Well, that was an intriguing title. I realized yesterday, as I was plugging in my new wafflemaker and wondering how it would work, that there are a lot of similarities between appliances and dating someone new. A stretch? you may ask. Well, let's see.
Both look good on the outside. A lot of marketing goes into the packaging. They both have a vested interest in convincing you to take the bait.
With both of them, you're never really sure what's going to happen the first time you turn them on. My wafflemaker instructions said to expect some smoke and a funny smell the first time.
Whatever instructions you received will be missing something vital to the proper operation of this particular model - whether a guy or a wafflemaker. My spanking-brand-new appliance said it would beep 6 times when preheated and would beep 3 times when a waffle was done, neither of which happened. I guess that's kind of like, "I'll call you later." Something does not operate as expected and there are no apologies and no explanations. You just have to figure it out yourself and deal with the consequences.
If the first operation goes well, you feel slightly more sure that this new venture will not blow up in your face. You just might make more waffles. You just might go out with ol' what's-his-face again. He wasn't a chainsaw killer, at least on first sight, so hey, dinner and a movie might be fun. I didn't burn the waffles and none of us were poisoned, so hey, I might do this again, if I can figure out how to clean the thing. (Hey, that's like a guy, too, come to think about it...)
If continued operation proves successful, you might dare, at some point, to use it without consulting the instructions or a recipe. You wild, impulsive thing, you! Go crazy. Make waffles and feel free as a bird. And when you do, and things still work out they way they should, you know that you are officially in a working relationship with a small kitchen appliance. It's a beautiful thing. Just brings tears to my eyes.
As it turns out, my wafflemaker did poorly and took a nosedive in the Mayo rating system almost immediately. It took about 10 minutes to make one waffle, which, according to my precise, scientific calculations, makes dinner so not worth it. I do not wish to stand in front of a wafflemaker for 40 minutes while my family chows down. I can make, like, 80 pancakes in 40 minutes. Why ask why? Anyway, it made one waffle. By the way, it never beeped after preheating and it never beeped when Waffle #1 was done. I just got tired of waiting and flipped the thing over to check on it. It was done enough for 4 starving people to split so I took it out and poured the batter for another one. And I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I checked it (against the rules, according to the directions; it offsets the timing) and saw that it was a very undone, gooey mess. So I announced that we would divy up Waffle #1 and eat dinner while #2 cooked. I gave #2 about 25 more minutes and was not happy to see that not only was the wafflemaker cooling off inexplicably, but #2 was as gooey and uncooked as ever. Luckily, I'd made some other things to go with dinner, because 1/4 of Waffle #1 was about 5 bites. Have you ever tried explaining to your husband how you paid $79 for a wafflemaker that made exactly one waffle before breaking? Have you ever seen the looks on your kids' faces when you explained that gee, this was fun, eat up because IT'S ALL YOU'RE GETTING? Talk about dashed hopes...disillusionment...unmet expectations...and again, it's like dating!!! Only I still have my receipt. HA! Can you just see it? "Hi, [insert guy's name]'s Mom? Yes, I just recently went out with your son and I'm sorry to say, he's broken! Yes, he doesn't work at all! And frankly, I'd like my time and money back, please. Or, if you have another model that works, I'd be happy to try him. Thank you!" And you walk away, muttering to yourself, "Taiwanese piece of crap..."
I recently got a new washer and dryer. They're the front loader models. They're kind of fancy, as compared to my old system of slap-clothes-against-rock-and-hang-to-dry, but they do work. There's buttons and knobs and little electronic displays. It was all a little intimidating at first. Kind of like dating a senator's son or something. You fret some about the ostentatiousness of it all. Is it too much? I mean, everyone's looking at me. I don't know if I'll fit in. Does this fabric softener make my butt look big? And so on. They even sing to me to let me know a cycle's done. The first time the washer sang to me, the kids, the cat, and I all looked up at each other: "What was that?" The musical ditty sounds a lot like a song from the Winnie-the-Pooh Heffalump movie. In fact, I thought that's what it was at first. On subsequent loads I got closer to the source of the sound until I figured it out. Well, dang! Ma, Pa, come lookey-here! This warsher SANG to me! (And the senator's son hesitates a step, smiles uncertainly, but mans up and takes it for the compliment it probably is.) As I spent more time with my new beau - I mean laundry appliances - I came to accept and then expect the charm of the musical cycles. As fancy as laundry had become, it worked, and it worked well, consistently. And after all, isn't that what true love's all about?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Friends Don't Let Friends Buy Guinea Pigs
I wrote this last summer, shortly after the movie release of G Force. It's pretty self-explanatory.
Usually I am not the type to follow the crowd. In fact, the fastest way to make me not do something is to tell me, “Everyone’s doing it.” It’s not that I strive to be a rebel but I find a certain charm and class to achieving a dynamic and pleasing result that is also unique. That being said, when I told SM that Sophie and I were going to see the new Disney movie “G-Force”, he simply had no idea we would detour on the way home and spend over $80 in guinea pig paraphernalia, complete with guinea pig. He had no warning. Poor guy. In my defense, I really had been thinking about getting a hamster, gerbil, guinea pig, or some other such small and minimally invasive animal in our lives. After all, with two children, a cat, and a dog we were practically starved for things to do, right? Right.
Our tour of duty in the pet store reminded me of that scene from “Turner and Hooch” where Tom Hanks’ character gets hoodwinked by the store manager into spending a small fortune for a temporary canine guest with terrible manners. You could practically see the stars in our salesman’s eyes. “Ah!” he clearly thought, rubbing his hands together and chuckling evilly. “Amateurs!” It didn’t help that Sophie was hopping up and down and squealing wildly because she was there to take advantage of Mommy’s temporary insanity. (By the way, guinea pigs exhibit this same behavior. It’s called “popcorning” and it means they’re really, really happy. No duh, Buckwheat.) While we were there, no fewer than two salespeople asked if we’d seen “G-Force.“ I tried to defend myself by repeating that I’d actually been thinking of doing this for a while, but clearly I did not convince them, as their knowing grins testified. So, anyway, trying to be a responsible and sensitive pet owner starting from scratch, I quizzed the salesman. “So do guinea pigs need certain toys to keep them challenged and mentally stimulated?” I braced myself for a dissertation on the 1001 ways to keep a guinea pig happy and productive. The salesman said, “Nope.” Huh. OK. Next question: “Would getting one be all right, or do they really crave companionship?” The salesman said, “No, not really, one‘s OK.” Interesting. I said, “So what, then, exactly do they do?” and the salesman gave me the guinea pig creed: “Eat, poop, and sleep.” I couldn’t believe it. I had finally found the furry equivalent of a Pet Rock. So you’d THINK that I wouldn’t have to spend a fortune to keep a pet rock happy, right? NOT. Ch-ching, ch-ching. And so we drove home with a loaded trunk and a freaked-out guinea pig scrambling in circles in his little cardboard box on Sophie's lap.
When we got home SM opened the door and just stared. Sophie was absolutely convinced that he would share her joy at a new pet. I wasn’t nearly as certain. I had done something fairly unforgivable. I had brought home a new pet without consulting the other Parental Unit. That’s bad. I was a bad girl. Shame on me. So when SM asked how much it all cost, I snuggled up to him and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. He wasn’t fooled for one second but Sam and Sophie began jumping up and down shrieking, “Let him out, Daddy, let him out!” I’m sure this contributed beautifully to our poor new guy’s state of mind, as the cardboard box began vibrating like a washing machine on the spin cycle. I thought he was about to bust out and fly to the Mother Ship. So we quickly got his new cage in tip-top shape. He had fresh bedding, clean water, pellets, timothy hay, and these wooden shapes that were flavor-infused with fruit. What more could a Pet Rock ask for? So once Smudge (his new name, as his coloring suggested he’d sat in poop) was settled in his new home, I began trawling the Internet for “How to keep a guinea pig happy and healthy.” After about a half-hour I’d discovered some essential facts, most of which indicated that the salesman had either lied through his teeth or didn’t know what he was talking about. Nice. So I researched to find a good guide to guinea pigs and ordered it via expedited shipping, just because I’m anal that way, and found out what food I SHOULD be using, what bedding I SHOULD have bought, and began putting serious thought into the other guinea pig I SHOULD have brought home with Smudge. So the next day Sophie and I went back to the pet store. I was determined to take everything that place told me with a grain of salt…or maybe a whole shaker’s worth…and try to be a more savvy buyer.
You know, sometimes I think the most admirable trait I have is that I wake up every day with the same amount of boundless optimism, regardless of how badly I failed by bedtime the night before.
So back we went to the pet store. I found another cage, as the one we’d gotten was really only big enough for one piggy. SM said he could hook two together and make a nice enclosure for both piggies. (Yes, I’d warned him this time that I was getting another one. I may be crazy but I ain’t stupid.) So the first thing I looked for was a vitamin C supplement. I’d read that it’s really not good to put it in the water, as the pet store had suggested, but rather get a vitamin C-enriched food or a tablet to crush in their food. But I couldn’t find the tablets. A different salesman approached and when I asked about the vitamin supplement, he suggested the water-based one. “But the literature I’ve been reading doesn’t recommend that,” I said. He stated that that’s what they used on their guinea pigs, or at least what they used to use. Now they used the crushed tablets. “Great!” I said. “That’s what I want! Where is it?” “We don’t sell it,” he replied. (OK, Steph, just breathe deeply and count to 10.) About then the previous day’s saboteur - I mean salesman - approached and smiled brightly, as well he might. It’s not often a gold mine walks into your store two days in a row. So we told him we were going to get another guinea pig and he nodded solemnly, exuding wisdom and the master’s approval for a student doing the right thing, as if he had not pooh-poohed this very idea only 24 hours ago. “Good idea,” the Evil One said. We already knew which one we wanted, and when we pointed it out, the Master of Lies handed me another whopper, and I’m sorry to say I swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. (I’m not usually this stupid. I must be getting ready to start or something.) He said, “I’m glad you picked this one out, because he’s a littermate of the one you bought yesterday.” I was so relieved I didn’t stop to consider the source, and we trundled away with Life Mistake #2. (One day I hope to hear statistics on guinea pig sales before and after the release of “G-Force.”)
So when we got home SM put the two cages together for a nice, clear passage and we let Skittles (his new name, as he was very skittish) go. It’s like Smudge suddenly woke up. He’d been fairly sweet and sociable with us but he epitomized the Pet Rock: he just sat there. When Skittles entered the cage, though, all that changed. It was as though Smudge was electrified. I was not surprised because not only did he now have a fellow piggy, but it was one he knew (and was supposedly related to). Hot dog! Life’s good in the cage, right? So SM, Sam, Sophie, and I were all standing there, watching this joyful reunion. My children were eye-level with the cage and were soaking it in. Then Smudge began chasing Skittles all over the cage. We laughed appreciably. Smudge sniffed Skittles’ butt vigorously. We all said, “Ewwwwwww!” and then…it happened. How do I put this delicately? Hmmm. Let’s just say that Skittles was subjected to an indignity that no male guinea pig should have to endure. Repeatedly. Energetically. About 12 inches from my children’s faces. SM and I looked at each other in horror. Had we gotten a female by mistake? Were we about to usher in an entire generation of guinea pigs? Was there any way to convince our insurance company to pay for the births and maternity care? We were in shock. We shoo’d the kids away from the Cage of Fornication and told them to go burn out their retinas on something else. I called a friend, who laughed so hard I thought she was going to hurt herself. Thanks a lot, I thought grimly. The pet store was closed. So how, I thought frantically, does one sex a guinea pig? Well, I found out: the same way you sex any other animal. With good eyesight and a sense of humor. I did a search on the Internet (as my handy-dandy guide was still on order) for the phrase, “How to tell a male guinea pig from a female” and came up with what has to be the only piggy porn site on earth. There was absolutely no holding back, no delicacy on this web site. Perhaps it was a medical site. I’m not sure. I was so overwhelmed by the absurdity of what we were doing, the surreal quality of staring at piggy butts, and just how much hinged on getting it right. I’d told Sophie that if Skittles was a girl, we were going to take her back and let her have her babies with another really nice family who’d keep every single blessed baby and treat them like gods. While SM and I did our “research” she was standing by the cage, staring mournfully at Skittles and willing him/her to have boy parts. So we really had to get this right. Guess what? Adult guinea pigs…at least, OUR adult guinea pigs…were powerfully, vibrantly, and proudly able to show their true colors. We did indeed have two males. And the guide assured us that this was just a pecking-order thing (no pun intended) and not to worry.
This wasn't really how I'd intended to spend my Sunday night. I guess it serves me right for impulse-buying.
Usually I am not the type to follow the crowd. In fact, the fastest way to make me not do something is to tell me, “Everyone’s doing it.” It’s not that I strive to be a rebel but I find a certain charm and class to achieving a dynamic and pleasing result that is also unique. That being said, when I told SM that Sophie and I were going to see the new Disney movie “G-Force”, he simply had no idea we would detour on the way home and spend over $80 in guinea pig paraphernalia, complete with guinea pig. He had no warning. Poor guy. In my defense, I really had been thinking about getting a hamster, gerbil, guinea pig, or some other such small and minimally invasive animal in our lives. After all, with two children, a cat, and a dog we were practically starved for things to do, right? Right.
Our tour of duty in the pet store reminded me of that scene from “Turner and Hooch” where Tom Hanks’ character gets hoodwinked by the store manager into spending a small fortune for a temporary canine guest with terrible manners. You could practically see the stars in our salesman’s eyes. “Ah!” he clearly thought, rubbing his hands together and chuckling evilly. “Amateurs!” It didn’t help that Sophie was hopping up and down and squealing wildly because she was there to take advantage of Mommy’s temporary insanity. (By the way, guinea pigs exhibit this same behavior. It’s called “popcorning” and it means they’re really, really happy. No duh, Buckwheat.) While we were there, no fewer than two salespeople asked if we’d seen “G-Force.“ I tried to defend myself by repeating that I’d actually been thinking of doing this for a while, but clearly I did not convince them, as their knowing grins testified. So, anyway, trying to be a responsible and sensitive pet owner starting from scratch, I quizzed the salesman. “So do guinea pigs need certain toys to keep them challenged and mentally stimulated?” I braced myself for a dissertation on the 1001 ways to keep a guinea pig happy and productive. The salesman said, “Nope.” Huh. OK. Next question: “Would getting one be all right, or do they really crave companionship?” The salesman said, “No, not really, one‘s OK.” Interesting. I said, “So what, then, exactly do they do?” and the salesman gave me the guinea pig creed: “Eat, poop, and sleep.” I couldn’t believe it. I had finally found the furry equivalent of a Pet Rock. So you’d THINK that I wouldn’t have to spend a fortune to keep a pet rock happy, right? NOT. Ch-ching, ch-ching. And so we drove home with a loaded trunk and a freaked-out guinea pig scrambling in circles in his little cardboard box on Sophie's lap.
When we got home SM opened the door and just stared. Sophie was absolutely convinced that he would share her joy at a new pet. I wasn’t nearly as certain. I had done something fairly unforgivable. I had brought home a new pet without consulting the other Parental Unit. That’s bad. I was a bad girl. Shame on me. So when SM asked how much it all cost, I snuggled up to him and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. He wasn’t fooled for one second but Sam and Sophie began jumping up and down shrieking, “Let him out, Daddy, let him out!” I’m sure this contributed beautifully to our poor new guy’s state of mind, as the cardboard box began vibrating like a washing machine on the spin cycle. I thought he was about to bust out and fly to the Mother Ship. So we quickly got his new cage in tip-top shape. He had fresh bedding, clean water, pellets, timothy hay, and these wooden shapes that were flavor-infused with fruit. What more could a Pet Rock ask for? So once Smudge (his new name, as his coloring suggested he’d sat in poop) was settled in his new home, I began trawling the Internet for “How to keep a guinea pig happy and healthy.” After about a half-hour I’d discovered some essential facts, most of which indicated that the salesman had either lied through his teeth or didn’t know what he was talking about. Nice. So I researched to find a good guide to guinea pigs and ordered it via expedited shipping, just because I’m anal that way, and found out what food I SHOULD be using, what bedding I SHOULD have bought, and began putting serious thought into the other guinea pig I SHOULD have brought home with Smudge. So the next day Sophie and I went back to the pet store. I was determined to take everything that place told me with a grain of salt…or maybe a whole shaker’s worth…and try to be a more savvy buyer.
You know, sometimes I think the most admirable trait I have is that I wake up every day with the same amount of boundless optimism, regardless of how badly I failed by bedtime the night before.
So back we went to the pet store. I found another cage, as the one we’d gotten was really only big enough for one piggy. SM said he could hook two together and make a nice enclosure for both piggies. (Yes, I’d warned him this time that I was getting another one. I may be crazy but I ain’t stupid.) So the first thing I looked for was a vitamin C supplement. I’d read that it’s really not good to put it in the water, as the pet store had suggested, but rather get a vitamin C-enriched food or a tablet to crush in their food. But I couldn’t find the tablets. A different salesman approached and when I asked about the vitamin supplement, he suggested the water-based one. “But the literature I’ve been reading doesn’t recommend that,” I said. He stated that that’s what they used on their guinea pigs, or at least what they used to use. Now they used the crushed tablets. “Great!” I said. “That’s what I want! Where is it?” “We don’t sell it,” he replied. (OK, Steph, just breathe deeply and count to 10.) About then the previous day’s saboteur - I mean salesman - approached and smiled brightly, as well he might. It’s not often a gold mine walks into your store two days in a row. So we told him we were going to get another guinea pig and he nodded solemnly, exuding wisdom and the master’s approval for a student doing the right thing, as if he had not pooh-poohed this very idea only 24 hours ago. “Good idea,” the Evil One said. We already knew which one we wanted, and when we pointed it out, the Master of Lies handed me another whopper, and I’m sorry to say I swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. (I’m not usually this stupid. I must be getting ready to start or something.) He said, “I’m glad you picked this one out, because he’s a littermate of the one you bought yesterday.” I was so relieved I didn’t stop to consider the source, and we trundled away with Life Mistake #2. (One day I hope to hear statistics on guinea pig sales before and after the release of “G-Force.”)
So when we got home SM put the two cages together for a nice, clear passage and we let Skittles (his new name, as he was very skittish) go. It’s like Smudge suddenly woke up. He’d been fairly sweet and sociable with us but he epitomized the Pet Rock: he just sat there. When Skittles entered the cage, though, all that changed. It was as though Smudge was electrified. I was not surprised because not only did he now have a fellow piggy, but it was one he knew (and was supposedly related to). Hot dog! Life’s good in the cage, right? So SM, Sam, Sophie, and I were all standing there, watching this joyful reunion. My children were eye-level with the cage and were soaking it in. Then Smudge began chasing Skittles all over the cage. We laughed appreciably. Smudge sniffed Skittles’ butt vigorously. We all said, “Ewwwwwww!” and then…it happened. How do I put this delicately? Hmmm. Let’s just say that Skittles was subjected to an indignity that no male guinea pig should have to endure. Repeatedly. Energetically. About 12 inches from my children’s faces. SM and I looked at each other in horror. Had we gotten a female by mistake? Were we about to usher in an entire generation of guinea pigs? Was there any way to convince our insurance company to pay for the births and maternity care? We were in shock. We shoo’d the kids away from the Cage of Fornication and told them to go burn out their retinas on something else. I called a friend, who laughed so hard I thought she was going to hurt herself. Thanks a lot, I thought grimly. The pet store was closed. So how, I thought frantically, does one sex a guinea pig? Well, I found out: the same way you sex any other animal. With good eyesight and a sense of humor. I did a search on the Internet (as my handy-dandy guide was still on order) for the phrase, “How to tell a male guinea pig from a female” and came up with what has to be the only piggy porn site on earth. There was absolutely no holding back, no delicacy on this web site. Perhaps it was a medical site. I’m not sure. I was so overwhelmed by the absurdity of what we were doing, the surreal quality of staring at piggy butts, and just how much hinged on getting it right. I’d told Sophie that if Skittles was a girl, we were going to take her back and let her have her babies with another really nice family who’d keep every single blessed baby and treat them like gods. While SM and I did our “research” she was standing by the cage, staring mournfully at Skittles and willing him/her to have boy parts. So we really had to get this right. Guess what? Adult guinea pigs…at least, OUR adult guinea pigs…were powerfully, vibrantly, and proudly able to show their true colors. We did indeed have two males. And the guide assured us that this was just a pecking-order thing (no pun intended) and not to worry.
This wasn't really how I'd intended to spend my Sunday night. I guess it serves me right for impulse-buying.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Sunday's Coming
As I type, it is 10:27 at night. (The blog clock is off.) SM and the kids are gathered around the kitchen table, dying eggs. Some of the eggs are cracked; the only cups we could find are narrow and the eggs keep dropping back in the dye when someone tries to lift them out. No one's quite sure what color the dye is because the cups are dark plastic and are masking the true colors. And yet my three fuzzheads are having a ball. Cracked eggs? Who cares? Not sure what color you're about to use? Life's an adventure; dive in. And so forth. I've been up in the bedroom on the massage mat because my back feels like I've been dragged behind a team of wild horses. I also missed the egg hunt this morning. I've done so much to get everyone ready for Easter and, dadgummit, I'm missing it! But now I'm downstairs and I've at least heard the laughter and the fun. They have also promised to leave me one egg to dye for my very own, and while I appreciate the offer I'm pretty sure they're going to forget me in the excitement (eggcitement?). : ) That's OK. As long as I get to listen in.
We have gone to the mall and walked the length of it twice in 24 hours; I've shopped for everything from ham to curtain rods, and yes, I've been to the dreaded Wal-Mart on a holiday weekend. I've cooked; I've delivered stuff to a family; I've vacuumed the first floor of the house to within an inch of my life; I've shopped for Easter outfits and tried on 1, 435 outfits and shoes. I am pooped. This is why my back hurts so much.
The kids just told me that there's one egg left and it's all mine. How sweet. They did remember. I will dye it a brilliant deep teal green.
Something really thrilling happened this past week. Sam accepted Christ. He's been asking questions lately about Jesus, Heaven, etc., and while I answered them I thought, "Gee, what a perfect opening to share the Gospel with Sam" but come on, the kid's only 4. Almost 5. That's just so young. How can such a little kid understand that kind of a decision? Well, the same way all of us understand it: to the best of our abilities, and of our own free will. I didn't lead Sam so much as showed him how to do it when he said he wanted to. We were coming back from preschool, and he asked some more questions about Jesus. Mainly, he wanted to know where Jesus was, and why he couldn't see Him. So we talked about that for a few minutes. I've always heard that your kids will let you know when they want to accept Jesus, and not to try to push it before that time comes. So I answer his questions when he asks them, and that's it. But today he took it further. After we talked, he was quiet for a moment. And then I heard this sad, quiet little voice from the back seat: "Mom, I miss Jesus. I want Him in my heart."
Well. What could I do? I pulled over into a parking lot and led Sam in the prayer of salvation. I reworded it down to his level, but for once in his life he didn't fidget, fuss, giggle, or lose focus. I was really amazed at how serious he was about it. He meant every word of it. His world is so little, but what's there, he gave completely up to Jesus and it was very sweet. I tried not to cry because, you know, he IS a boy and mushy stuff just irritates him, but when he burst into "Jesus Loves Me" I cracked a little. Then he sang, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" but with the words "poop" and "pee" sprinkled liberally throughout. While I was still laughing at that he suddenly stopped and said, "Thanks, Mom." And that's when I really lost it.
SM and I were talking this weekend about how this Easter weekend is so different from the first one, when Jesus died and rose again. Friday night, after Jesus died, his disciples would have scattered and gone into hiding. There would be horror, shock, grief, terror after the crucifixion. Are the Romans going to come get us? Are the Jewish leaders going to come get us? Should we leave town? Are our families in danger? How will we live? Were Jesus' words just metaphors or is all that stuff really going to come true? How can it possibly come true? In contrast, our Friday night was spent buying a new washer and dryer and looking at dresses in the mall. My biggest concern this weekend was not for my life but for the last pair of 9 1/2 wide shoes in Columbia that would match whatever Easter outfit I picked out. I guess it's the same sense of commercialism that plagues most holidays. Do I have enough Easter grass? Enough candy? We didn't have vinegar for the egg dye and SM had to run out late tonight to get some. Are we ready for Sunday? Well, I guess it depends on your perspective. The baskets are ready. The outfits are ready. Baths and showers have been taken, and little munchkins are in bed. The ham's already been cooked. OK, we broke into the Easter cake tonight. It was really good, and we didn't feel guilty about it for one second. So in that respect, yes, we're ready. But as for the other perspective...are we really ready for Sunday? For the surprise the women at the tomb received? I guarantee they weren't ready for that. Are we ready to be shaken to the core to realize that the resurrection was not a metaphor and that the impossible had been made possible? I for one am ready to give thanks that of all the people for whom this is good news, my son is now one of them. He was the last of my family whose future was uncertain; we've all accepted Christ. Granted, as a little kid, if he had died he would still go to heaven, but when he grew up and was fully accountable, what would he choose? I've prayed since he was born, "God, please save my son." And God touched Sam's heart so that he answered that call. Sam was born at Easter, and now he's been saved at Easter. He is safe. I am so thankful. So thankful. I have no fear of death now, not for me nor any of my family. I am ready for Easter.
We have gone to the mall and walked the length of it twice in 24 hours; I've shopped for everything from ham to curtain rods, and yes, I've been to the dreaded Wal-Mart on a holiday weekend. I've cooked; I've delivered stuff to a family; I've vacuumed the first floor of the house to within an inch of my life; I've shopped for Easter outfits and tried on 1, 435 outfits and shoes. I am pooped. This is why my back hurts so much.
The kids just told me that there's one egg left and it's all mine. How sweet. They did remember. I will dye it a brilliant deep teal green.
Something really thrilling happened this past week. Sam accepted Christ. He's been asking questions lately about Jesus, Heaven, etc., and while I answered them I thought, "Gee, what a perfect opening to share the Gospel with Sam" but come on, the kid's only 4. Almost 5. That's just so young. How can such a little kid understand that kind of a decision? Well, the same way all of us understand it: to the best of our abilities, and of our own free will. I didn't lead Sam so much as showed him how to do it when he said he wanted to. We were coming back from preschool, and he asked some more questions about Jesus. Mainly, he wanted to know where Jesus was, and why he couldn't see Him. So we talked about that for a few minutes. I've always heard that your kids will let you know when they want to accept Jesus, and not to try to push it before that time comes. So I answer his questions when he asks them, and that's it. But today he took it further. After we talked, he was quiet for a moment. And then I heard this sad, quiet little voice from the back seat: "Mom, I miss Jesus. I want Him in my heart."
Well. What could I do? I pulled over into a parking lot and led Sam in the prayer of salvation. I reworded it down to his level, but for once in his life he didn't fidget, fuss, giggle, or lose focus. I was really amazed at how serious he was about it. He meant every word of it. His world is so little, but what's there, he gave completely up to Jesus and it was very sweet. I tried not to cry because, you know, he IS a boy and mushy stuff just irritates him, but when he burst into "Jesus Loves Me" I cracked a little. Then he sang, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" but with the words "poop" and "pee" sprinkled liberally throughout. While I was still laughing at that he suddenly stopped and said, "Thanks, Mom." And that's when I really lost it.
SM and I were talking this weekend about how this Easter weekend is so different from the first one, when Jesus died and rose again. Friday night, after Jesus died, his disciples would have scattered and gone into hiding. There would be horror, shock, grief, terror after the crucifixion. Are the Romans going to come get us? Are the Jewish leaders going to come get us? Should we leave town? Are our families in danger? How will we live? Were Jesus' words just metaphors or is all that stuff really going to come true? How can it possibly come true? In contrast, our Friday night was spent buying a new washer and dryer and looking at dresses in the mall. My biggest concern this weekend was not for my life but for the last pair of 9 1/2 wide shoes in Columbia that would match whatever Easter outfit I picked out. I guess it's the same sense of commercialism that plagues most holidays. Do I have enough Easter grass? Enough candy? We didn't have vinegar for the egg dye and SM had to run out late tonight to get some. Are we ready for Sunday? Well, I guess it depends on your perspective. The baskets are ready. The outfits are ready. Baths and showers have been taken, and little munchkins are in bed. The ham's already been cooked. OK, we broke into the Easter cake tonight. It was really good, and we didn't feel guilty about it for one second. So in that respect, yes, we're ready. But as for the other perspective...are we really ready for Sunday? For the surprise the women at the tomb received? I guarantee they weren't ready for that. Are we ready to be shaken to the core to realize that the resurrection was not a metaphor and that the impossible had been made possible? I for one am ready to give thanks that of all the people for whom this is good news, my son is now one of them. He was the last of my family whose future was uncertain; we've all accepted Christ. Granted, as a little kid, if he had died he would still go to heaven, but when he grew up and was fully accountable, what would he choose? I've prayed since he was born, "God, please save my son." And God touched Sam's heart so that he answered that call. Sam was born at Easter, and now he's been saved at Easter. He is safe. I am so thankful. So thankful. I have no fear of death now, not for me nor any of my family. I am ready for Easter.
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