I survived a bowling party

Our orthodontist graciously hosted what they called a Fiesta Bowl Party for all of his clients and their families plus one friend. They had games, raffle prizes, the bowling of course, bracelet making, a pinata, snacks galore, disco balls, a DJ, tons of activity and noise and fun--just a free gift to us all! I was astonished.

Maybe I'm getting old, but I'm easily fatigued and overwhelmed by sensory overstimulation. I felt like I had spent two hours at Chuck E Cheese's, and it ended just about the same. You know how you get tickets to turn into a prize station at Chuck E Cheese? And the kids collect fistfuls of tickets and take them up with such high hopes for the stuffed animals only to choose from the case with rubber lizards and plastic smiley face rings? They had a similar set-up at this party, only the prizes were a bit more substantial. Various items were available for a given number of tickets, but you didn't need a thousand tickets to get some of the more interesting items.

We got to the prize table late, however, at the end of the party when everyone was redeeming their tickets, pressing against the table as they pondered.

One of my soft-spoken daughters, who moves slowly and contemplatively, had finally decided on and selected some maracas. Hands and tickets were flying around as kids were making their final selections. She gave over her tickets but may have expected the supervising person to hand her the maracas. In the noise and confusion, another girl picked up the last maracas and that was that. No more maracas, and now my girl shuffled to me through the thick crowd and explained her problem while gasping and crying.

I explained the situation to the person taking tickets hoping there might be more maracas. She wasn't sympathetic, not at all. No more maracas. Choose from what's left. Maybe my daughter came off spoiled or greedy--after all, the enter event was a giveaway, so everything was bonus. But maybe that lady doesn't know what it's like to live with a softspoken girl whom I've spent years teaching manners. I've tried to teach my kids not to be rude and grab, let others go first, etc. As a result, she wasn't bold and assertive enough to get in there and snatch what she wanted. She ended up settling for some tiny items--two packs of rub-on tattoos and a crocheted beanie hat. She bought her brother some clay. She tried to smile.

Meanwhile my son at age four didn't understand the concept of a raffle and in spite of my clear and repeated explanation thought that the soccer ball he selected would be his. He did not, however, win it. So then I consoled him during five minutes of weeping simultaneous to the lost-maracas tears. He improved when his lost-maracas sister bought him the clay, however, so that was an improvement.

Finally, we stood around waiting to see who would win the biggest giveaway of the evening--two NBA tickets. Our guest had put in her name, so we had to wait and see. They gave away the aforementioned soccer ball (you recall the tears), a basket of gourmet coffees, a restaurant gift certificate, scrapbook supplies, facial products, and then the tickets. The entire party was hushed, waiting to hear the name drawn. Long pause.

Our guest! Our guest won the tickets! It had been so noisy all night, I squealed, not realizing that it would be totally quiet with disappointment all around. She claimed her tickets and the party was over.

We drove home, a car full of mixed emotions--delight for our friend, maracas grief and soccer ball sadness, total mom exhaustion.

I kept thinking about the tickets for our friend. Any day they may sell their house and move, as her dad has already started his job two states away. If the house doesn't sell for a while, they'll stay longer while he commutes home on the weekends. It's been hard on the entire family. This thing is hanging over her head at all times--that she is leaving and will have to say good-bye to all that she knows and loves--but it hasn't yet happened. I think it's been very difficult for her, as it would be for anyone at any age.

So many people wanted those tickets. I wish they could know that a young girl beginning the sometimes unappreciated grief that accompanies a move has something tangible to hold onto: On one day in April, whether she's in this state or the one she's moving to, she knows she'll be in town to attend the fun of an NBA game with her mom or dad.

Well, we dropped off our prize-winning friend, drove home and had dinner. The kids got ready for bed and I went in to say good-night. My little maracas girl still seemed melancholy.

"What's wrong?" I asked, pulling back the covers under which she was hiding.

"Everyone has an instrument but me. Papa has a trumpet, you have a clarinet and a guitar, and my sisters have a glockenspiel and the piano, and my brother has a recorder. I don't have anything that's mine...I really wanted those maracas."

Sigh. I want to teach her gratitude, have her write a thank-you note to the orthodontist, put on her tattoos and realize it was all a gift.

But I also wish she could have had the maracas.

Some friends who lived as missionaries in Russia several years ago were telling us how people always identified them as Americans.

"We would wear Russian clothing, coats, hats, shoes, but it didn't matter. People always knew we were Americans."

"Did you ever find out how they knew?" I asked. "Did you ask anyone?"

They said they were meeting someone new at a park and when they reached him, he said, "I could see you coming three blocks away."

The husband asked the man, "How could you know out of all these people when you'd never met us?" After all, they were in their Russian clothes and shoes, and he hadn't seen their straight, white American teeth that far away.

"You walk like you're free," he said.

The day after my friends told their story, I came across this in the newspaper:

http://www.indystar.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20060224/LIVING/602240317&SearchID=73236759887681

I'm in blogsistential crisis mode. Why am I writing this thing? Who is it for? What should be its theme and content?

Here's what threw me into this crisis: I wanted to write about a home meeting event I attended. It was one of those gatherings where a company representative is a friend of a friend and she brings her product(s) and talks about how it changed her life and can change yours, too. Then the neighbors and friends gathered there get to sample it and exclaim things. Well, even though I started out open-minded and predisposed to liking the product, some of the claims made during the presentation sounded suspicious. I asked questions...too many questions. I threatened sales with my simple request that she explain why one thing was contradicting what she was saying. I wasn't trying to be contrary--honest. I just wanted to know why one of her products had certain attributes that were the very attributes she said we should stay away from at all costs.

So I had this nice blog written up which might have made you laugh, but I had to disguise the company and to mask the product, I had to set up all kinds of hypothetical analogies. It got too confusing. It wasn't funny anymore. So I deleted the whole thing, which was pretty discouraging. I'd wasted all that time.

After that, I thought, "What on earth am I going to offer?"

And then I thought of the Santa. Several weeks after Christmas, a neighbor still had a Santa on his roof. It was one of those puffy nylon Santas that is inflated and lit up during the Christmas season, but as this was long after the holidays, the Santa was flat against the roof, dark and lumpy, and void of life. I pointed it out to the kids one time as we passed, and they laughed at the deflated elf, but as I continued to glance at him on my travels through the neighborhood, I developed a connection. He was analogous to my self at the time: deflated, defeated, void of life or purpose, empty.

I can't get over how hard has been to recover from our church departure. It's been a year-and-a-half since we left. I may not have even mentioned it here, as I didn't want to get into the details. I still don't want to get into details, only to say that for numerous reasons and multiple confirmations, we felt that we could no longer stay. I should just leave it at that.

It seems like it was just a couple of months ago, but it's been well over a year. I feel like I'm in some kind of recovery program, or in some tumultuous stage of the grieving process.

In order to carry on, however, I tried to maintain as much normal in my life as possible. I tried to stick with some goals, however minor they might seem. For example, I tried to keep up with running. Signing up for the half-marathon was a big commitment to keep me working on it. The exercise and dedication has kept me going on the down days. I've tried to eat well, hoping that too would help my overall health when I was going through some of the harder seasons. I've maintained some regular outings with friends in order to have something to look forward to, sitting with some honest and true friends who will stand by each other when things are up or down. I've tried to keep my brain alive with good books and study. I've tried to pray and be kind to people. I've tried not to be too difficult, with apologies to the company rep whose product presentation I challenged a few nights ago. I've tried to be honest, too, however, about my struggles with those who ask me privately.

Perky creativity hasn't been as readily available, so my blogs have been scarce.

If you have ideas on what kind of writing you'd like to read, let me know.

Long ago, a friend said she loved the stories most, stories of the kids' antics and the dog adventures--real-life mom stuff. Someone else enjoyed my musings on books I've read, and I've even been told the random philosophical meanderings have sparked some interest. If you want me to write about health, it's an interest I explore.

Let me know.

This week was full of contradictions and inner conflict.

Last Saturday my husband and I sat with some of his old college friends, one of whom seems to be quite a bit wealthier than we are. Reflecting on their advantages, we realized how hard it is to resist wanting some of those luxuries.

The next day, Sunday, was the day I unearthed and spontaneously read that little book 'Tis a Gift to Be Simple. This book explained the path to a simpler life, to which I am consistently drawn. But the timing left me tense--on the one hand I was scheming of ways I might bring in some extra cash for a few luxuries. Then I was beating that down with the little green Simple book, reminding myself that this was how I really want to live.

Then there was the weather. The past three days, the temperatures were in the 50s. In fact yesterday got up to 60 degress Farenheit according to our van's display. I hired a babysitter and went jogging in the morning and later took the kids to a park where they played without coats, though afternoon wind gusts sculpted their hair into nest-like masses. Those winds brought cold temperatures. Today it's in the 20s.

It's hard enough to try to settle my internal conflicts; I find it ever so much harder to live when the weather is in such flux as well. But the whole world is in chaos, it seems, with wars and rumors of wars, economies flourishing and fading, governments changing and offering hope with recent elections and others disintegrating from ongoing corruption.

Change is inevitable and necessary for things to get better. But change brings contradictions resulting in conflict and tension, whether is it a person's personal value system, a government's rule, or the weather. I guess a lot of people love living in that state of ambiguity, staring straight into the unknown and marching forward boldly.

Parenthood requires that attitude to a degree. With several children nearing puberty, we are living in a state of change and contradiction. I have no choice but to stare into the future, the unknown, and keep walking. I don't know how boldly I can do so, but have no choice but to move ahead. Right now it's orthodontia, and within a few short years, driving school. Talk about contradiction: Because of the spread of our children's ages, I think we'll have one child entering first grade while another gets her driving permit.

Maybe this is a good year to take them all to Disneyworld? Before it's too late? Of course if we do that, so much for simplicity.

An Auctioned Atheist?

A friend sent me an interesting link. Evidently an atheist put himself on bid at eBay and the highest bidder would be able to take him to various churches. A group called “Off the Map” won the bidding. The guy attended two churches so far, and one of them was the megachurch Willow Creek Community Church in the suburbs of Chicago.

Here’s his blog:
http://off-the-map.org/atheist/2006/02/09/willow-creek-community-church/

Living in the Land of Plenty

In last week's sermon, the pastor alluded to some statistics he quoted in the sermon prior to that, which we missed. He mentioned where he'd gotten them, but I didn't write it down. I was intrigued, however, and resolved to Google it. I had not yet gotten around to Googling (can you believe that I'm using that as a verb?), and came across it in a book I just picked up from a stack of books I was thinking of donating. The book--an appropriate one to donate--is entitled 'Tis a Gift to be Simple, by Barbara DeGrote-Sorensen and David Allen Sorensen. These are the statistics the Sorensens quoted, taken from yet another book entitled Taking Charge of Our Lives--Living Responsibly in a Troubled World, by Joan Bodner:

"If the world were a global village of 100 people, one-third of them would be rich or of moderate income, two-thirds would be poor. Of the 100 residents, 47 would be unable to read, and only one would have a college education. About 35 would be suffering from hunger and malnutrition, at least half would be homeless or living in sub-standard housing. If the world were a global village of 100 people, 6 of them would be Americans. These 6 would have over a third of the village's entire income, and the other 94 would subsist on the other two-thirds." (p. 14, 'Tis a Gift to Be Simple)

After finally "Googling," I learned that variations on "If the world were a global village" have circulated on the web for some time, and several people have been suggested as its author. In other words, I can't prove the source or the figures, but its overall message is sobering. It causes us statistic-hungry Americans to stop and think about the reality of how rich we are. Things we consider normal aren't normal at all for most of the world's population. My college education, my computer, my ability to read, my big house that I complain about cleaning...all of these things are privileges. I am one of the 6. Recognizing this, how then shall I live?

I am pondering all of this today, wondering how to live simply, generously and gratefully in the land of plenty.

This stood out to me as well:

"The world cannot support a North American life-style for all who call this planet their home. Our goal cannot be to raise the standard of living so that everyone might live the way we do. there aren't enough resources. Something has to give in order for others to get. We must voluntarily, one by one, learn ways to live simply so that others may simply live. A collective action, family by family, that will challenge the 'norm' can bring balance to a lopsided world...in 2 Corinthians we find one of many Scriptures that asks us to look past our own doorsteps: 'Our desire is not that others might be relieved while you are hard pressed, but that there might be equality. A the present time your plenty will supply what they need, so that in turn their plenty will supply what you need. Then there will be equality, as it is written: "He who gathered much did not have too much, and he who gathered little did not have too little"' (2 Cor. 8:13-15)...This is not a new form of socialism. it is asking those who have been blessed with many resources to be generous. It is voluntary, life-giving, and freeing--a consequence of compassionate living." (p. 54-55)

Decorating Woes Need a Decorating Genius

People seem to think that because I am creative in some areas, I must be creative in all areas. This is not true. Those who know me well can attest to the fact that I have absolutely no ability in house décor. Oh, they’re gentle about it, offering a carefully worded compliment like, "That's not true—you, uh, I know! You make nice little arrangments on shelves." Even that could be argued and I appreciate their effort, but in the end we all know that I seem to have no ability to understand how it all fits together.

I seem to hang things too high, too low, or too far to the left or right. I choose the wrong color, shape and style every time. This is further complicated by the fact that I'm also cheap. I worry about spending large chunks of money on furniture or drapes or carpeting that won't be right, so I end up buying nothing and accepting people's donations, you know what I mean? "Hey, we're getting rid of this old bookshelf. Want it?" I say yes every time and as a result I have a house full of unmatched hand-me-downs.

Into this pathetic existence, enter: Anita.

My friend Anita is changing all of that.

After years of insecurity and anguish over my home (even if I managed to clean it, it still looked crummy), I discovered Anita. She was there all along, actually, someone I knew from the church we attended. A friend suggested I contact her, but I was embarrassed to imagine her looking in every room and seeing what a miserable failure I was in this regard, so I put it off. Finally someone else suggested her, so I picked up the phone and poured out my sad story of decorating woes.

As it turned out, Anita was just at that moment trying to figure out how to build her business. Her heart is for people like me who can't do it alone, but can't afford high-end decorators. Even though she has the talent to serve high-end, high-paying clients, she loves the creative challenge of using what people have, finding out their vision for what they want their space to feel like, and pulling it all together for them at a reasonable hourly rate.

In my opinion, she's genius.

She’s never made me feel like a loser. She's slowly but surely helped me sift through all of these half-broken hand-me-downs, salvaging what can work and donating what can’t. She finds great deals on fabric for valances, cute tables that fit perfectly in an awkward spot, a perfectly patterned rug, art and paint color for the walls. She helps me edit, adjust and add in the right thing. In the end, she has saved us a lot of money that would have been spent on something that didn’t work. She’s also saved us from the frustration of always buying the wrong thing.

I’ve never wanted a show home, but I did want to live in a space that reflected our tastes and personalities. Somehow I couldn’t get there on my own. Anita loves doing this, so if you happen to live in central Indiana and want access to my friend, let me know. Send me an email (ann@contemplativemom.com) and let me know. I can put you in touch with Anita, and you, too, can feel confident next time you have to choose paint color!

Dust Mites

A post-bronchitis follow-up visit to the doctor determined that I need to stay on allergy medicine. To discover why, the respiratory therapist suggested a blood test. The results: off-the-charts allergy to dust mites.

I came home and Googled dust mites and within a few clicks, I was horrified and disgusted.

Let me share with you a link to the Mayo Clinic's explanation of what they are and what to do.

Brace yourself. You yourself may rush to Target to purchase impermeable mattress and pillow covers, regardless whether or not you're allergic to these creatures.

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/dust-mites/HQ00864