my pain. After all, I had places to go and important things to do!

And then it started. I noticed little things at first like toilet paper being a far reach in a stall. Heavy doors at the post office or stairs without railings. I began to notice things that could have made my life a lot easier being absent from my everyday life. Taken for granted. Overlooked by the busy and self-determined society who illuminated their privilege of ablism.

However, it's not the tangible things that bother me the most now. It's the spoken or unspoken language we all use from time to time. I caught myself saying things like "I feel like an old lady" or "my 30's better be better than this". I noticed myself get embarrassed as I would have to get up slowly from a bench once our name was called at a restaurant, or if there was an activity at my job that included a lot of movement, I passively sat out instead of saying "I have a bad back". Wasn't I a confidant woman? What was this new condition that had broken my strong hold on the world around me?

Discrimination comes in many forms.

It's most often the ones that are so closely knit into our society, our language, our slang or habits. It's disguised as personal preferences and glossed over as cliche's. It's constantly being re-enforced as we skip through life and give no second thought to what "I feel like an old lady" is really trying to convey. Are old ladies bad? Is old age something to avoid, full of pain, and horrible things? Perhaps some might think so. What if I said "I feel like an old man"? Would that insinuate a plethora of wisdom or, like an "old lady", insinuate aches, pains and miserableness? Certainly, it can't be that terrible. Certainly that's not what my future holds. For I would hope that by the time I have come to the age of being considered an "old lady", my faith will have increased tremendously. My love for my partner will be overflowing with selflessness. My children will have grown knowing their God, their passions and the love of their parents. Particularly, their mother, the "old lady".

The question is continually raised - Isn't it silly to be making such a big deal about language? Isn't this "Politically correct" business a bit too extreme? Perhaps. But first, consider this: what images am I instilling in my children as they grow and learn? If my reference to a people or population usually comes with negative undertones, what message? Or if I'm speaking of myself and the sentence is laden with put-downs. hmm.... I wonder.

Mind Over Matter

The idea of blogging has teased me for some time now. Who would read my posts besides myself? I can picture it now, browsing them in the middle of the night as I procrastinate from research papers, and after I had already exhausted my facebook profile. Will I be able to articulate my reaction to the world around me? What will I write of? Motherhood, Christian feminism, social work, family life, crossroads and my constant need to be in the mountains.

Of course I can occasionally interject my thoughts out loud at home - between screaming matches of ring-around-the-rosy and the ever spouting fountain of questions also known as Kennedy. If I get lucky, I can head downstairs and lock myself in the furnace closet to hear myself, but inevitably, someone will start yelling my name: "Mooooom-mmmmmy" and I'll have to truck back upstairs and fish out the sippy cup that was being filled with toilet water.

Despite that snapshot of reality...I'll take the optimistic road and... write.