Monday, March 30, 2015
Stuff in a Pan #2
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Day in the life
I wrote this a year ago, but could have easily written it yesterday, or three months ago, or tomorrow or really any point in the last year or more. When I realized that, that I've been feeling like it's been the baby blues for longer than I can remember, I decided to get the prescription filled, swallow my pride and join millions of others on antidepressants. My kids deserve a mom who's "there" in the present more than just sometimes.
I still chalk so much of it up to hormones, but that doesn't mean I might need a little help kicking this junk to the curb and moving on. I feel like I'm on a treadmill. I make some good progress, talk to Jesus and confess sin, but at the end of the day maybe it's something more than that. I don't want to be the crazy mom. I know I am a sinner and my kids for sure know that, but I don't want my kids to say of me, "she never asked for help even though she needed it." I hope they say, "because my mom asked for help, she got help and now I understand Jesus better because of it."
8pm- Kids are in bed, Calvin is down for the night (almost) and I get to snuggle with my husband and read "Call the Midwife."7pm- Everyone's eaten dinner, and we all watch "Little House on the Prairie." It's becoming a regular thing. History lesson and literature lesson--check!!530- Food arrives. Hooray! I forgot to set the rice-cooker. This almost sends me into a tailspin, again. Husband gets home and he jokes that I've failed because I forgot about the rice. I totally know he's joking, but the tears begin again. He feels horrible.4pm- The day is looking up, the kids are playing well, someone's bringing us a meal and I am drinking wine. I spontaneously decide to do a sorting activity with the kids, sorting the winter and summer olympic events.230- Come home and put Della down for a nap, Calvin is napping in his carseat and miraculously the big three agreeably do quiet time in this rooms for a whole hour! I got to read a book and surf the internet!2pm- at the orthodontist, trying to put on a nice face for all the "wow, 5 kids" "he's so cute" "what are their ages" and "how do you do it" so I don't give into the hormones in front of unsuspecting strangers.1pm- Get everyone dressed so we can go to the orthodontist for a surprise visit because Caley's retainer fell out. This is like the 5th time it's happened and it's starting to get really annoying. I think I wore yoga pants and my grubby high school swimming sweatshirt.noon- lunch- PB&J, our usual. I don't remember what I frantically ate because I was probably starving. Also pretty sure I was on my 6th cup of coffee at this point.1030- pull myself together enough (I realize now I didn't go to Jesus, really at all) to "do school" with the kids. Baby Calvin is napping. The little ones (Wes and Della) are doing who-knows-what. In keeping with our "Grace Year" theme, I only ask them to do the minimum- math page and language arts workbooks and handwriting. They are becoming surprisingly independent!9- kids run off and play and for the next hour I nurse baby and walk around my house crying. The hormones are back. It's hard to distinguish truth from lies during this time. I know my thoughts have some truth to them, but how much of it is true and how much is the enemy exploiting my hormonal instability and exhaustion?830- kids eating breakfast, baby wakes so I get him, eat my breakfast.815- make lunch for the husband and get started on breakfast for kids, kiss husband goodbye, holding off tears as I face the next day of uncertainty and feeling guilty for saying some things during last night's hormonal issue.Tuesday8am- Got to "sleep in" until 8am, but really have been up since midnight feeding the baby, falling asleep in the nursing chair, waking to put baby back in bed, only for a few minutes before he wakes again and the cycle begins again. Nevermind that we didn't go to sleep until midnight because the postpartum emotions and tears were like a wild fire that I couldn't contain.It wasn't such a bad day after all.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Art for Art's Sake
I am struggling. It seems this is a theme to my blog so far. I write here when I'm struggling. Whoever reads this probably thinks I'm melancholy all the time and suicidal. Well, no, but I do come here to write and process my thoughts. Usually it helps. Until the next time.
Thinking about art tonight. "Art" being used loosely to include writing, fiction and non-fiction, painting, music, film, photography, really any creative expression. Why art? Why do people create art? Why to people consume and digest art? What's the point? More personally, why would I spend time doing something so frivolous, when I could be using my time to accomplish something?
The way I see it, art is our attempt at being like our creator. Creating something. Using the mind and body God gave us to create and have dominion over something. In that sense, you can argue that parenting and marriage is an art. It's having dominion and creativity in something outside of yourself. This sentence I'm composing right now is art. It's an outlet, an attempt to connect with something, or sort out myself.
Some would argue that, and in American culture today more specifically, art can be made to cause change. A poingnant film may inspire action, changing ideas and changing culture. A book can do the same. Art can make a statement about an inequality or a sterotype or prejudice. A song can change the way people think.
But...what if art can just be art? What if the details aren't really that important, like what the book or film or painting represents and it's just pretty or enjoyable? What if it's going to take me years and years to process a painting or book or film? Do I really have to dissect something immediately after interacting with it?
I think this idea that we need to read or observe or experience something and then immediately tell about it really affects education. There's so much pressure on producing something, like a book report or presentation or taking a test to "show" you know something. I think that's doing a disservice to the students, our children, and on a greater scale it's doing a disservice to each other when we demand "proficiency" in the form of showing something. Yes, I understand that proficiency tests are necessary in some ways, like a driver's test, but as a whole it's overused.
I noticed this with my kids a few weeks ago. We visited the state capital buildings and campus. The architecture was impressive, very Roman and grandiose. Statues of important historical figures. When we were driving home I really wanted to drill the kids on the importance of the state capital and why the buildings were constructed in that way, the three branches of government and such. But on the way home they watched a movie in the car. I didn't even really talk about what we'd seen for several hours. And I didn't lecture about facts and dates and such. I made comments about what I noticed. Like, "I love all the columns on the buildings and how everything was made from granite." Who am I to drill my kids on the specifics?
Such as with art. I need time for my brain to process the things I consume throughout the day. Reading a book and one concept will stick out over and over and my brain will chew on it. Then suddenly it will make sense or I can apply it to something in my life and then maybe I will be able to tell about it, or write about it. This may have been a process that takes days or weeks. The on-the-spot discussion is anxiety-producing for me. It almost takes the enjoyment out of the art. I'd like to form my own opinions and not be corrected. If I need to be corrected, be kind, be gracious, and maybe it doesn't matter if I'm "wrong" because IT'S ART.
Thinking about art tonight. "Art" being used loosely to include writing, fiction and non-fiction, painting, music, film, photography, really any creative expression. Why art? Why do people create art? Why to people consume and digest art? What's the point? More personally, why would I spend time doing something so frivolous, when I could be using my time to accomplish something?
The way I see it, art is our attempt at being like our creator. Creating something. Using the mind and body God gave us to create and have dominion over something. In that sense, you can argue that parenting and marriage is an art. It's having dominion and creativity in something outside of yourself. This sentence I'm composing right now is art. It's an outlet, an attempt to connect with something, or sort out myself.
Some would argue that, and in American culture today more specifically, art can be made to cause change. A poingnant film may inspire action, changing ideas and changing culture. A book can do the same. Art can make a statement about an inequality or a sterotype or prejudice. A song can change the way people think.
But...what if art can just be art? What if the details aren't really that important, like what the book or film or painting represents and it's just pretty or enjoyable? What if it's going to take me years and years to process a painting or book or film? Do I really have to dissect something immediately after interacting with it?
I think this idea that we need to read or observe or experience something and then immediately tell about it really affects education. There's so much pressure on producing something, like a book report or presentation or taking a test to "show" you know something. I think that's doing a disservice to the students, our children, and on a greater scale it's doing a disservice to each other when we demand "proficiency" in the form of showing something. Yes, I understand that proficiency tests are necessary in some ways, like a driver's test, but as a whole it's overused.
I noticed this with my kids a few weeks ago. We visited the state capital buildings and campus. The architecture was impressive, very Roman and grandiose. Statues of important historical figures. When we were driving home I really wanted to drill the kids on the importance of the state capital and why the buildings were constructed in that way, the three branches of government and such. But on the way home they watched a movie in the car. I didn't even really talk about what we'd seen for several hours. And I didn't lecture about facts and dates and such. I made comments about what I noticed. Like, "I love all the columns on the buildings and how everything was made from granite." Who am I to drill my kids on the specifics?
Such as with art. I need time for my brain to process the things I consume throughout the day. Reading a book and one concept will stick out over and over and my brain will chew on it. Then suddenly it will make sense or I can apply it to something in my life and then maybe I will be able to tell about it, or write about it. This may have been a process that takes days or weeks. The on-the-spot discussion is anxiety-producing for me. It almost takes the enjoyment out of the art. I'd like to form my own opinions and not be corrected. If I need to be corrected, be kind, be gracious, and maybe it doesn't matter if I'm "wrong" because IT'S ART.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Stuff-in-a-Pan #1
A new journal-esque plan for this blog: Stuff-in-a-Pan
A friend suggested I keep a log of the various random meals I feed my family. We call it Stuff-in-a-Pan. I didn't make up the name, a friend told me about it. The meal ideas though are "original." I say "original" because it's not like I really have any creativity, it's just stuff in my fridge that I need to magically turn into food to feed my family. They're different every time.
To make Stuff-in-a-Pan, you need a pan and some stuff. Usually a meat or protein, vegetables, and a cream or sauce to pull it all together. Sometimes you can bake the stuff like a savory pie or serve the stuff over some other stuff like rice or quinoa or noodles.
So here's Stuff-in-a-Pan #1. I don't have a picture, but intend on including pictures with my future stuffs.
Ingredients:
Ground maple pork
minced garlic
onion slices
cabbage slices
tomato chunks
chicken broth
sour cream
paprika
curry
salt
pepper
cooked rice (white)
Brown the meat, then add garlic, onion and cabbage. Saute until soft. Then add tomato chunks. Add chicken broth and let it all soften and mix flavors. When it's kind of soupy, add the sour cream and spices and mix throughly. Let cook until thickened. Serve over rice.
This got rave reviews from my husband and five kids!
A friend suggested I keep a log of the various random meals I feed my family. We call it Stuff-in-a-Pan. I didn't make up the name, a friend told me about it. The meal ideas though are "original." I say "original" because it's not like I really have any creativity, it's just stuff in my fridge that I need to magically turn into food to feed my family. They're different every time.
To make Stuff-in-a-Pan, you need a pan and some stuff. Usually a meat or protein, vegetables, and a cream or sauce to pull it all together. Sometimes you can bake the stuff like a savory pie or serve the stuff over some other stuff like rice or quinoa or noodles.
So here's Stuff-in-a-Pan #1. I don't have a picture, but intend on including pictures with my future stuffs.
Ingredients:
Ground maple pork
minced garlic
onion slices
cabbage slices
tomato chunks
chicken broth
sour cream
paprika
curry
salt
pepper
cooked rice (white)
Brown the meat, then add garlic, onion and cabbage. Saute until soft. Then add tomato chunks. Add chicken broth and let it all soften and mix flavors. When it's kind of soupy, add the sour cream and spices and mix throughly. Let cook until thickened. Serve over rice.
This got rave reviews from my husband and five kids!
Liking What Looks Back at Me
I have been afraid and obsessed with mirrors for as long as I can remember. In the house I grew up in, there was a little desk I would do homework at in the guest room. It had a mirror on the wall next to it. I remember looking in that mirror and making funny faces and making myself laugh. Laughing so much I didn't get any homework done. I don't think that was the first time I felt drawn to the mirror, but it's one of the times I didn't feel despairing or prideful because of the mirror.
For so long I have avoided a mirror. It never reflected me accurately. Either I felt great and my reflection was horrible, or I felt horrible and looked not-so-bad. When I say horrible or not-so-bad, I mean my body size and shape. I look in the mirror and my tummy is too poochy, my butt is too big, or my chin has too much fat.
I saw a meme on Pinterest a while back that said, "I wish I was as fat as I was when I first thought I was fat." It's so true! Even at 130lbs I thought I was fat. Heck, even at 119lbs in high school right after I'd lost 50lbs going to Weight Watchers I thought I was fat. I've always been dissatisfied with my weight or pants size or something about the way I look.
The more I think about it, the more I think it's not a dissatisfaction, it's a disorder. I have a disordered way of looking at my body. Changing my body won't necessarily change my view of my body. I just have to change my view of my body. Having five babies in the last 10 years has helped change my view of my body, if even a tiny bit. Like, it's okay that I'm not 130lbs, I've had five babies. The cumulative time my body has been my own in the last 10 years? Probably less than a year. When you count pregnancy and breasfeeding, I've had probably 12-18 months in the last 10 years in which my body has only supported me. Learning to not hate my body is practical grace to myself. It's practically walking that I'm already pleasing to Jesus. Holding onto dissatisfaction with my body is the equivalent of "I'm not able to forgive myself." It's simply pride.
Does this mean I should stop exercising and eat crap? Not at all. But it took 10+ years to get this body, so it's going to take a while. In the meantime, I get to enjoy the body I have, not be afraid of what reflects in the mirror.
For so long I have avoided a mirror. It never reflected me accurately. Either I felt great and my reflection was horrible, or I felt horrible and looked not-so-bad. When I say horrible or not-so-bad, I mean my body size and shape. I look in the mirror and my tummy is too poochy, my butt is too big, or my chin has too much fat.
I saw a meme on Pinterest a while back that said, "I wish I was as fat as I was when I first thought I was fat." It's so true! Even at 130lbs I thought I was fat. Heck, even at 119lbs in high school right after I'd lost 50lbs going to Weight Watchers I thought I was fat. I've always been dissatisfied with my weight or pants size or something about the way I look.
The more I think about it, the more I think it's not a dissatisfaction, it's a disorder. I have a disordered way of looking at my body. Changing my body won't necessarily change my view of my body. I just have to change my view of my body. Having five babies in the last 10 years has helped change my view of my body, if even a tiny bit. Like, it's okay that I'm not 130lbs, I've had five babies. The cumulative time my body has been my own in the last 10 years? Probably less than a year. When you count pregnancy and breasfeeding, I've had probably 12-18 months in the last 10 years in which my body has only supported me. Learning to not hate my body is practical grace to myself. It's practically walking that I'm already pleasing to Jesus. Holding onto dissatisfaction with my body is the equivalent of "I'm not able to forgive myself." It's simply pride.
Does this mean I should stop exercising and eat crap? Not at all. But it took 10+ years to get this body, so it's going to take a while. In the meantime, I get to enjoy the body I have, not be afraid of what reflects in the mirror.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Writing and Reading
I'm kind of miserly. I like getting a good deal. I have always been this way, considering where I could get a better deal if I just waited instead of impulsively buying something. I get annoyed when buying books especially, because I know I could just get a book at the library for "free." Whoever came up with the idea for public libraries...I wish I could kiss that person. Libraries are among my favorite places to be. Bring some coffee from home and it's the cheapest therapy an introvert can imagine or hope for. I just can't believe all this information and artistry is available at my fingertips. A friend said she doesn't like the library, doesn't get the appeal, and I just crinkled my forehead in disbelief. What?? Why?? How are we even friends?
My kids love the library. I don't like letting them play on the computer when we go, except as toddler-management, because they can do that anytime. The library should be for books. (Hypocritically, I surf Facebook on my phone when we go, it just needs to stop!) It always kind of grates against me when I see other families and the parent instituting a "only 3 books" rule. That just seems cruel. Three books?! Why limit to such a small number? We regularly load up with 30 or more. I hear the limit is 100 per card, and we have three cards in our family. Books are like friends. I wish I could have control over my friends like I do my library books. Picking up one as I choose and taking what they have to give, with them never minding whether I have anything to give back.
Although there is a certain level of anxiety when we are gathering our books to return to the library and one or many are missing. One time we were missing a CD for almost 3 months. I was very concerned. It turned out it was behind the DVD player. I know that it wasn't accidentally put there but strategically placed by some well-meaning toddler. It was a good thing too because I didn't want to pay the $12 to replace.
For all my miserly-ness, however, sometimes I feel like I'm taking something I don't deserve at the library and have warmed to the idea of buying books even for their retail price. When you think about how much work it is to write, and now that I'm identifying more and more with being a writer, $12.99 for a novel really isn't too much. The author probably isn't getting paid more than a few cents per word. And a person can write and write for years without being recognized, let alone rewarded. It almost make me ill thinking of all the people profiting off one person's years of agonizing work, pouring their heart onto pages and pages that will never be seen, sharpening their skill of writing.
It also seems cruel that garbage writing can be so rewarding while simultaneously brilliant writing can remain unknown. It's ridiculous that "Fifty Shades of Grey" is a blockbuster film while my brother's thoughtful screenplay still sits unread.
These are the thoughts of a writer-housewife at 5am.
My kids love the library. I don't like letting them play on the computer when we go, except as toddler-management, because they can do that anytime. The library should be for books. (Hypocritically, I surf Facebook on my phone when we go, it just needs to stop!) It always kind of grates against me when I see other families and the parent instituting a "only 3 books" rule. That just seems cruel. Three books?! Why limit to such a small number? We regularly load up with 30 or more. I hear the limit is 100 per card, and we have three cards in our family. Books are like friends. I wish I could have control over my friends like I do my library books. Picking up one as I choose and taking what they have to give, with them never minding whether I have anything to give back.
Although there is a certain level of anxiety when we are gathering our books to return to the library and one or many are missing. One time we were missing a CD for almost 3 months. I was very concerned. It turned out it was behind the DVD player. I know that it wasn't accidentally put there but strategically placed by some well-meaning toddler. It was a good thing too because I didn't want to pay the $12 to replace.
For all my miserly-ness, however, sometimes I feel like I'm taking something I don't deserve at the library and have warmed to the idea of buying books even for their retail price. When you think about how much work it is to write, and now that I'm identifying more and more with being a writer, $12.99 for a novel really isn't too much. The author probably isn't getting paid more than a few cents per word. And a person can write and write for years without being recognized, let alone rewarded. It almost make me ill thinking of all the people profiting off one person's years of agonizing work, pouring their heart onto pages and pages that will never be seen, sharpening their skill of writing.
It also seems cruel that garbage writing can be so rewarding while simultaneously brilliant writing can remain unknown. It's ridiculous that "Fifty Shades of Grey" is a blockbuster film while my brother's thoughtful screenplay still sits unread.
These are the thoughts of a writer-housewife at 5am.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Home Tattoos
The entirety of my life is inside my house. I wake up and come downstairs and the day begins. Sometimes I am up every few hours during the night and those a s "clocked hours" too. My life is bound inside this house, yet it really has nothing to do with this physical space but only the people in it. Sometimes it's only the people who live here with me, but frequently I invite others in and they become my "work" too. There are days in which I don't even step outside to get the mail or go to the garage. There are days in which the hours creep by ever so slowly and other days in which the hours fly by and I can't keep up.
There are reminders in my house of the good and the bad. The dent on the floor by the front door when my brother-in-law and his wife were visiting and he dropped their computer and dented the hardwood. I was so mad at the time for his clumsiness but now I look at that mark and remember that fun weekend. They are now separated.
My living room was regularly full of friends and acquaintances from church. When I look at our couches I can see the leader and his wife sitting there from my memory. We all had our usually seating place. Looking at the other living room I can see my friend and I sitting on the couches and my mind remembers the hard conversation one morning over a cup of coffee. It was the beginning of almost a year of angst between us. So many lies we both heard about who the other was. Yet when I look at that couch I also remember the fun times with the same friend on Wine Friday--kids occupied in the other room and use two chatting and laughing.
In my home there are evidences that children live here. Toys on the floor, kid socks discarded on the couch, pictures colored and taped on the wall. Right now there's a 12th Man theme. A few months ago there was a six-foot wide storyboard drawing about Christmas that my daughters collaborated on with a friend. This home isn't going to be Pottery Barn perfect because my kids and I aren't Pottery Barn perfect.
I look around my house and see my not-so-good moments too. The things I've kicked in and broken because I was frustrated with my life and responsibilities. The piece of the stairs I had to repair with wood glue because I threw something at it and it broke. The door I kicked and dented one morning when we were trying to get out of the house on time. These marks are reminders of my redemption. I need Jesus. For so long I didn't see that simple fact. I cannot and I did not save myself. I need Jesus. The broken door frames shouts at me when I forget. I need Jesus. I do not feel condemned, but I am reminded of my need and then of his grace.
There are reminders in my house of the good and the bad. The dent on the floor by the front door when my brother-in-law and his wife were visiting and he dropped their computer and dented the hardwood. I was so mad at the time for his clumsiness but now I look at that mark and remember that fun weekend. They are now separated.
My living room was regularly full of friends and acquaintances from church. When I look at our couches I can see the leader and his wife sitting there from my memory. We all had our usually seating place. Looking at the other living room I can see my friend and I sitting on the couches and my mind remembers the hard conversation one morning over a cup of coffee. It was the beginning of almost a year of angst between us. So many lies we both heard about who the other was. Yet when I look at that couch I also remember the fun times with the same friend on Wine Friday--kids occupied in the other room and use two chatting and laughing.
In my home there are evidences that children live here. Toys on the floor, kid socks discarded on the couch, pictures colored and taped on the wall. Right now there's a 12th Man theme. A few months ago there was a six-foot wide storyboard drawing about Christmas that my daughters collaborated on with a friend. This home isn't going to be Pottery Barn perfect because my kids and I aren't Pottery Barn perfect.
I look around my house and see my not-so-good moments too. The things I've kicked in and broken because I was frustrated with my life and responsibilities. The piece of the stairs I had to repair with wood glue because I threw something at it and it broke. The door I kicked and dented one morning when we were trying to get out of the house on time. These marks are reminders of my redemption. I need Jesus. For so long I didn't see that simple fact. I cannot and I did not save myself. I need Jesus. The broken door frames shouts at me when I forget. I need Jesus. I do not feel condemned, but I am reminded of my need and then of his grace.
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