Belonging

Pentecostals believe that speaking in tongues is the initial sign of being filled by the Holy Spirit. I grew up in such a church, full of hand-waving and tongue-speaking and swaying bodies and incoherent laughter and weeping. Although my mother wasn’t as strict as her mother (in their household, no playing cards, no chapstick, no secular music, no shopping or working on Sundays), we weren’t allowed to do things other kids did. For instance, “rock music” wasn’t allowed, so when we watched “The Donny and Marie Show,” when Donny began to sing “I’m a little bit rock and roll,” we had to turn the channel. We went to church three times a week: Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night. We did not swear, not even “geez,” or “gosh.”

But religious upbringing aside, I felt like an outsider at school. I was the tallest girl in my class. The teacher’s pet. I wasn’t familiar with contemporary music. I didn’t take ballet class. Small things.

Then my parents divorced at a time when divorce was a rarity. From one year to the next, my world stopped spinning and then reversed directions. Everyone else was going west to east–eye make-up, boys, parties, dances–and I was going east to west, hibernating in my room, tending to my wounds, reading books, dreaming. The girls I had played with on the playground were now riding in cars with boys while I was trying to figure out my place in my reconstructed family.

When high school ended, I couldn’t move far enough away. I figured no one would ever marry me, so off I went to Bible College. After graduation, I fully intended to suffer for Jesus in some far-flung land. My theology was a bit wacky in those days and I thought that’s how God worked.

Even there, though, I didn’t quite belong. I couldn’t quite fluff my hair up like the Southern belles. I didn’t want to take a class for “Pastor’s Wives”–I wanted to learn homiletics (preaching). I wasn’t religious enough. I balked at using the spiritual slang expected of me. I grew cynical and suspicious and even a little hostile.

I wasn’t there to get my “MRS” degree–I was trying to find God’s plan for my life. I graduated feeling like I didn’t quite fit in the denomination. I couldn’t swallow what they were spoon-feeding. I didn’t want to play, didn’t want to network my way through the church hierarchy. I’d sit in (daily required) chapel and make lists of Christian curse words to amuse myself.

Years later, after abandoning the denomination of my youth, I’m the Pastor’s Wife. I shrug off that title and go so far as to “forget” to mention my husband’s profession when I meet new people. I’ve heard maybe a dozen sermons in my almost 18 years of marriage. I’m the cobbler’s children without any shoes. I’m a Christian, a devoted follower of Christ, but I don’t sit in the pew and I’m not quite one of them. I don’t really belong. And I can’t really identify with the pastor’s wives, either. They all seem so together, so holy, so obedient.

Our family lives in an affluent town where people buy property just to tear down houses so they can rebuilt extravagant homes with a view. People own second homes to vacation in. They drive new cars and own boats. I don’t fit in. I don’t have a career. My hair will simply not behave.

The past few days, I’ve heard pundits and politicians and analysts speak and I’ve thought, they don’t speak for me. I read articles about mothers and I rarely see myself in the descriptions. When I hear about modern families, I wonder who these people are, because they aren’t us. They aren’t me. On television, I never find a representative of me. I don’t find myself in novels, either. I’m certainly not in the movies. I’m not even on the religious channel.

I feel isolated in so many ways. Where do I fit? Isn’t it pathetic to wonder this at the age of forty? And yet my wondering these days is not fueled by angst, but by a gradual dawning. I suspect everyone feels like an outcast on some level. We’re either the wrong color or the wrong height or too fat or too skinny or we live on the wrong side of town or we never did memorize our multiplcation tables or we don’t “get” the hype over American Idol. We just don’t fit in.

What I love about growing up is that you get to create your own little world. You can populate your world with people who recognize you, who understand you, who make you feel not quite so alone.

And along the way, you discover that it’s all right to be the tallest girl in class, the one who is a Republican (even though it’s so not cool), the one who likes Barry Manilow and bypassed the whole college-drinking thing.

I don’t really belong anywhere. And rather than feeling alone, I feel liberated, the way you feel in a strange city where no one knows you. Throw caution to the wind, because you’ll never be back here again.

[*UPDATE and CORRECTION* “Seafoam” asked this: I’m curious as to why you’ve only heard your husband preach about a dozen times in eighteen years. Have you always worked in the nursery during the church service?

I wondered that myself, so I started thinking back. First of all, my husband’s only been pastoring for 15 years, though we’ve been married for 18. In our first church, I was in charge of the children’s church, so I taught children during the sermon. In our second church, I taught two-year olds during the sermon. Then we adopted twins, so I really had my hands full. In our third church, there was no nursery or class for my then-almost-2-year old twins. I sat with them in a makeshift nursery. Eventually, I started teaching the preschool class. Then I had a baby, so I was back in the cry-room with him.

When we moved to our current church, my baby boy was less than a year old and hated to be left, so I stayed with him in the nursery. When he was two or two and a half, I began to leave him in the nursery and I remembered tonight, as I pondered this question, that I actually did sit in church for some months. I did not teach Sunday School. I did not have nursery duty. I sang in the choir and I listened to the sermon. So, I have to retract my previous “12 sermons in 18 years” statement. I must have heard fifty sermons (a year’s worth) before I gave birth again to a clingy, noisy baby who still won’t stay alone in the nursery without having a nervous breakdown. She’s two and a half and the day will arrive soon when I will be able to leave her.

And then I’ve been recruited to teach a brand-new preschool class starting next fall.

Thanks, Seafoam. I stand corrected and hope that answers your question.]

How To Freak Me Out

Without telling me, turn off the ringer to the kitchen phone.

Leave three messages on my telephone answering machine. (I’m old-fashioned. What can I say?)

First message: “Hey, I’m at your house, picking up the tape, but it’s not there. Call me. I’m going to XXX this morning, but before I leave town, I want to deliver the tape to my secretary so she can finish typing it today.”

Second message: “Hey, I’m still in town. Call me and let me know if the tape is ready to be picked up. Are you okay? Maybe your husband could deliver the tape to my office if it’s not ready before I leave town. Call me.”

Third message: “I’m in XXX now and my secretary is standing by, ready to type that tape. I hope you are okay. Are you okay? I haven’t been able to reach you all morning. I called your husband and he’s not at his office. Is everything all right? Please call me at XXX-XXXX.”

———————————————–

At that point (1:24 p.m.), I knew that the reason my boss hadn’t been able to reach me was because someone turned off the telephone ringer downstairs. I knew this because at about noon, the worthless, barely working cordless phone was sitting on the couch and began to ring. But the kitchen phone did not ring. I picked up the kitchen phone, however, to hear my husband’s voice. He told me he’d called earlier, but I hadn’t answered. He was in Portland for the day.

I looked at the buttons on the phone and saw that the “ringer” button was switched to off. I turned it back on.

It was an hour later that I discovered the phone messages upstairs.

At that point, I panicked. Not long ago, I attempted to rewind a cassette tape (which I transcribe as a part-time job). The irreplaceable, valuable-for-legal-reasons cassette tape jammed up and quit working. This time, the envelope containing the cassette apparently disappeared from my front door, where I’d taped it for my boss to pick up. He told me to have it ready by 7:30 a.m. and I’d taped it there at 7:15 a.m., just about the time DaycareKid arrived.

I put Babygirl and DaycareKid to bed, then came downstairs to investigate. I called my boss: “I left that cassette taped to my front door for you to pick up. My phone ringer was off all day, so I didn’t get your message. I’m going to figure out what happened and get back to you.” I left a message on DaycareKid’s dad’s cell phone, “Uh, you didn’t happen to see or accidentally take an envelope off my front door, did you?”

I walked outside and scoured my front yard for evidence of the envelope or the cassette. Nothing, other than TwinBoyB’s socks which are balled up and soaked by rain on the front lawn (and I used the word “lawn” loosely).

Finally, I called my boss’s office to speak to the secretary. She answered after half a dozen rings. I said, “Do you happen to have that tape?”

And she said, “Yes.”

“You do?” I said, stunned and relieved.

My boss had his wife come and pick up the envelope and deliver it to the office.

Now, DaycareKid’s dad will wonder at my extremely bizarre message and my boss will wonder at my groveling message, but I don’t care. I didn’t lose the cassette. A quirky thief is not prowling my neighborhood for envelopes stuck to doors.

The end.

Weird Symptoms

My 7-year old boy has a mysterious illness. When he came through the door Monday after school, his face was flushed. I said, “Are you feeling all right?” and he said he did, but later, he complained that his eyes hurt, his legs hurt, his waist hurt.

I have a cold myself, as does Babygirl, but YoungestBoy gave it to us. This appears to be something new. So I kept him home from school yesterday. We hardly knew he was here–he quietly rested and played, though at one point, he did join us circling the block on his bicycle.

This morning, he came downstairs, cheeks unusually pink and when I asked, “How are you feeling today?” he said, “Well, my ankle hurts.” A bit later, when I asked again, he informed me, “My thumbs are smooth.”

I gave him some ibuprofen (I’m not sure it cures smooth thumbs, though) and plan to send him to school for at least half a day. He excels in school, but maybe he’s just trying to get out of going? Then again, he has those pink cheeks.

The mysteries of childhood lead to dilemmas for mothers. To send or not to send? That is the question.

Missing What I Won’t Have Some Day

Sunday morning, Easter, I woke up with a cold. DaycareKid shared his cold germs with Babygirl and with me, so we were both sniffling and crabby. Still, we went to church and did our duty volunteering in the nursery. The children all looked presentable and I teetered on my high heels and my short dress. Twelve children played in the nursery under my care.

And so goes another Easter Sunday. I keep telling myself that motherhood will get easier when my youngest child gets a little older. I’ve been telling myself this for a decade. And then when my twins were about four, I became pregnant, despite the doctor’s prediction that we were “unlikely” to ever conceive. When that miracle baby boy approached three years of age, I told myself, now things will get easier. That was about the time I became pregnant again, which no longer seemed like a miraculous feat, but more along the lines of a divine practical joke.

Not that I wasn’t thrilled and grateful to welcome another child into our world and family. It’s just that the spacing of my children has not been what I might have ordered, had I been able to order them like a Chinese meal. (“And could I have three eggrolls to go with that?”) Some mothers spend a total of four or five years going through the baby/toddler/preschooler stage because they have their children close together. Our kids are almost five years apart and so I’ve been living in baby-toddler-preschooler-land for eleven years.

And if I weren’t breathing through my mouth because my nose is congested and if I weren’t so tired from waking up at 5:30 a.m. (yes, even this morning, sick and despite the rain) to walk . . . well, I might be concentrating on the sunshine and rainbows that dot the landscape when you live with a small child. I’d regale you with tales of Babygirl’s hearty laughter when my mother popped Babygirl’s bubbles with a stuffed bunny. I’d smile as I’d tell you about Babygirl’s tilted head and her squinted eyes when she questions me. I’d describe the joy of holding her long-legged body against mine and rocking, even though she won’t let me sing to her.

But oh. I am just so tired of living with smallish people. I want to move on to the next stage, though as I move on, I’ll find myself living with two teenagers and I hear that teenagers and toddlers resemble each other in many ways. Lucky me.

And then, I will close my eyes and dream of the days when I had a houseful of sweaty, noisy, giggling little children. And I’ll miss this, just a little.

Or a lot.

Words

To him, words are a particle of sand stuck in his eye.
To me, words are soothing eyedrops.

To him, words are sharp rocks digging into his bare feet.
To me, words are soft mossy green carpet.

To him, words are shards of glass, drawing blood.
To me, words are smooth pearls slipping through fingers.

To him, words are a slap on the face.
To me, words are a touch, gentle caress.

To him, words are slimy slugs, leaving a sticky trail.
To me, words are butterfly wings, dancing in the breeze.

To him, words are a tangled tight knot.
To me, words are a satin cord tied in a bow.

To him, words are a paper cut.
To me, words are a band-aid.

To him, words are a sharp stick in the eye.
To me, words are a flagpole displaying a flapping flag.

To him, words are the grime remaining in the tub.
To me, words are the foaming, scented bubbles.

To him, words are playing cards, refusing to stack.
To me, words are perfectly weighted blocks, towering into the sky.

To him, words are an overdraft notice from the bank.
To me, words are a fortune bequeathed.

To him, words are a toothache.
To me, words are a Farrah Fawcett toothy grin.

To him, words are a straightjacket, escape impossible.
To me, words are a vibrant silk gown.

To him, words are a noose.
To me, words are oxygen.

To him, words are the enemy with rifle drawn.
To me, words are the faithful friend with icy drink waiting.

No wonder my son hates to write. Words trip him, confound him, confuse him, push his face into the ground. Composing words together for him is like riding a ski lift into the mountains and getting tangled when he tries to leap off. Then, to add insult to injury, his ski pops off and an avalanche buries him.

This boy just can’t write. He hates words . . . my beloved words.

My $1.87 Bargain

At Target this afternoon, my shopping cart kept getting log-jammed by inconsiderate shoppers who clogged the aisles. So many people were crowded into the Easter candy section, bunched together like platelets that I, the red-blood cell, could not push my way past them, so I kept backing my shopping cart up and circumventing the clot.

I found a rectangular block which will allow me to buff my own fingernails. It cost $1.87. I felt so smug, so vindicated when I purchased it and shined my own thumbnail.

I am the Queen of Bargains. Really. I’ve never been one of those women who can buy two grocery carts full of food and pays with $2.32 and ten thousand coupons, but I do know my way around a thrift store and the Marshall’s clearance racks. Tomorrow, Easter Day will find us clothed head-to-toe in bargain apparel. The beauty of it is that no one will know that my twin sons’ brand new Ralph Lauren striped polo shirts cost $3.00 and $5.00 each. I splurged on YoungestBoy’s shockingly bright yellow Gap shirt ($12 on sale), but I found a pair of Gap khakis at Value Village for only $2.99. The twins will wear new jeans from Nordstrom ($11.00 each).

I’ll be wearing a lilac silk frock ($40–original $159.00 tag still on it) and Ralph Lauren patent leather pumps ($18.00). Babygirl’s hot pink linen dress with its white Peter Pan collar and belt cost $3.50 at Value Village.

The challenge tomorrow will be to say “thank you” when people comment on our appearance. What I want to say is, “Three-fifty, Value Village,” when the Church Ladies compliment Babygirl’s dress.

The most holy of all Christian holidays will find me in the church nursery tomorrow, hobbling on my spiked heels. It’s my day to be the official volunteer attendant, so I’ll be watching over fifteen to twenty little ones dressed in their Easter finery. After church, I’ll create a fancy dinner just for us. My husband will nap with Babygirl and the children will nibble at their solid chocolate Easter bunnies. The mundane mingles with the breathtaking memory of that morning so long ago when the woman crept to the tomb, only to find it empty.

Tomorrow, serving is my spiritual worship, and I will do so with the full awareness of my risen Savior, even though I am so easily distracted. I will not complain (as usual), but I will remember that Jesus paid full price when He paid the ransom for me. I will miss singing hymns and hearing the choral arrangments during the worship service, but my service in the nursery and in the kitchen will be my personal worship service, a celebration of Life’s triumph over death and the grave.

Rejoice.

Please Explain

Would someone–anyone–please explain to me why the hours from 9:30 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. go by so S-L-O-W-L-Y and the hours from 9:30 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. speed by in a flash?

Also, why am I the only person who notices trash on the floor?

Did someone elect me Queen of all Flushing? Because I seem to the only one managing the toilet handles in this house. And why do my kids put the toilet paper on upside down? Haven’t they noticed how it’s always been done?

And one more thing. Did Hillary really stop reading my blog or did she just stop commenting? I think of her now, whenever I iron my husband’s pants. (I’d insert a link here, but my head hurts, it’s almost 11 p.m. and I will be up and ready to walk in six and a half hours. But good news: Today, I didn’t throw anything!)