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Paragraph B

Monday night was a Presbytery meeting. For those not up on the inner workings of Presbyterian governance, it works like this. The smallest collection of Presbyterians is a congregation; the local church you find familiar. The governing institution within that church is called session, which is populated by members carrying the ordination of “Elder”. Our pastors are not actually members of our churches. They are instead members of the next biggest body, called Presbytery. I belong to Burlington Presbyterian Church, which belongs to Boston Presbytery. Presbytery is part of a larger regional body, called Synod. I think we’re in the Synod of New England? The Northeast? Then all the Synods come together in a body called General Assembly, which is a national body. There is no international body, but the various GAs usually have a certain communion with each other. It is also important to note that all Presbyterians in this body share two common books. The first is our creeds, which begin shortly where the Bible leaves off and has been added to as recently as th 60s. The second is our Book of Order, which is more or less the constitution of the church. All officers of the church vow to be guided by these two documents.

That’s a long introduction. Monday night we gathered together for a Presbytery meeting far more fraught than usual discussions. In 1996, an amendment was made to the Book of Order with the intention of preventing practicing homosexuals from being ordained in any capacity within the church. (It doesn’t actually SAY that, but that is widely understood to be the outcome.) Since then, every time GA assembles, an amendment has been proposed to Paragraph B. The latest version has come out of my church’s session and through the Boston Presbytery. It returns the language to a more Biblical focus (instead of a focus on the Confessions). (You can read more about it here) Needless to say, the original amendment was controversial and every amendment since then has also been controversial.

There is a lot to say on both sides of the issues. My main points would be:

1) We are all sinners. I personally violate the ten commandments once a week. I do a terrible job of remembering the Sabbath and keeping it holy and I have not been committed to changing that sin of mine. If ordination is only available to those who are not sinners, our church will quickly be depopulated, or only populated by hypocrites.
2) Jesus doesn’t talk much about sexual sin. He’s much more interested in hypocracy and money. We should go forth and do likewise.
3) None of the amendments would mean that any church had to accept or elect as an officer or minister any person they did not think was appropriate.
4) Who are we to say who the Holy Spirit can and cannot call?

Anyway, the amendment to Paragraph B above worked it’s way up to GA and now has come back down. It must be approved by the local Presbyteries in order to be adopted. Monday night was the night that our Presbytery took that vote.

For all that we sponsored this to GA, the passing was not a given. There was one commenter as we discussed this who said, “This amendment was born here. Let it die here.”

The meeting took nearly 5 hours. I’m sure that for some people there, it was agonizing. For me, it was inspiring. There is no doubt we disagreed. There is no doubt that people felt extraordinarily passionate on both sides. I know that some of my brethren in Christ feel as thought his amendment is corrupting. I see their point, although I disagree in both form and substance. What excited me, enthused me and filled me with joy was that we could come together. We debated this hot, passionate topic with kindness and love. There was prayer and song throughout. We sat mixed together in faithfulness. During the long vote counting process, as the clock neared midnight, we sang together as we waited.

I find it utterly thrilling, in this age of division and segregation on lines of opinion, that we could and did come together to lovingly disagree with each other. It feels like, as a culture, we have increasingly written off those who disagree with us as stupid, malicious, ignorant and vindictive. The Presbyterian church holds that people of good character can disagree with each other on issues of faith. I think that is an increasingly precious and beautiful point of view.

The future of the amendment to Paragraph B is uncertain. It narrowly did pass in Boston Presbytery. While I care about the amendment, I hope and pray that the church may continue to come together to argue with each other and disagree, and yet cheerfully be part of the same community.

Ahoy, maties!

When I was in fifth grade, we got this computer game called Pirates of the Carribean. Happily (from my perspective) I came down with chickenpox and had to stay home for a week. I certainly had the pox, but I wasn’t that sick. I spent the entire week, in the middle of an unusually frozen Northwest winter, playing Pirates. It was awesome.

I have realized lately that I’m not hitting flow in anything at any point in my time. I pump every two hours at work. I am pulled in 20 directions when I’m home and usually do chores until I drop. I don’t even get to settle into sleep. I get woken up between two and six times a night by various dependents of mine. (On a bad night, that includes the cats.) I desperately want, need, to get completely absorbed in something until I am no longer conscious of the passing of time.

This is why, I think, I was so desperate to find a good computer game to play. But I’ve played all the ones I know I like until they didn’t quite fit the bill. Either I was bored with them or I knew they weren’t quite what I was looking for.

So last night, babysitter available, my husband and I went in quest of a video game. We struck out completely at one Gamestop. The second was better, but noticeable scarce on PC games. So we decided to stop by Target before admitting we’d been skunked. And guess what? They had the best yet selection of video games for PCs. And they had the 2006 remake of that pirates game.

Arrr!!!!

You’ll be glad to hear that before bed yesterday, I managed to become the 7th most feared pirate. I have yet to locate any of my missing relatives or buried treasure, but that comes next, assuming I can keep the troops from mutinying.

It feels GREAT to just veg out in front of the computer for a bit. I just wish there was another day or two of weekend!

Grey adds:

kie.zw je lmsdjh fjurewqy~~cscavssadwsdwsedsdsafxfddxwfsfvwfdsagsdsfvsdffsgc grey~~

Thankful Thursday

I’ve been super aware lately just how much there is to be thankful for in my life. Everytime I turn on the radio, it seems like something new is dire. It’s not just the economy either. From global warming to third world conflicts in Africa through to space junk, the world doesn’t seem like a very cheery place. I think that while there is a lot wrong, worrying and sorrowful these days that the world is still a fundamentally good place. Or, at least, as fundamentally good a place as it has ever been.

Every night when I put Grey to bed, I start a prayer. “Dear Lord” I say, “Grey is thankful for these things:” and then Grey will fill in the blanks. (This often becomes a list of people he knows. Or what he wants for his fourth birthday, which is, for the record, a DS and a Barbie.) I should be equally grateful.

Here is what I am grateful for:
*A husband who loves me
*Two fine, healthy, bonny boys
*The smiles Thane gives. They’re truly remarkable.
*Disposable diapers
*A house I really enjoy living in
*Neighbors who are becoming friends
*A church full of people all working towards doing God’s work
*The impending return of the Red Sox to my daily life
*Employment for both my husband and me
*My iPod, which dramatically improves my life with stories and music
*The really neat return address stamp I got for Christmas
*The astonishing and continuing ingenuity of humanity
*Getting to eavesdrop on the stories Grey tells himself
*The first day of Spring tomorrow
*My husband’s latest hobby: bread-making
*Entering the sweet spot where you still have energy, but also have experience
*Gazing out over the fields at night

What are you thankful for?

Gabriel

Spending my lunches at daycare (theoretically nursing Thane, but in reality just giving both of my boys big hugs and playing with them) has reminded me of Grey’s first year, when I did the same thing. There was a little boy at daycare name Gabriel. (Long “a”, like “Gah-briel” not “Gay-briel”)

Gabriel was about three at the time. The age Grey is now. He had big, dark eyes and curly dark hair. He also had behavior problems and didn’t talk. He would throw violent, inarticulate fits. He grew to really like me, and I to like him. He would stand next to me when I nursed Grey, and I would talk to him. I would ask him questions and, unfamiliar with child development, be contented with the few words he gave back to me. His face lit up when he saw me. I was afraid for him. Rubertina does her best, but children need parents, not just daycare providers and ladies who come for 15 minutes a day to feed their babies.

After a while, things got unsettled for him. His mom changed his name from Gabriel to Vince (not really sure about the story there). His mom got pregnant, and then wasn’t again. (Again, there is a story there I don’t know.) He was often at daycare late into the night because his mother was at parties. I remember that one of the last times I saw him, he shouted my name and ran up to me for a hug. His mother was there and shocked that he could say my name, that he knew my name.

Grey’s age. Grey can almost spell my name.

A few days later, when I came to daycare, I asked where Gabriel (I was NOT calling him Vince) was. Rubertina said that his mom had just moved him one day. That she thought maybe she had gone to Florida. There was no chance to say goodbye — for him or for me. There was no keep in touch. There was no forwarding address.

I have wondered, since, what he is doing. He would be six. The direction of thoughts is not a happy one. I wonder if he has just trailed after her since, unattended to and left too long with paid care providers — not all of whom are as good as Rubertina. I wonder if he was enrolled in school on time. I wonder if anyone has addressed his learning delays and behavioral issues. I wonder if that open face with its transparent joy to see me has been totally closed down by neglect and hard life.

What I really wonder, though, is whether anyone keeps track of kids. There is no one who knows where he went and would know if he was ok. Is there some sort of registry where if children don’t show up, someone notices? What if there are no friends and family? No concerned grandparents or Sunday School teachers? What if no one expects to see a child anymore because they’ve moved across country? I don’t know what check or balance there is against that. And I worry about Gabriel.

Wherever he is, I hope he is ok.

Gabriel is the boy holding the red chair

It’s the glamour that keeps me coming

I keep looking for a way to write about something else. How about, uh, the book I’m reading? Oh yeah, right. It’s “What To Expect: The First Year” while Grey was playing before bedtime (“By four months, your child should be able to play a Chopin sonata at tempo”). I had a fantastic weekend, but I don’t have anything pithy to share about it. It was just lovely and enjoyable. (Except for the bit where Grey threw up on one of our guests…) And the highlight of yesterday was buying more paper towels at Target.

So I guess I just have to get this out of my system. (Heh.)

Poop. Poop poop poop. I thought that parents who talked and thought excessively about poop were micromanagers or prurient. Or maybe their children were so tediously boring that they had nothing else to talk about.

I’m here to tell you the truth. We can’t help it. A huge amount of our time, attention and concern revolves around what goes into and out of our children.

A week ago Saturday we started Thane on solid foods. See prior post including cute oatmeal smear on eyebrow. I wasn’t too surprised that the oatmeal didn’t appear at the other end right away. A day passed. A few days. A week. Over a week.

Thane got really, really uncomfortable. Very squirmy. I think this is directly related to his new trick of rolling onto his belly and sticking his arms through the bars of his crib. He just keeps moving in an attempt to get comfortable, and he can’t. Although still very good-natured, he spent the weekend SQUIRMING. There are more comfortable things for a breast-fed baby to do.

I finally called his doctor. I was pretty sure it is at least rare to die of constipation, but you start to worry, you know? Happily, Thane likes prunes. He went through an entire jar in one sitting last night. And finally, things began to move. Even more happily, they did so in a good, Presbyterian, duly-and-in-order sort of way, instead of, er, explosively. Thane seems much happier and relaxed than he did this weekend.

Tamisha, Thane, Grey and Spiderman at daycare

Hold on to what is good

During Lent, I am trying to not walk down the path of panic, negativity and despair. I know the path is there. I know what is going on in the world. But I see nothing to be gained by letting fear corrode my soul, by widening and making firm that dark road. Bad things will happen, or they won’t. Who by worrying can change what may or may not come?

Of course, there still needs to be planning. I think we’re all saving our extra nickels these days and carefully looking at our balance sheets. Do you lie in bed at night and think about how long you would be ok if you lost your job? I do. I make plans in my head for what I would do if it were a little bad, a lot bad, horrible. I stop at the “martial law and pillage” level because I don’t think there is a good plan against that one.

During the hard times, though, those who have enough and a little bit extra need to be sure that we throw our weight against the doors of last resort, to keep them closed against hunger, nakedness and bitter cold.

This morning I read an article talking about food banks. Actually, donations to food banks are up. But costs and needs are up higher. How horrible it would be to swallow pride (your only meal for the day) and go to a food bank, only to discover that there is nothing for you.

http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2009/03/16/turse/

There is a great sense of powerlessness and anxiety, rippling through our culture and our days. It is hard not to feel insignificant in the face of problems in the Trillions of dollars and the canker of uncertainty. We can’t fix the banking system. We don’t know how the world will look when this all shakes out. We don’t know if ours was an aberration of time, and things will never be that way again. Against that, however, we need to hold on to what we have and what we can do. We have love, friendship and fellowship. Spring is not aware that life is dismal, and will shortly be glorious as though it’s 2005 all over again. And while we can’t fix the banking system, many of us can give a donation of money, food or time to help our brethren eat.

Hold on to what is good. Encourage the faint-hearted. Help the weak. Be patient with them all. Rejoice without ceasing.

A wonderful weekend on Worcester

We had a wonderful weekend. Saturday is kind of a blur. Hm. Oh yeah, I slept in. Then my husband went to aikido followed by Watchmen and I took care of der kinder. The boys have it in for me. Thane, for once, took a great nap. Grey, on the other hand…

Thane’s big news of the weekend was that he ate his first solid foods! Organic brown rice cereal mixed with breastmilk, for the record. Followed by squash that evening and green beans last night. He’s a champ at eating. His tongue-thrust has almost entirely disappeared. He seemed ready and happy to be joining us in dining upon real food. Not that it has seemed to in any way reduce the amount of nursing the dear child does.

Sunday we woke up and the weather was gorgeous — like 55 degrees. We’d lost an hour’s sleep to daylight savings. I hadn’t realized just how dire time changes are when you have children. I thought to our morning and church and couldn’t come up with any obligations we had this week, which is a rarity. Inspiration seized me. I suggested to my husband that we could go to the Higgins Armory in Worcester (http://www.higgins.org/). I’ve been meaning to go there since before Grey was born.

The boys were spectacularly good the entire trip and all day long. It was fantastic.

I’m also about ready to pronounce Grey day-trained. A car trip and a strange place and an unusual day, and still he had no accidents. He’s started realizing he need to go and going without our prompting. This is not to say that our long quest is over: there’s still night-training to undertake and there will undoubtably be accidents but … a week can go by and we do not have one!

For your enjoyment and edification, I have uploaded pictures. A few notes:
– There are rather more videos than usual. If you have limited time, I greatly recommend the “Grey sings the welcome song” and “Grey and Thane on a quiet afternoon”.
– The pictures that there are of me are largely ones taken by Grey. He will demand his turn when I’m photographing the boys. They aren’t bad, for all that. (I have removed the ones that are blurry images of my left thigh, etc.)
– The ones where Thane’s head is really close? That’s nursing view. That’s more less what you see when you are feeding a baby. They came out compelling, but odd.
– Yes, Grey has pink kitty cat pajamas. They are some of his favorites. Wanna make something of it?
– The one of Thane and me in the snow is a self-portrait.
– The kids at daycare are: Gigi, Pablito, Tamisha, Thane and Grey
– Grey built that block tower all by himself
– Disposable bibs are da bomb.

http://tiltedworld.com/brenda/pictures/March2009/index.html

What he must eat

I’ve learned a lot by sending my sons to a daycare where many of the families are served by public services. In my white, middle class, privileged world we might get suggestions on what we should do for our children from our pediatrician, or Oprah, or our parents. But in this other world, there are all these mandates that come down from on high to try to help less educated, poorer people treat their children appropriately. Frankly, when you’re on the receiving end of these, they sound bossy. You wonder if you’ll get in trouble if you don’t follow them. It’s as though there are far more rules there than there are in my world.

Case in point.

I was feeding Thane today (actually, I was bouncing him on my knee because he wasn’t hungry) and I mentioned that I was thinking of starting him on solids. The daycare lady looked relieved and brought me over a sheet she had been given by the folks who control her all-powerful license. It was a rule sheet that said all children 4 – 7 months of age MUST be given cereals at breakfast and at snack (3 tablespoons) and an additional fruit or vegetable at lunch — in addition to fortified formula or breast milk. Must.

What a spot to put my care provider in. Defy her licensers? Defy me AND provide cereal if I decided to wait until 6 months to give him solids? Sneak past me? Sneak past them? Tell me I also MUST follow these guidelines and start him on solids, even if I thought he wasn’t ready?

I can understand why they do it. The folks who promulgate these policies aren’t bad, or even wrong. My pediatrician also says 4 months is a good time to start thinking about solids. I guess the difference is that I am given information and possibilities and expected to use my judgment. In some ways, this daycare provider and women like her are a conduit of information from our government to poor parents, saying “This is what you ought to do in order to raise a healthy child.” I am simply unused to being on the receiving end of those pronouncements, or being told what I MUST do.

In this case, it’s not a big problem. I think Thane is ready for some real food this weekend. I’ll send some cereal and food with him on Monday. But it is still an odd feeling.

A big day

Yesterday was a big day.

First, let me announce the engagement of my son Grey to Tamisha. The wedding will take place once Grey is “big”. Tamisha will wear, according to the groom, “A beautiful pink dress”. (Note: Tamisha really is lovely and would look beautiful in a pink dress.) Sadly, the nuptials will be interrupted by an attack of monsters, from which Grey will be forced to rescue his bride with “Fire and Ice!”

I will attempt to get a picture of Tamisha. She’s a really sweet young lady. She’ll be headed to kindergarten next year. But there is something very sweet about that first love. Actually, when I was 4 or 5, I was engaged to a boy named Gregory. It didn’t occur to me until my son was much older to wonder if I have always had a positive association with the name due to that early romance. (In perhaps another telling sign of things to come, one of the things I remember doing with Greg was playing board games.)

The next piece of critical news regards my youngest. Oh, my bright bonny boy. What a joy he is. Every time I think of him my heart wells up. He is so consistently joyful and cheerful. He burbles and talks with such good nature.

Anyway.

Last night was bath night. (I would pretend my kids get baths more than twice a week, but why bother? They get baths twice a week.) I had Thane getting some preciously scarce naked time on a towel while I washed Grey’s hair. While I watched, Thane rolled onto his side aaaaaand …. ROLLED OVER! Back to front! He uses his legs extensively in this feat, so I think it helped that he was unencumbered by clothing. He came really close to doing so clothed earlier in the evening. But I think when he’s all dressed for night, he is less likely to be able to roll.

But still! My big boy!

Also, I’ve taken to doing the “Baby food torment”. For those of you unfamiliar with the ritual, babies learn to eat better when they watch you eat. I’m preparing Thane for solid foods. So last night, I made sure he watched me eat my entire dinner, with sort of the exaggerated “yum yum!” faces you made at your siblings when YOU got Mac and Cheese and THEY had to eat the leftover corned beef hash. Thane attempted to stuff everything he could find into his mouth. Toys, fingers, his brother’s hand… He looked at me wide-eyed, with the puppy dog look that asked how I could be so CRUEL as to eat in front of him when he was STARVING and didn’t I know that those fat rolls around his thighs were actually STARVATION BLOAT?!?!?

So I take back what I said before. He is getting ready. I think I’ll wait until my mother in law comes out in a fortnight to make the introduction. Mostly because it will take me that long to assemble: disposable bibs (world’s greatest invention!), baby spoons, baby bowls (ok, disposable plastic containers), some baby food (I already have rice cereal), locate my baby food mill (for show — I think I used it once?), and a blast shield.

How fast the time flies. It seems like just yesterday that Grey was the one finger-painting with rice cereal.

What a wondrous time is spring

I have spent the better part of 12 years being confused about Spring. I think there must be one year in your childhood — I’d have to pick the year I was 9 if I had to guess — where you solidify your view about how certain aspects of the world ARE.

Sweet and sour anything is yucky. I like hiking. Spring starts in March.

Some of these ideas are more easily modified than others. I have yet to get over the “Spring Starts in March” issue.

In Washington State, it does. The crocuses are probably starting out, even in my mountain home. The days are getting lighter. The last snow has probably fallen for the year. By the end of the month, there will be daffodils and you will be able to smell things outside again (for good or for ill). But I live in New England. Not even Southern New England. No. Middle New England.

It was 12 degrees when I woke up this morning. There is a foot of fresh snow on the ground, and more in the forecast. It is, by no means, the beginning of spring. By the end of the month, there will be 6 inches of dirty snow left on the ground and we will have at least one surprise snow storm in front of us. Possibly in June.

But somehow I can never quash that inner child who believes Spring is coming. My husband laughs at me because I always pointed out the red buds at the tips of the trees as a sign of the imminence of Spring. I had lived here maybe 8 years before I figured out that the red buds appear at the END of FALL. But still. I can’t help myself.

My youngest, my baby, has never in his entire life known a warm, welcoming world. His toes are rare and unusual visitors to his curious hands. It snowed the night he was born – an unseemly early snow in the Berkshires I barely processed in my post-partum fog.

But.

There are tiny little daffodil spikes under the snow, in front of our basement window fan (where it is much warmer). I saw the beginnings of snowdrops during a recent melt. I showed my son.

I heard birds singing this morning.

The days are longer.

And look! There are totally red buds on the tips of those trees!