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Totally Awesome

Sep 12th, 2009 by Amy

Yesterday afternoon driving home from ballet class, Sydney paused mid-thought and asked me this:  “Mommy, is God going to take ribs out of me and make a man?”

 

Brooklyn came downstairs to help make lunch the other day.  She got the bread out and assembled three sandwiches for each kiddo.  As we were putting the leftover turkey, cheese and fruit back into the fridge she said this to me:  “Mommy, you are my best friend.”

 

A few days ago Jackson stopped to inspect the wedding picture hanging in my bedroom.  He looked up at me, then back at the picture, then back at me.  Without a second thought he said, “Mommy, you a princess!”

 

This morning, while working on a few household chores, I could hear Sydney calling my name from the other room:  “Mommy, Mommy, Moooooommy!  Come look at me!”  Realizing she wasn’t going to stop until I came to observe her, I dropped what I was doing and went to the playroom.  She was attempting to do a back handspring, while simultaneously watching t.v. (rather impressive – not to mention dangerous – if you ask me).  She looked up and asked,  “Is this awesome?”

 

“Totally awesome!” was my reply.  In fact, I took a moment, looked each one of them in the eye and added, “You are ALL totally awesome!”

 

Whether they are contemplating creation or being Mommy’s special helper, calling me a princess or wowing me with acrobatic skills, they are amazing to me.  And absolutely, totally awesome!

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Posted in From The Mouth Of Babes | 2 Comments »

9-11

Sep 11th, 2009 by Amy

I wrote a post yesterday.  I felt really good about it.  I edited, reviewed, and scheduled it to post this morning. 

 

Then this morning came.  Today is 9-11.  I felt convicted that I had not taken that into account yesterday as I feverishly worked on my post for today. 

 

I removed today’s original post.  I’ll re-post tomorrow or next week. 

 

This morning I want to simply take a moment to remember.  Not a moment to fear, question or worry.  But a moment to remember.

 

I also want to stop and pray and thank God for His protection following the attacks on our country eight years ago.  I’m grateful that we don’t have to worry.  We don’t have to be afraid.  I know that no matter what storms come our way, God is in control.  Our lives are in His hands.

 

Today is a reminder to never stop praying. 

 

Today is a day to remember those whose lives were taken away much too soon.

 

Today  is a day to remember those who have fought, and those who are still fighting, to keep us safe here at home.

 

Today is 9-11. 

 

Today I will remember and today I will pray.

Posted in Current Events, Faith, Life | 2 Comments »

Gone To My Head

Sep 8th, 2009 by Amy

They say confession is good for the soul.  Okay.  I’ve got a confession to make.  Throughout the long summer months, the challenge of keeping my three little banshees from tearing the house and each other apart has been a major undertaking.  Somehow they have this innate ability to discover Mommy’s weakness, and daily, they zero in on it.  Nevertheless, because I’m a smart mommy too, I have managed to stay one step ahead of them, thus successfully keeping an inkling of peace in our home.  In fact, our final two weeks of summer vacation have been positively fourteen of the most serene and enjoyable days we’ve spent in a long time.  The girls, from the moment their little eyes popped open in the morning, commenced making beds, playing dolls, dress-up, school – whatever their fancy – without screaming, thrashing, and fighting, all the whilst Jackson occupied himself with his trains, cars, and books.  There has been no jumping off of furniture, no throwing hard, plastic objects at each other, no hair-pulling, or name calling.  Truly amazing.

 

The first full day of this sweet-natured behavior I found myself blinking my eyes in disbelief and pinching myself throughout the day.  This was simply too good to be true.  And, in an effort not to jinx it, I mustered all the self-control in my being to keep my mouth shut until bedtime when I would point out to them how very much I appreciated their flawless and “Grade A” behavior.

 

As the days went by and this marvelous phenomenon remained consistent in my home, I started to feel pretty good about myself.  “Hmmm,” I thought, “I must be doing something right.  Look at these three angelic faces.  Had it not been for my dazzling parenting skills, they might still be climbing the walls and spreading mayhem through the land.”  I was really patting myself on the back, thinking I had figured it all out and was now officially ready to dish out parenting advice to all those poor, unfortunate moms still struggling to keep their children from ripping each other apart.  Yep.  I was full of it.

 

Once again, I think the same childhood intuition that sniffs out mommy’s weak spot can also sniff out the false sense of success that mommy is feeling.  No sooner was I struttin’ along like a proud, colorful peacock then one child swiped a toy away from another innocent child at playgroup on Thursday, inducing heartbreak and tears.  (There’s nothing like having to deal with a misbehaving child in a room full of other moms, especially when you are the group leader!)  After recovering from that humiliating experience, another child decided that she hadn’t been defiant for a while, and our daily quiet time turned into World War III, thus galvanizing this ‘One-Time Super Mom’ to take away all of this child’s brand new school clothes.  (She has to earn them back piece-by-piece; we’re making slow progress.)  In the meantime, I could hear my two-year-old son grousing, “Mommy, I no like you anymore.”  I still don’t know what I did to deserve that one.

 

Then, there is the “piece de resistance”.  Only three days ago, I was startled to hear a gut-wrenching scream coming from the playroom.  I had put Jackson down for a nap, got the girls set up to watch a movie, and dashed into the bathroom for a quick shower.  I just lathered the shampoo in my hair when Sydney’s voice of panic seized my heart.  I jumped out from the refreshing stream of warm water and, dripping, ran into the playroom to see what had happened.  Brooklyn was lying on her stomach and crying.  When I turned her over, my eyes quickly focused on the large blue knot, smack dab in the middle of her forehead.  She had been chasing Sydney (so much for quiet movie time), tripped, and landed face-first into the corner of their little pie cabinet.  I sprung into action, checking for any signs of concussion, asking her questions, taking a blow-by-blow account from Sydney of the incident.  When I was finally able to rule out a trip to the ER (and let me tell you, that was a huge relief to me), I realized I still had a head-full of soapy bubbles in my hair and was leaving a trail of water behind me.  My once-inflated ego was now popped and lying in complete shreds like a balloon burst into a million pieces.  This ‘Super Mom’ image I thought I had attained had gone straight to my head, and it took one major head bump (and several other not-so-lovely incidents) to quickly bring me back to reality.

 

It’s never pleasant to be knocked off my pedestal.  I’m not fond of humiliation either, but for some reason I’ve eaten my fair share of humble pie in recent years.  The saying that kids will bring out the best and the worst in a person is absolutely true.  However, I feel that my worst side seems to be revealed much more often than all my good traits combined.  The process of growing and maturing in parenthood is never-ending.   There is no “arriving” in this occupation.  We are always moving towards something, being stretched, challenged, and struck hard with the reality that there is always something new to learn, something new to teach and lots of surprises in between.  I’m grateful that I have a hands-on husband who takes the responsibility of raising our children as serious as I do, and together we make a great team.  But even further than that, beyond that earthly father figure that Joel represents, there is another set of hands that play a huge role in our home.  Without the influence and guidance of our Heavenly Father, I am certain that I would never be able to survive all of the “growing pains” that parenthood has brought my way. 

 

Proverbs 22:6

“Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.”

 

As an adult, and even more so as a parent, I am consciously aware of my need for discipline and instruction.  God, as my Heavenly Father, is training me, propelling me to reach even further beyond myself, and never tiring when I slip up or have a bad day.  As I am striving to train up my children in the way they should go, not the way they want to go naturally, God is also training me.  His love and discipline trickles down and has provided me with the perfect parenting model.  And rather than taking the walk of shame every time my parenting flaws are revealed, I would rather focus on the character God is forming in me and the character I am developing in my own children.  So, when they’re screaming, fighting, and swiping toys away from unsuspecting playmates, it’s a reminder to me that my job ain’t done yet, and we still have such a long way to go.  As well, when they are stunning me with their adorable sweetness, loving on each other, and reflecting the better side of me, I think it’s okay to give myself a little pat on the back (because seriously, that’s evidence of a lot of hard work on my part!).  Then pause.  Snap back to reality.  And never forget what happens when I let it go to my head.

Posted in Faith, Life, Motherhood | 1 Comment »

I Am A Poem

Sep 6th, 2009 by Amy

Ephesians 2:10

“We are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

 

Did you know that the word “workmanship” used in the above scripture is translated from the Greek word “poiema” which means “poem”?  I didn’t.  I never took Greek in college, and I vaguely remember any of the heady Bible classes that I actually did take.  So, this morning as our pastor shared this timely insight with us, my heart literally skipped a beat.  Instantly, my mind went back to a poem I wrote in 1995 while in treatment for depression and an eating disorder.

 

For too many years, I had struggled with a distorted self-image.  I didn’t see myself as God’s workmanship, but rather as one giant mistake.  Through the course of healing, I discovered just how wrong I was – so blind.  Not only did I have a distorted self-image, but I had a very distorted view of God.  In the middle of my recovery, I sat down and penned this poem.  Little did I know that the word “workmanship” is derived from the word “poem”, and God so many times in His word reminds us that we are His.  We are His poem.  God’s workmanship.  God’s masterpiece. 

           

I Am A Poem

 

I am a poem

Created in my mother’s womb

I was intended to be this way

With awkward words

And silly smiles

With dreams I pray may come alive

I catch myself in such critical states

And forget that I am wonderfully made

I am a poem

Crafted and perfected

By the hands of the Master Poet

Each word, each phrase

Is a prayer to the heavens

And its beauty is much more than I have seen

I am a poem

 

-Written July, 4, 1995

Posted in Faith | 2 Comments »

Jumping Jack

Sep 4th, 2009 by Amy

Slater Family 08 004

My two-year-old son is a fast learner.  It didn’t take him long to discover that standing at the top of the stairwell exclaiming, “Mommy, look!  I jump!” could initiate a performance of unparalleled drama and acrobatic skill from yours truly.  With his eyes opened wide and a grin revealing every tooth in that little mouth of his, he watches as I stretch my legs, leaping high, back arching and twisting, arms flailing, crying out in a panic-induced quivery voice, “No Sweetheart!  No, no, no…we don’t jump down an entire flight of stairs!”  By the time I’ve knocked my elbow into the handrail, and acquired a few rug burns on my knees making my rough and clumsy landing on the step below him, his smile has swelled to a hearty belly laugh.  I know he finds my “mother bear” antics both entertaining and impressive.  After the dust has settled and my heart rate has returned to normal, I wonder to myself what kinds of pranks this boy is going to pull ten years from now, and how on earth I’m going to survive them (especially since my joints won’t be nearly as limber as they are presently). 

 

The instant I heard my husband’s full and powerful voice echo through the delivery room (and down the hall) announcing, “It’s a boy!”, a flood of emotion washed over me.  I had a keen awareness that my life was forever changed, and I wondered – as his tiny, warm body lay curled up on my chest – “Am I ready for this?”  Two-and-a-half years, and innumerable panic-inducing moments later, I can honestly say I was totally made for this.  The adventure of raising a boy is one I never dreamed I had the disposition or temperament to handle.  How wrong I was.  I’ve realized it doesn’t take a rough and tumble, “natural chick” to connect with a boy.  It doesn’t take a once-captain of the girls’ basketball team to teach a son how to throw a ball.  And it doesn’t even take a former wrestling champ to flop on the floor for a tender tussle.  Nope.  Raising my little “Jumping Jack” takes only me (and a whole lot of prayer).

 

I wouldn’t trade having a boy for anything in the world.  There is no treasure as precious as walking with my son down a hotel hallway and watching as he flicks his “Lightning McQueen” clad foot with a slick “Ka-Chow!” at every passer-by.  Priceless.  Jackson’s obsession with cars, trains, and anything that makes noise and moves has opened a whole new world to me – a world that shuns pink, princess gowns, and tiaras but leaves room for hand-picked dandelions and wild flowers for Mommy.  This new world is truly a joy to discover.

 

And to think…I’ve only just begun.

 

(This post was inspired by the countless near-death experiences and mid-air ballet twirling rescue attempts that I have shared with my son, “Jumping Jack”.  Even as I am writing this, he is working tirelessly at putting a pair of miniature sunglasses on my face stating, “Cool Mama…Cool!”)

Posted in Motherhood | 3 Comments »

Strike A Pose

Sep 1st, 2009 by Amy

Once upon a time I was a model.  Try as you might to find a picture of me hidden in the pages of an outdated fashion magazine or in a pile of resume head-shots, you will only end up disappointed (perhaps) and confused.  Stating, “I was a model” is using the term “model” very loosely.  In fact, the two words “I” and “model” don’t even belong in the same sentence together.  Let me try and say this again:  (A-hem) Once upon a time I wanted to be a model.

 

The time I’m referring to was my ninth grade year of high school.  My sister and I got our hands on a copy of Seventeen Magazine – this, in and of itself is incredible for two reasons:  First, we lived in Kenya, and Seventeen Magazine just didn’t float around our neck of the woods.  And second, even if Seventeen Magazine was available at the local grocery store check out lane, our parents would never buy it for us.  I’m still scratching my head as to how we managed to commandeer such a publication, but we did, and boy, were we inspired.  We studied each page with awe and intrigue.  I think what made the greatest impression on my teenage self-image was how the sixteen-year-old girls posing and articulating to the mag their “I-was-sitting-in-an-airport-terminal-and-this-modeling-agent-came-over-to-me-and-handed-me-their-card-and-the-rest-is-history” type stories, looked nothing of sixteen years but more like twenty-five.  Leaving an insecure, mascara challenged, fifteen-year-old feeling really discouraged and downright ugly.  Their lives were storybook as were their peaches and cream complexions and long tousled locks.  Every page held the unattainable dream of teenage beauty.  (No wonder my parents didn’t want those magazines in our home!)

 

So what did my sister and I decide to do?  We came up with the genius idea of taking our own modeling shots and perhaps shipping them to Seventeen Magazine, or any agency with the mailing address: New York, New York.  Oh yes…inspired we were (and not too bright either).

 

model0003We spent days on our little project:  Choosing our outfits, preparing backdrops and themes that would coordinate with our various clothing ensembles, planning our make-up and hairstyles for each shot, and all while listening to cassette tapes of our favorite bands.  We gleaned much inspiration from songs like Chicago’s “Hard Habit To Break” and “You’re The Inspiration”. 

 

It was truly a magical and sisterly bonding time.  Yet, once the pictures were taken, developed, and scrutinized, we came to the sobering conclusion that our modeling dreams would never be realized.  First, our complexions were far from peaches and cream.  Our hair was way too damaged from perms and overexposure to the sun.  Our figures, while thin, weren’t nearly womanly enough to catch the eye of the adolescent boys at school, let alone a modeling agent.  Even though we never verbalized our insecurities over the many flaws and imperfections we beheld in those rudimentary pictures, there was a mutual agreement that the likes of Seventeen Magazine and New York, New York would never be receiving our package in the mail.

 

Instead, the photos were sealed in an envelope marked “Please Do Not Open – EVER”, placed in a storage box and forgotten.  That is, until about two years ago.  I was rummaging through a bunch of my old high school paraphernalia and couldn’t believe my eyes when I discovered the old “modeling portfolios” of Amy and Jennifer.  I disregarded the strict instructions “Please Do Not Open – EVER” and tore open the envelope as quickly as my fingers could move.  As I flipped through the photographs recalling, to the detail, every memory of our modeling venture, I picked up the phone and called my sister on the other side of the country.  We laughed.  We cried.  We laughed again, and cried some more.  Once again bonding and wishing desperately we could share this moment in the same room rather than via phone call. 

 model0001

After hanging up and wiping the tears from my eyes and nose, I looked through the pile of pictures one last time.  Smiling, an uncontrollable reflex when looking at snaps like these, I thought about the fifteen-year-old girl staring back at me in the shot.  Wow.  She was actually kind of cute – dorky and without an ounce of “cool” in her DNA – but cute just the same.  For a moment I felt sad that the girl I was twenty years ago couldn’t see what I saw as a grown woman and mother of two girls of my own.  I longed to tell her that Seventeen Magazine and all those abnormally beautiful faces weren’t the scale by which she should measure her own beauty.  The beauty that God was cultivating in her far surpassed flawless skin and shiny smooth hair.  The beauty she should be chasing after wouldn’t be found in magazines and make-up.  Eventually, I think it finally hit home with her, and her passion for modeling was traded in for a passion of a different kind.  I hope I’m the woman I aspired to become when I was fifteen years old – a model of a woman with a heart after God.

 

I’m still in progress – working on a different modeling portfolio these days.  As my youth slips away little by little with each year that creeps by, I pray I grow more and more beautiful on the inside.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I believe that goes for both physical and internal.  My husband thinks I’m hot when I’m dressed up, hair done just right and make-up meticulously applied, and equally, when I roll out of bed first thing in the morning.  (Others may not be as forgiving when my hair is a mess and my breath is not so lovely.)  In the same way, when God beholds me in our secret times and not-so-secret-times, I want Him to find me beautiful.  I want my life to reflect Him and bring glory to Him whether I’m sitting in my big red overstuffed chair at five-thirty in the morning, or hanging out with a bunch of girlfriends.  It is far greater a challenge to achieve a beautiful spirit these days than it is a beautiful face.  However, the beauty that comes from within is a beauty that lasts forever – a beauty that lives eternal.

 

Proverbs 31:30

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;  But a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

model0002

 By the way, when my girls saw these pictures they asked me what was wrong with me and why I was “acting” so weird.  I couldn’t even convince a six-year-old and a four-year-old that I was a model!  Go figure.

Posted in Africa, Life, Random | 7 Comments »

It’s ‘Go’ Time

Aug 29th, 2009 by Amy

The countdown is on.  School starts in (a little over) a week, and I can already feel a slight shift taking place; not just in our home, but in the weather too.  I find myself waking up to a familiar autumn chill and, if I could actually smell, the scent of transition lingering in the cool morning air.  Yes, something fresh, something new, something exciting and wonderful is soon to begin.  Yet, rather than jumping up and down like a high school cheerleader, I pause instead – thinking and processing the wide scope of change that is on its way.

 

For those that know me, it’s no secret that I’ve been chomping at the bit for the past three weeks, eagerly anticipating the first day of school.  In fact, if school could have resumed on August first, I would have been completely comfortable with that option.  (I already spent an entire blog post on my issues with the end of summer vacation, so I’m not going to go down that road again.)  Suffice it to say, as our home is slowly swelling from the influx of new school clothes, school supplies, backpacks and lists, the reality of our upcoming transition is becoming more and more an actuality to me, and I’m growing – believe it or not – slightly apprehensive as September ninth draws closer and closer.

 

To be frank, over the past (almost) three months I’ve been lazy.  I’ve done a few things scattered whimsically over the slow summer weeks, but by and large I’ve been a big bump on a log.  I’ve been staying up way too late, sleeping in, reading books for fun, staying in my jammies until noon some most days and playing on the computer much, much longer than my “allotted” time.  I’ve spent so much of my summer bucking the security of my regular routine, that laziness has quickly become equally as comfortable and second nature to me.  So, you can see why I might be looking ahead at the start of school with uneasiness.  I’m sincerely concerned that if I don’t get my act together over the next week, there could be some not-so-delightful ramifications for Mommy.

 

Joel and I were actually discussing this very thing the other night.  He, too, feels motivated to make some personal changes, and the kick off for fall feels like an appropriate time to do so.  We are embarking upon a new school year, a clean new slate, a new football season (Go Fighting Irish) and a fresh opportunity to reinstate order and self-discipline into our lives.  So, how do we plan to do this?  How will we corral our quasi-feral herd that has run wild and free in the sweet rays of succulent sunshine? What will be our strategy in turning a lazy summer home into a ship shape vessel prepared to set sail on a fresh, new course?  Since I am all about routines, schedules and organization, I have come up with a pretty darn good plan.  Uneasiness is giving way to confidence and motivation, and I think the kids have even caught a whiff of my take-charge vibe. 

 

It’s ‘GO’ time at my house starting today Monday.  We’re going to take September by the horns and ride into the new school year with confidence, determination and a full eight hours of sleep on our side. 

 

(Pause.)

 

(Sigh.)

 

Wish me luck!  (I think I’m gonna need it!)

Posted in Life, Motherhood, Random | 2 Comments »

Espresso, Pheasant Feathers & A Lesson In Parenting

Aug 28th, 2009 by Amy

The other evening my husband and I enjoyed a very rare and much anticipated night out together.  We found a cozy and friendly café that has quickly become a favorite spot of ours, and nestled in for a delicious meal and uninterrupted conversation.  We finished eating, but neither of us was ready to dash out the door, so my husband suggested we order espresso.  I agreed.  Espresso sounded like a great idea.

 

As we continued our conversation over the strong flavor of rich coffee, taking slow sips between long and deliberate intervals, memories of my year living in France began to flood my mind.  It has been a long time since I stopped to enjoy a cup of espresso.  Equally, it has been quite some time since I rehashed old memories of France.  One experience in particular put a smile on my face, and even still evokes a good laugh.

 

It had been a busy day in the “bustling metropolis” of Vitrolles, France.  Truthfully, the bus ride home was more draining than the whole workweek combined, but I still was grateful to finally be off for a few days of Christmas holiday.  As I opened the door to Madame Buendia’s charming French townhome, I found a trail of feathers leading to the kitchen.  Curious, I followed the feather path.  Entering the kitchen, I startled Madame Buendia who was working on a stubborn pot in the sink.  When she recovered, a sly and mischievous grin crossed her face.  I asked her about the feathers.  She told me to open the fridge.  I did.  There, at the bottom of this tiny French refrigerator, lay three dead pheasants – “Christmas dinner!” announced Madame Buendia.  Her son’s father-in-law had a stellar hunting trip, and we were the honored recipients of part of his spoils.  Madame Buendia was getting the kitchen cleared and prepped so she could begin plucking the feathers from the pheasants.  I caught my second wind at the thought of plucking birds and hurried upstairs to change my clothes. 

 

When I returned, eager to start ripping away at the dead birds, I was sternly informed that I would not be permitted to participate in the pheasant plucking.  I asked why in as respectful and calm a tone as I could muster up.  Madame Buendia explained that this kind of work was not appropriate for “little American girls” (I was twenty-five years old and stood five feet, eight inches tall – not so little if you ask me).  After pausing for a few minutes and realizing she wasn’t going to budge on this one, I asked if I could at least get my picture taken with the dead, pre-plucked birds.  She acquiesced, and I got a nice “before” shot of Christmas dinner for my memory book.

 France Pheasant

I passed the remainder of the evening reading, and occasionally glancing over to the closed kitchen door.  Every now and then I’d hear grunting and cursing coming from, I’m quite certain, an exasperated and stubborn French woman.  If only she would have let me assist – we could have been grunting and cursing together!  How much more fun it would have been to pluck pheasants with company! 

 

The next morning, the remnants of the prior night’s activities were wafting in the air as I went to prepare myself a cup of espresso.  Feathers were everywhere: the floor, the countertops, chairs.  Every time I made a move, a rustle of feathers would swirl and whoosh like little tornadoes throughout the cramped kitchen.  Madame Buendia was still in bed- I’m sure recovering from her work out with the three dead birds the night before.  To this day I really wish I could have been a part of the Christmas-pheasant-feather-plucking action.   Yet, all I have is a picture of me holding two of them up by the legs. 

 

What’s the moral of the story?  As I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, Sydney is less than a foot away from me, earnestly sharpening a pile of pencils for school.  She is making a mess, but doing a great job and accomplishing a task that is well within her purview.  As I am slowly discovering – I tend to be a very slow learner – my kids are far more adept at simple and even not-so-simple tasks than I give them credit for.  They can make their beds, clean their dishes, do regular household chores and help me in the kitchen (my two-and-a-half year old included).  Do they do it perfectly?  Not always.  And I’m learning to lower my expectations and appreciate the effort they put into making their beds more so than the quality of the “military corners” and placement of throw pillows.  Those things really don’t matter anyway.

 

Another thing this teaches me is that the mess is not a bad thing.  Whether or not I helped Madame Buendia with the feather plucking, there was certain to be a mess.  Alone, she stayed up half the night working, long after I had drifted off to sleep.  And later, didn’t have the energy to clean up once the job was completed, as evidenced by the heaps of feathers lingering in the kitchen the next morning.  If I had been permitted to assist, the mess would have been made, but we could have finished a lot earlier and made sure the feathers were cleaned up too.  With my kids, I am doing them a great disservice if I never allow them to join me in making a mess.  Sometimes the only way to learn something is to mess it all up first.  Then, we also learn how to put it back together again.  I don’t want my kids to spend their lives staring at a “closed” kitchen door, longing to be in the thick of the chaos with me and learning something new.  I don’t want them to feel like I did the night of the feather plucking.  Witnessing a missed opportunity, but helpless to rectify it.

 

So here are a few “messes” I’ll be making with my kids this week:

 

  • Sydney and I will be cleaning out closets, throwing things away and re-organizing (she has a gift, and I want to nurture that in her and watch it grow!).

 

  • Brooklyn will be assisting me in the kitchen, putting together meals and snacks.

 

  • Jackson will be setting the table (something he loves to do!), and “folding” laundry.

 

If all of this came out of one demi tasse of café, there’s no telling what profound insights will emerge the next time I get a date night with my husband and another shot of espresso!

Posted in France, Motherhood | 5 Comments »

Wonder Woman

Aug 25th, 2009 by Amy

At the tender age of six I received my first pair of “Underoos”.  They were Wonder Woman.  When I donned this remarkable underwear ensemble, I felt powerful and unstoppable.  My little sister, too, received a matching pair.  Together we were a force to be reckoned with.  We would run around the house, wearing only our Wonder Woman Underoos and armfuls of our mom’s bracelets dangling from our tiny wrists (bullet reflectors, or something of that nature), thwarting off the powers of evil. 

 

In my six-year-old mind, I couldn’t think of a better role model than Wonder Woman.  (That girl could pull off a mean twirl.)  And as I would take a brief moment to consider my reflection in the mirror – clad in underoos, bracelets, and long dark hair – I knew I made for the perfect Wonder Woman double.  Yet my little sister, Jennifer, with her strawberry blonde locks and fair complexion – a dead ringer for Little Orphan Annie – insisted she was Wonder Woman, and I was Wonder Woman’s sister.  Time and time again I would cave in to her demands and play the part of the superhero’s sibling, perplexed at how any of it made sense to her.  Deep down in my heart, though, in that space that my strong-willed sister couldn’t control, I knew I was the real Wonder Woman.

 

Thirty-some years later, I find myself channeling my inner-Wonder Woman.  When my house is hiding under a heap of dirty clothes and miscellaneous toys, I close my eyes and imagine myself twirling three times and miraculously being transformed into Super Mom.  I’ve tried that, you know.  I’ve tried the twirling thing, and it only left me dizzy, still wearing my blueberry stained khaki shorts, stretched out tee and ponytail.  (So much for my super powers.)  Instead, I feel like Bat Woman – a nickname I earned my junior year of high school.

 

We were camping out in the rural village of Rumuruti (in Kenya).  It was close to bedtime, and I needed to use the “facilities” (in Swahili, that translates to the “choo”).  My best friend and I, flashlights guiding our way, walked over to the choo, and I went inside.  I squatted.  Suddenly I felt something brush across my toosh.  I was startled, to say the least.  I jumped up and out of the choo in one swift movement.  My friend opened the door, peered inside, and with the dim light from the flashlight surveyed the scene of the incident.  We could find nothing to explain the tooshy brush, and so I figured it was most likely a moth or some “bug” that rear-ended me on its way out of the hole in the ground.  I went back inside to finish my “business”.  Before I was completely settled, this same “thing” slapped me, no less, on the bottom, and from the corner of my eye I watched a terrified bat fly up and out the top of the choo.  This time, I believe I screamed, and so did my friend.  From that day on, I was called “Bat Woman”.

 

Bat Woman is powerless.  Wonder Woman is all about power and control.  I much prefer to carry myself in Wonder Woman fashion, and not the “slap-on-the-toosh” Bat Woman.  These days I don’t have my Doctor Dobbins’ “Strong-Willed” poster child sister calling the shots in my life.  These days, well into my thirties, I am free to let my inner Wonder Woman out, and set her free.  The condition of my home, my appearance, the boundaries for my children, are all within my control.  While there are days when I feel I’m making no headway whatsoever in any of these areas (having one of many Bat Woman days), I know that I have the power to either correct the problem or act helpless and distressed.  Today, my friends, Wonder Woman is at the helm, steering the way of this massive ship called the Slater Home.  I’m taking control, one little step at a time. 

 

Now, if only I could rustle up good pair of adult sized Wonder Woman Underoos!

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High-Strangeness

Aug 21st, 2009 by Amy

I learned a new term the other night watching ABC’s “The Outsiders”.  It is called, “High Strangeness”.  This term is used to describe those individuals who have been abducted by aliens, or “Close Encounters Of The Third Kind”.  If you are starting to hear the soundtrack of the X-Files playing in your mind, have no fear; this information had the same effect on me too. 

 

Alien abduction has to be one of the most terrifying thoughts to me.  Aliens in general pretty much give me the willies, especially after watching M. Night Shyamalan’s “Signs”.  And to think that this small group of people – those of “High Strangeness” – have actually lived through the experience and can share it with all of us simply boggles the mind.  If I were an alien and was commissioned to come to Earth, abduct humans, run tests, and experiments on their bodies, I’m not sure I’d want to leave any evidence of my existence behind.  I mean, if aliens are such intelligent life forms, certainly they’ve seen “Independence Day”, and they know how powerful we humans can be once provoked (spoken like a true skeptic).

 

Silly as it sounds, there are those out there that buy into this.  They truly believe they have been poked and prodded by otherworldly beings.  They live ostracized by the public because of their wacky beliefs and predictable testimonies.  More than the good laugh this “provocative” news story gave me, it also made me feel kind of sad for these men and women.  Whether it be an out-of-control active imagination or series of delusions, these people are living a very lonely and isolated existence.  I want to shake them and say, “Yes, the truth IS out there!  But you’re not going to find it in a camcorder shot of a blinking light in the sky.”  I wish I could convince them that they will indeed find the truth when they get their heads out of the clouds and start dealing with the gigantic void in their lives that they’ve been filling with garbage. 

 

One woman in this story shared that there has been something deep down in her heart that has always known, and been searching for, a higher power or intelligence.  Then she had her “alien encounter”, and now she believes she has found that intelligent life form she innately knew existed.  I wanted to stand up and scream at the television set.  “Did you know we all share this innate longing to find a higher power?  This is actually a God-given intuition we have drawing us to find God.”  Unfortunately, there are so many that fall for a counterfeit “god”, and walk in blindness to the truth.  As much as I want to chalk all those of “High Strangeness” up as a bunch of crazies, conviction tells me that they are sadly deceived.  As a follower of Christ, I am commissioned to be a light in the darkness.  My prayer is that, while I really do believe much of the alien hullabaloo to be whacky and ridiculous, I would still be a light, shining brightly on the path of truth.  I may never get the opportunity to talk, listen and share with these misguided individuals, but for those around me, I hope my light never dims.  I pray that I may shine brighter and higher than any bobbing UFO zipping through this vast universe.

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