Martha Martha!

Winding down the day with a cup of decaf I opened up my silverware drawer in search of the lone teaspoon. I actually have 12 place settings of flatware; twelve dinner & salad forks, twelve knives, twelve soup spoons… but for whatever reason, these past 6 months, my household has been functioning with only one teaspoon.

The lone spoon is of course never in the silverware drawer. It’s usually in the dishwasher. This has never dissuaded me from hopefully looking in the silverware drawer first, however. Like playing a slot machine, I expectantly pull open the drawer hoping that maybe, just maybe I’ll hit the jack pot. And every 100 drawer pulls or so I get lucky, and the lone spoon will be expectantly lying there, looking up at me with a demitasse, melancholy smile. “I once had friends,” it whimpers. Somewhere in my house, there are in fact, eleven teaspoons. Please tell me, they are somewhere!? I mean, where else would they be?

It hadn’t really started gnawing at me until about a week ago, when we closed on the construction loan for our house renovation project. Yes, it’s true, more than a year later, we are going ahead with the second story addition. And while I haven’t packed one iota, the demo crew is coming in a few weeks, and all the piles of stuff that I had long ago given up finding proper places for, have started screaming at me…

“Where-are-THE-SPOONS?!”

The other day I decided to take an earnest stab at finding them. I mean, certainly the smallest search might produce at least one extra spoon, if not two or three. I began by quizzing my 8-year-old son, a.k.a. “Boy Scientist” who is always concocting various potions, mixtures and solutions in his bedroom.

“Jack? Honey, when you mix up your experiments, what are you doing with the spoons?”

“I dunno mom, I can’t remember.”

“Well, can you think hard, because mommy seems to be missing about eleven of them.”

“Well, umm, I guess I put them in the sink.”

“Are you sure? I mean, because if you put them in the sink, they might have found their way into the dishwasher. Right?”

“I dunno mom, I think that I put the spoons in the sink.”

The next day I began rifling through the many collections & piles in Jack’s room. It had been I while since I had last excavated my way into his room. Aside from the containers of mystery liquids, there were rock piles, stick piles, piles of shredded paper with cryptic Pokémon scenes scrawled on them, paper airplane piles, dismembered captain underpants books, misc. metal objects dug up from the back yard, soccer trophies beheaded by his younger brother, torsos and limbs from various action figures…but nary a single teaspoon.

I was vexed, to say the least. When did the number of spoons in my drawer elude me? Certainly I might have taken note of a 6 spoon deficit? I can’t remember even having two. But there it is. Eleven spoons gone. They are not in the couch or the mini-van or in my yarn stash. They are not in the Lego piles or the Hot wheels baskets. They are not under my bed or in the sand box or shoved down the HVAC vents.

The only thing I can hardly allow myself to believe, is that perhaps, perhaps my independent five year old; who likes to help himself to yogurts and do everything himself, and can’t quite reach the sink yet, has thrown away the spoons with his yogurt cups... all eleven of them? No, I just can’t accept it…

“Sporty-fit-and forty” is now only 35 days away! I may not be as sporty and fit as I hoped for, but I will certainly be forty. Where my thirties went, I can’t recall, but I bet my children could tell me.

The boys, now 8 & 5, drive me crazy, and somehow love me to death. We do need a bigger house. Jack, who must now weigh 80+lbs still jumps and flaps at any exciting thought; and when both boys start tearing through the house it sounds like a pack of charging elephants. They remain completely sweet, however. This was the dialogue in the car yesterday morning--

“Hey Jack, when we grow up, will we still be friends?”

“Yeah Joey we’ll be friends. We’ll just be grown-ups.”

“Yeah and the second best thing about being a grownup is that you get your own house.”

“Well Joe, first we go to college,”

“Yeah, that’s right, college!”

“and then, we find ourselves some wives.”

“Are wives girls?”

“Yeah, girls, that we, you know, that we love. And then they have babies.”

“Yeah, and then the girls are mommies, and we’re daddies.”

“Yeah Joe, then we’re parents, and then our kids grow up and they have kids.”

“What!? No they don’t!”

“Yes Joe! That’s what happens when you get married, you have kids, then they have kids, and then we’re grandpa’s, and then…we DIE!”

At which point, both boys erupted in hysterical laughter. Obviously, the angst of their mortality hasn't come to fruition.

"Boys, you know that you won't really die."

"I know mom, we'll go to heaven. And that's where we'll have the biggest family and the biggest house!" 

How did my eight year old get to be so wise? Yes, the home front is on the move, and I’ve barely been able to stop and take note of it. My “part-time” job working for the church has become an all consuming way of life. Not that I feel like I’ve lost anything. I will cautiously say that I’m beginning to understand Christ’s words, “he who loses his life, finds it,” as piece by piece, the spoons of self service are being displaced. I’m not sure my life could be fuller. Ministry can be a wrecking ball, of sorts.  By God’s grace, I may live to praise Him for it.

We don't make much of feminity in our family.  I live in the dog house.  Two boys and a daddy dominate any chance of mommy exerting her fanciness. I do cling to vestiges of glamour--pedicures keep my toes looking nice in sandals, I keep my hair long, and wear pink or skirts at any opportunity.  But the fact is, I'm just playing at girliness.

The other day for example,  I had climbed into the van to make a quick run to Target to exchange the "Optimum Prime"  Transformer action figure that Grandpa bought Joey for his birthday. (Busted after 5 minutes of action.)
I began driving down the street when I noted on my drivers side window a small green gecko lizard, clinging for dear life. 

What would most females do in such a situation?  "Eeek!" in dismay, while stepping on the gas and blowing off the offending reptile? "  Pas moi.

No, this was too good; too many mommy-points to be savored.  Slamming on my breaks, I pulled over and oh so gingerly lowered the car window, taking care not to do it too quickly; and bare handedly nabbed the creature.
A quick one-handed-Y-turn and I peeled into the driveway. Running into the house with glee I couldn't wait to show off my conquest--

"Guys! Guys! I got a lizard!"

"Jack quick! Mom's got a lizard!"

"Cool mom!"

I felt pretty cool.  I passed ownership of the prized pet over to my hubby, and returned to the afternoon hunting and gathering at Target...

The other night we were all sitting out on the back deck having the usual dinner discussion with our 8-year-old about planets and space.  This discussion was related to the names of the planets and what Roman or Greek gods they were named after.  Jack seemed to be well informed:

"Yeah and Venus is the love goddess, because that's a girl thing."

Who decided "love" was a "girl" thing??  I guess I need to read that book about Mars & Venus...

Tonight Joey was running around screeching into Jack's voice-change-amplifier toy.  Laughing hysterically down the hall, he stopped in front of me, giggling with loud distorted reverb--

"Hey mommy! I'm sexy!"

"What?!"

"I'm sexy!"

"Who told you that word?"

"Christopher. Yeah, and mommy, "sexy" is a "girl" word."

"Oh, well, am I sexy?"

"No! you're just mommy!" 

sigh. I guess I'll just go out back and scare up some more lizards. 

...you realize the babysitter is the same age as your cats.

The first day of school after Christmas break, my eight year old informed me of the news—

“Hey Mom. We had a new girl in our class today.  Her name is Martha. Martha, from Nebraska.”

“Really?  Well, were you nice to Martha from Nebraska?”

“Yeah, I made her feel happy in school today.”

“Well that’s nice.  It’s good to make new people feel welcomed.”(Jack is Mr. Hospitality.)

Day two:

“Hey mom! Martha from Nebraska has a new best friend.”

“Really, she has a best friend already? Who is it?”

“It’s me!”

“Wow! Did Martha from Nebraska tell you that?”

“Well, (sigh) she hugged me in the lunch line and then she held my hand all the way back to class...and then I tied her shoe.”

-silence-

“Um, well that’s nice Jack, do you like Martha from Nebraska?”

“Yeah she’s ok. I guess she’s cute.  I’m just glad to make her happy.”

Every now and then I hear about various incidents at lunch.  Martha drops something, Jack picks it up for her.  She holds his hand whenever they walk in a line together.  She hugs him when he helps her in Math workshop; she hates his new haircut because she likes his hair longer.

For Valentine’s Day, Jack drew a special pink heart on Martha’s NASCAR valentine because “Martha would like that.”   

I haven’t met Martha from Nebraska, but from what I can tell, she definitely has Jack’s number.  Which makes me glad we didn't get Jack what he really wanted for his birthday-- a cell phone. What eight year old wants a cell phone?  Maybe I should ask Martha.

Let the games begin…

On New Year’s Day I waltzed into the Y.  Seeing as I had recently become addicted to Reddi-whip (another story) I figured I would lose no time getting back into the swing of my “sporty-fit-and-forty” campaign.  When I logged into the Fitlynxx system to setup my workout, the computer screen exploded with firework graphics.

“Congratulations! You have earned 15,000 points!”

4 months and 70 workouts later, I had reached some sort of mile marker. What was my reward?  A red plastic bracelet inscribed with the slogan “Make It Happen.”  If I keep up with the program I might hit 30,000 points before Easter—which will earn me a key chain neck lanyard.  I can only dream.  A day later the Y trainer tracked me down.

“Ms. J, it’s time.”

“No, no really. I don’t think so.”

“Yes it is. You better come see me this week!”

I guess it’s time to ratchet up the regimens again.  I’m not so sure I really want to “Make It Happen.”  My jeans may look fine, but they really should come up with better prizes.  I think the 50,000 point mark gets me a luggage tag.  I mean, given the choice between whip cream in an aerosol can and useless plastic accessories, Reddi-whip wins hands down.

The holiday season might have been relaxing, I can’t remember.  It did seem very long.  The boys enjoyed the break in routine, but fought a lot.  Joey in particular has entered a difficult phase as his answer to everything is “no, I don’t want to!”  He has also stopped eating food.  Apparently when you spend a week dragging your children into work with fast food lunches, they lose the ability to eat anything else.

In order to reverse this new behavior, my husband decided to institute a point system for Joey.  If he eats seven non-processed dinners in a row, he gets a pack of Pokémon cards.  This has had virtually zero affect in getting Joe the contrarian to comply-- although Jack has now become keenly interested in Joey’s eating habits.

Jack will do about anything for new Pokémon cards.  I don’t know anything about the game, but "Pokémon" is evidently Japanese for “pocket monsters.”  Trading these cards has become some sort of neighborhood phenomenon. Every day after school, the Pokémon quorum assembles in the far off corner of the playground, where a mass of little entrepreneurs vigorously hone their ability to wheel and deal. They are all boys.

I think it’s rather fascinating, to see what drives the young male mind to barter.  Jack loves the sport of it, and seems naturally coercive; as he will somehow come out of the after-school-trading-session with at least two cards, even when he forgets his stash and has nothing to offer.  Maybe he just has very benevolent friends.

The card trading has this lingo which might as well be Japanese.  It is virtually the only thing my boys talk about every mother-lovin’ moment of every day, as they are never without a wad of cards clenched in their little fists.

“Hey Jack, what’s the HP in tri-million?”

“He’s a fire type, with 150 HP.”

“Wow! How did you get this one?”

“I traded if for Bulbasaur.”

“Cool, how many points is that?”

“I don’t know. 60 HP?”

“Wow, is that a lot of damage?”

“It’s about 40 damage.”

“Jack, can Phanpy beat Bulbasaur.”

“No Joe he’s a plant type.”

“Yeah but he’s got fire coming out of his bottom…”

There’s also some sort of sub-plot with “energy”, “weaknesses” and semi-precious jewels.  The sparkly cards seem to be worth more.

My brother informed me that HP refers to “hit points.”  Ah yes, it all gets back to points.  What is my point?  I think I need more points.  Anyway, maybe I could persuade Jack to give me Phanpy and I could trade it for that neck lanyard.  Although I’d still need to do about 10,000 ab-crunches.

Like any system of commerce, however, greed takes over-- slowly but surely, we do become our idols.  The other night, the banter became less friendly as Jack refused to do business with his brother.  I could hear it escalating from the kitchen.  It ended with a monstrous rage where Jack roared into his little brother’s face with every “hit point” he had. “Get- out- of- my- faaaaace!!!!”  Rejected & terrified, Joey began sobbing.

When I walked into the living room, Jack was breathing hard and teary eyed.

“Jack! What have you done to your brother!?”

“But I don’t want to trade with him!”

“Did you need to scream in his face like that?”

“no.”

“I want you to apologize to your brother right now.”  Jack whimpered remorsefully, “sorry Joe.”

“Now what do you think we should do about this behavior.  You’ve been very mean to your brother lately.  What would be an appropriate punishment?”

Without a word, Jack handed me his enormous stack of cards.

“Mom, I think you should take them for a day.”

Astonished, I took them from his hands.  As he let them go, his face relaxed with the most beautiful look of relief. It was like he realized the cards had some power over him, and he needed me to take them away.

As we sat down at the table for dinner I decided it was an important moment for Jack’s heart, and so I took out the bible and began looking for a good story.

Luke 18: 18-27

 A certain ruler asked him, "Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" Why do you call me good?" Jesus answered. "No one is good—except God alone. You know the commandments: 'Do not commit adultery, do not murder, do not steal, do not give false testimony, honor your father and mother.’" "All these I have kept since I was a boy," he said. When Jesus heard this, he said to him, "You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me." When he heard this, he became very sad, because he was a man of great wealth. Jesus looked at him and said, "How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God! Indeed, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." Those who heard this asked, "Who then can be saved?" Jesus replied, "What is impossible with men is possible with God."

“Jack, why do you think this man was sad? He was very rich.  He probably had the biggest stack of Pokémon cards of all his friends.”

Joey interrupted--

“Mommy, I love Pokémon cards.”

“He was sad because he didn’t want to give his things away?"

“Mommy, Pokémon cards are the coolest.”

“He didn’t want to give them away, because he loved his things more than Jesus.  Even though he followed all God’s laws, he really didn’t love God.  He just loved his Pokémon cards. God wants us to love him more than anything else. Here’s another story…”

Joey butted in--

“Mommy, I love Jesus too…and Pokémon cards.”

Mark 22: 34-40

Hearing that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, the Pharisees got together. One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question: "Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?" Jesus replied: "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments."

“Mommy, can Jesus beat Phanpy?”

“Yes Joey, Jesus is more powerful than Phanpy. He’s got a gazillion HP.  Jack, what is Jesus saying here?  What’s the most important thing, the most powerful commandment, the one that’s the greatest?”

“Love God first.”

“And then what?”

“Love your neighbor.”

“And who’s your neighbor? Besides Christopher.”

“I don’t know.”

“Your brother, right?”

“Yes.”

“And what happens when we love something more than God, when we want Pokémon cards more than God?”

“It makes us sad.”

“And what else happened tonight?”

“It makes me not love Joey.”

“What do you think happens when we love God first?”

“We love other people?”

“When you love God first, then you can love your brother.”

Jack looked sad.  I knew it was time for grace.

“You know what the best thing is? Jesus knows we need help loving each other and loving God, so he loves us first and best, no matter what.  You can tell Jesus you’re sorry, and he loves you and forgives you.  He loves you the best.”

Jack smiled as he quietly stuffed his mouth with dinner.

As I tucked him into bed that night he gave me a big kiss, and his usual ear wiggle.

“Mom, we’re doing the second best commandment, right now.”

“I suppose we are.  I love you Jack.”

“I love you more...but not as much as Jesus.”

That was better than a lifetime supply of Reddi-whip.  Nothing gets me like Jack’s gushy heart.  I knew it was there somewhere, underneath all those little monsters.  They have no points or power here.