I ought to be in church right now, but I am not. Oliver decided to wake up at 5 a.m., burn bright and happy for three hours and then crash spectacularly at 8:15 this morning. I am fairly certain that I've never put any child down for a nap before 10 a.m., so you can bet my Mommy Radar is in high gear, ferreting out what potential infections are probably brewing in his little system.
Jo is sidelined (literally) with a cold. Watching the rain pour from the grey sky this morning, dh and I decided that the last thing our coughing girl--who is predisposed to lingering airway issues--needed was a nice, long stint inhaling rain and mud on the soccer field. She is currently shuffling a deck of Quiddler cards and looking for a victim.
So I am not in church. Instead, I am at home, pondering (yet again) the purpose of church.
I have reread the book of Acts twice in the past two weeks. For some reason "church," as a concept, is weighing heavy on my heart. I suspect that it is because my family has been through some major upheavals in our Christ-following thinking over the past year.
Nearly two years ago, my family embarked on a journey to begin piecing together a church plant. Anyone who has participated in a church planting process knows that I speak the truth when I say it is a labor of love that consumes much time, many resources and massive amounts of energy. We gave all three eagerly.
We are no longer with the church plant. While it is still serving the area, we have returned to our sending church. There was no fantastical drama, no explosive blow-up. Just ... silence. Just a clear leading that this was no longer the place where we could serve effectively.
The effect of the church planting experience has rippled throughout our lives together over the past year or so. Every time I think it has culminated--that we will return to the original joy that we felt in our church community prior to beginning the plant, that we will leave behind the disappointment and the sadness--it seems to crest again.
Our sending church no longer feels like home. The foundation is still strong. There is movement and growth and an upswell of the Spirit among the leadership that may just lead this church to experience a near revival-like atmosphere. Yet, as I have sat in service on Sunday mornings, I have seen only a handful of congregants respond.
There is no trickle down. No viral message. No buy-in.
This pains me. And, I admit--it pains me even more deeply to realize that I am among the unmoved.
I love the Lord. My commitment to Christ is strong and feels vibrant. I am still basking in the Truth and longing to share it with others. And yet my community of Brothers and Sisters seems stale and outdated. More over, they seem to not care. There is no joy. No breath of fresh air. And this makes it hard for me to love my church.
Am I simply still reeling from the planting hurt? Am I growing cynical? How can I break this cycle? How can I stop feeding into the problem? What does it mean to participate in the Body of Christ? What are our responsibilities? Is church simply for corporate worship? What are we called to do and be for one another?
I believe that if I can define for myself what the purpose of church is, I will begin to unlock the answers.
Anyone care to chime in?
ETA: I have already received an email asking for some clarification on my denomination. While I don't believe that this is an issue that requires such a disclaimer (and, truth be told, I find such labels to be extremely limiting theologically), I will give a little background. I consider myself to be a nondenominational Christian. I profess that I am a sinner and Christ is my Savior. Titus 3:5 sums up the faith/works issue to my satisfaction. I was raised by a Baptist-converted-to-Catholic mother, agnostic father, atheist grandfather (who has since become a Christian) and Bible-thumping, Southern Missionary Baptist grandmother who grew up Holiness and still refuses to play cards or dance. I have eaten cold fried chicken on the grass near the white clapboards of a country church and I have taken communion while kneeling at the rail of the most beautiful cathedral my eyes have ever taken in. I am a follower of Jesus. What more can I say?
Ah, yes. Ye Olde Potty Chair. How well I remember thee. The times we hath lingered, lovingly, with a toddler's bum nestled safe in your grasp. There was Jo--gleefully showing off her "big girl" skills at 22 months. Atticus, unsure of the method but more than happy to have the mess somewhere other than his sweet cheeks right at two years. And there was Logan, desperate to be like his older siblings at friend Punky at a wee 19 months, asserting his need to be diaper free and loving it.
And now we have Oliver. Twenty-two months old. Diaper resistant. Slightly clued in to the results, although only toying with the notion of control.
I have been, historically, an early trainer of all things potty. I think that the window of opportunity for the easiest toilet training is before the typical toddlerhood defiance sets in. From the time my kiddos were showing obvious signs of awareness (such as hiding to poop) I've made a game out of ushering them to the "potty place" and helping them fit together the pieces that will eventually make up their understanding of why Momma and Daddy don't walk around in diapers. I realize that this is an incredibly anti-PC approach in this day and age. I'm o.k. with that. I don't have any feelings one way or another as to when, how or why other people choose to introduce their own children to the potty. This is just what works for me and mine.
At any rate, Oliver seems to be rushing headlong into the window of awareness that I've traditionally utilized to my benefit when toilet training. I find myself somewhat reluctant to commit this go 'round. I felt the same way with Logan; I was convinced that 19 mos. was far too early to ditch the diapers. Imagine my shock and surprise to find that my self-motivated little man was actually my easiest and fastest when it came to saying hello to underwear. Two weeks into the process, Logan was accident-free--both during the daytime and nighttime. Talk about ready! Maybe Oliver is more ready than I think, too. Time will tell.
Because I am revisiting my methods and also because I am often asked how I managed to toilet train my kids in a month or less and all before they hit their second birthdays, I offer up some tips here. Your mileage may vary, obviously:
1. Pick a day, and don't look back. Do not be wishy-washy. No "today we sit on the toilet, but tomorrow when I'm making dinner and distracted, it's o.k. to go wherever/whenever." If it sounds like this is a full-time job: you're right! It is. Clear your schedule as much as possible ... or be prepared for some messes on the go.
2. No diapers means no diapers. Or Pull-Ups. Or anything that remotely resembles a diaper or a Pull-Up during the daylight hours. Period. Not even when you're out and about. Not even when it's completely inconvenient. Seriously. I mean it. Never.
3. Nighttime training is a whole 'nother story. This is the time to draw the line and let those diapers squeak back in---but make it clear that these are "pj pants" or some other label that makes it clear that they are not the same as the thing they were using as a potty a few weeks ago. Change brands if you use disposables, and point out how they're different. Put them on just as your toddler crawls into bed, and take them off ASAP after wake-up.
4. When you're at home, the child is either naked from the waist down, wearing a long shirt with no bottoms or wearing the thinnest underwear you can find. There will be messes. Oh, yes, there will. I am a strong believer in what John Rosemond calls "Naked and $75." Feeling the uncomfortable sensation that occurs when you forget to use the potty is a huge motivator--something that is lost when a Pull-Up comes into play. I'd rather spend $75 on clean carpets than on Pull-Ups, anyway.
5. Encourage with goodies. I've always given my kiddos mini-M&Ms when they are successful on the potty. use whatever works with your child.
6. Kids have accidents. And that's all they are: accidents. Clean it up, calmly point out that they'd be cleaner/more comfortable/able to run around and play instead of standing in the tub/whatever, and move on. It's not about you, honey. It's about learning a new skill.
7. Never leave the house with less than four pairs of training pants and four changes of clothes. Because yep, you'll probably need them.
8. Enlist your other children in the cheer squad. This is the time to let them shout, sing and act crazy giddy. Because what's more exciting than a full potty????
9. Watch that child like a hawk. Some people escort their kiddos to the potty every hour and make them sit. I'm not a huge fan of that method because I feel like it rarely produces results. Personally, I just keep my toddler within arms reach and watch them for signs of impending potty--which, as I said earlier, I'm already fairly cued into. I've heard from some women that my method sounds fairly similar to ec-ing, only for toddlers. If you don't already know your child's signal, picking up a book on the topic may help.
10. Have fun. Really. Keeping your little one this close should be a joy, not a burden. If you look at it from this perspective, the time invested is well worth the effort.
Some people are, truly, too sensible for their own good.
Atticus is struggling to understand why, why, why someone would even attempt to subtract any number from zero. Clearly, to paraphrase Wilbur, you can't have less than nothing. Nothing is, by definition, nothing. It's as clear as night and day--and Atticus is very much into clarity.
So to say that you can, actually, have less than nothing ... well, it hurts my sensible boy's brain.
How many times have I said in the past week: "Atticus, honey ... you cannot just flip the problem. You can't. The top number has to stay on top."
Countless times.
Hasn't mattered one. iota. Atticus still refuses to acknowledge that something can, in fact, be less than nothing.
Finally, I went back to the old object lesson. "See, son? You have five dollars. I take all that you have and ask for one more. So you owe me one. You have one less than zero dollars."
Indignant, Atticus sniffed: "I wouldn't give you any. It's not right."
"Why?" I asked, exasperated.
"I'm not going to spend money I don't have, Mom. What kind of person does that?"
Now who's the sensible one?
Tell me this--
If you'd actually spent, I dunno, call it twenty minutes in the presence of someone ... would you expect them to call you and spread some sunshine your way?
Nah. I didn't think so.
But aren't you glad that some people defy expectations?
Thanks, Angi.
O.k., Miss Sprinkles, you asked for it.
The "rules" of the game are as follows:
1. Post the rules on your blog
2. Write 6 random things about yourself
3. Tag 6 people at the end of your post
4. If you're tagged, DO IT and pass on the tag
1. I got married in 1996. Jo was born in 1997. You would be amazed at how many people ask me if I was pregnant when I got married. For the record, she was born 15 months after my wedding. I clearly was not pregnant. But still. What kind of person actually asks that?
2. I really like hot fudge.
3. I read The Bridges of Madison County and hated it.
4. I published my first story at 14. It was about a girl whose parents were divorcing. My own parents divorced a year later.
5. I toyed with the idea of taking the GED test so that I could begin college a year early, but I didn' do it. While I don't regret the timing in going to college (which was where I met dh), I do feel like most of my high school career was a complete and utter waste of time.
6. Grasshoppers scare me. They're just so ... hoppy. The only good grasshopper is an ee cummings grasshopper.
O.k. Onto the tagging.
1. Kindred Blessings, because I want her to write.
2. Gayle because she's hilarious and will truly stretch the "random" concept.
3. Liz because I'd like to get to know her better.
4. Benny because randomness suits a mother of four kiddos six and under.
5. Paula because I want her to update her blog, too.
6. Sarah, because she has so much time on her hands right now with a new baby and all.
First, I have to say: I really, really love little boys. Many people seem to simply endure the presence of little boys, let alone the actual parenting of them. For whatever reason, I thrive on it. Little boys are brutal honesty, high-definition activity, boundless love and utter carelessness all bound up in a package of big eyes and bruised shins that just melts my heart. I'll say it again: I love little boys. I love their passionate natures, their frenetic need to find something to do, the curiosity that--if not directed in a healthy direction--might very well kill a cat or two.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love Jo. And I certainly wouldn't say no to adding another girl to our family. I enjoy (almost) every minute of the mother/daughter experience and am so grateful that the Lord knew I had it in me to parent a girl even when I would have sworn up and down that I absolutely could not. Girls are their own brand of joy, whether packaged in overalls or pink dresses.
But little boys make my heart sing.
And six year-old boys? Oh, my. It's the crowning moment of boyhood, when all of those magical ingredients that we can never put our fingers on gel into a sublime little person who embodies everything good with the world.
Logan is right smack-dab in the middle of this magic season. After putting his daddy and I through what I can only describe as the wringer that was his toddlerhood, this emerging boy we see before our eyes is most welcome.
Logan has become a boy with compassion. With a true heart for others. With remorse for injustice--even when he perpetuates said injustices. He has developed a real and tangible interest in the lives of others. A sweetness. A softness under his rugged, devil-may-care persona.
And ohmygoodness, is he cute! As Logan's body has shifted out of still-soft preschoolerhood and into young boyhood, he has become a stunner (in my book, at least). His dirty blond hair has gone curly and his chin is set in that semi-cocky way that--let's be honest--we girls all love. Yes: my boy has a decided James Dean flair going on. I am smitten.
Lately, I've been making a massive effort to squeeze in every ounce of Logan time I can muster. With the dawning realization that his youngest days are slipping by me faster and faster, I feel an increased need to scoop him up and enjoy him for who he is as an individual. This desire is coinciding nicely with his renewed interest in being my shadow. Right now, as I write this, Logan has opted to take his afternoon rest on the floor by my desk. He is happily stretched just beyond the reach of my toes, drawing Transformers with the help of a book from the library. He looks exactly like a six year-old boy engrossed in his favorite hobby should: all concentration, seriousness, and swinging feet. If I could see his face right now, I know his tongue would be cocked in the right corner of his mouth, helping him focus that much more.
Home educating a six year-old boy is a profound labor of love. They are interested in everything and nothing, and their brains work much faster than we think they do. Just when you think you have them pegged, biology overrules you and they have taken another giant leap towards the men they will become. And let us not forget the messes. A six year-old boy will, I have learned, tote an entire forest into your dining room, explore it with a magnifying glass on your just-cleaned table, and then wander off to dismantle the old cell phone you gave him three days ago. This whole process could take either four hours or ten minutes, depending on the six year-old's mood on any given day.
Earlier this week, I began reading Charlotte's Web to Logan. This was always one of my favorite children's books. I read it to Jo when she was three and set off a lifelong love of pigs (but not spiders). For the next few years we revisited the tale constantly--so often, in fact, that I began to tire of the story. We moved on to the battles of Narnia and the history of our country. Charlotte's Web has been out of our rotation for so long that I actually had to go looking for our worn copy of the book. The first night we began reading it, I settled in to our special chair and pulled Logan onto my lap.
"This is a special book, just for you and I to read together," I told him.
"Not Oliver?"he asked suspiciously. Beside the chair was a stack of picture books he'd heard thousands of times thanks to big brotherhood.
"Oh, no. He's too little," I said, remembering the many times I had nursed him as a little one and been reading from these same pages.
"Not Atticus?"
"No. He's heard it before," I nodded towards my leggy 8 year-old, who was splayed on the couch with his nose stuck deep into Eragon.
"Just us?"
"Just us."
I started to read. Fern fought injustice. Avery was late to breakfast. Wilbur rode in the baby carriage. Bottles were made and served. Wilbur moved to the barn. The goose instigated an escape. Templeton was rude. And, at long last, Charlotte made her debut.
I left him with a cliffhanger. His face was full of the bright, eager hunger of a child deep in the throes of one of the best stories ever written.
"I do like this book!" he declared, wriggling his warm body deeper into my arms. "I'm not too old for it, and I'm not too young for it. It fits me just perfect!"
And that is the beauty of a six year-old boy. They fit, just perfectly, the definition of "boy." Two years ago, they were half-grown babies unaware of their own limits or potential. Two years from now, they will be all angles and gawkiness, trying on adolescence and failing miserably through tears of frustration. But for now, they are simply content to be right where they are: boyhood. Neither large babies nor little men. Simply ... boys.
I love free online games. I'm a big proponent of games as educational tools in general, and free ones that don't take up space in my house just up the ante as far as I'm concerned. I recently found SpellingCity.com through a fellow bloggers links and tucked it away for Atticus. He gave it a go this morning and enjoyed it. HangMouse was his favorite game; Atticus has a fascination with mice in general (Redwall, Mouse Guard), so this one made his day. All I had to do was type in his missed words from Spelling Power and let him select the games he wanted to play. Fun, low-pressure practice. Love it!
