Martha Martha!

My seven-year-old son and I shared the bathroom sink before bedtime tonight.  Standing on the toilet looking down at me in the mirror, he grinned deviously.

"Hey mom?"

"What sweetie," as I had both hands in my mouth working the dental floss.

Looking up I found a huge smile staring at me.  It stretched from ear to wiggling ear.  This is our new shared secret, ear wiggling.  We uncovered the genetic trait at dinner the other night.  It was one of those family "I bet you can’t flare your nostrils" conversations.  As usual, my husband exhibited his bouncing Adam’s apple, while four-year-old Joey wrenched his whole face around what was supposed to be his wiggling nose.  When I pulled out my ear flapping trump card, I was sure I had the table beat.  And then, surprisingly, Jack point blank returned the favor.  I had no idea he had inherited my little quirk.  I was so pleased and proud.  It’s now our secret code for "I love you," and he wiggles his ears at me every chance he can get.

We are fully into the new school year.  Life seems to be running about 10 feet ahead of me, and the boys are changing faster than I can record.  Since Joey has started pre-K, he has become more and more independent. He wipes his own bottom. He opens the fridge looking to help himself to a snack.  He refuses to let me open the van door for him.  "I can do it mom!" is shouted at me all the time.  Thankfully, he does still cling to his two minute "morning cuddle" session before we head on out to school.  "Mommy, cuddle time, please!"  Cherished last remnants of baby Joe.

Jack’s "usual" bedtime litany has now been condensed into "Goodnight mom, remember all the things I usually say."  He rides his bike to school and up the street by himself to his friend’s house.  This has been a major coup for CCM and me.  Whenever we need that cup of sugar, or onion, or some forgotten ingredient, we now have our own little courier boy system.  Nothing pleases Jack more than when I tell him he needs to get on his bike and go get some cumin from CCM’s house.  I’m realizing that having two strapping boys around the house is one day going to be useful.

I’m continuing to ease into my part-time job.  Having all the extra "tasks" on my plate has been a catalyst for all sorts of productivity.  I’m working out every day at the Y.  I even met with the Y trainer last week.  When I told him I wanted to work out almost every day, his eyes lit up.  "Project!"  He now has me on an exercise regimen.  I’m feeling almost downright perky most of the day.

I was feeling pretty cocky about life on Saturday, as I was conquering Target.  I had spent maybe an hour filling my cart, when I decided to take a detour.  Oh yes, more work out socks!  I need socks!  Rather than go to the checkout line, I backtracked to the underwear section.  My cart was completely full, and really heavy.  So rather than trudge it into the forest of lingerie, I decided to park it in the isle.  When I returned a minute later, it was gone.  An hour of hunting and gathering had completely vanished.  I started circling the women’s department, thinking maybe I had forgotten where I had parked my cart.  After several laps I realized someone had pinched it.

Who would take a full cart and not know they had grabbed the wrong one?  An employee, of course.  That was the only answer I could come up with.  So I ran to customer service and started pleading for assistance.

No one was sympathetic.  No one would get on those handy-dandy walkie talkies and start inquiring for me.  No one could care less about the lost hour of my life that was snatched for no apparent reason.  I started cruising every isle from one end of the store to the next.  It seemed crazy to me that someone would have grabbed my cart. After about 30 minutes of aerobic speed walking, I finally found it, in the automotive isle.  I was furious.  I wanted to know who had messed with my whole afternoon, which until then had been really great.  I wanted to scan through security surveillance tapes.  I wanted to solve the mystery.  I wanted justice.

As I was driving home in an exhausted huff, I realized that this is my small little life.  I think I have my loose ends in one place.  I think I’ve got a handle on everything I need to do, and then someone randomly walks off with my stuff, and suddenly I’m a wreck.  And that’s just Target.  It’s not even a minute tragedy.

Sunday morning was wonderful worship, as we looked at the impartiality of God.  It’s a terrifying character trait when you think about the impartiality of God’s judgement–but conversely, an incredible joy when you find the impartiality of Christ’s favor, mercy and love, and how we are hidden in Him.  I found it a challenge to get my mind around it as our pastor preached.  I realized that I ache to know the full picture of who God is, and yet it’s always beyond my intellect and imagination.  I think I want "justice" in the world, but I really don’t understand what that means.  Only an impartial and perfect judge can wield that desire.

Why is my life so blessed?  Why am I called and chosen to praise God?  Is it because I’m such a very nice person? No.  It’s because God has created me in his image.  He has impartially loved me.  That picture is as mysterious and as easy as the reflection of Jack wiggling his ears at me in the bathroom mirror.

Little girls may be sugar and spice and everything nice, but my boys are made of peanut butter, waffles and ketchup.  I realized today, as I was making my shopping list,  that the only reason I really go to the grocery store is for one of these three items.  If my pantry is missing any one member of this trifecta, the house will not stand.  I suppose life could be more complicated.  No doubt, one day they will eat more than I bargained for.

The non sequitur is my four year old's signature device these days.  No matter what we're talking about, he will join the conversation completely off topic.  This usually takes the form of a knock-knock joke.  He of course has no idea what makes a knock-knock joke funny, but it doesn't stop him from making up a new one every 5 minutes--

"Hey mommy!"

"What?"

"Knock-knock."

"Who's there?"

"Bumble boy."

"Bumble boy who."

"Bumble boy butter balloony head." (hysterical laughter)

"Hey mommy."

"What."

"Knock knock."

"Who's there."

"Hot dog."

"Hot dog who?"

"Hot dog brain bags."  (hysterical, milk snorting laughter.)

And so on.  Jack and I find it somewhat amusing in the car after school.  Today Joey transferred his comedic genius into a new medium.  I found this in Joey's back-pack. It takes up all of about 2 inches of an 11x17 piece of paper.

"uhh, Joey, what's this?"

I must have had an incredulous look on my face because Joey immediately hit the floor laughing so hard he could hardly breath.

"It's snakey monster bottom."

Would anyone like to take another stab at naming this piece of Picasso? Assuming of course that I have it bottom side up.

It’s Labor Day, and I’m cleaning the house and putting up my white shoes. Not that I have any white shoes, but if I did they’d be packed.  Being a Georgia transplant raised on this northern protocol, it’s always been especially vexing that I have to do this when it’s going to be 80 degrees for the next month.  This is probably why my wardrobe is now lacking white footwear.  Maybe I should just say that I’m mentally packing anything that has to do with the occasions and or places which might require white shoes. Or maybe I’m just saying good bye to the summer. It’s time to look ahead to the next chapter.

A few days ago I noted all the coverage of the memorial of Lady Diana’s death. Standing in the check-out line reading the tabloids, I couldn’t believe it was already 10 years ago. I remember where I was when she died. I was a production assistant at "See-NN" (let the reader understand), soon to be moving into a production manager position. It was labor day weekend, our documentary program had been completed and was ready for Sunday-air, and I had spent the entire day water-skiing with friends. We had walked into the house after our final lake outing, and turned on the TV. The news barely hit my brain when my pager started going off. We had less than 24 hours to completely re-do the show. I saw my husband 2 weeks later, when the story started to subside.

It was a new launching of an intense career mode of my life, as our show moved from a documentary format into a current events/investigative magazine program. Three years later I gave birth to my eldest son, and left that stress driven world for the life of a stay-at-home mom.  Another seven years later? Both my babies are in school and somehow I’ve started something new again.

I don’t think I realized it was going to happen so suddenly. If anyone had told me the day that I waddled my pregnant belly and briefcase-on-wheels out of "See-NN"-- that it would be another seven years before I’d sleep, shower, and feel like a human again, I wouldn’t have believed them. By that third day when I dropped Joey at the front of school, it hit me.  All our lives had changed, a new chapter had opened.

So, what am I doing with all my "free-time?" A lot of cleaning, a lot of exercising. I’ve been hitting the Y almost every morning since Joey started Pre-K. I’m not sure I’ve lost any weight, but "sporty-fit-and forty" has a good start. My blood pressure is down. I shower every day. I’m wearing "outfits." I put on make-up. I’ve also dipped my toes back in the world of the employed, and have started working part-time. And while working with close friends deceptively masks the reality, it’s a job. I’ve bought a day-timer. I have folders and manuals and records of correspondence. I’m discovering remnants of the old self, resurfacing again.

My boss told me to pick up a copy of "Getting Things Done", by David Allen. My employer wants to make sure I’m on the same page as he is. I guess. I’m only 20 pages into it, so I won’t attempt to praise or scoff at it. The two main points I’ve gleaned thus far are that in order to maximize productivity, you firstly have to "relax", and then make a concerted effort to "think." Yes, thinking is a skill, isn’t it?

As a mom, I realize that much of my existence has been in the world of reacting to things, rather than shaping them. Perhaps that’s been my mistake. My boys and life do need shaping. Things to think about. I guess.

Oh, and the house project? That chapter is most definitely closed, for now. Long story short, we weren’t in a flood plain, then we were; now we might be, but that’s only determined if we get a lot of fancy expensive surveys. But in March, FEMA will have put out the new improved flood plain map, in which case we’ll definitely be out. So, we’re just going to wait until the spring, when I unpack my white shoes, and we can begin again. 

My four year old son Joey is brutally honest. Unlike my seven year old, who has mysteriously begun to understand the meaning of "tact," Joey bulldozes his way through everything left unsaid. I think I have forgotten about this stage since Jack was four.

If it weren’t bad enough that he has to prod at my thighs, and make that "boing-boing" sound, or that he walks behind me in church while pounding on my backside, or that he can’t leave for school without checking the status of mommy’s underarm "beards"; he has now taken note of the thin blue & red "lines" which run along the backs of mommy’s knees.

"Mommy! What are those? Those lines there?"

"Uh, those would be blood vessels." (So nice of you to notice, considering they came from carrying YOU)

"Are they cracks?"

"No sweetie, they’re just lines."

"Cool, those are pretty."

So lovely. Yesterday morning as I was bending over to tie my brand new running shoes, (step one in the "sporty, fit & forty" campaign, btw) Joey who was standing in front of me watching, couldn’t help but remark–

"Hey mommy! I love your top when you put your shoes on."

Not that there’s much to see down mommy’s top, but I guess it’s nice to know we have a budding heterosexual. I really need my own bathroom.

Joey’s latest series of declarations are all about what he was "made" for.  The other day on the way home from school Joey was singing in the car, and for whatever reason, Jack hates it when Joey sings. (Probably because his little brother can actually carry a tune.)

"Hey Joey! Quit singing!"

"No Jack! I can sing!"

Mommy agreed, "Yes Jack, Joey can sing if he wants to. Hey, why don’t we all sing?"

"No! I don’t want Joey to sing! I just want quiet!"

Joey pleaded his case,

"But Jack, I have to sing! I was made to sing, I was made for music!"

"No you weren’t, you’re not real!"

"Yes Jack!  I’m real! You’re not real!--"

Joey also informed me the other day that he was "made to be funny."

Needless to say, he’s adapted to Pre-K just fine. I was anticipating this horrible traumatic transition with him now going to school all day, every day. Jack had a really rough first few weeks of Pre-K.   Unexpectedly, Joey wasn’t going to let the back door hit him on the way out.  He’s loved school since day one.  The other morning as I was pulling into the parking lot he informed me,

"Just drop me off mom, I know where to go."

My baby may gone, but it’s fun watching him strut his big-boy-backpack-butt into school.  Joey is the real deal.