Poptropidox

(I believe this has been my longest lapse since starting Life in A-Town. I guess it’s the holiday preparations that have consumed my usual post time. I don’t feel I have anything significant to say today, either. But I’ll blog. And possibly bore.)

I mentioned last post that Pearl has recently become a die-hard fan of Backyardigans. Her obsession persists. While Ben enjoys a good episode of backyard fun (oh-so-ironic, since the kids are actually glued to their chairs staring at the boob tube), his real passion these days is for an online video game called Poptropica. He is intent—intent!—on winning more islands. I am not sure what this means, but it concerns me, his level of determination to spend as much “quality time” as possible with a character named “Big Nate.”

About 3 weeks ago, we deemed it necessary to limit the kids’ computer time to 45 minutes per day. This restriction pains Ben, truly. It’s almost alarming (bordering on amusing) to see him writhe in protest when his Poptropica time is up.

“OK, Ben, it’s been 45 minutes. Time to get off the computer and play something else.” (This after a 10-minute warning and a 5-minute warning.)

“It hasn’t been 45 minutes!” snarls normally mild-mannered Ben. “It’s only been, like, 45 seconds!”

An ugly altercation ensues, ending with the computer off, Ben sent to his room, and parents shaking their heads at their son’s turn of character. Is ours the only 5-year-old showing signs of early gaming addiction?

-----

One other noteworthy obsurdity before I go wrap some more gifts:

Will and I took a rare trip to the McDonald’s drive-thru the other day. We were coming home from Ben’s “Gingerbread Man” kindergarten play, so maybe we were feeling a bit nostalgic for the fries of our youth. We decided to stop for some fish sandwiches (because ordering fish seems semi-respectable, even if the Fillet-o-Fish is anything but).

We pulled up to the walkie-talkie thingy, prepared with our selections, when the pleasant young female voice said, “Hello and welcome to McDonald’s. Would you like to try a Big Mac Snack Wrap today?” I practically guffawed in her electronic ear. A Big Mac Snack Wrap? It’s the most oxymoronic notion I’ve heard in a long, long time.

Then again, so is ordering quasi-healthy fish sandwiches with eggnog milkshakes to wash them down. Which we did. It’s a world gone mad.

Some Slices of Life

Pearl has become a Backyardigans junkie. It’s animated operetta…kind of “High School Musical” for the preschool set. I love my daughter, but her taste in music is getting on my last nerve. Is this how parents of the ’90s felt about Barney? (“Barney is far worse,” says Will from the other room.)

-----

Speaking of Will, his grocery-buying habits continue to amaze me. This is a guy who, as I have blogged on one or two occasions, personally spikes our nation’s sugar stats by purchasing cereals such as Reese’s Puffs and Cap’n Crunch, also routinely grabbing super-sweet yogurt products (YoCrunch, YoSnack—Yo, High-Fructose Corn Syrup), and rarely coming home without a jumbo package of Strawberry Twizzlers. And yet two days ago I opened the refrigerator to find a package of organic alfalfa sprouts. I LOL’d!

-----

Vi performed in her school’s “Winter Holiday Concert” last night. She sang a solo with the chorus in a song called, “Christmas Through the Eyes of a Child.” She also played with the band as part of a 2-girl trombone section that really rocked the house, especially in the upbeat opener, “Jingles on the Housetop.”

The vocal solo, in particular, was the cause of much anxiety in the days leading up to the performance. Yesterday morning, careful coaxing was required to deliver my dear daughter to the Middle School for rehearsal. Then, further coaxing was required to prevent said daughter from vomiting in the nurse’s office and retreating to the safety of our Home-Sweet-Home. To see my poised girl standing at the microphone, 10 hours later, singing sweetly of the season in front of approximately 800 people, was nothing short of a Christmas miracle. It was, in a way, a Susan Boyle moment—a moment when she faced the dragon of doubt and vanquished its fire with the beauty of music.

Thanks to my Moms group, especially, for praying Vi through the day and through the concert. (As one who has actually puked before many-a-big moment, I don’t take anxiety lightly.) And thanks to the music teachers for giving kids—and parents—these kinds of opportunities. Aside from Vi’s solo song, of course, my favorite piece in the concert was “Beautiful December” by Amy F. Bernon (link leads to a grownup rendition, not the A-Town 5^th grade chorus). Enjoy!

A-Charmed Friend

I got to show my friend Holly around A-Town last night, and I think she was thoroughly charmed. We picked this night to get our families together because, it so happened, there was an A-Town Christmas Festival going on the same evening. We’d have our supper and then take the kids to see Santa, sing carols, make Christmas crafts, and so on. That was the plan. And it worked! (Don’t you love it when plans work?)

The John and Holly family arrived a little late because I had failed to emphasize how truly “forever” it takes to get here from either of the major metropolitan areas to our east or west (at least that’s what first-time visitors often tell us: “I felt like I was driving forever!”). But that was OK. Kids eat fast (if they eat at all), and the grownups had about a half-hour to chat over Gypsy Stew before we hustled up the block to witness the Christmas tree lighting and join in the caroling. We were in view of the Courthouse lawn when the lights went on. We weren’t there, but we didn’t completely miss it, either. Good enough. (And, as it turned out, the lights malfunctioned a couple times during the caroling, so we got to see the tree “re-lit”…and relit again.)

“Fa-la-la-la-la!” Holly and I were enthusiastic carolers. Where we were standing, we felt like the only ones singing. Undeterred, we joined our voices and crooned with gusto. Holly is a really good singer who can harmonize without any written music in front of her. I was impressed.

As a bonus, Santa Claus showed up on an A-Town Fire Department ATV right where we caroled. The kids were duly duped and dazzled, and they earnestly offered their requests to the man in red. When I told Holly that the jolly old guy was the M-A-Y-O-R, she Awww’d with appropriate small-town sentimentality. (I was later corrected by Will, who knows everything-about-everything about local politics. Santa was a Village Trustee who had recently served as the interim M-A-Y-O-R—details, details…still sweet.)

The bonus of Santa coming to us was that we could head straight back to the house. “Baby, it was cold outside.” We sent Vi and pal to the Fire Hall with the pack of merry-makers and returned to the Waters residence for cake, cookies and coffee. Then, after about 45 minutes had passed, Holly and I went to retrieve the girls, which allowed me to show my friend a bit more of A-Town, sans little ones. We strolled by our church, the local pizza place, the Fire Hall (where Vi and friend had waited the full 45 minutes in line for balloon weiner dogs), and ended up at the Main Street coffee shop, one of my favorite spots on the globe. Along the way, we discovered my dad out walking. He joined us on the trek to the coffee shop, where a community band was playing a concert of holiday tunes. Enchanting.

We listened for a bit, then made our way back home, by way of the downtown craft co-op/variety store, where Holly found an oh-so-charming picture frame she simply had to have. And even though the proffered discount of the day was 15 percent and not the 50 that Holly’s optimistic ears had heard, she purchased it anyhow, because it really was delightful.

Back at the homestead, Holly announced to John that they were moving to A-Town. I second that Christmas wish!

A doozy of a day, from serious to silly

I awoke shortly before 3:30 a.m. to sound of sirens outside. They were close. I got up to investigate. Will could not be stirred. (Which one of us is the journalist here, huh?) I donned my sneaks (as is my habit preceding adventures), shrugged on Will’s trench coat, and tiptoed outside. What a ruckus! So much for stealth. There were at least a half-dozen fire companies up the street, aiming their hoses at a house on the corner, billowing smoke so thick I had to raise Will’s coat collar to cover my mouth so I could breathe comfortably.

It was a sad scene, though not fraught with fatalities. The most recent occupants had moved out several months ago because the house was deemed unsafe by local authorities. I am sure neither the owners, nor the code enforcement officials, had any idea how unsafe (assuming the fire started spontaneously). I feel for those folks. Even though their house had “issues”—and, well, they themselves also seemed to have issues (but who of us doesn’t?)—it was their home, I know they were making efforts to move back in, and now they can’t. After 3-4 hours of steady dousing, the fire finally gave way, leaving a charred shell of their former dwelling place.

May God be with them, comfort them, and give them hope, especially as the season of “cheer” commences…..

-----

Amazingly, the kids slept through the commotion. They didn’t wake up until around 7:30, when they went about their routine preparations as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened so nearby. They showered, they dressed, and they poured themselves bowls of General Mills cereal before plopping in front of the TV to watch PBS Kids. A Curious George promo aired, a rollicking “Fun, Fun, Fun” campy tune that left my young peanut gallery arguing between munches:

Vi, age 10: “Man, that was corny!”

Ben, age 5 ½: “No, it wasn’t—it was cheesy.”

Vi: “No, it was corny.”

Ben: “It was cheesy!”

Vi: “Ben, you don’t even know what cheesy means.”

Ben: “Yes, I do!”

Vi: “Believe me, there’s a difference between ‘corny’ and ‘cheesy.’ You’re just too young to understand.”

(‘Fun, fun, fun!’ My children can fight about anything.)

_____

In addition to the constant whir of firetrucks and other emergency vehicles managing the situation outside on our block, the day was punctuated by Buzz Lightyear laser blasts, emitting intermittently from the Patriotic Buzz (sporting a red-white-and-blue-striped space suit) recently rediscovered in the attic. Buzz, who currently occupies a spot on our dining room window seat, obviously needs new batteries, but I had a few other things going on, so I told him to “Buzz off.”

_____

Among the many demands of this Monday (my day off from work, although it’s debatable which place I feel more relaxed): Reading to Pearl, who has developed a voracious appetite for books. I am glad for this fact, except when she insists on instant reading sessions, regardless of my current activity. (I shall refrain from going into details, but there are just some times when I can’t conveniently drop everything and read Little Bear.) Today, however, I read several books to Pearl, including Little Bear, Amelia Bedelia, and Green Eggs and Ham. Tell me this: Have you ever noticed the furry antagonist’s “butt crack,” as plainly portrayed on page 17 of Dr. Seuss’ classic children’s tale? Pearl astutely observed it aloud to me.

“…something new every day.”

Evening Comeback

Tonight my sliver of A-Town could be called “Black Saturday.” The early darkness of late fall is seriously hampering my holiday spirits. In previous years, I can’t recall feeling quite so time-confused as I have lately. On at least half of the last dozen days, I have thought it must be close to 9 pm. Then, to my bewilderment, the clock reads 6:12. It’s not that I feel more physically fatigued than usual. It’s more psychological, like an internal timer that says, “Go to bed,” but then gets hoodwinked by reality. I posted my sentiments recently on Facebook:

Nov. 21, 5:00 pm: “I shall refrain from whining about the 5 o’clock darkness.”

Nov. 21, 7:04pm: “OK, not whining but 7 feels like 11. I’m just saying.”

To which my wise-acre brother-in-law replied: “Did you just move to the area?”

He’s right to tease me. I should be accustomed to the gloomy autumn eves by now, having lived in these parts nearly 35 years.

And as I wrote, the light broke through. A knock at the door. My dear dad, out for his second constitutional of the day. Out walking in weather—chilly, drizzly, did I mention dark?—which makes most folks recoil. Four weeks and four days after having his heart rewired. I’m gonna quit complaining now.

-----

“But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.”—2 Peter 2:9 (NIV)

Image: A walk in Sydney

Do you think I would lose FB friends if I posted this?

Grace battles gluttony year-round and therefore feels awkwardly ambivalent about Thanksgiving, a day focused on a feast…oh, and football. Grace also admits an aversion to American gridiron for a variety of reasons, namely the sexism, commercialism and violence embodied in the sport. True confessions.

Basement Utterances

I feel the inclination to blog but also a definite reticence to share what’s really going on in my life. It’s the reason I put off starting a blog in the first place. I knew these questions would plague me: How much should I divulge? What is safe to reveal? What is better left unsaid? It’s aggravating. In many ways I’d rather “let it all hang out” and “let the chips fall where they may.” But it’s not just self-protection that motivates me to withhold information and insights into my life. It’s my family, my employer, my colleagues, my friends and my fellow parishioners I’m also shielding from my boisterous tendencies. Caution is a virtue.

Having said all that, let me tell you something seriously personal: I talk to myself. Oh, we all do, all the time, I know. But I say things out loud, and I tend to get into patterns of issuing the same self-admonishments over periods of several weeks or months. (Amateur psychiatrists: Kindly refrain from diagnoses.) A few years ago, whenever I found myself alone with my thoughts (a scenario too typically reserved for the basement and the two piles of laundry in our household—the dirty pile and the clean pile), I found myself muttering the question, “Are you sure?”

Now, if self analysis is akin to dream interpretation, this was an easy one. I was in my 20s, a new mother, working full-time and going to grad school, frequently overwhelmed and generally underwhelmed with wisdom, knowledge and experience. I felt downright insecure, and my self-talk reflected that fact. At the height of my “Are you sure?” phase, I was also spiraling toward clinical depression. When a good friend prompted me to seek treatment (God bless her), my doubts about myself diminished. My confidence returned…at least to a reasonable level. I could function, and fairly well. Praise Be.

Lately—for maybe the past month—I’ve been saying “I’m sorry” to thin air. What does it mean? Have I sinned some terrible sin? I don’t think so. I mean, maybe. But nothing really jumps out at me. There are my usual Whack-a-Mole temptations of gluttony, laziness and pride. I try to avoid those jerks. I wrestle against the “powers and principalities.” God knows I want to land in the lot of the righteous. No, I think I’m saying “sorry,” not for anything I’ve done wrong but for everything I haven’t done right…or simply haven’t done. I’m expressing regret for my absolute inadequacy to be a superhuman being. There’s so much good I want to do in my little world—my family, my church, my town, my “sphere.” And I know that all of my efforts, while well-intended and multitudinous, are enormously insufficient. It’s never enough. I am not enough.

Before you go feeling sorry for me, or chastising me, or—worst—cajoling me, I think you should know that I think my “sorry” problem is OK. I believe in a God who is bigger than me and my problems, plus bigger everybody else and their problems. By “bigger,” I mean more powerful, more loving, more magnanimous, and more magnificent even than we can possibly imagine. The God of my salvation proffers hope, healing and miraculous provisions for this life and the next. I believe.

So this unnecessary apologizing is just another phase—something I need to work out of my spirit’s system, perhaps. Something that will lead me to realize, more profoundly and completely than ever before, how much I need the grace of the Lord in my life. Don’t we all?

_____

I don’t think you can ever be too detailed in your prayers, too specific, too minute…We are not dealing on the front line with grand general truths and cosmic metaphysics, but with daily bread and ingrown toenails and forgiving the rude behavior of an old friend.—Eugene Peterson, The Wisdom of Each Other

Image from www.educationforthesoul.com.