The beginning of letting go

This morning began with incredible news. As of 4:35 a.m. today, our good friends Frank and Mary are the proud parents of a new baby girl, Macy Elizabeth.

Wow! Of course we’ve known this was coming for months, but there’s just something about new life. It always catches you off guard in the most wonderfully exciting way.

Therefore, we’ve also known for months that we needed to make alternate arrangements for childcare, since Mary watches Emma during the day. And we did. After checking out local day care options, we decided on a center that was a good fit for Emma and relatively affordable (in a “we’re already going into debt anyway” sort of way).

In other words, I was technically prepared.

But for whatever reason, I wasn’t mentally prepared to send Emma to daycare today. Maybe it’s because her free “trial” day wasn’t scheduled until this Thursday. I don’t know. All I know is that I was a nervous wreck all morning.

I pictured my precious little girl scared in the care of strangers, confused by why her mommy and daddy had abandoned her.

That’s partly why I got ready at record speed this morning; so that I would have time to give her lots and lots of extra attention. I also wanted to allow ample time to introduce her to her teacher and to make her feel comfortable with the new routine.

We shared breakfast in the living room, so that she could watch Dora, her favorite cartoon. Then when she requested a pink, butterfly clip for her hair – a clip I hadn’t seen for weeks – I hunted through the back of the drawer as if my life depended on it. Phew! I found it.

By the time we pulled out of our driveway, my nerves were shot to the point of nausea. For a split second, I contemplated, “How I will ever survive the first day of kindergarten if this is what pre-school does to me?”

We arrived at the center, and I psyched myself up for what was sure to be a difficult goodbye. I could already anticipate the guilt I’d feel as she’d tearfully beg me to stay. But we walked in anyway.

The greeter efficiently welcomed me, and then she ushered us to Emma’s new home away from home.

That’s when it all fell apart.

It only took one look at all the toys and kids in the room, and a huge smile broke out on Emma’s face. I asked, “Are you excited?” and she literally started jumping up and down.

Emma gave me a quick hug around my legs, mostly to humor me, and then she was off. Off to explore and play without as much as a look back in my direction.

Seriously?! How could she do that to me? She didn’t even know these people! How could she abandon me like that?!

Yes, I’m not ashamed to admit it: I needed a longer, drawn out hug to assure me everything was going to be okay.

Before heading out the door, I asked if it would be alright if I called around lunch time to see how she was adjusting. Clearly used to nervous parents, the kind woman told me, “Yes, you can call as often as you like.”

So just after noon, I called for a progress report. They told me she’d eaten almost all of her lunch (which she doesn’t do at home) and that she had just closed her eyes for a nap (which she also won’t do at home).

The woman asked for my e-mail address to send me pictures of Emma’s first day, and the pictures corroborated her testimony. Emma was having a ball.

Sigh.

I suppose I should be grateful that I’m raising a confident girl. She knows the mommy who dropped her off at daycare will also be there to pick her up.

I should also be happy that she can roll with the punches. That she can, as her name means, “embrace everything” that life throws her, seeing it as an opportunity for adventure.

But at the moment, I’m just not feeling it. Not one bit.

Instead I find myself a little sad. Suddenly I realize, this is just the beginning of a lifetime of learning to let go.

My latest addiction - Part II

A couple weeks ago, I posted a blog about being addicted to Twitter. And even though I was mostly trying to be funny, there was some truth there.

So if you did check me out on Twitter, you might have scratched your head at my last tweet (assuming you give a rip):

“Trying to reclaim my life from techno overload. So long Twitter. It's been fun”

What transpired in the short time period between my public confession of addiction, and my sign-off to the Twitter world? A reality check.

I realized technology had crept into every facet of my life, slowly undermining my time and relationships. I was tweeting, networking with friends on Facebook, checking my e-mails incessantly from my Blackberry, blogging, IM-ing, and even tracking points for my diet online. I was so caught up with the virtual world that I was missing out on the real one.

Fearing I’d lost complete touch with reality, I quickly signed off of the most recent techno parasite: Twitter.

Then, a couple days after my last tweet, I received an eerie confirmation I’d made the right decision through an article in Christianity Today. One paragraph reads, “I often find myself so drawn to my Blackberry and laptop that I fail to be present with the flesh and blood person who is standing before me. I look at them and pretend like I'm listening, but my mind strains to get back to my email.” (From “Does Twitter do us any good?” by Mark Galli, CT online, June 2009)

Wow. I could have written that.

It’s not that I think technology is all bad, or that I’ve sworn it off completely. Obviously… I posted this blog, didn’t I?

My blackberry helps me keep in control of my inbox when I’m away from my desk for meetings. Facebook helps me keep up with the latest pictures and stories about family members who are hundreds of miles away. Weight Watchers online has helped me lose 30 pounds so far.

I’m not saying goodbye to technology. I’m just renewing my commitment to keep it all in check.

It’s kind of funny. The day I said good-bye to Twitter, I suddenly received several e-mails notifying me I had new followers. Really? Did they not read what I just said?

Actually, part of me wonders if they started following me so that they will be notified at the exact moment I relapse. If so, I have to say, “Sorry tweoples. You’ll be sadly disappointed.”

I’ve left Twitter for the real world, and I don’t plan on coming back any time soon.

My latest addiction

Back in the 90s, when Capri pants first came back in style, I hated them. Despised them. Thought they were the dumbest thing I’d ever seen.

Then there were Macs. Uh, you mean the same outdated devices I used in second grade with the green flashing cursor? I don’t think so. Microsoft’s got the market cornered.

And more recently, Facebook. Don’t even get me started on Facebook. A pretentious site for the “I’m much too sophisticated for MySpace” crowd.


All of these things were silly fads not worthy of my attention. That was, of course, until I adopted them all as my own.

I’m what communications scholar Everett Rogers would label a late majority adopter (my comm profs would be so proud!) AND I HATE THAT.

When it comes to all things trendy, I always start to think something’s cool long after the real trendsetters have moved on to something else. I’m such a loser!

And now it’s happened again.

I’ve been revolting against Twitter for months now – claiming it to be a ginormous waste of time and completely narcissistic. I couldn’t see the point.

Until this week. At the urging of several people much cooler than I’ll ever be, I started playing with it — and now I’m completely and utterly addicted. Every time I say something that makes me laugh or I find particularly clever (Yes… I am my biggest fan), I think, “Oooh, I should put that on Twitter.”

It’s really quite pathetic. I’m limiting myself to four tweets a day, just so I don’t come across as completely self-centered or desperate for attention. That may be the reality, but I certainly don’t want the cool kids on Twitter to know.

And like every good addict, I’m not just using. I’m pushing.

This morning, as I sat in Starbucks sipping my latte — yes, the same drink I used to declare the overpriced version of what I could easily buy at Speedway —I sang the wonders of Twitter to our university chaplain. With heartfelt conviction, I did my best to convince Chap Daddy that this is the best way for him to be an effective minister to the lost.

So yes, I’m a Twittering fool. But this is it. I mean it. This will be the LAST trend I jump on board with late in the game.

Unless everybody’s doing it.

www.twitter.com/quiteaday

How Nazarene are you?

I'm not a big fan of Facebook quizzes. If you've sent them to me, I've probably ignored them. I don't care what 80s sitcom character I am, what book best represents me, or what my stripper name would be.

But I saw one the other day that intrigued me. "How Nazarene are you?" Hmm.... this might be interesting, I thought.

So I took it. And after successfully answering basic questions about our church structure and history, I was declared a "Manuel Memorizer." Wow! Who knew?

I must admit, though, I was a little disappointed. Who cares if I know how many general superintendents we have or how often General Assembly takes place? Anybody can figure those out. (No offense to Stephanie, who bombed the test).

No, I think there's much more complexity in identifying a purebred Nazarene. Ask yourself these questions:

• Did your mom shed a tear or two when she ironed your Phineas S. Bresee award on your Caravan scarf?


• Have you driven out of town to watch a perfectly clean movie, so that no one would see you?


• When your friends start swapping stories about random celebrity run-ins, do you tell about the time you saw a general superintendent buying doughnuts at the grocery store?


• Did you hold two receptions for your wedding -- one for the church, and the other a secret celebration with you and your dancing friends?


• Do you own a collection of polyester dresses from your years on the Impact team?


• When you hear the letters NYC, do you think of massive teen gathering instead of a major U.S. city?


• (For women only) Do you remember a time when you couldn't wear pants to church because it was too provocative?


• (For men only) Have you ever felt guilty for staring at a provocative woman who was wearing pants to church?


• After years in teen Bible quizzing, do you still twitch your right butt cheek when you want to be the first to answer a question?


• If a short-cut in the grocery store meant going through the alcohol aisle, would you take the longer route just so no one thinks you've backslidden?


• Are you excited that this year's family vacation will be in Orlando, because you've seen just about all there is to see in Indianapolis?


• Have you calculated which direction you need to turn to face Kansas City when praying?


• When you're telling someone what part of the country you're from, do you automatically include the name of the nearest Nazarene college or university?


• When the song leader announces you'll be singing "Called Unto Holiness," do you set down the hymnal because you already know the words?


• Do any of your children have Wesley as a first or middle name?


• Do the highlights of your social calendar revolve around a potluck dinner or Old Country Buffet?

If you answered "Yes" to five or more of these questions, congratulations!

You are officially Nazarene through and through, and I'll see you in Orlando.

When I think of M-O-T-H-E-R

I had the distinct pleasure of singing with my mom at at mother-daughter banquet Friday night.

It all started when our ladies council president asked if anyone knew any songs about moms, and I said I'd heard one before. At the time, I didn't know any of the words, except, "M is for the million things she gave me." That qualified me to research and sing the song.

Thanks to ever faithful informational highway, I found it... and it was terrible. Here's the first verse:

I've been around the world, you bet, but never went to school. Hard knocks are all I seem to get, perhaps I've been a fool; But still, some educated folks, supposed to be so swell, Would fail if they were called upon a simple word to spell.

The composer then goes on to sing the traits of his beloved madre, each line beginning with the letters which spell out M-O-T-H-E-R. I'm sure it was touching in 1915 when it was first written, but it left me unimpressed.

Agreeing it was lame, my mom and I decided to write our own lyrics, updated for the women of 2009. (Watch here)

I don't know if anyone else really found our song funny, but we cracked each other up. And the process of writing and performing our song reminded me of just how special my mother really is.
So, sparing any form of spelling theme or alliteration, here's what I think of when I think of my mother:

- A woman who was widely known as the coolest counselor at kids camp.

- A woman whose vocal talent I first became aware of when my 4th grade music teacher told me she had the loveliest Soprano voice he'd ever heard.

- A woman who made the best with what she had, sewing us clothes throughout elementary school and convincing us they were stylish.

- A woman who treated Bible quizzing like an extreme sport.

- A woman who came to every single basketball game I ever played, no matter how busy she was.

-A woman who modeled what it means to love God's Word, as day after day, I'd find her pouring over the pages of her Bible.

- A woman who knows how to make the piano sing.

- A woman who never gives up the faith, no matter what life throws at her.

- A woman who always has a hug, a kiss and a sucker for my daughter.

- A woman who makes me laugh, and is there to hold me when I cry.

- A woman who I count as my dearest friend.

Happy (belated) Mother's Day, mom. I love you!

Feasting on Manna

I've been thinking a lot about Egypt lately.

No, not the pyramids, or even the Bangles' monster hit of the 80s.

I've been thinking about the way God delivered the Israelites from their bondage in Egypt, only to have them gripe about His methods every step of the way.

It used to be that when I'd read the pages of Exodus, I'd think, "You morons! Quit your complaining." I mean, God split the Red Sea, for crying out loud! You would think such an awesome experience would cause them to think twice before squawking about how hot it was in desert, or how bland the the manna tasted.

Now, I don't read it quite the same way ... because I think I would have done the exact same thing.

It's amazing, really, how petty I can be in light of all God's goodness. After all the things He's given me, and after all the amazing ways He's worked in my life, I'm still prone to freaking out whenever things look bleak. And then when He answers my prayers, I lament how it's not exactly the answer I was looking for.

Silly Israelites. Silly me. When will we ever learn?

And so I'm trying to do better about that. Trying to trust and trying to be grateful, on my way to the Promised Land.

Macaroni and cheese

This past weekend, I traveled with my parents and Emma from Bourbonnais to Omaha to witness the dedication of my nephew, Thane.

By all logical calculations, the trip out there should have taken somewhere between 7 and 9 hours. Possibly 10 with a couple, lengthy stops. For some reason, it took us 11 1/2. Yeah... I don't get it either. I'm pretty sure we hit a time warp somewhere near Des Moines.

Regardless, we pulled in to Ben and Steph's driveway somewhere around 5 a.m. We turned in for bed immediately, but the next 5 hours of sleep went by in a blink. Then we readied ourselves for the Henry Doorly Zoo, where we walked from exhibit to exhibit from noon until 5:30 p.m. The next day, Sunday, was only slightly less sleep-inducing between church, errands and late night viewings of The Office. Then on Monday, it was time to hit the road again.

Honestly, we had a fantastic time, but I was E-X-A-U-S-T-E-D! We've been home for 2 days and I still haven't completely recovered.

But as tiring as it was for me, I can only imagine what a trip like that does to a 2-year-old's body. Emma spent more hours in vehicle than she ever had before, she spent more time walking than she ever had before, she stayed up later and went more consecutive days without a nap than she ever had before.

Even so, pushed to her limit, Emma was refleshingly pleasant. She was thrilled for the opportunity to watch Monster's, Inc. and Cinderella repeatedly in the van, she basked in the attention of her aunt and uncle, and she even discovered a new hobby: tattling on her cousin, Caleb. She loved every minute of the adventure!

Proud of her beyond measure, I wanted to reward her with a simple pleasure. At every restaurant we visited to, from, and in Omaha, I told her she could have whatever she wanted. Her culinary drothers are really quite basic, and so her response was always the same. "I want macaroni and cheese."

You would think this wouldn't be a problem. It was. It seems like that would be a restaurant staple. It's not.

Meal after meal, I would scan the menu only to feel the weight of a broken promise. "I'm sorry, hon. They don't have that. But we'll get it next time."

Only they didn't have it the next time. Or the time after that. Or the time after that. It was heartbreaking. Every time she had to settle for chicken nuggets or grilled cheese, she looked at me like I had completely crushed her spirit. Out of guilt, I even let her have what is normally forbidden fruit: pop and french fries.

Finally, with just the right amount of planning ahead, and an outrageous number of bathroom stops, we arrived in Davenport, Iowa on Monday evening just in time for dinner -- our last meal of the trip. We ate at the Machine Shed, a restaurant that prides itself in down-home cooking.

Sure enough, there it was on the kid's menu: good ol' macaroni and cheese. Woohoo!

I was downright giddy to finally provide my little girl the desires of her heart. I ordered with a great sense of pride, and as the waitress returned to our table with a tray of food, I'm pretty sure I clapped my hands in excitement. "Emma, here it comes!"

The overall-clad woman set a bowl of delightfully orangish noodles down in front Emma, and I held my breath in anticipation.

Emma took one look at the bowl and pushed it away.

With absolute certainty in her voice she told me, "I don't like macaroni and cheese."