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Tuesday, January 31, 2012

The Voice

I've reached a point in life that makes me question my own sanity. A little. Okay, not much, really.
I've thought long and hard, and for many years, about the voice of God. Some people claim they can hear Him speaking to them. Moses clearly heard him. My Sunday school kids decided they had never actually heard the voice. And I had to agree...while there were several times in life I felt compelled by his will, I hadn't really ever heard Him speak to me.

Till recently.

I don't really know when it started. I think there were a few occasions when I asked God a question in my head, silently, and immediately a response, not in my own voice, came back to me. Then it became kind of....conversational. I would say something, mentally, and then a response would come. At first I thought I was crazy, and just answering my own questions and responding to my own statements. Then I realized I just wasn't. I can't tell you how I know it isn't just that, me talking to myself, but I just know it isn't.

So, I've started to pray differently. More frequently. More conversationally. Weird things began to happen.
For instance, not long ago, I was in a car wreck. A snow plow demolished the front of my van. I knew, ahead of time, that it was coming. I said it, this time out loud, as I drove. "God this snow plow driver doesn't see me!"
I know. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."
As I opened my door and realized my legs could support me, my arms could move, and no blood was dripping off me, I knew He had assured me of this. I was okay. But it was more than his assurance. I heard Him.


A few weeks later, we were having a typical Sunday night at our house. Sunday nights are brutal; it's as if the two days off from school was a year. No one knows where their hat or backpack is, or what they want for lunch. The oldest kid remembers, "oh yeahhhh..." that I am supposed to call parents to ask for volunteers for the upcoming Valentine party. The youngest simply doesn't want to go to school, and therefore, will not take a bath. Somehow, it equates, in his mind.

Frustrated, I head downstairs to feed the bunnies. I give them each a generous handful of hay, and watch as they attack it hungrily. Then something happens. Marley, the little girl in the middle, must have swallowed a piece whole. She begins choking. Gasping for air. Green stuff is oozing from her nose and I am freaking out. I try to open her mouth to see if I can dislodge something, but it's impossible for me to accomplish. She's fighting me, and fighting to breathe. I am shaking and panicking, and I run upstairs to tell my husband the bunny is choking and I can't do it. I really can't. I have this animal...thing. I love them, too much, and I can't see them in any sort of compromised state. I curse myself for even having pets; I am a nutcase when it comes to any sort of illness or injury for any of them.

My husband goes downstairs and stays down there for a long time. I am convinced she is dying, or dead. I am googling "rabbits choking" and getting all sorts of gruesome diagnoses. Death. Painful death.
There's a bunny heimlich option, but it's a long shot, and it's dangerous in itself.
In another half hour or so, Randy comes upstairs, presumably to give me the bad news.

"She's just sitting here, now, on the carpet. She hopped around a little and she's a little shaken up, but I think she's okay."

I race down the stairs, scooping Marley into my arms. She is panicked and seems weaker, but she is breathing a little better. I'm still worried she won't make it through the night. Rabbits are ridiculously delicate creatures.

The next morning, she is sitting up in her cage. She sniffs and eats a tiny piece of her banana, offered from my hand. She is timid, and she hasn't had any water or pellets all night. I let her out to wander the family room, which she does, but not as enthusiastically as she usually does. I tell myself she is still just weak and uncertain. Maybe her throat hurts. Maybe her stomach hurts. That night, she still hasn't eaten and I pick her up, cuddling her to my chest. She sniffs me curiously, but then lays her head down, defeated. I cup my hand over her tiny back and become angry. She was such a fun, adorable little bunny, just yesterday!
"God, help her! She is one of your creatures. Why won't you help her, she's scared. I know she's an animal. I know you have more important things to work on, but I am sooo bad at this. Please just help her."

Some creatures are stubborn about healing.

That's the response I got. Stubborn about healing?
I laid in bed, after putting Marley back in her cage. Again, I figured she'd be dead in the morning. I began my usual kind of prayer, not really starting with "Dear God," or anything formal:
People are stubborn about healing, God, you're right. People want it their way. They want control. They want sympathy. They want everyone else to be miserable. They want all sorts of different things, I guess. Sometimes, I don't even know that they want to get better. Could that be? I should say 'we'. I'm people, too. But animals? How do they even know to be stubborn?"

The response, clear as day:

"People need to want to be healed. People need to seek healing. Animals? They never want to feel bad. But they usually don't want your help, either. It's not natural. They don't understand the conflict."

This morning, I had my husband do the initial "bunny check." I can't go down and find her dead. I did that once, when I was about six years old...found our dog dead, in the garage. It stays with ya.

"She's eating hay, and sitting up." Awestruck, I filled the colander with fresh greens and banana slices, determined to see her eat. She nibbled a few bites of mustard greens and then ate most of her banana slice. It's her favorite. I felt a little better. Then she hopped 180 degrees and turned her back to me. Creatures are stubborn about their healing. Normally, I'd force her to turn around and try to get some more nourishment in her. Instead, I laid the rest of the greens on the cage floor, freshened her water and made sure she had some pellets, just in case.

"I'm willing to wait this out with you, Marley, if you're willing to try."

As I go through this day, I still don't know that she's going to make it. She looks better, but I know rabbits tend to look better than they are. It's a defense mechanism for prey animals. Being stubborn is sort of a defense mechanism for humans, I suppose.
Somehow, though, I have to realize it's just not up to me.

It's going to be okay. No matter what.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Annoyance, Bliss, and Carts.

I have developed a love-hate relationship with grocery shopping. "You've posted about the grocery store before!" you might say.
You're right. I have nothing else to do in my tiny little life but tell you about my frequent trips to the supermarket.
And when I say frequent, I mean that I go at least three times a week. I'm one of those people.
First of all, I'm on Weight Watchers. It is yet another ill-fated attempt to drop poundage so that I might look like my eighteen-year-old self in a pair of shorts this summer. If I'm lucky, the shorts won't have a name like "crops" which mean, they skim just below the knee, a.k.a. culottes. I...hated...culottes as a child. Loathed them. Was made fun of because of them. My mother insisted on them though, in addition to "pedal pushers." Dear Lord, pedal pushers?
My goal is to wear a pair of shorts with the inseam measurement noted in the description. Preferably 5". Not 3". I'm not that crazy, and no amount of Weight Watchers will get rid of the road map that has become my thigh region.

Per usual, I have regressed. The reason I've mentioned the Weight Watchers is that it has spawned a new shopping obsession based on the Points Plus system. I must know the point value in my purchase. Say that five times fast. I drag along my Kindle (because I'm hip and fancy) and plug in fat, carbohydrates, protein and fiber. Or FCPF, as we cool people like to use our acronyms.

Yes, the calorie deprivation is altering my sanity even more. Keep reading.

Usually, I'm okay when it comes to regular food. Vegetables, fruit, meat, etc., I can handle. It's just that I grew up understanding that a prerequisite to bedtime was a snack, and that hasn't changed. Not in thirty years. I still need a bedtime snack. For a while I was hooked on a bowl of cereal, until Oprah said something ghastly about eating cereal before bed, (I can't remember what it was) and now I don't do that anymore. Well, usually I don't. Desserts have become a problem for me. I like desserts the way they are supposed to be: ooey, gooey, flaky, sweet and chock-full of calories. This business of replacing butter and oil with things like applesauce or pumpkin is really for the birds. Come on, you know it is.
But I try to convince myself I like it.
I like lying to myself, apparently. Again, it's the overall calorie deprivation.
So I meander through my favorite supermarket, which is kind of like Cheers, because everybody knows my name, and I look for alternatives and substitutes to my favorite desserts without sacrifice, which is really just laughable.
I become annoyed with aimless shoppers. They are clearly not with me on my mission. Husbands and wives are the worst.
"Did you get coffee last time?" (I'm already annoyed; I get coffee every time. Is this a real question?)
"I don't remember. I liked what we had, though."
"Should I get Michigan Cherry or Hazelnut?"
"Do we need dog food?"
"Did you hear what little Jack said to me this morning?" (Huh? Focus on the coffee. Or move, because I'm trying to plug in the FCPF on that Swiss Miss you're hovering over).

I am mended, immediately, as Greg Laswell's voice croons over the stereo system. It's just for me, I am convinced. I am blissfully aware of the energy I put into my mission here at the store, and Greg has reminded me. You never know, I could run into him this summer, in my 5" inseam shorts. Plug in those numbers, sister!

Calorie. Deprivation.

Thinking of Greg Laswell's deep brown eyes reminds me of chocolate chips and how I miss my love affair with Tollhouse cookies. How big of a sin would those be, on Weight Watchers. Might as well cruise the baking aisle to see the point-reality.

I settle on a box of something called Skinny Cow, picturing a heifer with an unnaturally whittled middle grinning seductively as if these treats, lacking in caloric bliss, will make me do the same. I doubt it.
And I don't know that she's a heifer. I just like the word.

As I battle check-out, my least favorite part, because twice now someone has attempted to slash my achilles tendon with their cart, I make a mental note to buy a pedometer next time.
All this searching has got to be earning me Activity Points. AP.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Wildly Inappropriate

I remember gazing into his big, dark blue eyes in the hospital bed, and thinking wow, how did I get so lucky?! And weeks later, cuddling up to the cutest duckie pajama-clad bundle as he cooed and kicked happily, thinking he was the most perfect, joyful little gift I could ever receive.

At around two, he would be engrossed in play, but he would frequently drop everything and run to me...well, charge at me like a bull, to fiercely grab my leg and squeeze me into a hug. Those tiny "I love you, Mommy"s are priceless, aren't they?

At three, we got a taste of his personality, destined for mischief. He found a bottle of baby powder, and not only redecorated the bedroom with its contents, but also covered every inch of himself, save for those blue eyes. "I stink!" he proclaimed, reeking in this exorbitant amount of newborn baby-smelling stuff, similar to an old woman bathed in Jean Nate'.

At five, he demanded we remove his training wheels. The air of cool confidence in his voice, and unwavering certainty when we told him, "once they are off, they aren't going back on" made me smile. He knew he would do it, and his determination proved him right. He rode on two wheels that very day, and now does it at lighting-speed, God help me.

Although I'm sure I read, back in my days of baby name books, that Isaac means "laughter," it is impossible, as a mother, to know if a name will really fit until your child is a little older. You pick out a name, and you hope it works. Ultimately, it's the name you like best, after several disagreements with your spouse, ruling out things like "Finn, Phoenix, and Calvin." Or at least that's what happened in my case.

Isaac means "laughter." Ain't that the truth?

I can't count the number of times this kid has had me in stitches, with either his wild antics or his tall tales. The dinner table, though, is perhaps my favorite locale for silliness. We have, by no means, a serious dinner. The concept that children should be "seen and not heard" does not apply in this house. Despite my efforts to serve gourmet meals on the lovely china, with well-groomed children using impeccable manners, it...well, it just hasn't happened yet. We aren't raucous or gross, either, mind you. We just have humorous mealtimes, usually spurred by Isaac saying, "today, you know what happened?"

"Mommy, today...you know what happened at school? The gym teacher told us to bounce basketballs against the wall and catch them. It was fun. Until it bounced at me and hit me in the nuts. It hurt soooo much. I couldn't talk in my regular voice."

Me (stifling a grin and trying to look concerned): "What exactly are your nuts?"

"You know, those things, on my crouch."

"Oh....yes, your crouch. I don't have those, then. Nuts."

"Yes, you do, Mommy. The girls at school said they do."

Gabe is laughing wildly at this point, as he apparently calls his "biscuits."

"Eat your dinner," I say, "and you go to school with some very interesting girls."

The boys continue giggling between bites, and Ella chimes in the best way she knows how, turning to Isaac and shrieking "Pull my finger!"

So, anyway, I guess I named him appropriately, even if he is, often, wildly inappropriate. He doesn't realize it's inappropriate. He was speaking earnestly, of a traumatic event during gym class!

He makes us laugh, and that's for sure. He's very smart, clever, and imaginative to go along with it, so there's great potential for his future.

But stand-up will always be an option, I suppose, if nothing else pans out.
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