Life Skills

Summer is a long time to have the kids at the house.

For two months, I have to keep this pack of malcontents docile and entertained. There is so much pressure in summer—pressure to have fun, make memories, go to new places and do new things. I don’t want to go new places and do new things. Honestly, I just want to survive. We have so much already going on that we are in essence tied to the house.

My thought was: how do I make the most of this limited time I have with the kids so that they are engaged?

I have long advocated that kids learn important life skills before they leave home for college. Part of this was spurred on by watching the college episode of “Chopped”. While I was not expecting these four pre-adults to be masters in the kitchen, I was filled with abject horror while watching round after round of frankly inedible slop being served because of simple cooking errors. My own trial run at self-sufficiency had its own hiccups, a fact my parents gleefully relive as they remember the time I called for instructions on boiling an egg.

There are so many instances you run into as an adult that you feel poorly prepared for--things like applying for school loans or getting your first apartment, filling out applications, managing a household. These are unavoidably adult undertakings that can positively or negatively impact the success your first few years out of the house.

With this in mind, I decided to make this a summer of Home Camps that teach life skills.

There are few (unofficial) experts I have called in for reinforcements. My mother is doing a bi-weekly baking camp. Last week, she taught all the Abilene grandchildren that are old enough to be taught, a group of six ranging in age from 2 to 10, how to make homemade bread. The two smallest, Clara (3) and Maryn (2) were not able to grasp some of the deeper concepts but they were able to help mix and measure, pour and knead. They were all so proud of the product of their work, which engaged them for several hours and yielded four loaves of bread, a dozen rolls, and a braided loaf.

It was Mom’s week off so I used the time to teach my own how to make communion wafers so that we could discuss the significance of the unleavened bread. I believe it was only slightly sacrilegious that I allowed the children to mold them into cat shapes with the cookie cutters.

Next week Mom is coming to show them how to make apple butter and pumpkin butter, how to peel and slice and can. Maybe we will do crackers or rolls to spread the delicious product on; we will see.

My brother Jarrod has also contributed a higher skill: reading and signing a contract. He is going out of town and needed someone to care for his pets while he was away; he made Emerald apply and interview for the position, then drafted a simple contract for her to read over and sign, making sure to note that as she is not yet of age that her parents had to sign as well. I am hoping to engage him for a robotics course later in the summer as well.

Cousin Jessica, who is a talented artist, has (schedule allowing) agreed to come do an art camp one day with the kids, and Cousin Justin is going to teach horseback riding while we are in that area.

Most days lay more firmly in my domain, however, and so I have written down a list of skills that I would like to see them master and have crafted lessons around teaching them.

One that shouldn’t be a thing but you run into it more than you think you would: making a doctor’s appointment.

Telephone etiquette, overall, is an often overlooked but crucial, dying skill--how to listen without interrupting, polite tone, not nodding when someone asks you a question (seriously, why do they do that? Do they think they are on FaceTime?). Making and keeping appointments is important. Especially for September birthdays, you can’t call day-of or week-of and expect to get seen. You have to plan and schedule ahead, get your spot claimed early because a flood of students are going to be getting their well-checks and sports physicals.

My sister Amber works at the doctor’s office where our children are seen, so I called her and gave her a heads up. Then I coached Emerald through--looking up the number, listening to the automated system, speaking clearly and at an appropriate volume, saying please and thank you, answering all the questions. Afterwards, I showed her how to add it to the Google family calendar so that she could remember it in advance and we could all see it when making other appointments.

Another important skill: Cleaning.

It was kind of a revelation to me when I realized that my definition of clean and the children's’ was vastly different. Mine was “everything is picked up and put in its place”; theirs, “there is a clear walkway”. To them, it didn’t matter how much stuff was under the furniture or up against the walls or on top of surfaces, as long as you could walk through the room without stepping on things.

My mother had been pestering me to watch Diane from Denmark who cleans by a popular system called “Zoning”. Basically, you divide your house into six manageable areas. Each day, you clean in that one area and that one area only. On the seventh day, you rest!

Just kidding. There is no rest. There is only more mess.

On the seventh day, you clean the whole house. But the goal is 80% clean, 80% of the time, which means that on that final day you shouldn’t have too much mess accumulated.

We are trying the zoning system combined with another cleaning trend: the power hour. For one hour, and one hour only, you clean as hard as you can in that one area. After that hour is done, it doesn’t matter if you have anything left, you are finished. Michael particularly likes this because it sets a tangible end goal that isn’t “perfection”. Our zoning goals are:

Sunday: Yards
Monday: Bathrooms
Tuesday: Living Room/Playroom
Wednesday: Bedrooms
Thursday: Kitchen/Dining Room
Friday: Entryway/Hallway/Laundry Room
Saturday: Big Cleaning Day

I am not going to say much on that at the moment because we have only instituted it for a week so I cannot yet speak to its efficacy, but I will let you know more later on.

But during that time, I show the kids what you need to know--how to dust, avoid mixing chemicals or using too much, how to sweep and mop and load a dishwasher properly. It is somewhat slow going. My mind keeps saying “it would go so much faster if you did it…”. I have to keep reminding myself: if I don’t want to be the only one doing this forever, they have to learn it. With that spirit in mind, they are also helping do laundry, beginning to end.

Other life skills I have been working on teaching them:

Basic first aid and what to do in an emergency
Gardening and yard work
Grocery lists, meal planning, reading labels
Simple sewing
Letter writing, gift wrapping
Basic car care--how to wash a car, put in fuel, check fluid levels
Finance--how to make and stick to a budget, write a check, tithing

They are learning a lot and having fun doing it. We make a lot of time for entertainment-only pursuits, too. Days are very long in the summer so there is a lot of time to fit in everything, and we don’t have to have a lesson every day. Most days we wake up and eat breakfast, then go for a walk while it is still not too warm. Then we sit in the backyard and do devotional. They play while I do some writing or cleaning or working on whatever I have going at the moment; at the end, I have them come help clean as well--their power hour is only actually about thirty minutes because I have found you can get them to work really hard for about that long before they lose interest. Then there is lunch; afterwards, the younger kids go down for nap while Emerald and I have our bonding time. Afternoons we go our own way and do our own thing until Michael comes home and from there the day starts its steady downward slope toward bed.

It is important that I work as well to better myself, so to that end I am trying very hard to work on improving my temper and patience. Life gets so very frustrating and overwhelming when you feel like no matter how hard you try, you are falling behind. This diet can be discouraging--our choices feel so limited and prep time is outrageous. We eat five to six times a day: three major meals and two (to three) substantial snacks, and each time it requires nearly an hour of prep. I can’t make things in advance because Gabriel will find and steal them, like the homemade toasted almond granola bars I made for Sunday morning breakfast. He ate two dozen of them while we were sleeping. It was very frustrating.

Michael’s grandmother, Grannymom, gave me a lot of books that have actually helped with that. One of which Michael and I are reading together: “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff...and It Is All Small Stuff”. It gives practical and insightful advice like developing your compassion, allowing yourself to be bored, and practicing patience. Every day, I try and focus on attempting a new skill to soothe my ferocious temper and low tolerance for annoyance.

I think we are getting better. More and more of our day feels smoother, kinder. The kids’ bodies and minds and spirits are being fed, and it shows. They aren’t acting as desperate for attention, their attitudes toward one another are softening.

And I feel, just for a brief moment, like maybe...we can survive this summer.


--Andie
(Rare Post Script: If you have a skill you would like to teach at Home Camp, let me know!!)

Stories

Monday, I did actually write.

My style is very much “stream of consciousness”; I rarely pick a topic and sit down and just type precisely what I intended to say. Which is why I have such difficulty writing anything substantial--there is no structure. I just start and see where it takes me. A lot of the time, it actually works out and I manage to piece together enough coherent thoughts for a blog post. When reaching down deep inside my psyche, usually what comes up is fairly tame in nature.

Occasionally though, what I end up writing is too personal. While I strive for as much transparency here as I feel appropriate, there are obviously some parts of our lives that must remain private. The biggest filter I have to run it through is:

Is this my story to tell?

I am a story collector. I love to hear people talk about their lives, their hopes and dreams and interests. I want to know what makes them the way they are, why they believe as they believe and what brought them there. People are so fascinating, and I enjoy getting to know them better. The interconnectivity that weaves all these individuals together fuels my voracious imagination.

So when I sit down to tell the story of my little family, I have to be conscious and respectful that I only tell my truths, my stories.

Michael is mostly fair game as our lives are often completely inseparable for the last decade plus. I try not to speak directly for him; before I post, I always have him proofread and give approval.

The children are a little trickier because while our stories run so parallel, I do actually want to protect their privacy to a certain extent while still acting as a chronicler of times they are less likely to remember independently. It is a matter I handle with as much delicacy as I feel possible while still conveying the principles I am trying to get across.

There are certain subjects that I feel so little ownership over, even as they relate directly to me and inform great portions of my life, that I have avoided talking about them here or anywhere at all.

My biological father--my mother’s first husband--is one such tale. They divorced when I was younger than Tula, and his appearances in my life were so few and sporadic that most of what I could tell you about him would be gleaned from others’ relayed experiences. What I do remember was not wholly flattering, but I can’t imagine my girlish recollections would be entirely accurate either. I imagine the truth lay somewhere in the middle--not a complete villain, but scarcely a saint either, and (by choice) a pieceplayer in our adventure.

I also cannot be persuaded usually to touch politics with a ten-foot pole, a subject which I feel I have less authority to speak on the more that I learn.

Childhood is mostly fair game, as long as I don’t embarrass my brothers and sister (who, as far as I can tell, are wholly impervious to shame), but I can’t imagine it would be excessively interesting to anyone nor particularly relevant to what is going on now. (Unless you find enjoyment in my embarrassment. I was painfully awkward.)

What I ended up writing earlier this week was based on a prompt I found on the Abilene Writers Guild website: First Love.

The wheels in my head began to spin away as I thought about my first serious boyfriend and how little I understood then about relationships and men in general. I ended up writing quite a lot on the subject, starting with what I was raised to believe about love and dating and puberty and sex. There were so many misconceptions that I had, and that ignorance caused me quite a bit of heartache and trepidation, led me into situations I was ill-equipped to handle.

By the time I had reached the end (or as much as I would be able to get out at the moment), I knew it wasn’t something I would be able to share. It was too personal, too exposing, not for graphic content but because it cut too much to the heart of me. I had to get out into the sunshine and fresh air, drink ice water to loosen the tightness in my chest.

My early relationships were not great in the way that all young relationships suffer. He was not a good boyfriend, I was not a good girlfriend because we didn’t yet know how to be better. It is a practice course where everyone involved only stands to be hurt, but we do it anyway because it’s how you learn. No amount of relationship books I read (looking at you, “Chocolate Chili Pepper Love”) could have prepared me to know what I wanted and needed from a romantic partner like finding out exactly what I didn’t. As much as this story was my own, it also belonged to that hapless boy I knew so long ago, and it didn’t feel right for me to put it out there.

The more I thought about it though, the more I felt the point of the prompt, and the more I really thought about first.

My first date with Michael, we sat on the couch in Katie Rogers dorm because I had sprained my ankle falling down to flights of stairs rushing to meet him. It was swelling and purple and didn’t bother me much because this goofball in a Hawaiian shirt was making me laugh.

The first kiss Michael and I shared was halfway between my dorm and his, with all the stars out and the air was cold so he wrapped me up in his leather coat to keep warm.

The first time Michael and I made dinner at his apartment, we had no utensils except for plastic ones stolen from the school cafeteria. After trying several times to flip bacon with a fork that was rapidly melting, we had to borrow one from the married couple next door. That became the only fork we had when we couldn’t scrape together enough money to buy food, little less household items, so we would share it while we ate the very worst tunaless tuna helper sitting together in the only recliner we owned.

Mila the miniature pinscher was our first pet, this adorable, horrible screech-monster we were in no way ready to take care of. We had to take her back to the pet store because we weren’t supposed to have her in the first place, and Michael held me while I cried.

Our first apartment, which we called The Dank with no trace of irony, whose air conditioner went out every year and perpetually smelled like the tacos we couldn’t afford from the restaurant next door, but we were so proud of because it was just ours.

The first time I saw Michael cry, when he saw the sonogram picture of our little gummy bear baby Emerald.  His eyes may have been misty again the first time he held that red-headed infant in his arms and introduced himself as “daddy”.

When the doors of the church opened, the song “Gaelic Morn swells, and I saw the man that makes me so happy beaming because this is the happiest day of our lives. Michael’s grandfather introduced for the first time as husband and wife.

Michael is the story I chose for myself, my first and true love. His birthday was toward the beginning of the month which we celebrated per his wishes as totally innocuous day without note. He’s not big on people making a fuss over him. Personally, I think he deserves grandiose fanfare everyday, this man that works so hard to provide for his disaster-prone brood. The humor and patience with which he handles our oft-stressful, exhausting, chaotic circumstances gives me the strength and courage to keep going when I want so desperately to give up. All day, I try and do things to make his life easier or to make him happy because he is the best part of my day.

For me, it always comes back to him. When I exhumed all of that yucky, personal junk the other day, all I ended up uncovering was thankfulness for the path God put me on that led me to this goofball I married.

I think that’s the better story anyway.

—Andie

Mr Gables

Gabriel is the sunniest baby in the world--he is quick to smile, constantly cooing, giggling,
and seeking out companionship. His very first smile was for his Big Sister, Emerald,
because I sincerely doubt there is a single person in the world that adores him more than
she does. She is forever giving him kisses, loving on the baby with hugs and trying to
hold him, reading to him, sharing toy, and generally trying to make sure his life is as happy
as humanly possible.

He enjoys watching Baby Miracles, including Jonah and the Whale--its a video of kid's singing
church songs and classical music to the story of Jonah, as well as live videos of the things
Jonah would have seen while he was sinking (turtles, starfish, etc).

Mike likes to play a game with him called Tooty Airplane--since he is literally the gassiest baby there ever was, Michael flies him around the house increasing the speed every time he toots. Gabriel loves it--he thinks his daddy is so funny.

Wonderful!

Michael and I do this thing that I like to call “mini date”.

Everyone knows how hard it is to get a date when you have kids; it is a well-documented and much-lamented phenomenon. We are no exception particularly because we have so very many children and each child feels like a lot more children than just one because of the nature of their being. There are a handful of people both willing and able to watch our rodent army for a few hours, but opportunities don’t arise too often where we both have the means and the motivation to go out. With this in mind, I have instituted Mini Date.

For five to ten minutes, Michael and I will sit in the car together, sharing a hot pretzel or a soda, and listening to the podcast “Wonderful!”.

If you have not heard of this podcast, it is on Maximum Fun (www.maximumfun.org)--the co-hosts are Rachel and Griffin McElroy, a married couple that talk about things that they love. It is about positivity and it is contagiously joyful and it helps perk you up in the middle of a dreary or frustrating day.

On that format, I was going to talk about a few of the things that I like and that make me happy because it is Monday and Monday is the day that I write. It might not be as interesting to you as it is to me, but hopefully it brings a little bit of positivity to your day, too!

First up: Sun Bears!

My favorite animal are bears--traditionally I like black bears because they are curious and super good, but I go through cycles. Currently in the top spot is a species from Southeast Asia that is one of the smallest bears, only about the size of your average Emerald. Malaysian sun bears, also known as honey bears because they use their strong claws to tear open trees and hives and their extra-long tongues to reach the honey.

Those ridiculous tongues--which range from 7 to 10 inches long--are why they are my current favorite because every picture of them is absolutely, endearingly ridiculous. When they have babies, the mother and father bears may actually live together and co-raise their cubs, which I think is pretty cute.

In general, they are kinda neat, underknown and underappreciated dorks.

The next thing I wanted to talk about was…

Microglia!

Also known as glia or glial cells, neuroglia are support cells that provide protection for neurons. They are my favorite part of the human body, specifically astrocytes (star-shaped cells that, among other functions, provide nutrients to the neurons) and microglia, who are friend-shaped.

The immune system has no business messing around up in the central nervous system, but the brain and spinal cord still need be protected. This is where all the Neuroglia come into effect. Glia actually means “glue”, so neuroglia means “brain glue”. Microglia then means “little glue” which makes no sense, but it is the runtiest of the four types of glial cells. They only make up about 10-15% of all cells found within the brain.

In resting state, they have a little fried-egg shaped body with tendrils going out in all directions, which it uses to monitor the interstitial fluid for signs of trouble. If it senses any inflammation, it sucks in all its tendrils, puffs up (presumably the cellular equivalent of hiking up your britches) and floats around looking for trouble-makers. It could be bacteria or a damaged cell or foreign cells, anything that could be a potential threat.

When it locates the source of trouble, it secrets cytotoxic factors that will reduce the issue to debris, then devours the bits like a deranged and murderous roomba. It has a function called antigen presentation, which is like if your roomba decorated the outside of himself with cheerios and dust bunnies so everyone could see what he had eaten today. Here is a really neat video on the subject if you are interested and want to know more:

https://www.khanacademy.org/science/health-and-medicine/nervous-system-and-sensory-infor/neural-cells-and-neurotransmitters/v/microglia

I just like the idea of this little cell perpetually ready to square up, I guess, but I also think of him as a neat mini shepherd that takes care of his neuron sheep, or miniscule scavenger boys. Their function is not nearly appreciated enough.

I am only going to write about three things today; if this ends up becoming something people enjoy, I may do a semi-regular thing. On to my third thing which is…

Carnations!

When I was in high school, the student council sold carnations as a fundraiser for Valentine’s Day. They were $1 each and different colors meant different things like secret admirer or friend or crush. On Valentine’s Day, class would be interrupted as they delivered individually wrapped flowers. I just loved the way it made the school smell, that delicate and romantic clove-like perfume, and I loved the surprise and joy people had when they realized someone had sent one just for them.

That memory from high school is one of the reasons these are my favorite flowers. Another is I love how they are both beautiful and practical--you can get a dozen for $5 and if you take good care of them, they can last for two to three weeks in the vase.

The name “carnation” could refer to flower garlands, or to” incarnation”, God made flesh. It’s scientific name dianthus means “flower of the gods”. It is one of the oldest cultivated flowers, storied in Christian tradition to have first bloomed where Mary’s tears fell on the road as she watched Jesus carried the cross. This is how they, particularly pink and peach in hue, because associated with motherly love.

Those are my three happyment enducers today; I am thankful that God made long-tongued sun bears, feisty and protective microglia, and delicately durable carnations.

There are so very many wonderful things in the world for us to delight in. I hope your week is full of all such things, and that you get a moment to revel in those good vibes.

—Andie

Unkind

Writing is how I emotionally work through what is happening in my life. The hope is that by unpacking some of this unpleasant day, I can calm my body and brain enough to sleep. I debated whether or not to identify them by name, but I decided against it--rising above and all that. I will be referring to them as Mrs. A and Mr. B.

It was a hard day today. Some are like that, I know. It felt like every part was a struggle.

Tuesday, there was a city bus stopped picking up passengers on my way home, so I turned down College Drive to pass it. It’s not a street I normally go on; it’s nice and quiet, near where Michael’s department has their supply shop. While I was driving, I saw a sign: “4 bedroom house for rent”.

Normally I avoid phone calls like the plague, doubly so those with strangers. There is this psych metaphor about spoons—you only have so many allotted spoons each day, and each activity takes a certain amount of spoons, which means you can only accomplish so many things in a day. You have to budget your emotional energy resources the same way you budget your finite money. Making a phone call, which seems innocuous, can be daunting because you have so little control over it. For me, it takes too many spoons.

But we need to get into a bigger place, so I figure it is worth a try. Probably going to be more than we can afford anyway. I call and leave a message on the listed phone number.

A little while later, I get a call back. It takes yet more spoons to accept an unexpected phone call from a stranger, but I answer. We visit about the house, size and price, what my family is needing. It is sounding fairly reasonable and she seems nice; she and I work out a time that afternoon for Michael and me to come see the house.

The woman’s husband takes us to see inside. Before we step foot in, Michael tells him that we have two older cats that are non negotiable. We are willing to pay deposits or work out conditions, but the cats come with us, so if they have a no-pets policy, this is not an option. Mr. B says that to get a family as renters, they might be willing to make an exception.

He shows us around the house and it is perfect. It is large and very nice, and comes furnished. All of our furniture is hand-me-downs, things we got free off of Craigslist and Facebook; it would be so nice to have things that aren’t falling apart. It’s a little more than we are spending at our current house, but it is twice as big, with four bedrooms. We are so excited because it has things we have been dreaming about—a dishwasher, a dedicated laundry room, counter space. This is a place we could be comfortable and happy in for a while.



At the end of the tour, Michael asks again about the pets. Mr. B wants to discuss it with his wife, but he thinks we can work something out—they like the idea of our family moving in. It is looking very positive.

We take an application, call our current landlord to ask if he will be a reference. Michael also speaks with a leader from our church whose financial advice we seek often and appreciate; he, too, agrees to be a reference, and says this sounds like a wise move for us. Both of our references are friends with the landlords, both people the couple respect. They have discussed the pet situation and we agree on an additional deposit, plus to pay for the carpet to be cleaned once a year. We are told to bring our application by in the morning and our deposit by the weekend, and we could have the house.

I tell Mom about it and the name of the couple we met with. Her eyes got wide—she knew this woman as they had attended church together in the past. Mom recommends I call Jarrod and talk before we sign any paperwork.

Wednesday morning, Emerald and Tula had doctors appointments with their endocrinologist. Tula had trouble sleeping so I was up a lot of the night before, not at my most mentally sharp. Emerald was moving slow, having to be told multiple times before she would accomplish a task, and it was frustrating me. We drop the application off with Mrs. A and hurry late to the appointment.

Tula was fussy from having not slept well and struggled throughout the double-length appointment. The doctor does not recommend a pump for her, which is disappointing but understandable. She is still in the honeymoon phase of her disease and it can fluctuate too much for a pump to be advisable.

It’s finally over, but we have to go get the girls’ hemoglobin a1c drawn. It’s a blood test they do every three months for their diabetes. Tula, who had finally fallen asleep on the car ride to the lab, was displeased by the needle in her arm. She was shaking all over and sobbing, calling for Daddy as her little arm bruised like a pear. We got through it. Emerald got dropped back off at school and I went home to have lunch with Michael.

Cartoonishly, annoyingly bad, while taking our frozen pizza lunch out of the oven, I drop it topping side down. It’s ruined. To the rescue, Michael ushers me to the car where we have a picnic lunch and listen to a podcast. It was actually lovely.

After I get the kids from school, Mom phones. Mrs. A had called her, which was odd—she was listed as emergency contact, not reference. Mrs. A had mentioned to Mom that she was going to “drop by” and visit with us about the cats because she had other interested parties. I am concerned because we might lose this house we both had liked so much.

I am out in the backyard pulling weeds to take my mind off what a horrible day it was when this woman I met literally met yesterday shows up unannounced and uninvited on my back porch. Emerald didn’t know any better and had let her in. I was so taken off-guard; she hadn’t called, had in no way implied she was coming over to my home, this place that she did not own. Our current landlord wouldn’t have sent her over without calling us; he always alerts us to visitors. Surely Michael wouldn’t have either.

This whole situation has taken spoons I didn’t have left.

This stranger says she has come to meet my cats. I say that they are rather shy and wouldn’t likely come out for people they don’t know, to which is promptly tells me to show her how we have them set up here. She talks and acts like she has a right to be here, like we had set an appointment for me to show her how we store the litter box and where we keep the cat food. Flustered, I show her.

She informs me then that she suddenly remembers that she has a severe cat allergy (which, had I known before, I likely would have discouraged her from entering the house as both cats are now actively rubbing against her legs) and they have other offers so we need to look for another house.

Unless, she leaves the question dangling, I might have the cats put down….?

The sheer amount of horror I felt at that question, I can scarcely describe. I know not everyone cares for cats, and there are quite a few that hate them. But these are my pets. I have raised them for over a decade—they are no kittens, but nor are they feeble and dying animals. They are sweet and gentle boys who spend the entirety of their day laying in warm spots and purring and fulfilling their sole purpose in life: to bring me joy.

And this horrid woman is standing in my bedroom suggesting that I have them killed because she, a stranger, doesn’t like them.


I usher her politely to the door as she continues her idiotic prattering, rattling off excuse after excuse why my nice family with perfect references and impeccable rent history is not a good fit for her rent house. With a mixture of fury and sadness, I shut the door on Mrs. A and text Michael to come home.

Michael calls Mrs. A who refuses to speak to him, just handing the phone promptly to Mr. B who said our landlord did not have kind things to say. Michael firmly but civilly tells him how disappointed we are in how this situation was handled, how they had gone back on their word to us after we agreed to their additional terms. Mr. B apologizes several times.

We contact our landlord who balks—he said they asked three questions.

Did we pay our rent on time?
Yes.

What about the pets?
I have them down as service animals.

Can they come take a look at the house we are in?
That would be up to Andie and Michael.

He talks with us for a while and then again with the couple, getting two different stories. He calls back to reiterate that we have been great tenants and that he said nothing to imply otherwise.

I am absolutely crushed. I feel like a fool. I should have told her it was presumptuous to show up at our house and to go away. I should have called her out on her rudeness.

Michael says the measure of our character is how we act when someone treats us unkindly. He wished them luck in all their future endeavors; I sent them a thank you card for their time. I also wrote this rather grumpy blog post, so I suppose Michael is made up of nicer stuff than I am.

They learned nothing from this, because they don’t see that they did anything wrong. I can’t change that. They have a right to do as they wish with their house. Had they politely called and said that they had reconsidered the cats and it was a no-go, we would have been disappointed but respected that. They could have told us they decided to go a different direction.

Instead, they ambushed me, pushed their way into my home while I was alone with my children. They lied, mislead, and told me to kill my cats, then let me know my family wasn’t good enough for their rent house.

Since she left, I have been cycling through emotions—disappointed, embarrassed, furious, depressed. I am so angry that she would think this was okay, that she had a right to act that way, and even more so that she likely thinks she did the right thing.

I know that God is gently tugging me back toward the path He has set for me; this was not a waypoint the Weardens needed. And I believe with all my heart that what He has planned is going to be so much more amazing than what we are leaving behind. I also recognize that this was a blessing, to see the sort of people these two were before we entered a legal rent agreement and were at their mercy. I shudder to think what liberties this woman would believe herself entitled to if we lived in a property she owned, if she would show this much presumption toward a perfect stranger.

In the end, I respect their right to do as they please with their house, and I understand that cats can be a threat to property in certain situations. Not every landlord wants to take on that responsibility.

I just wish they could have been a little kinder, that’s all.

--Andie

Sure

Men are so much more sure about things.

At least that’s the way it seems to me. They know precisely what they think in any given situation, and it irks them that women often don’t.

The age-old example is: What do you want to do for dinner. If I ask Michael that, BAM! He immediately produces an answer. Statistically speaking, he has a 70% chance of saying “Tacos” or something taco related (Taco Bell, Taco bowls, etc), and 30% of saying “you know what sounds good? A big ol’ cheeseburger”. Word for word.

He isn’t going to be devastated if he doesn’t get that specific thing because he isn’t genuinely suggesting it most of the time. He would be happy if he got it, but he has a resigned knowledge that we are probably going to end up getting what sounds good to me. As the more picky eater with fewer options, it makes sense—Michael can eat just about anything and just about anywhere, so I have to figure out what I want.

This annoys him to no end, but I won’t know what I want until he says something I don’t.

You know how the conversation goes.
Andie: what do you want for dinner?
Michael: know what sounds good? A big ol cheeseburger.
Andie: ehhhhhh, I was thinking more like pasta.
Michael: then why didn’t you SAY THAT?!

I don’t know how I came to be broken this way. If I know what the other player’s lines are, why wouldn’t I just play the conversation out in my head, figure out what appeals to me, and then lead with that? “Michael, I was thinking pasta for dinner.” Cool.

I can’t explain it, but I just don’t work that way. I have to hear the conversation play out because even I don’t know where it will end.

This surety is not limited to meal times though. My brother Jarrod would state things so matter-of-factly when we were growing up that it compelled you to believe him whether he was right or just inventing an answer on the spot. Rhonda says Michael was the same way when he was a kid. They are so confident that you instinctively believe that they somehow just know.

It was like that when I asked Michael what we should name the babies, too. Like divine inspiration, an angel had told him “and you shall name him after the Scarlet Spider, and it wilt be righteous.”

I’m not saying they are always right. Jarrod was incorrect when we were kids—Mom had not lost her job, and we would not have to start eating dog food. Many other names could have suited Benjamin just as well (though I’m glad he is our little Ben). Maybe they feel pressure to always have the right answers that they couldn’t accept saying “honestly, I don’t know.” Or maybe they really do feel that amount of certainty about every declaration. I don’t know. Either way, it seems like they always know exactly what they mean to say.

That is how confident Michael was about me.

The first night in that coffee shop, he knew. Or at least he claimed he did. He saw in me a future, a connection, commitment, love. With me, he could picture forever.

We saw different things.

I saw a very cute guy, somebody I could see having fun with, going on some dates, maybe doing some smooching. Growing old together would have not even remotely have crossed my mind—it was about here and now, living the life that I had planned for myself.

It’s so interesting to me how complimentary our brains work together, and how they adapt overtime to keep in sync. When Michael is living moment-to-moment, I help him think ahead and spur him into action so we are moving toward that. When I am too impulsive, Michael helps ground me, redraw the parameters to make room for possibility. It is a ongoing push-and-pull so that we never stop moving forward. Someone is perpetually causing progress.

It is curious to me how our lives would look different if we did not have the foil we have provided one another.

When we were dating, Michael lived in apartment with his buddy AJ. They had an espresso machine and a milkshake machine, and it seemed like they were constantly running one or the other; that and triple cheeseburgers from Wendy’s were pretty much all he existed on. It’s a wonder he didn’t buzz into an alternate dimension from all the caffeine and sugar he consumed.

He also accepted that people just got sick after eating shrimp or eating dairy. To him, that was just how things went; he never questioned that maybe, perhaps, he was allergic and should perhaps avoid these foods. It was just the toll you paid.

Without me, I imagine Michael would be a lot more unhealthy as clean eating is not a high priority to him. He would almost certainly still be in Lubbock—he doesn’t relocate unless given little alternative. Overall I think he’d be alright. I’d like to imagine he’d be a little lonelier, but he wouldn’t have had trouble finding a nice girl and settling down. He’s undeniably a catch.

It’s harder to turn that critical eye to myself. If there was no Michael, what would my life be like?

I probably would have starved to death alone in my apartment, trying to decide what to have for dinner.

—Andie

Gabriel's 8th Birthday

My son, Gabriel, is a devious little imp.

He possesses a singularity of mind, a unique driven focus that allows him to get away with pretty much any scheme he can concoct.  

In our backyard, there is a large trampoline.  Gabriel loves to jump on the trampoline, he’d stay on it all day if we allowed him to.  But occasionally, the time to jump has past, and it is time to come inside. Gabriel and I often disagree as to when that time should come.  However, I am bigger than he is, and can usually throw him over my shoulder to bring him inside.  

This is does sit well with Gabriel, and so he begins to put his plan into motion.  You see, Gabriel is quite clever.  Almost disturbingly so.  Through a long set of trials and errors, he has determined a series of facts.  He knows that Daddy will come running if he hears a loud crash at the other end of the house.  He knows that Daddy will come through the main hallway, instead of the side route through the kitchen.  He knows that Daddy will spend at least a few seconds scanning the room, looking for signs of injury.  And lastly, but most importantly, he knows that the front door will be unguarded during that time.

And so he waits for me to get comfortable in my chair, and then climbs behind his dresser.  He pushes, with his back against the wall, and the large heavy dresser topples, making a terrible noise.  Immediately, he ducks into the kitchen, narrowly missing Daddy as he comes down the hallways to investigate. He slips into the living room via the kitchen entrance, unlocks the front door, and is outside.  By the time Daddy realizes that he’s been duped, Gabriel has run around the side of the house, scaled the fence, and is back jumping on the trampoline just in time to giggle at Daddy as he comes out the back door.

It does not matter that Daddy will simply pick him up again and carry him inside.  In fact, at this point he will willingly and of his own determination walk back inside himself.  Because he won.  HE decided when it was time to come inside, and made a fool of Daddy in the process.

As our regular readers know, Gabriel has Autism, and enough has been said on that subject here that I will not rehash it.  Instead of talking about Gabriel’s ‘condition,’ I’d like to talk today about who he is outside of that diagnosis.  And on that topic, I’d like to rehash what I stated at the beginning.  My son, Gabriel, is a devious little imp.

He is also the most affectionate child I have ever met.  Anyone who has ever met Gabe has been on the receiving end of genuine, heartfelt hug.  Most do not escape his grasp without a big wet kiss as well.  He loves to be held, and he shows a certain empathy and compassion for others in this, because he assumes that everyone else does as well.  He goes out of his way to make sure you know that he loves you, regardless of how long he has known you.  Without ever making eye contact, he will find you and sit in your lap, cuddling against your chest.  He appreciates physical contact, and he assumes you do as well.

If you ever do manage to make eye contact with him, you immediately notice a fierce intelligence behind those twinkles.  His mind never rests.  He is constantly scanning the room, marking the exits, looking for people that will and will not let him get away with his tricks.  If you are eating something that he likes, you’d better guard it well, because the second you set it down, he will be keenly aware.

Gabriel loves to eat and drink, he loves to run, and he loves to laugh.

I think we all could learn a lot from him.

Happy Birthday, Gabriel.  Daddy loves you.

Dirt Roads

I know it’s a bit cliche to talk about dirt roads when you live in the South. Every other song on the radio professes the singer’s love of old dirt roads, and two out of every three facebook posts insist that those who grew up on dirt roads have more common sense than those who grew up in the city, like and share if you agree!  I’m not really a product of that mentality.   I don’t wear cowboy boots, I don’t particularly enjoy football, and country music makes me cringe.

But all of that being said, I do have a certain fondness for dirt roads.

There is a certain mysteriousness about them.  The roads that take people where they want to go are paved and marked and maintained.  Yet over here to the side, there is a barely marked path of brown and red clay that will take you somewhere else.  Somewhere that wasn’t traversed enough to warrant that kind of attention.  

A paved highway can take you to a specific destination, but dirt road can take you anywhere.  Somewhere with a personal significance to you, that these others cars on the road have no business being on.  There is a magic to it, in a way.  A sense of an older time, when people were not in such a hurry to get anywhere.

There is a dirt road just east of Lamesa, Tx that holds a special significance to me.  Country Road H is its only label.  It cuts along the cotton fields with scarcely a single tree or house in sight.  The land is as flat as any on Earth, and you can see cotton and dirt for miles and miles.

Along this dirt road, there is a very small patch of land, barely more than an acre.  To walk it now, it does not look like much. Simply more land for cotton to grow on.  A black patch of brush where a tangle of old trees huddle together. I close my eyes and can picture it all as it stood nearly three decades ago.    A caliche driveway leads up to a red house with two archways. A porch swing that always had a stray kitten on it.  I can smell the food being cooked in the kitchen, and can hear the constant near-silent ticking of the clock.

This was my great-grandmother’s home.  It is gone now.  But I will never forget it.

My great-grandmother was Tula Fern Roberts, but everyone just called her GG.  She was very proud of that title, and made sure to point out its significance to anyone and everyone.  “That stands for ‘Great Grandmother’”, she would say with a smile.  Even in my oldest memories, she was small and frail, but she never let that slow her down.   I spent a lot of time out at her house, especially in the summertime, and I cherish those memories.

She was always happy to play with me, or cook me up some extravagant snack.  I remember craving something sweet, so she took me to the kitchen and we made s'mores and drank eggnog.  After I was done vomiting, we sat in the living room together and watched Matlock and Murder, She Wrote because some stereotypes cannot be denied.

I was a young boy still unaware of who I wanted to be as an adult, and GG always pushed me to nurture my creative side.  She was a poet at heart, and was very proud of the work she got published.  She always encouraged me to write what I felt in my heart, to put something of myself down on paper and send it out into the world to be seen and read and felt by others.  She always made such a big show of my own writings, telling me how proud she was of me and encouraging me to follow up with more.

In the evenings, we would sit on the porch swing in the cool air and watch the clouds kicked up by cars traveling that lonely dirt road.  I did not know it at the time, but the conversations we had out there taught me lessons that I would carry with me the rest of my life.  The importance of family.  The value of hard work.  The responsibility one had to nature, to care for and assist the world around you.  I was a blank slate then, wide-eyed and curious, and Tula Fern made sure that I got a proper foundation placed on me, one that I could eventually build a life from.  I loved my GG, very much.

Later in life I discovered another dirt road that was destined to shape my life.  Well, not so much of a road, as a dirt alleyway.

About half an hour south of Lubbock is the charming little town of New Home, Texas. For many years, my mother’s parents lived next door to the local Church of Christ, where my grandfather preached every sunday.  My grandparents, known affectionately as ‘Grannymom and Daddad’ to us, and Joyce and Jerry to everyone else, were another powerful force in my life at a young age.  Just behind their house was the aforementioned dirt alleyway.

Now, that may not sound like much, but what you need to understand about this part of Texas is that at times when the wind blew, it blew as much dirt as it did actual air.   And so some fences, particularly west-facing fences would accumulate piles and piles of dirt in some absurd mockery of a snow bank.  This was a fun play area for me, because the piles of dirt in the back alley were a source of adventure for a young boy.

Understand, this was not like the alleyways of the city, where they are bordered by tall grass and overflowing trashcans.  No, see in New Home, there was one main street that led into town.  By the street was the row of houses where Joyce and Jerry lived.  Behind the homes lay the alley, but on the other side of the alley was, once again, cotton.   And so it really was more of a dirt road than an alleyway. But in either case, it was my magical little world.  See, at the time I fancied myself a cowboy, with my cap-gun six shooters and straw hat, I’d hide around the fenceposts and fire at the bankrobbers and outlaws that dared show their faces in my town.

And then I’d come inside, covered in dirt, tracking it all over the carpet, and Grannymom would make that exasperated face of both annoyance and amusement.  She’d march me straight to the bathroom and throw me in the shower, reminding me to wash the dirt out of ‘all my cracks and crevices’.  Afterwards, I’d watch a cowboy movie with Daddad or read a book quietly with Grannymom.

 I’ll always remember Joyce as being an icon of quiet kindness.  I learned from her that despite all the craziness one might encounter in the world, there was nothing more important than simple kindness to others.  Joyce was always very interested in whatever nonsense I was up to at the time, and always listened to me with rapt interest.  I learned that it was okay to be excited about things I enjoyed, even if they were not things that others around me enjoyed.  From that, I also learned that it was important to respect people for their differences, even if you don’t necessarily understand them.

I learned a lot from my grandmothers, Tula Fern (GG) and Joyce (Grannymom).  I cherish them, greatly.  And I can scarcely set foot on a dirt road without being instantly transported to those days as a child, dirty and happy, unknowingly absorbing lessons from two of the most wonderful women I’d have ever the honor to meet.

I suppose this has all been a very roundabout way to say what I really came here to say.

My daughter, Tula Joyce Wearden, enters the world in a few months. And you can rest assured that she will walk the same dirt road paths I did.