Sometimes you write with a specific reason for doing so. And sometimes you just write for the sake of writing. Today, I’m doing the latter. I just feel like writing something. I suppose it will just be generalities, stupid, pointless things strung together into one blog for no other reason than the one I just stated. I feel like it.
I like driving in the fall. A few days ago, I was coming home from dropping Ashton off at school, and a leaf blew across my path, skittered against the windshield, and kept on going; sailing across Pembroke Ave., on a mission to land somewhere, and perhaps be picked up by a small child who collects pretty colored leaves. Watching the leaves fall makes me a feel a little melancholy... the year is fading slowly, trying to retire with as much dignity as she can muster. Like a little old lady whose hair is falling out, but she still dresses in her finest clothes, hoping it’s what people will remember her for.
There’s a Volkswagen repair shop that I pass every day on the way to and from the school. I always wanted a Beetle. Not as a “real” car, you understand, just a fun, cruising around car. I’ve always wanted to throw my grocery bags in the front of the car instead of the back. A young man, maybe 19, 20ish is out in the parking lot every morning, working on all the Beetles and Rabbits. Some days he wears a ball cap. I imagine his name is Chad... he looks like a Chad to me. Sometimes an older man stands out there and watches him work. I wonder if it’s because Chad is doing it wrong, or if it’s just for the company. I figure old Mr. Beetle is young Chad’s mentor, and maybe gave him the baseball cap, too. I think he and Mrs. Beetle invite Chad over for dinner once in a while, and send him home with a foil wrapped plate of pot roast and mashed potatoes. Chad looks like he could use some good home cooking.
Christmas is coming up. I really do “wait for it the whole year long”, even though this area isn’t really a Marshmallow World in the winter. In September, I get the box of Christmas movies out and coerce my kids into watching them. I justify it by telling myself that the Charlie Brown movies come in a box set, and I need to get The Great Pumpkin out for them to watch, and well would you look at that? The Christmas one is in there too! Well, I don’t see any reason not to watch it, seeing as it’s already out. And if we watch Charlie Brown, we may as well watch The Polar Express, and White Christmas, and all the other ones. The only one I don’t watch until Christmas “season” is It’s A Wonderful Life. That one is special. In October, I start listening to Christmas music in secret. I don’t listen to it in the car, but I turn it on while I take a shower, or when I’m cleaning or folding laundry. Over the past few years, though, I’ve been getting sad come November. I’ve begun to see how very quickly time goes by the older I get. And once it’s November, the whole Christmas season just rushes by in a whirl of parties, programs, and colored lights. I don’t love Christmas for presents, or family get togethers, or church programs. I love Christmas simply because it is. I love that it’s special. It’s so special that it gets its own movies, cookies, stories, clothes. And I’ve realized that I don’t love Christmas Day so much as I love all the days leading up to it.
I’ve started letting Chloe choose her own clothes. This is a huge step for me. She picks things like, brown and teal leggings with a plaid skirt and a purple shirt. With sparkly gold shoes and Hello Kitty socks. I absolutely hate it. Who knew it would be so difficult to watch her prance around dressed like that? She thinks she’s absolutely beautiful. Her own words. “Mommy, I am so absolutely beautiful in this!” What can I tell her? “No, my dear, actually you look rather like a homeless child who stole from another homeless child who stole from a bag lady who stole from Lady Gaga”? Of course I can’t. So I just let her pirouette and preen, and resolve not to leave the house. Because she is absolutely beautiful in the fact that she knows it. Somewhere along the way, every woman’s self confidence and security gets destroyed, and I’m determined my daughter's isn't going to be destroyed at all if I can help it, much less by me.
That's enough rambling by me for today. What’s going through your mind this week?
Monday, November 15, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Mother, Heal Thyself
As a child, being sick in my household was golden. It was a rare treat. I’m aware that this might sound strange to some, but in a family with 6 kids, anything that got you Mom’s undivided attention was a plus. Being sick got you the comfiest corner of the couch, ice cream, soup and ginger ale, supreme domination over the television, and in my case, fruit cocktail baby food. Not only did it get you special treatment, it got the other kids in trouble (insert Snidely Whiplash laugh here): “Don’t you fuss at her, she’s sick!” “Don’t you change the channel, she wants to watch Pink Panther!” and my favorite: “Don’t you dare even think about touching that ice cream! She’s sick!!!” Even the worst illnesses were enviable at our house. Adam broke both of his legs (two different times, not at once), and he got the whole couch, and a neon green cast, and crutches, and the front seat in the van. One year, Nathan contracted the flu and it went into his brain stem. Granted, this was a major illness, and potentially fatal. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t walk, and had to relearn how to write his name. But I mean, he got a fruit basket from the church. Hello? A FRUIT BASKET, people! I can still taste those pears in December (if this sounds callous to you, you have to remember that I was only 8, and my parents downplayed the seriousness of his situation to us- and they were pears. In December.).
Well, I’m all grown up now, with kids of my own. And being sick is not a treat, it’s just one more pain in the butt thing to deal with while dealing with all the other pains in my butt.
I woke up Saturday morning with sinus pressure that slid straight into my ear when I rolled over in bed. There was no preventing it. It just happened. I don’t know how many of you have had ear infections as an adult, but for those who haven’t, let me enlighten you: &*$%#%@^$%@!@&#^!!!! That about sums it up. They hurt like hell, hell, hell. I’m sorry, there really is no other way to put it. The pressure is unbearable. In two days I got to the point where I was praying for my eardrum to just burst and have done with it. I honestly don’t know how kids do it over and over and over. To make it even better, I got laryngitis too. So on top of the constant pain in my ear, the stuffed cotton feel, the fluctuation between ringing, radio static, and the ants from THEM sounds, I now sound like Eartha Kitt as the cat in The Emperor’s New Groove (“Is that my voice? Is that... my voice?!”).
I’m not complaining though. No, of course not. Mothers aren’t allowed to do that when we get sick. We just push through, the troopers that we are. The kids still have to get ready for school, they still need to eat, and have diapers changed, and matching socks found. Life stands still for no woman, ear infection or no. But oh, I miss being a sick kid. All I want to do is curl up on my bed, watch Pink Panther, and eat fruit cocktail baby food. Unfortunately, that’s not feasible for me now. But I can take steps to not push myself so hard.
So yesterday, after three hysterical meltdowns as a direct result of trying to be super woman all weekend, I came to the following conclusions: While I continue to be sick,
I WILL:
1. Make sure I take my antibiotics religiously.
2. Take care of my kids basic needs.
3. Listen to my Phil Wickham Christmas album over and over, because it makes me happy.
4. Drink plenty of fluids, even if it hurts to swallow.
5. Thank my husband for taking care of the kids and washing the laundry last night.
6. Write a blog about being sick. Ha!
I WILL NOT:
1. Worry about the piles of laundry waiting to be folded.
2. Sort all the Halloween candy.
3. Answer anymore phone calls after I have told people to please not call me because it hurts to talk.
4. Let the dishes in the sink drive me crazy.
5. Leave my house unless absolutely necessary.
6. Convince myself that I have to be all things to all people.
And maybe I’ll buy my own fruit cocktail baby food.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Terrible, Terrible, Terrible
My baby turned 2 today. This breaks my heart a little, since she’s my last baby. My last little 2 year old.
That said, let me just add that Atleigh is the two-est 2 year old I’ve ever owned. Allow me to brag a little, if you please. My two oldest, while not exactly angelic, were pretty close, as 2 year olds go. For instance: I’ve never had to baby proof my house. That’s right. Never. I’m actually a firm believer in NON baby proofing. I think if you cover up and lock everything, it’s only going to make the child more prone to mess with whatever it is you’ve covered and/or locked. Neither Ashton nor Chloe ever tried to stick pennies in light sockets, play with cleaning products, strangle themselves in blinds, or bathe in the toilet. They never climbed on tables, colored on walls, unraveled toilet paper, threw World War 3 tantrums, or anything else that a standard 2 year old seems to do. If they ever did do something in that field, it only took once or twice before they learned not to. I suppose I was spoiled. I didn’t know any better. That’s just the way it was.
Whatever it was, outstanding parenting, angelic genius children, or sheer luck, it’s been more than repaid now. My day of reckoning has come. To say that Atleigh eclipses both of her siblings in the “Terrible Twos” category is a gross understatement. I don’t even know what to do with her. I’m bewildered. Not only has she accomplished all of the above examples of utmost Twodom, she has upped the ante and proved that 2 year olds the world over could be capable of so, so much more.
She has flushed Chloe’s socks down the toilet, gotten into my makeup drawer and used my concealer stick to color her entire body- her ENTIRE BODY- green, and emptied a whole bottle of baby shampoo onto her hair and tried to “wash” herself. She rips pages out of books. She colors on the walls, the furniture, and the appliances with red (why does it always have to be red?) marker and/or crayon. She climbs up onto the kitchen table to look in the snack box. One time she found a pack of mint gum in there and had taken bites out of every single piece of gum. With the wrappers still on. Then she spit the bites out all over the counter. I guess she doesn’t like mint. She has crammed DVD’s into Jeremy’s PS3 twice- TWICE!!!- and he’s had to take the thing completely apart to get them all out (thank God YouTube has a video for everything). She’s the only one of my children who has learned to wrangle her way out of her car seat straps while I’m driving.
Even just now, as I’m typing this, she came and sat on the kitchen floor with a pen and the book I’ve been reading. I said, “Atleigh, give that to Mommy please.” She tries to hand me the pen. I said, “No, Atleigh, the book. Let me have the book, please.” She stands up, takes 2 steps toward me with the book outstretched, then sits back down on the floor, and throws it to me instead. “Here ya goooo!” Why? You were already halfway to me! Just HAND me the book!!
And the tantrums! Don’t even get me started on the tantrums! I’ve never had to apologize to the general public over my child’s behavior! I’ve never had to bribe a child in the store with cookies or crackers just to get her to shut up. It’s not for my sake, or for hers. It’s just so she’ll SHUT. UP. It’s for everyone else’s sake. I know how annoying it is to listen to a baby scream through a whole grocery store.
I’ve called my mother in tears, wondering what is wrong with her. Does she have a learning disability? Is she a sociopath? Is she demon possessed? Every time, my mother’s answer has been: “No. She’s just two.”
With all this said, I’ve decided there’s an easier way to handle this situation. I’ve decided it’s time for me to stop making excuses to strangers, offering up an apologetic “I’m sorry. She’s two.” I’ve decided it’s time to let Atleigh speak for herself.
I'm thinking of ironing this onto every single piece of clothing she owns. Maybe I’ll market it to mothers of 2 year olds. Here are some variations on my idea:
“PLEASE EXCUSE ME. I’M 2.”
“DON’T BLAME MOMMY. I’M 2.”
“PLEASE DON’T TALK ABOUT ME AT THE DINNER TABLE TONIGHT. I’M 2.”
“NEXT YEAR I’LL BE BETTER. RIGHT NOW I’M 2.”
“I PROMISE MOMMY IS RAISING ME BETTER THAN THIS.”
And then I’m going to make a t-shirt for myself. And make myself wear it everyday as a reminder that I’m not a failure, and I’m not crazy:
“I’M DOING THE BEST I CAN. IT’S JUST THAT SHE’S 2.”
(All slogans, concepts, and ideas were created by and are property of Mary Smoot.)
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Pondering Passion
I’ve been pondering a lot lately about what my passions are. Believe it or not, this is something I ordinarily do; I suppose I have identity crises frequently. This week, it seems I’ve upped my dose of narcissism, probably due in part to the fact that the subject at my women’s Bible group this week was passion. We were each given a work sheet of sorts, with columns to write down our interests, our abilities, possible points of intersection, and possible hindrances to whatever we came up with.
Well, the interests part was easy: writing, photography, music, plays/musicals, being a millionaire.
The abilities were similar: writing, photography, singing, spending money.
So my point of intersection is obvious, right? Write and star in a musical about photography and make a million dollars. Done and DONE!
After I had a good giggle over that, I got serious. I looked at my paper and sighed. The interests and abilities were about the same, but the intersection was gone. The truth is, it’s hard to make things intersect when your life is constantly going in a million different directions. The worst part of it is, it feels like it’s going in different directions, but heading nowhere. Like those paths in Alice in Wonderland. I realized I’ve never really had an acknowledged “passion”. There are things I’ve been interested it, things I’ve been passionate FOR, but nothing that really defines me.
Now, take my husband (...please! Ba da bing!) : there’s a man who wears his passion on his sleeve. Anyone who spends more than five minutes talking to him will know, Jeremy has a passion for music, and ministry through music. He has a passion for his band, and for reaching people through that medium. Not just that though. It’s so much more. The ideas that man has blow my mind. Written down on dry paper, they seem like impossible pipe dreams. But when you’re with him, and you hear him talk about them, you’re suddenly convinced that they’re possible, and not just possible, but probable. I think that’s what true passion does to others around you. But another meaning for passion is suffering. Jeremy’s done that, too. He’s suffered for his passion. He’s lain awake at nights, tossing and turning, calling himself crazy for wanting - no, not wanting- needing to make something of himself. He’s gotten angry, he’s cried, he’s begged God to give him something else to work with. But for that to happen, Jeremy would have to become a completely different person. His passion defines him. It IS him.
So I got to thinking.... what defines me? What makes me tick? Again, the interests and abilities came up: I love writing, so I write. I love photography, so I take pictures. Thankfully I have plenty of kids to take pictures of. I love singing, so I sing..... in my car (I’m working on the singing in front of people again thing). Then I got to the hindrances section. Easy. Kids, family, lack of time, lack of money, lack of confidence. Lack of “intersection”.
But then I thought: What if I could be passionate for my kids? What if I could be passionate for my husband, for my family and my friends, for the craziness that is my life? Why do I have to “discover” a passion? Can’t I just be passionate for what I have now, and who I am, right now?
There is plenty of time to discover passions, to “discover myself”. I know what I love doing, what brings me joy, and those things aren’t going to fade with time.
I don’t need to discover a passion. I just need to be passionate.
Well, the interests part was easy: writing, photography, music, plays/musicals, being a millionaire.
The abilities were similar: writing, photography, singing, spending money.
So my point of intersection is obvious, right? Write and star in a musical about photography and make a million dollars. Done and DONE!
After I had a good giggle over that, I got serious. I looked at my paper and sighed. The interests and abilities were about the same, but the intersection was gone. The truth is, it’s hard to make things intersect when your life is constantly going in a million different directions. The worst part of it is, it feels like it’s going in different directions, but heading nowhere. Like those paths in Alice in Wonderland. I realized I’ve never really had an acknowledged “passion”. There are things I’ve been interested it, things I’ve been passionate FOR, but nothing that really defines me.
Now, take my husband (...please! Ba da bing!) : there’s a man who wears his passion on his sleeve. Anyone who spends more than five minutes talking to him will know, Jeremy has a passion for music, and ministry through music. He has a passion for his band, and for reaching people through that medium. Not just that though. It’s so much more. The ideas that man has blow my mind. Written down on dry paper, they seem like impossible pipe dreams. But when you’re with him, and you hear him talk about them, you’re suddenly convinced that they’re possible, and not just possible, but probable. I think that’s what true passion does to others around you. But another meaning for passion is suffering. Jeremy’s done that, too. He’s suffered for his passion. He’s lain awake at nights, tossing and turning, calling himself crazy for wanting - no, not wanting- needing to make something of himself. He’s gotten angry, he’s cried, he’s begged God to give him something else to work with. But for that to happen, Jeremy would have to become a completely different person. His passion defines him. It IS him.
So I got to thinking.... what defines me? What makes me tick? Again, the interests and abilities came up: I love writing, so I write. I love photography, so I take pictures. Thankfully I have plenty of kids to take pictures of. I love singing, so I sing..... in my car (I’m working on the singing in front of people again thing). Then I got to the hindrances section. Easy. Kids, family, lack of time, lack of money, lack of confidence. Lack of “intersection”.
But then I thought: What if I could be passionate for my kids? What if I could be passionate for my husband, for my family and my friends, for the craziness that is my life? Why do I have to “discover” a passion? Can’t I just be passionate for what I have now, and who I am, right now?
There is plenty of time to discover passions, to “discover myself”. I know what I love doing, what brings me joy, and those things aren’t going to fade with time.
I don’t need to discover a passion. I just need to be passionate.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Kiss And Tell
Author’s Disclaimer: This blog contains statements and opinions that may be offensive to some readers. The author takes no responsibility for offended feelings. ;)
I’m a person of many pet peeves. Big surprise, right? I’m also a planner and a thinker. So I’ve thought about this blog for awhile before I decided to post it. I can always tell when an idea is going to stick and force itself to be written about. It starts as a thought, then balloons into an opinion, then sentences and paragraphs start to form inside my head. Sometimes, as in this case, I try to push it aside, but it refuses to be pushed. So I’ve decided maybe I just need to get it out of my system.
As I said, I have a lot of pet peeves. Some are stupid, like people who don’t put the toilet paper in the right way. In case you’re curious, over is the right way. And some are serious, like people who refuse to put their kids in car seats. This one has been niggling at the back of my brain for weeks.
In my opinion, a relationship with God is like a marriage. Actually, it’s not just my opinion, it’s Biblical (Eph. 5: 22-33). Marriage is a beautiful thing; it’s a public testimony of a personal commitment. There are some parts of my marriage that I have no problem making public: When my husband does special things for me, like cooking dinner, unloading the dishwasher, finally painting the bathroom vanity drawers after we’ve lived in the house three years (This was just last week!!!). But there are parts of my marriage, intimate parts, that I don’t share. There’s a reason for that. It’s personal. It’s private. It’s meant just for he and I to share.
So, in keeping with the marriage/God parallel, there are parts of our relationship with God that I think are meant to be public, and parts that are meant to be private. If God is speaking something special to me, I don’t go shout it from the rooftops, or a social forum, or whatever. That’s like me posting on Facebook or Twitter, “I HAD THE MOST AMAZING SEX LAST NIGHT!!!” It’s not something that everyone needs to know. It’s private. And intimate. It’s like kissing and telling.
I don’t feel the need to frequently tell myself (or the public): “I trust Jeremy. I know he’s not going to cheat on me today. He’s proved himself faithful to me.” People know he’s proved himself faithful by evidence of our relationship. People know I’m married to him by evidence of our relationship. They don’t need to be reminded, and they don’t need proof.
I’ve heard a lot of people lately, saying that God has told them this, or God has shown them that. I don’t dispute their claims. I know God speaks to people. And I’m not saying that it’s wrong to publicize our relationship with God. That would be completely opposite of one of the key points of Christianity.
I know I risk offending people by posting this, and I hope no one feels singled out by me. But here's my opinion:
Luke 18:9-14
[9] To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else, Jesus told this parable: [10] "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. [11] The Pharisee stood up and prayed about himself: 'God, I thank you that I am not like other men -- robbers, evildoers, adulterers -- or even like this tax collector. [12] I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.'
[13] "But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner.'
[14] "I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted."
Here’s my point: Be quiet. Be intimate. And don’t kiss and tell.
I’m a person of many pet peeves. Big surprise, right? I’m also a planner and a thinker. So I’ve thought about this blog for awhile before I decided to post it. I can always tell when an idea is going to stick and force itself to be written about. It starts as a thought, then balloons into an opinion, then sentences and paragraphs start to form inside my head. Sometimes, as in this case, I try to push it aside, but it refuses to be pushed. So I’ve decided maybe I just need to get it out of my system.
As I said, I have a lot of pet peeves. Some are stupid, like people who don’t put the toilet paper in the right way. In case you’re curious, over is the right way. And some are serious, like people who refuse to put their kids in car seats. This one has been niggling at the back of my brain for weeks.
In my opinion, a relationship with God is like a marriage. Actually, it’s not just my opinion, it’s Biblical (Eph. 5: 22-33). Marriage is a beautiful thing; it’s a public testimony of a personal commitment. There are some parts of my marriage that I have no problem making public: When my husband does special things for me, like cooking dinner, unloading the dishwasher, finally painting the bathroom vanity drawers after we’ve lived in the house three years (This was just last week!!!). But there are parts of my marriage, intimate parts, that I don’t share. There’s a reason for that. It’s personal. It’s private. It’s meant just for he and I to share.
So, in keeping with the marriage/God parallel, there are parts of our relationship with God that I think are meant to be public, and parts that are meant to be private. If God is speaking something special to me, I don’t go shout it from the rooftops, or a social forum, or whatever. That’s like me posting on Facebook or Twitter, “I HAD THE MOST AMAZING SEX LAST NIGHT!!!” It’s not something that everyone needs to know. It’s private. And intimate. It’s like kissing and telling.
I don’t feel the need to frequently tell myself (or the public): “I trust Jeremy. I know he’s not going to cheat on me today. He’s proved himself faithful to me.” People know he’s proved himself faithful by evidence of our relationship. People know I’m married to him by evidence of our relationship. They don’t need to be reminded, and they don’t need proof.
I’ve heard a lot of people lately, saying that God has told them this, or God has shown them that. I don’t dispute their claims. I know God speaks to people. And I’m not saying that it’s wrong to publicize our relationship with God. That would be completely opposite of one of the key points of Christianity.
I know I risk offending people by posting this, and I hope no one feels singled out by me. But here's my opinion:
Luke 18:9-14
[9] To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else, Jesus told this parable: [10] "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. [11] The Pharisee stood up and prayed about himself: 'God, I thank you that I am not like other men -- robbers, evildoers, adulterers -- or even like this tax collector. [12] I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.'
[13] "But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner.'
[14] "I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted."
Here’s my point: Be quiet. Be intimate. And don’t kiss and tell.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Music To Grow By
I’m a musical person. Ok, I don’t play any instruments... but I sing. Ok, well I used to sing... anyway, it doesn’t matter. What I mean is, music is part of my soul. It affects me (and I’m sure I’m not the only one) in ways that nothing else on earth can. You know how some scents can trigger deep, subconscious memories? Flowers, baking, cologne, anything like that can suddenly bring back a rush of memories that have huddled in the back of your mind for years. That’s what music does for me. I can hear a song I haven’t heard in ages, and all of a sudden I’m transported to this place somewhere back in time. I can remember where I was, how I was feeling, who I was with, even what I was wearing.
Recently I’ve been mentally compiling a list of songs and music that have grown up with me. I wouldn’t say that these songs have really changed my life, but they’re songs that play around certain moments that stand out in my memory. Here are a few of them, in no particular order (and remember, I’m not asking for anyone’s opinion on my musical tastes- these are songs that have affected me. You can make your own list.) :
I Surrender by Darrell Evans: (I put this one first because I figured everyone would be expecting a Beatles song) When I was in youth group, we had a meeting in an old theater. I remember towards the end of the worship set the worship leader started playing this song. I was standing in the aisle, the lights were dim and tinted blue and purple, and there was a huge industrial fan circulating air in my direction. I cannot describe the feeling of absolute and utter peace that washed over me during that song. It was like I was in this completely safe, untouchable bubble, just me and God. I still can’t listen to that song without taking a deep, contented breath, trying to inhale that sweet, peaceful moment from when I was 14.
And I Love Her by The Beatles: Anyone who knows me knows I’m a few steps beyond a hardcore Beatles fan. If I had lived in the 60’s, I probably would have been throwing my underwear up on stage and then fainting. Embarrassing, but true. My dad is a Beatles fan, so I’ve grown up listening to them, but my first real memory of falling in love with one of their songs is this one. I was probably about 6 or 7, laying on a mattress on the floor in my brothers’ room (I can’t remember why). It was night time and the blinds were all the way up and the moon was full. This song came on the radio. I remember I was haunted by the minor keys, the mysterious lilt to the song, the Spanish guitar style solo... everything about this song started me down the path to Beatlemania.
Sweet Baby James by James Taylor: This song makes me think of my mama. She was always listening to James Taylor while I was growing up. To me, he is the musical equivalent of comfort food. When I’ve had a rough day, feeling melancholy, nostalgic, whatever, James Taylor is the first thing that gets played on my iPod.
Brand New Colony by The Postal Service (although I like the live acoustic version the best): This is one of my more recent song acquisitions, thanks to my wonderful brothers. I think Ben Gibbard is an amazing writer in general, but for some reason this song ministers to me. Every girl wants to be romanced, to be taken away from everyday drudgery, and know that someone actually loves her enough to do it. There is something so protective, loving, whimsical in the lyrics. There are many times I’ve been listening to them and without realizing it I have tears on my face. I feel like God has spoken to me through this song.
All I Ask of You by Andrew Lloyd Webber: I love musicals. Love, love, love them. I want to be in a musical, where it isn’t insane if you spontaneously burst into song. I want to wear a frilly dress and dance with a man in suspenders and spats whose shirt matches mine. That said, Phantom of the Opera isn’t exactly that type of musical (and it’s VERY loosely based on the book, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog...), but it is beautiful, haunting, and slightly creepy. All I Ask Of You is such an incredible song, and another one that God has spoken to me through. It’s a song about questions being answered, fears being set aside, and ultimate commitment. There’s a strain of protectiveness throughout that has opened my eyes all over again to the way God feels about me.
Hush by Waterdeep: This song was my life exactly. It spoke every thought I was thinking, every emotion I was feeling, and cried every tear I cried. If you have not listened to it, go. Listen. You’ll know what I mean.
Let’s Go Fly A Kite from Mary Poppins: This isn’t a deep, insightful song. It isn’t even one of the better ones in the movie in my opinion, but there’s a story behind it. The winter I was 18 was a terrible, horrendous, bleedingly painful one for me. My heart was broken in several ways by several people in a very short amount of time. I was beaten down, demoralized, apathetic, and very, very broken. There was a point where I hadn’t eaten in over a week, and it had been far longer since I had laughed or even smiled. I remember one night some of my brothers and my sister and I were all piled into Amber’s little blue Geo (named Smurf) for some reason (Christmas shopping?). All of a sudden, we started belting this song out. I can’t really remember why- just your average Rothwell craziness, probably. One minute I was staring out the window, crying, and the next minute I found myself singing, smiling, and laughing. It was the hysterical type of laughter that hurts your heart, but it was healing to me. I’m not sure if my family remembers that moment. Probably not. It was only significant to me. But even if you don’t remember, thanks, guys. You helped bring me out of a pit, just by singing a stupid song.
Peace Be Still by Day of Grace: I know this might seem like a shameless plug for my husband's band, but it's really not. Jeremy can, and will, tell you that I am his most severe critic. I have a hard time listening to his music objectively, because I hear it from inception to completion. I always liked this song, but it didn't really change me until the first time I heard him sing it after the death of his best friend. He started writing the song in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, as a sort of empathetic message to those who had lost so much. After Tommy died, it came home to him. The bewildering grief, the anger, the feeling of senseless loss, the questions, all became real to him. I watched him play it live with tears streaming down his face, telling himself, "Peace, be still." It touched me, and it changed me to see him so changed.
The entire album of The Places You Have Come To Fear The Most by Dashboard Confessional: I’m sure I’m not the only person in the world who totally emo’ed out over this album, locking themselves in their bedrooms with a pack of tissues and a picture of an ex. Oh wait... I am? Moving on....
I realize this blog is unmercifully long. Sorry to those of you who got inadvertently sucked in. There are so, so many more songs. Too many, so I’ll just list a few more without explanation. If you’re curious, check them out, and see if you can figure out why I like them ;) :
The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel
Positively 4th Street by Bob Dylan
Under Bridges by Brave St. Saturn
In My Life by The Beatles
North Country Blues by Bob Dylan
And by Waterdeep
I Want to Be More Like Jesus by Keith Green
Don’t Cry by Kirk Franklin
Rocketman by Elton John
The King Beetle on A Coconut Estate by mewithoutYou
Desolation Row by Bob Dylan
Dancing Queen by ABBA
Messes of Men by mewithoutYou
Tomorrow by Mat Kearney
All Apologies by Nirvana
Recently I’ve been mentally compiling a list of songs and music that have grown up with me. I wouldn’t say that these songs have really changed my life, but they’re songs that play around certain moments that stand out in my memory. Here are a few of them, in no particular order (and remember, I’m not asking for anyone’s opinion on my musical tastes- these are songs that have affected me. You can make your own list.) :
I Surrender by Darrell Evans: (I put this one first because I figured everyone would be expecting a Beatles song) When I was in youth group, we had a meeting in an old theater. I remember towards the end of the worship set the worship leader started playing this song. I was standing in the aisle, the lights were dim and tinted blue and purple, and there was a huge industrial fan circulating air in my direction. I cannot describe the feeling of absolute and utter peace that washed over me during that song. It was like I was in this completely safe, untouchable bubble, just me and God. I still can’t listen to that song without taking a deep, contented breath, trying to inhale that sweet, peaceful moment from when I was 14.
And I Love Her by The Beatles: Anyone who knows me knows I’m a few steps beyond a hardcore Beatles fan. If I had lived in the 60’s, I probably would have been throwing my underwear up on stage and then fainting. Embarrassing, but true. My dad is a Beatles fan, so I’ve grown up listening to them, but my first real memory of falling in love with one of their songs is this one. I was probably about 6 or 7, laying on a mattress on the floor in my brothers’ room (I can’t remember why). It was night time and the blinds were all the way up and the moon was full. This song came on the radio. I remember I was haunted by the minor keys, the mysterious lilt to the song, the Spanish guitar style solo... everything about this song started me down the path to Beatlemania.
Sweet Baby James by James Taylor: This song makes me think of my mama. She was always listening to James Taylor while I was growing up. To me, he is the musical equivalent of comfort food. When I’ve had a rough day, feeling melancholy, nostalgic, whatever, James Taylor is the first thing that gets played on my iPod.
Brand New Colony by The Postal Service (although I like the live acoustic version the best): This is one of my more recent song acquisitions, thanks to my wonderful brothers. I think Ben Gibbard is an amazing writer in general, but for some reason this song ministers to me. Every girl wants to be romanced, to be taken away from everyday drudgery, and know that someone actually loves her enough to do it. There is something so protective, loving, whimsical in the lyrics. There are many times I’ve been listening to them and without realizing it I have tears on my face. I feel like God has spoken to me through this song.
All I Ask of You by Andrew Lloyd Webber: I love musicals. Love, love, love them. I want to be in a musical, where it isn’t insane if you spontaneously burst into song. I want to wear a frilly dress and dance with a man in suspenders and spats whose shirt matches mine. That said, Phantom of the Opera isn’t exactly that type of musical (and it’s VERY loosely based on the book, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog...), but it is beautiful, haunting, and slightly creepy. All I Ask Of You is such an incredible song, and another one that God has spoken to me through. It’s a song about questions being answered, fears being set aside, and ultimate commitment. There’s a strain of protectiveness throughout that has opened my eyes all over again to the way God feels about me.
Hush by Waterdeep: This song was my life exactly. It spoke every thought I was thinking, every emotion I was feeling, and cried every tear I cried. If you have not listened to it, go. Listen. You’ll know what I mean.
Let’s Go Fly A Kite from Mary Poppins: This isn’t a deep, insightful song. It isn’t even one of the better ones in the movie in my opinion, but there’s a story behind it. The winter I was 18 was a terrible, horrendous, bleedingly painful one for me. My heart was broken in several ways by several people in a very short amount of time. I was beaten down, demoralized, apathetic, and very, very broken. There was a point where I hadn’t eaten in over a week, and it had been far longer since I had laughed or even smiled. I remember one night some of my brothers and my sister and I were all piled into Amber’s little blue Geo (named Smurf) for some reason (Christmas shopping?). All of a sudden, we started belting this song out. I can’t really remember why- just your average Rothwell craziness, probably. One minute I was staring out the window, crying, and the next minute I found myself singing, smiling, and laughing. It was the hysterical type of laughter that hurts your heart, but it was healing to me. I’m not sure if my family remembers that moment. Probably not. It was only significant to me. But even if you don’t remember, thanks, guys. You helped bring me out of a pit, just by singing a stupid song.
Peace Be Still by Day of Grace: I know this might seem like a shameless plug for my husband's band, but it's really not. Jeremy can, and will, tell you that I am his most severe critic. I have a hard time listening to his music objectively, because I hear it from inception to completion. I always liked this song, but it didn't really change me until the first time I heard him sing it after the death of his best friend. He started writing the song in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, as a sort of empathetic message to those who had lost so much. After Tommy died, it came home to him. The bewildering grief, the anger, the feeling of senseless loss, the questions, all became real to him. I watched him play it live with tears streaming down his face, telling himself, "Peace, be still." It touched me, and it changed me to see him so changed.
The entire album of The Places You Have Come To Fear The Most by Dashboard Confessional: I’m sure I’m not the only person in the world who totally emo’ed out over this album, locking themselves in their bedrooms with a pack of tissues and a picture of an ex. Oh wait... I am? Moving on....
I realize this blog is unmercifully long. Sorry to those of you who got inadvertently sucked in. There are so, so many more songs. Too many, so I’ll just list a few more without explanation. If you’re curious, check them out, and see if you can figure out why I like them ;) :
The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel
Positively 4th Street by Bob Dylan
Under Bridges by Brave St. Saturn
In My Life by The Beatles
North Country Blues by Bob Dylan
And by Waterdeep
I Want to Be More Like Jesus by Keith Green
Don’t Cry by Kirk Franklin
Rocketman by Elton John
The King Beetle on A Coconut Estate by mewithoutYou
Desolation Row by Bob Dylan
Dancing Queen by ABBA
Messes of Men by mewithoutYou
Tomorrow by Mat Kearney
All Apologies by Nirvana
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Bye Bye, Baby
This week marks a milestone in our family. My last little baby has moved out of our bedroom. I know you’re probably wondering why she was in there to begin with, but if you have to wonder that, you’ve never seen my house. Our house is almost a hundred years old, and it. is. tiny. With only about 900 sq. ft. allotted to 5 people, things become a tight squeeze. However, this week we finally shifted things around, and somehow managed to wedge Atleigh into the kids’ room.
I’m not sure how I feel about this. Jeremy and I have been married a little over 7 years. Out of those 7 years, we’ve only had our “own” room for about 2. We’ve always lived in tiny spaces, then somehow (I’m not quite sure how it happened...) our family just kept getting bigger, so we had to keep making room. At one point, when we were renovating said tiny house, we moved in with his parents. For 10 months, we shared a bedroom with both of our kids. Those were a rough 10 months.
I miss having my baby in the room with me. I mean, sleep wise, it doesn’t really make a difference- it’s not like she kept us up at night and this is a welcome reprieve. I can’t decide why it makes me sad. I guess it’s just the finality of it. Knowing that my last little baby has taken the last little “baby” step, and is now officially a toddler. Not that moving her out of our room made it official- more like it brought it to my attention. I’m going to miss having a baby. God knows I don’t want any more kids (You do know that, don’t You God??), but there’s something so heart wrenching about knowing I won’t have anymore kids. I notice every little thing more: the baby talk, the giggling, the fat toes, the way she wraps her chubby arms around my neck, the way her lips form a kiss.
I feel like there’s so much more I should have noticed, and I’ve forgotten it all. I feel like so much of my baby memories have disappeared into oblivion- like the mommy brain induced fog that erases the discomfort of pregnancy, the pain of childbirth, the memories of sleepless nights and hormonal crying jags, has somehow erased so many of the sweet, “unmemorable” everyday happenings that make up a baby’s first year or two. I’ve sat here for another 5 minutes, trying to think of a neat little “wrap up” sentence. I haven’t come up with anything. I’m just sad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)