Sweet Adorable Victory! June 30, 2005

So, the good folks at Blogspot have heard my silent pleas and figured out an easy way for me to upload pictures to my blog. I’m not really technologically savvy, so I was confused by many of the ways people told me to do it. Heck, I can’t even figure out a blogroll.

But this is simple. And now, here for your appreicative ooohs and aaahhs is the fruit of my looms, Linnea. This picture was taken about two months ago, so she doesn’t look exactly like this anymore, but it’s pretty close and it’s one of my favorites. As soon as I find out where the little minx hid my photo CD from vacation, I’ll upload some more recent ones.

This is one of the many reasons being Linnea’s mom rocks my world

She’s CRANKY today. Teething. Again, or still–I’m not really sure which. All I know is that between teething and ear infections we’ve gone through BOTTLES of children’s Motrin. We should have bought stock.

She won’t eat, but we knew she was hungry, so we got out some strawberry go-gurt. She sucked that tube dry in about 45 seconds. So I offered her a blueberry one. She wasn’t that interested in sucking it out of the tube, so I squeezed it into her Elmo bowl. Screaming, she proceeded to wipe it all over her body, and into her hair. By the time she was done she was covered with a fine coating of Smurftastic blue yogurt. If her face hadn’t been red from screaming, she would have looked like a wee Smurfette.

So it was up to the bathtub for Fussy McCrankypants and her mama. Baths always calm her down. I love it. It’s like the A-Bomb in my Mommy Arsenal–I only use it when all other attempts at calming her down have failed. Once again, it worked like a charm. She stood up to reach for something and was distracted by her bellybutton. This happens. She’s fascinated with body parts, particularly her own.

So, she pushed it. And at the same time let loose a couple of toots–real cheek flappers. And as all toots released in the sanctuary of the bathroom: they were loud. Her eyes got big and she looked at me and then smiled in delight. I could just see her little neurons firing, making the connection that pushing her bellybutton makes her toot.

I thought, “Oh, that’s so funny!” And then she did it AGAIN. And AGAIN. So now I’m thinking there might be something to this Flatulence Release Button and cautiously see if mine works the same way. It doesn’t. And Linnea’s has stopped working (much to her bellybutton pushing frustration).

But for those few moments, for that precious beaming look of successful discovery, and for some pretty funny toots in the bathroom: I love being Linnea’s mom.

Let Us Pray

Or light candles or shimmy nekkid under the light of the full moon or do tequila shots or WHATEVER it is that you do to send someone good joux-joux.

I just contacted a church that is looking for an associate pastor who is a strong preacher (hello? Am I not PreacherBeege?!), with a scholarly approach to scripture and is devoted to the Lutheran Confessions. With the exception of something about “working with youth” this position could be tailor-made for me. And even the “working with youth” part might not be so bad, depending upon what they mean by that. Is it teaching Confirmation? Sweet! I’m all over that. Is it taking the junior high youth group on canoe trips to connect with God in nature? Not so much.

So: I’m sort of going outside the established pattern of getting churches. Pastors are NEVER supposed to contact the congregation. They contact the Bishop, and IF the bishops agrees that the pastor might be a good match, the BISHOP contacts the church and lets them know the pastor is interested. Bishops take a lot of energy impressing upon pastors the fact that if the PASTOR contacts the CONGREGATION, it will frighten the congregation (Dude, I kid you not, that is totally what a bishop told me) because they only want to hear from the bishop about possible candidates. Nevermind the fact that most congregations I’VE been in contact with are desperate to hear from pastors because bishops aren’t passing any names to them. Snort. Great system. But my problem is politics. Early on in our careers, M and I did something that was a little bit risque in the eyes of certain people in church leadership. Not all church leadership. We didn’t break any laws (of God or Man). Everything we did was well in-line with the church guidelines, but what we did wasn’t what the church WANTED us to do. And so we got black marks beside our names. M especially. Basically, what the upshot of all that is that there are a lot of bishops that aren’t necessarily interested in giving us churches because we don’t believe that the bishops are the be all and end all of the church. We sort of actually believe that the people who sit in the pews on Sunday, and their wants and needs are more important than the wants and needs of any bishop. Oooo. So subversive. But anyway: because of that, when my name crosses their desk, they immediately send my file to the file cabinet equivalent of Siberia.

So, I’ve taken matters into my own hands. I’d really appreciate any prayers or whatever that this works out–that I at least get a call back from someone saying, “Gee, we’ve filled that position.” or “No way in hell we’d call you for our pastor, you freaking troublemaker!” If I could just get someone to TALK to me, rather than send me rejection letters, it would make all the difference in the world. I AM sort of taking a bit of a risk in contacting them, rather than the bishop. But what’s life worth if you can’t take risks? And what will the consequences be? The bishops won’t give me a church? ‘Cuz that’s where I am right now. So, the way I see it: I’ve got nothing to lose. But for all this brave talk: I’m still a bit chicken about it all…so I’ll be commencing with the tequila shots shortly. 😉

The reality of being 30.

Dude.

I found my first wrinkles.

They’re only there when I smile (thank God they’re smile wrinkles, and not middle of the eyebrows frowny ones!), but the creases next to my eyes when I smile have gotten markedly deeper and longer. *sigh* I’ve always tried to take care of my skin. I’ve got good skin. Actually, ever since getting knocked up, I’ve had FABULOUS skin. I keep waiting for it to go away, but it seems to be here to stay. My mother doesn’t look anywhere near her mid-50’s, and she and I are so much alike that I was sort of expecting that first crushing wrinkle-blow to be a few years off.

But they’re here. Two long smile lines, that look like cracks in porcelain. The wrinkles of Beege.

I’m also not as spry as I used to be. While flying back home, our plane was delayed and we got into Denver 10 minutes before our plane was supposed to depart Denver for Kansas City. We landed at like gate 54, and needed to get to gate 28. So M has all three of our carry-ons. I have Linnea, Monkey, Blankie, and a sippy cup. We are running like the wind. Well. For about the first 10 yards. Then, while Linnea is laughing and cheering in my arms, patting me on the shoulders and shouting, “Go! Go!” I start feeling my lungs burn, and my calves start to protest and I start to think, “I’m not going to make it.” M is way ahead of us, and I think, “He’ll tell them we’re coming. I can slow down.”

I read somewhere that Johnny Depp read somewhere that everyone should be able to run with their children for a half hour, so that if they need to get away or escape or if they’re in danger: they can run with their children for more than 1/10th of a football field. It made a lot of sense at the time. It still makes a lot of sense. But sense doesn’t get me out there, practicing running for 30 minutes with Linnea. My deeply-hidden inner-nerd always rises up and whines, “But I’ve got shinsplints” whenever my even more deeply-hidden inner-fitness freak says, “You know what would feel good? A run!”

I told my mother about it, and bless her heart she said, “It’s the altitude. You’re up so high, it’s really hard to even walk fast without getting winded.” Such a sweet mama I have. But it wasn’t ALL altitude. It wasn’t even all being 30.

I’m thinking about hiring a personal trainer if I have a job when we move.

Death Comes June 25, 2005

I’m not back from vacation yet, but I just have to blog.

Mary died. It wasn’t unexpected. Death, when expected, can be easier. At least for me, looking at death in an almost clinical, professional capacity.

However, on Monday, I got an absolutely heartbreaking phone call. We were on our way to the beach when my cell rang. I supposed it to be a call from Mary’s family, but it wasn’t. It was news that a little boy from my most beloved congregation had been killed. His mother accidentally backed over him in a truck. He was only about 10 weeks younger than Linnea, and just the sweetest little boy! He looked just like his daddy, with a wide mouth and a smile that took up most of his face. His two older brothers and older sister adored him, and would carry him proudly around the church, proudly take care of him during services, and did everything that amazing big brothers and sisters should do.

God. The grief was (and is) so intense. And I felt so freaking impotent, a thousand miles away from the people that needed me to be there. And I felt both incredibly guilty that I still have Linnea, and incredibly thankful that I still have her. I start thinking that life has guarantees, you know? That babies will grow up and learn to drive and go to prom and get married and have babies themselves. But there’re no guarantees. I talked to Dawson’s mom on the phone–if you could call it talking. It was more sobbing together than anything else. His funeral was on Thursday…all of the “official” doings of death will be done and overwith long before I’m able to get to his family, to be with them.

There are times when I really hate my job. Like right now. Like knowing I’m going to have to walk into a house that until just five days ago was full of toddler mischief and laughter and learning, and that now: isn’t. Like knowing that I’m going to have to look at a mother and father who have just suffered the most horrendous loss a parent can imagine and SEE that in their eyes. Like times when death comes just a little too close–when I can feel those cold icy fingers touching MY family, MY loved ones, MY baby. Like those times when I can’t be clinical and professional, and say, “Oh, yes, she’s doing X,Y, and Z, death is close.” Death isn’t supposed to be close to little kids. Death isn’t supposed to take them.

And deep down inside is the unbearable knowledge that if Death can take Dawson, it can take Linnea, too. Nothing I say or do will stop it. And as a parent, that makes me want to throw my head back and howl. I mean–I don’t think I could bury Linnea. I couldn’t leave her in the cold, dark earth. She doesn’t like the cold. She doesn’t like the dark. But I don’t think I could cremate her either–how could I put her little body into the fire? But at least then I could keep her close to me. I can’t imagine a scream that it big enough to contain all that pain. I could scream until my throat was bloody, and I’d still need to scream some more.

Please, please pray for Derek, Rhonda, Jordan, Payton, and Montana tonight. And maybe for all the rest of us while you’re at it. Thanks.

But before I go… June 17, 2005

If you would like to see Linnea’s website, respond to this thread. I’m a little leery of just putting the link on my blog, since I’ve got a large number of people who read this blog and don’t ever post, and I don’t want any shady characters getting access to my sweet baby girl. I’m paranoid that way.

But if you’d like to see the most gorgeous girl in Kansas playing with puppies or covered with pasketti sauce: let me know. I can email it to you.

Dude. Vivid dreams.

I usually have pretty detailed, vivid dreams that I am able to remember fairly well come morning. And, dude: pregnancy was a trip! Since I had vivid dreams anyway, my pregnancy dreams always started with “presented in technicolor” scrolling across the picture.

Last night I kept having these dreams that I had to get up to pee–and in my dreams I’d get up, stumble to the bathroom, pee, wipe, go back to bed. Nothing unusual. There was no little penguin waiting to hand me the toilet paper or anything weird. It was just me, getting up, going to the bathroom. About five times.

So I was surprised when I woke up this morning to realize that I had to pee like a racehorse, when (I thought) I’d been peeing all night. When I realized it was just dreams, M decided he was lucky I didn’t wet the bed about five times last night. Excellent, excellent point.

We leave tonight for Va-CA-TIONNNNNNNN! Whoo-hoo! We’re going out to the PNW to visit my parents…ahhhhh: it will be grand. All the seafood we can stuff in our faces AND four wonderfully eager babysitters. We may or may not see Linnea after tomorrow, and the way things are going right now: I think that would be fine for all of us.

Well. Not really. Linnea is going through a heavy “I want Mamaaaaaa!” stage. I can’t leave the house without her, I can’t go to the bathroom, I can’t take a shower, I can’t send her downstairs to watch “Tiny Planets” with her father while I get dressed–any action that I take without her direct involvement is met with screams and howls of utter desolation and abandonment. I’ve tried just leaving (like if I have to go to a meeting) when she was distracted by something–not good. I’ve tried giving a detailed itinerary of my activities while I’m away from her–not good. I’ve tried covering her with smooches and promises that I’d be home soon–not good. All involves Mama leaving, and leaving Linnea behind. And how is that not a terrible thing when you’re sixteen and a half months old?!

So enjoy yourselves, chirrens. Be good. I’ll see you in a few days!

Potpourri June 15, 2005

Heh. I can never use that word without thinking of my late maternal grandmother. She never pronounced it “Poh-purr-ee”. She always pronounced it “Pot-poooor-ee”. She made something called “potpourri sandwiches”…I don’t know. I’m being random today.

In fact, random is the theme of today’s blog entry. Join me if you dare.

My friend Sal has a little boy named Oscar. We call him Oz. Laurie Berkner has a song called “Buzz Buzz” and the first stanza is, “I was sitting in my garden, when I saw a bumblebee. He said his name was Oscar, and he went buzz-buzz, buzz-buzz, buh-buzz-buzz, buzz-buzz-buzz-buh-buzz”. We listen to this CD pratically every time we get in the car (which is often) because Linnea loves it so, and this song ALWAYS makes me think of my friend Sal and her great little guy, Oscar, who (if the pictures count for anything) has the energy of a wee little bumblebee.

Today, at Walmart, I bought Linnea a little swimming pool. I bought the $9.99 one, but when I got out to the garden center found that the $9.99 pool was too big to fit in my car. So I took a $6.99 one instead (which fit perfectly). But because Linnea was ca-ran-ky, I didn’t go back into the store with my little receipt and get my money back. I just took the cheaper pool and left. I’m trying to figure out if I did something wrong or not. Other than giving Walmart $3 for nothing.

So, today, rather than watching television and eating goldfish crackers for her post-nap activity, we slipped into some fetching Lil Swimmers and went swimming. It was pretty fun, I tell you. Even when the birds pooped in the pool. However, my child is too young to understand that just because Mama hands you a popsicle when you’re in the pool it does NOT mean the popsicle is a pool toy. I kept trying to get her to eat it, and she kept looking at me like, “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to eat a freaking toy.” Which is humorous, because she does, in fact, try and eat her toys.

Linnea has learned a new body part. Nipples. She wants to see everybody’s nipples. So, if you decide to come and visit: consider yourself warned.

I am like a quasi-QVC junkie. Sometimes, I watch on television. More often than not, I go to iqvc.com to see if they have an item I want to buy for less than I can find it elsewhere. I get fairly good deals on a lot of my Philosophy stuff there. Anyway: the other day, when I was feeling like shit? I was laying on the couch and had QVC on, more for the noise than for anything. The Today’s Special Value was a George Foreman grill WITH a timer AND detatchable plates AND a bun warmer AND it could cook for four people. We have a Foreman. It’s a little tiny one. A two seater, if you will. I think we got it as a wedding gift. And it doesn’t have detachable plates, and the bun warmer thingy busted in a move and now it flops open whenever you lift the lid. So, already being a convert to the Foreman way of life (well, sorta) I was sorely tempted by the Special Value. But I put it down to my illness, and resisted the temptation to order one. Until M came in, watched for a little while and said, “Dude. That looks cool.” So we got one. In platinum. It came yesterday. I love it. To celebrate the arrival of our new Foreman grill, for dinner tonight, I’m making casserole. Oh, the irony!

I got a new pillow yesterday. I had a down pillow for a long time–and it was old. My mom had it in nurse’s training, and God only knows how long Grandma Pot-poooor-ee had it before that. Most of the feathers were gone. So I let it go. Diamonds last forever, down does not. For years I’ve been searching for a pillow replacement. None were right. All offered the ability to sleep on them, but none of them offered the desire to sleep on them. Until yesterday. I found a Woolrich down pillow at Target. Mmmmmmmm. It was a good night’s sleep.

So, our family picture thing? It’s been reduced to a three-generation picture of Mum, Linnea, and me. How the freaking hell Dad and my brothers managed to get out of pure family picture happiness (and M, too, by virtue of his Y chromosome), I’ll never know. I was instructed to dress in blue. Should be an easy thing, right? Blue is everywhere. Wrong. Blue sleeveless is everywhere. Blue for a woman with upper-arm issues: sorely lacking. But I managed to find a sort of deep teal colored blue sweater. It will tie in with Linnea’s blue dress. As far as what Mum will wear: she’s on her own. This was her idea. And in all fairness: we did a three generation pic last June, and it was fun and it’s a nice picture and it will be fun to have years from now. It’s just so hard to get jazzed about having my picture taken.

I make a kick-ass potato salad. I’m really proud of it. M will hardly touch potato salad unless it’s mine. I feel like so few of the culinary things I do are an unqualified success, that I just sort of bask in my potato salad ability. Would you like some? I’ll make you some. Really. Well, not really. Potato salad spoils really easily. Just imagine how good it is, instead.

Argh! It’s a vast maternal conspiracy! June 14, 2005

Why me?! Why, oh why, oh why?!

A few weeks ago, we had family portraits taken in Texas. It went well. I’m happy with the proofs.

Mom called. Said, “Guess what? While you’re here we’re going to have pictures done!”

Gads. What IS it with mothers wanting family portraits all of the sudden?! Don’t they know that the prospect of keeping Linnea clean and happy and smiling and with her finger out of her mouth and looking at the camera and not pulling her dress up over her head or not picking her nose or screaming, all while trying to look good myself is enough to send me screaming into the vast Kansas prairie, never to be seen again?

Maybe they do, and that’s why they want a picture. So they can remember what I looked like before I went feral.

Hm. What to do?

So, every Tuesday, M goes to breakfast with a group of pastors. I usually don’t go, because they talk for like two hours and it bores me out of my mind. One of the pastors there is…well, he’s kind of a different guy. I don’t know how to describe him. He’s older (he’ll retire in the fall); has spent his entire career in rural ministry (which probably only means something to me, but generally rural ministry is more of a starting point for a ministry career…it’s not someplace you stay. At least, most of us don’t); writes down everything everyone says and it usually either ends up as a “tidbit” in his church bulletins or he brings it up again at a later date and you’re all, “Wha??? I said that?”

Anyway. At breakfast this morning, the subject of blogs came up. Nile wanted to know if M had a blog, and M said, “No, but my wife does.” Nile now wants the address of my blog. I really REALLY don’t want him to have it. I don’t mind him writing down the random things that I might say in conversation, but I don’t want him tiptoeing about in my cyber-mind, reading some of my innermost thoughts.

I said as much to M and he said, “You have total strangers reading your blog. People you will never even know where there. Hell, you’ve got Steve Alter plagerizing your blog. Why do you care if Nile reads it?”

And I think it’s because I’d KNOW Nile was reading it. I don’t know who all reads here. I mean–some of you that comment, I know, and some people who have told me they read, I know. But I don’t know…Nile just doesn’t have good boundaries about what’s OK to share with others and what isn’t. Ha! Which is so odd, because I’m sharing with the entire frigging internet, but I balk at sharing anything with him.

*sigh* It’s not just Nile. I wouldn’t hand this address out to most of my collegues. I just don’t want them to know me that well, I guess.