Willoughby's Plan for World Domination, age 1.

My son, Willoughby, has a plan. 

Apparently, he has heard the message of future scarcity loud and clear and in his chubby infant wisdom, he has developed a way to insure his future survival in the Land of Less-Than-Plenty.

Using the only powers of persuasion available to him (he cannot overcome his perpetual cuteness, after all.) - i.e. pooping - he has effectively disuaded a great number of childless friends and perhaps even the vast majority of Richmond from ever having children at all.

It all began one sunny Saturday in early March. Our family travelled to Richmond to see Dan Zanes in concert with a veritable caravan of friends in tow. Every cool person in Lowesville with kids was in attendance, I guarantee. 

Willoughby, unbeknownst to us, had been setting the stage for this performance by strategically not pooping for two days previous. A fact that I noticed, but did not find remarkable because he frequently does this sort of thing. Frankly, I always believed it to be involuntary biology. Even as a tiny, breastfed baby he would only poop once a day, sometimes even skip a day. 

This is why we christened his resulting overflowing diapers as "Poo-namis!". Even though David said we were going to hell for such a thing, I kept herding the children down that road because, really, when your baby lays down 47 cups of bright yellow poop in a diaper, you can do one of two things. You can lose your mind or you can just make the best of it by, in some small way, making it funny.

Needless to say, I really hadn't been paying attention to Willoughby's pooplessness. My attention had been focused much more on my recommitment to cloth diapers and my swearing off of any disposable diapering regalia, including the incredibly convenient "baby wipes". Earlier in the day, I packed up more Fuzzi Bunz than one baby really needs, 400 wash cloths and a wet bag to hold the soiled nappies and we were on our way. 

During the concert, Willoughby played his first card. He pooped. But a very manageable poop. Solid, well-formed. Easy to shake off in the toilet. No problem to clean up after. After this, whatever mindspace I'd been devoting to "Poop Watch" naturally shifted to other areas like holding W's hand for this 1,000th trip up and down the stairs and yelling at my two older children.

For Willoughby is a very beautiful child and also very good natured. You really don't look at him and expect that inside plots a true Machiavellian mind bent on gerrymandering the future population of the region in which he currently resides. He does not want you moderately affluent Richmondites, lured outside by the warmth of the coming spring, to reproduce yourselves. Those of you drawn to Careytown's shops and eateries; those of you who may raise future members of the House of Delegates, Senators or perhaps even Presidents; those of you witness to the biological spectacle that took place in the street on that day, I bet you are still rethinking that whole "having kids" thing.

Because when my child shits, oh, it is a mighty thing. 

First off, location. Pooping in a hard wooden highchair is a thing I can remember experiencing, but indulge yourself a moment and ponder it. Where does the poop go when your fanny is flush against a hard surface? Well, Mythbusters, it goes up the back and out the sides. Any pants-type item will disguise this migration, but upon removal, say it with me Careytown! "The Poop, she does fly!"

But once set free, it really just lies there on the sidewalk, doesn't it? Because it'd just be too convenient for the restaurant to have a changing table in the restroom and it'd have been too far-thinking for me to have brought along the aforementioned 400-plus washcloths as well. And in a pinch, any flat surface and cheap old restaurant paper towels will do, right?

Sort of.

A concrete bench in front of a vacant storefront (Thanks, Struggling Economy!) really isn't the best place to change a baby covered in shit and no, Sprite from the sippy cup isn't the best liquid with which to moisten cheap restaurant paper towels, either. But it was all going well-ish. I was certainly laughing.

Our friends were horrified. Score one for Willoughby. There's a couple that regardless of their future together (which we hope is long, as they are both lovely people), that I'm pretty sure W. cured of any baby mindedness. And when I needed more paper (More paper! More paper!) and had to run back into the restaurant for more cheap paper towels mid-change, Willoughby, pantsless, diaperless (but not sock- or shoeless), looked his Daddy in the eye and just pissed everywhere.

Because that's what you do when you're in Richmond on a spring day, when everyone is out shopping and enjoying the weather, and you're a year old and want to narrow down your future competition.

We are good. But we are not good enough.

I posted here awhile back about our intention to adopt our niece, Abigail. I spent a good chunk of last year trying to make myself relevant to her life, beginning with telling her my name. Where I started visiting her at social services, observed through a two-way mirror, we progressed to her having overnight visits at our house.

This was a big deal for our family. We are a tightknit group. We are all very much like each other and very, very different from everyone else. Some say that's snobbery. Notice, I didn't say we were better, just different. David and I talked to the children about what we were thinking. We all agreed it was the best thing to do. What better gifts can you bring to a child? 

Here we are. It's your family. Throwing it all out there because we want to pull you into us. We want...we choose you.

But after court dates and home studies and various other hoops, the greater court system of Lynchburg decided it was in Abby's best interest to stay with her maternal grandmother. And perhaps it is, after all.

I have been thinking on this really hard, like an ever-lasting gobstopper for the mind. And I am all the ways one would expect. I am disappointed. I am relieved. I am resigned. I am indignant.

Abby's grandmother is a nice lady. I don't doubt Abby will be happy and well-cared for. But I was ready to be her mother. And David was ready to be her father. And our children were ready to welcome her as their sibling, their familial peer.

I can't even begin to go into all the ways David feels about this. It would be insulting to him to try. So, I won't even attempt it. 

I guess it's not often that I really want something; that I really throw all caution and reason to the wind and say, "Yes. Here. Me, yes, I want that."

And I'm still sincerely trying to make sense of it, but I guess if nothing else, I can say of my family, we don't back down. When pressed, we don't flinch. My little band, we have hearts wide open and we'll always come through in a pinch.

Whether you need us or not.

Do I Look Fat In This? Wait! Don't Answer Because What I Mean Is, um, Do You Like Think I'm Worth It And Stuff?

So, I was reading my friend Scott's blog (www.peculiarpastorscott.blogspot.com) this morning and he raised an interesting question about honesty. Basically, how honest do you want people to be with you? Can you be honest and still be kind? Or does honesty inherently possess a brutality to it - a ruthlessness. Is being completely honest with a friend about something critical or unpleasant akin to jungle cat pouncing all fang and claw on a baby zebra? 

I got my first lessons in honesty from my mother. Before you get all, "Awwwwwwww..." and misty, let me say that my mother's definition of honesty has very little to do with truth and everything to do with her hyper-critical, completely off opinions about everyone and everything. Growing up with her was quite a bit like spending your formative years being informed of yourself by that kid in 3rd grade who absolutely lived to make you miserable.

When I was 9, I was in a dance review. I was really proud of myself in my sparkly suit and my big tuille hair bow and my tap shoes. I remember coming breathlessly off the stage all giddy, ready to just jump around and really be plain old happy with being me when my mother said, "When I looked at all those little girls up there, really, Jenny, you were the fattest one up there."

Boom. Right? Thud. From flying to flattened in two seconds.

Now, my mother was being "honest". She was sharing what she thought. 

It's just that what she thought was inappropriate and cruel. Without the ability to self-censor or realize how incredibly hurtful her thoughts and feelings were, she called herself possessing a unique virtue (and she still does). 

There are really beautiful pictures of me in that dance costume that I can't look at without wincing, feeling that echo punch in the gut. And although I know I was beautiful and lovely and deserved to be lovingly parented as much as the next kid, that horrible crash down is so much a part of who I am today. It's a large part of why I don't try so hard; why I don't want much; why I am unable to see myself as I really am; why I don't talk about how I feel; why I am so closed off; why my arms aren't as open as they should be.

To flip the coin, though, there are times when that level of honesty is good. When someone you love is trapped by a destructive relationship or drug abuse, when people are floundering, constantly choosing to do the wrong thing, a little ruthless honesty can be good. Everyone needs a good slap in the face once in awhile. But a loving slap. A "Hey-I-Really-Love-You-But-Have-You-Lost-Your-Damn-Mind" kick in the pants. Those people who can grab you up by the scruff of your neck when you're in the gutter peeing down your leg, those honest people, they are the ones that love you best. Because they are willing to piss you off to save you from yourself. They are willing to sacrifice their relationship with you so that you can improve yourself. But it's a fine line between lovingly packing a wollop and clubbing someone over the head. Very few people are willing to deal with the ramifications of that kind of honesty. 

But then, there's the honesty Scott was really getting at, I think. The honesty that kind of pops up unexpectedly; where you mistakenly open Pandora's Box without every realizing you had hold to the lid. When David and I were first together, I remember lying on the sofa talking to him on the phone and in my 17-year-old folly, I asked him, "What do you want?" thinking he'd say, "I want YOU, Jenny. I want to marry you and have 300 children and live my life for you and only you, you magnificence, you wonder, you essential beautiful joy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

What he said was, "What if I can't do this anymore? What if I need a break from this?"

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splat.

Quite the anti-climax, there. Not exactly what I was after. And he didn't do anything wrong, even though it hurt like a bitch. He was just being honest. And he needed to be. What is a relationship if information like that isn't shared? Not hurled, but shared? If he had never uttered those words to me all those years ago, as much as it hurt, as much as I hated to hear them, would we be here today? Together?

Or would there have been some sprouting done by that acorn, ultimately breaking apart the sidewalk of our love? And at what point would that have happened? Before marriage? After? Before children? After? What would our lives be now if I'd never asked the question? Or if he  had chosen the safe answer?

The truth is not good or bad. It just is. And honesty is how we all relate to the neutral truth. I could have 100 different kinds of cancer and deny every one, but I'd still die. If I were honest with myself and others about them, it wouldn't change the outcome, but it would change me. And it would change those around me, maybe make life better by making it sadder. (Better Living Through Melancholia!) 

You really should never ask, "Do I look fat in this?" unless you're prepared for the answer to be, "Yes!". It's hard. It's so damn hard to extend yourself out there, blind to the opinions of others and yet, so very vulnerable to them. It's hard to struggle through your own feelings of inadequacy to muster up the courage to ask someone else, "Am I okay? Am I good enough? Do you think I'm pretty only skin-deep, because I know what's up inside and I'm pretty good in there? Do you like me? Do I please you? Will you love me? Could you? Just love me?" And I guess that's what we're all looking for; an honest answer to that question and also the reason the blanket notion of Jesus' love is so very appealing. Because, I tell you, it'd take the son of God to love some of those people out there.

But I don't mean you. Because you are okay. You are so beautiful. I do like you and you are pleasing in every way to me. How couldn't you be? I love you. I love you. I love you.

And I mean it.

Honest.

Sur La Table

When I was a little girl, we took a trip to Alabama, my grandmother's homeplace, to retrieve a dining room set that had belonged to my great-grandmother. It was oak with a round table that extended with a leaf, chairs and a sideboard to match. And thus, the furniture became a part of our home's landscape. I grew up with it.
And this is when I begin to try to talk about my mother. My mother. Um. Okay. My mother. My mother is not the kind of "traditional" mother that loves you in that unconditional way. I don't even think she is capable of really understanding what that kind of all-encompassing love is. I don't hold it against her. It's just not there. It's not a product of her troubled upbringing, either. It's not a light that was squelched. It was never there. It's absent. And knowing that, I'm sure she did the best she could raising me and my sisters. It saddens me at times to realize that. But it's true.
When my mother was 16 and suddenly in need of a boyfriend for the summer, she settled on my father and a few months later came a surprise that was not in the form of a party or an unexpected delivery of flowers. No, that surprise was me.
(And if I may digress for a moment, it really just galls me that in my family, the way of expressing this event is that I "happened" to my mother. I didn't just "happen". She wasn't attacked in the night. Two people got together and however stupid it was, they called me into being. Unless I am somehow party to a grander scheme of God's than I am currently aware or my mother was accosted by some waterfoul like a modern-day Leda, my mother and my father made a conscious decision to have sex without taking the proper precautions and the blessing of that folly is me - tada! So, if you're in my family and you are reading this, can you please find another way of referring to my conception, birth and life than the thing that "happened TO Cindy". Cindy happened to Cindy. That's the only thing that "happened" there. It's bad enough that she speaks of me that way. Could the rest of you find some other language? Take, perhaps, a more celebratory tone. Frankly, it makes me feel like a virus or a piece of space junk that fell from the sky and landed on her head.)
Ahem.
So, the table. This table was, of course, very important to my mother because of the family connections and because, I guess, she'd always just wanted it. I want you to understand that for a long time, my mother held things together as well as she could. She did her best. Life didn't turn out for her the way she (or anyone else) expected and even on the best of days, she struggles with managing the smallest of things. Sure, she had a baby at a young age and a deadbeat for a husband and still, she went to college and worked multiple jobs to take care of me. To hear her tell it, no one else lifted a finger to help her. I cannot begin to tell you the number of times I heard about how my maternal grandparents wanted me aborted and then once I was born, they completely wrote us off.
(This is completely untrue by the way. But not something I was aware of until a few years ago. Can you imagine being 6 years old and trying to make your mind reconcile your Papa that loves you and plays with you with the notion that he never wanted you to be born in the first place? And then once you were refused to do anything to help you because he never wanted you? That's a really heavy burden. That's huge.)
I am sure that in the struggle of finding out your teen daughter is pregnant, the spector of abortion looms pretty large. It would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just to get it over with and get back to normal and pretend like it didn't ever happen at all. I can see why maybe that would have seemed like an option at the time. And I know my grandparents love me. As I am sure they grew to love me after I was born. Knowing all of this information at such a young age though, it really made me believe that I had to win people over and that my position was tenuous at best. No one had wanted me to begin with, so to continue in their good favor, I had to be sure not to upset the apple cart. Which is why I never told anyone exactly how crazy my mother was or how incredibly disfuntional my home life became over time. I never felt safe. I was never sure who I could trust. I certainly couldn't trust my mother. So I never said anything until two years ago.
The fact that I now never want to have anything to do with my mother again seems to mystify my family. I think that the general feeling is that I am being unreasonable, immature, resentful and unappreciative. The truth is I am none of those things; that I have dealt with her this long is a strong testimony that I am the exact opposite.
Back to the table.
My mother married a third time when I was a teenager. Together, she and her husband had two luminous and sparkling daughters that I love very much. They are a joy and a wonder each. At this time, I was an ecumberance. Keep in mind that I am not bitter about this. This is just true. Like recalling the details of a car crash. This happened and then that and then this. My mother was very quick to tell me in all the ways I'd derailed her life, made her miserable, held her back and that that was all over. She had two children (my sisters) and a husband all at the same time and I would be leaving soon for college. Until then, *they* were her family and I was just around. She would not be made miserable anymore. (I, however, didn't make her miserable. She did that to herself. And she still does.) Very quickly, though, she got cancer. And even though I was out of there by then and even though I had sworn up and down that I would never have anything to do with her again - EVER - (all with the counsel of an incredible psychiatrist, by the way) I went back into the burning building for my sisters. And instead of just escaping with them through the flames, I sat in the heat and the smoke for 15 years, telling myself it wasn't so bad and talking myself into saying I liked it in there.
And we're back to the table.
The cancer didn't kill my mother. She divorced her husband and tossed my sisters through the wringer just like she'd done with me. Eventually, she lost her house. Though that's not the correct language for what happened. The house became too much for her to keep up with. It was old and needed a lot of maintaining and financially, she just couldn't do it. So, my grandfather bought it from her and took over the upkeep, with my mom paying his payment for the house. Ultimately, it had to be sold. And even though my grandfather really came through for her and did his best to make sure she kept her home, it wasn't enough to make her appreciate everything he'd done.
Because my mom no longer had a home, the table no longer had a dining room in which to sit. So, it, along with my mother, my sisters, and everything else they owned, ultimately moved to my grandparents' basement, an incredible gesture of love on their part. And there it sat. And as the years rolled by, it became more and more neglected, piled upon with tools and boxes, getting nicked here and scraped there. Until I saw it, screwed my courage to the sticking place and asked for it. Only to borrow it.
It's in my dining room.
And the point of the table is this. When my husband was taking it apart to load it in the truck, my mother was telling him how important it was to her and how it was all she had left. She'd lost her house and everything else she'd ever wanted or had, except that table and some porch furniture. She wanted us to know that when she wanted the table back, we just had to drop everything and bring it to her. And so on and so on and so on. But this table - the one about she professed such perfect and undying devotion - had been languishing unused and uncared for in a basement for ages. How could you possibly treat something so important to you so badly? How could you let it get banged up and scarred? How is that any manifestation of love whatsoever?
And it dawned on me. My sisters and I, we are just three more tables. She loves us so much, she say, but she is unable to show it. To hear her speak about any of us, is to hear her complain, bitterly. One of us costs too much money with college and a wedding, the other just takes and takes and takes and never gives anything back and I? Well, I turn everyone against her and I used to make her miserable, but she won't let me do that anymore. Thank goodness.
My mother does not understand what love is. She has never felt it or recognized it when it was given to her. That is the source of her misery. We all speak in a language she just does not get. She didn't have it one day only to lose it the next. She just never had it in the first place. And far from making me angry or bitter or resentful, this mostly just makes me sad. Because I am a beautiful person. My children are beautiful people.
I have tried and tried and tried. And I'm tired. My magnanimity has run out. I am trying for Christ's compassion and grace, but I am coming up short. I have to get away from her for awhile. If instead of having her for a mother, she'd been my spouse, people would be applauding my decision. But because she is my mother and because I "happened" to her and because I kept everything to myself for so long, my actions have been misunderstood. I regret this. I am doing the best I can.

100 Reasons to Want Abigail

We have a niece. She is two. Her parents...are...terrible people, drug addicts. Mentally ill besides, I'm sure.
I dunno. As much thinking as we've been doing about Jesus here lately, I started to read the New Testament, because, well, why not. And I was curious as to how the modern mind (or post-modern mind or pop-secret mind or uncrustable mind) dealt with the whole "demon possession" thing. Because as little as I know about ancient times, I'm guessing it wasn't all spinning heads and green vomit. Not that that didn't happen, but when the Bible says Jesus put demons out of someone, what does that mean?
And I think I may know now. I think it means Abigail's parents. I think they are as human as I am, but they have ground their own humanity down to a nub and now they are stubbing out their daughter's. Or they are trying to. And it, quite literally, tears at my heart. It hurts to think of it. Right now, I could cry. And we started to try to take her twice before, but then, it was with this begrudging sense.
"Well, somebody has to....."
And each time, we gave up because of our own family. Our own good fortune at the blessing of another child.
And thankfully, she is with her grandmother now. But (and there are many buts) there is a good chance that Abigail is not going to be able to stay there. She needs a family. Everyone seems to be aware of this and finally, the people who can *do*, seem to see that the focus needs to be on the baby. And the backwards way of the world is somehow magically ordering itself and maybe for one moment before the wind blows and the top-heavy pile of living falls completely down, we could move in and somehow grab her and hold her tight and teach her that she is lovable, worth loving and also that she is made to love in return.
I can't dig children out of the rubble of a Chinese school.
I can't fly to Myanmar with a pound of rice and a pot of water.
I can't make a difference in a grand, sweeping way.
I am not Mother Teresa.
I am simply a mother.
And I can mother Abby. I can take her deep into my heart. I can teach her rock, flower, tree. I can unbury her from the grave her parents have been digging for themselves. I can provide her with healthy food (and the occasional snack cake). I can give her a bedtime and bed to sleep in.
We can carve out a little space, surely, for her. We can mush her up into a little ball and kiss her cheeks. We can touch her lovingly and untangle the knots in her hair.
We, who have lost so much, can easily stretch our arms just a little bit wider to encircle just one more. Even with our limited abilities, budgets, and ammenities. We have infinite hearts. And if we don't, we should.
And it may not make a difference to Burma or China or Africa. But it will matter. A weight to take up that lightens the load.

I just keep thinking about, honest to God, Jesus. And not the "Christian-thing-to-do" Jesus. But the "No-room-at-the-inn" Jesus.
And I have room. I think. For that.

Everything about me loathes blogging.

No offense to you blogenators. It's just...ick.
But now it's like everyone I know is really spread out, so I figured, well, fine. If I'm going to hell, at least it will be half-assedly documented on the Internet for all the world to see.
Of course, now that I've arrived, blogging will suddenly become cool and everyone will start doing it and soon everybody will want their own blog and I'll be like, "Really, y'all, it's just some words on a screen. It's not like I'm brilliant or revolutionary." And, oh, how you all will protest. And I'll say, "Truly, it's like the words just write themselves." And I'll blush and maybe look down or something while you all praise me for being demure and sweet and so, so modest.
So thanks and all in advance for your loving words and kindness. Just try to keep it original and make sure your prose actually flows well. Trite and choppy composition makes me itchy.