Spring is coming.
I felt it on my face as we walked to church yesterday morning. The cool air competing with the warmth of the sun. It felt vibrant. Alive.
Ji wore a little red riding hood cape Boo has in her dress up and said he's Superman and ran with his fisted hands out in front of himself. Boo admired the silvery shimmer of her white dress, the dress she wore into the temple the day she was sealed to us.
Our goal has been to survive the winter. Now winter is ending. We are nine days away from spring. So far we have survived.
But survival hasn't eased the pressure in my abdomen, nor has it cured my baby of his challenges.
Tomorrow Baby will see two doctors. The cardiologist anticipates a procedure to help his delicate heart close up. The other suspects a stricture in his esophagus where he had his first surgery the day after he was born.
Autumn and winter have been unkind this year. In the changing leaves and earliest snowfalls, we were a family divided--the hospital, aunt and uncle's houses, grandparents' homes, school, and work. Amidst the chaos, I have never seen so many people willing to help: Aunt Lizzy slept over Sundays and Thursdays with Ji and Boo, so James and I could spend more time with Baby at the hospital. We made new friends of the Scalleys who opened their doors and let us sleep in a bed and eat their breakfast cereals. Our neighbors kept watch of Boo, so she could be safe after school. Our church family brought meals, gave rides to and from Salt Lake City, and slipped us gas money.
Here's a miracle: James and I calculated the amount of money we spent on gas for those 47 days Baby was in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit. Friends and family gave us that exact amount. Honestly.
My mistake was thinking everything would be fine once Baby was home with us.
He came home with 2 1/2 inch stents in his nostrils, needing suction, humidity, and extra oxygen. The stents came out within a few weeks, but the doctors' appointments are continuous: surgery, ENT, cardiology, pediatrician, nurse visits for shots or weight checks, dieticians, and development nurses.
It is better. I can hold him in my arms without worrying about leads or tubes that are connected to his body. He can play on the floor and work his leg and neck muscles. I can read books with my two little boys cuddled up on the couch. Home is more quiet and private, and that's worth the dozens of doctors' appointments.
But my body hasn't forgiven me for the neglect I inflicted
upon it those seven weeks. Maybe for the way I've distrusted it for the
last five years. The mastitis went away quickly with antibiotics, but I
had an allergic reaction to the medicine.
On Christmas Eve James flew to New Delhi, explored Punjab and parts
of northern India, experiencing the grandfatherland firsthand. At last.
He came home with presents and a traveler's sickness.
I
felt overwhelmed but all right. Baby's home. James is home. We are all
together. I could still cook dinner, wash the laundry, nurse the baby,
and bathe the children.
And then the cyst appeared. It felt like a plugged milk duct at first. But it grew bigger. Quickly. At its worst, the milk-filled cyst (called a galactocele, for real) was about the size of a softball. That was the night of the abscess and needle aspiration. I screamed and cried at the clinic. The next day they sent me to the emergency room.
No more breastfeeding. No more milk or the cyst would come back. The frozen milk from two months of pumping would only last so long. Baby didn't even eat for his first month. He didn't breastfeed until he was two months old. And then he only got about six weeks of breastfeeding.
I don't know why that makes me so sad. I produced so much milk while he was hospitalized, but had so many problems when he came home. Maybe the transition was too hard for my body.
Maybe all of this has been too hard on my body and that's why a resistant infection lingers inside of me. I suspect that an explanation exists. I just haven't found one yet. I mean, it's all right. It's mostly abdominal discomfort, some in my kidneys and pelvis, but I am tough. Packing an open wound with gauze for two weeks was worse. Much worse. I could see my insides. It made me want to wretch. I'm not tough when it comes to open, fleshy wounds. Gah!
But have you seen the color of the sky? It looks like heaven: with its fat white clouds, perfect for an afternoon stroll. The air smells green and every tree is ready to burst its leaves out.
Spring is coming. Winter can't stay forever.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Any Insights?
Tonight feels . . . strange.
My children are in bed and, presumably, sleeping.
James has gone to a friend's house seeking publishing advice and offering food.
The house is quiet, and maybe that is strange. Maybe it feels strange because after having two months off work, I went back for a week and then had a week off because of Labor Day. Maybe I've been listening to too much public radio in the car. I heard from both the Democratic and Republican National Conventions. I've had enough of politics for a while.
But that's just me avoiding the issue.
Boo has a friend who comes to our house after school three days a week. Boo's friend brought over a friend today. We had never met the little boy who came over, and he wasn't even sure where he lives because he's new to the area. He was a polite boy, according to James. (I was at work and only met him briefly when I came home after 7:00 tonight.) But bringing home a child we'd never before met, whose parents we don't know, without prior arrangement was quite stressful. Especially because the boy's mother said she was on her way an hour and a half before she arrived at our house.
A few things stood out to James, though. The boy has two older brothers. One is in prison. When a child tells you that, how do you react? He was eager to meet Boo's "baby brother" who was napping when the children came home from school. He was excited when he heard Ji stirring. So excited that Boo ran into the room and woke Ji from his nap too early. The boy was amazed that a prayer was said before dinner. He praised James's pasta, saying it was so good. He seemed unconcerned by his mother's delay in coming to get him. After all, he was having a lovely time playing with Boo's dolls.
But how do address this situation emotionally? Obviously, this child felt a sense of comfort from the stability and routine of our home. He was happy here. But James was surprised at how stressful the situation felt. And I was more than surprised to see an unknown child at our house after seven o'clock at night. Not really upset but definitely confused.
I don't know what to think about this situation. James may have briefly met his mother in the car when she came to pick him up. He spent four hours here, so he's no longer a stranger. But the situation is strange. It makes a pit in your gut that you can't shake. It's not that his mother must be irresponsible or that his home must be unhappy; it's that you aren't sure how to feel.
Even though Boo didn't bring him over, we told her that we need to make arrangements before children come over to play, especially right after school. She seemed to understand, but she couldn't take responsibility, obviously.
But maybe he needed to come over today.
Maybe he needed to hear a prayer over dinner.
Maybe he needed to eat James's delicious pasta sauce.
I don't know.
When I was a teenager, my parents let a couple of my brothers' friends live at our house. There were problems. These young men had been involved in some trouble. My parents wanted to help them. My dad told me recently that he realizes now that he was "naive enough" to think our family could influence them for the better and give them some stability. After one of the young men introduced some bad habits to some of my siblings, my dad realized that the influence had gone wrong. Maybe that's why I feel skeptical. Boo is only eight, and a little boy who plays with dolls is certainly no threat.
But it feels . . . strange. It feels strange in the familiar way that I felt strange when one of the young men would try flirting with me, even though he was eighteen or nineteen and I was only thirteen. Nothing ever happened, but I felt uneasy. I felt uneasy in my own home because we had opened our door to him.
But we can't close our door. It doesn't seem right.
So how do you manage your feelings in such a situation?
My children are in bed and, presumably, sleeping.
James has gone to a friend's house seeking publishing advice and offering food.
The house is quiet, and maybe that is strange. Maybe it feels strange because after having two months off work, I went back for a week and then had a week off because of Labor Day. Maybe I've been listening to too much public radio in the car. I heard from both the Democratic and Republican National Conventions. I've had enough of politics for a while.
But that's just me avoiding the issue.
Boo has a friend who comes to our house after school three days a week. Boo's friend brought over a friend today. We had never met the little boy who came over, and he wasn't even sure where he lives because he's new to the area. He was a polite boy, according to James. (I was at work and only met him briefly when I came home after 7:00 tonight.) But bringing home a child we'd never before met, whose parents we don't know, without prior arrangement was quite stressful. Especially because the boy's mother said she was on her way an hour and a half before she arrived at our house.
A few things stood out to James, though. The boy has two older brothers. One is in prison. When a child tells you that, how do you react? He was eager to meet Boo's "baby brother" who was napping when the children came home from school. He was excited when he heard Ji stirring. So excited that Boo ran into the room and woke Ji from his nap too early. The boy was amazed that a prayer was said before dinner. He praised James's pasta, saying it was so good. He seemed unconcerned by his mother's delay in coming to get him. After all, he was having a lovely time playing with Boo's dolls.
But how do address this situation emotionally? Obviously, this child felt a sense of comfort from the stability and routine of our home. He was happy here. But James was surprised at how stressful the situation felt. And I was more than surprised to see an unknown child at our house after seven o'clock at night. Not really upset but definitely confused.
I don't know what to think about this situation. James may have briefly met his mother in the car when she came to pick him up. He spent four hours here, so he's no longer a stranger. But the situation is strange. It makes a pit in your gut that you can't shake. It's not that his mother must be irresponsible or that his home must be unhappy; it's that you aren't sure how to feel.
Even though Boo didn't bring him over, we told her that we need to make arrangements before children come over to play, especially right after school. She seemed to understand, but she couldn't take responsibility, obviously.
But maybe he needed to come over today.
Maybe he needed to hear a prayer over dinner.
Maybe he needed to eat James's delicious pasta sauce.
I don't know.
When I was a teenager, my parents let a couple of my brothers' friends live at our house. There were problems. These young men had been involved in some trouble. My parents wanted to help them. My dad told me recently that he realizes now that he was "naive enough" to think our family could influence them for the better and give them some stability. After one of the young men introduced some bad habits to some of my siblings, my dad realized that the influence had gone wrong. Maybe that's why I feel skeptical. Boo is only eight, and a little boy who plays with dolls is certainly no threat.
But it feels . . . strange. It feels strange in the familiar way that I felt strange when one of the young men would try flirting with me, even though he was eighteen or nineteen and I was only thirteen. Nothing ever happened, but I felt uneasy. I felt uneasy in my own home because we had opened our door to him.
But we can't close our door. It doesn't seem right.
So how do you manage your feelings in such a situation?
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
The Phone Takes up a Lot of Phone Time
James and I are responsible adults.
It only took two years and eight months of marriage to create our own phone plan and get off our parents' plans.
Very responsible.
Unfortunately, switching two already-existing numbers into a new account is tricky. Really tricky. But it shouldn't be so tricky. It should be simple to transition in to responsible adulthood. Right?
The young woman who helped me set up the new phone plan a month ago was really enthusiastic and helpful. As we concluded each step, she'd say "Awesome!" and move onto the next item of business. Maybe her awesomes addled her brain a bit because that weekend I had a voice message that there was some problem with the billing for the new phone. My name had been entered wrong. Which was weird since she had put me on hold to make sure the payment went through. I know because she told me it was awesome afterward.
So I talked with some other customer service representative who got the payment all worked out and spelled my maiden name wrong and forgot to put my married name on the account.
Then I received a notice that there was some change on the account, so I called. They said it was all right. I shouldn't have believed them.
But the phone that was supposed to have come within five business days still hadn't arrived after two weeks. I lost my temper with the poor young man who was only trying to do his job.
After the phone was finally delivered, some other customer service representative told me that I had only signed up for a single line. "No," I told them, and explained the plan we had set up three weeks before.
Finally, after the phone came and we got things straightened out with my name and James's contacts (by going into the store, of course), I was able to transfer my number and start using the account. We still had to wait for James's number to be released by his parents, but it was all right. We had our two lines, our texts, our minutes, our account, and the latest in a string of customer service representatives assured me we wouldn't be charged for the entire month of June since we didn't activate the account until the end of the month.
We got the information we needed for transferring James's number, so we called today. Pretty straight-forward. Here's the previous account number, pin, and account holder name. Yes, they'll release the number. Automatic text message comes up, telling us the phone now uses the old number. It's all set. Yes. Oh, but we need to check that one weird message we got about adding data. We didn't add data. Let's create an account online to see what happened.
What does "?!" sound like? Maybe some kind of groan or shocked guttural sound. That was the sound we made---in unison. We had a $407 bill. Ummm . . . What happened?
So two and a half hours of calling (and losing the call and calling back and transferring to supervisors and talking with multiple customer service representatives) later, they dropped the excess charges for "changing" our plan to the plan we had initially signed up for, and blocked the data option, and moved the billing date to the end of June instead of the week before we had first called.
Fixing phone problems is a really time-consuming way to spend a Tuesday afternoon. I'd rather have a Moody Blues kind of day with quiet reflection and whistling, but at least we have saved about $250 in unjustified charges.
It's just one of those things responsible adults have to deal with.
Don't get me started on insurance . . .
It only took two years and eight months of marriage to create our own phone plan and get off our parents' plans.
Very responsible.
Unfortunately, switching two already-existing numbers into a new account is tricky. Really tricky. But it shouldn't be so tricky. It should be simple to transition in to responsible adulthood. Right?
The young woman who helped me set up the new phone plan a month ago was really enthusiastic and helpful. As we concluded each step, she'd say "Awesome!" and move onto the next item of business. Maybe her awesomes addled her brain a bit because that weekend I had a voice message that there was some problem with the billing for the new phone. My name had been entered wrong. Which was weird since she had put me on hold to make sure the payment went through. I know because she told me it was awesome afterward.
So I talked with some other customer service representative who got the payment all worked out and spelled my maiden name wrong and forgot to put my married name on the account.
Then I received a notice that there was some change on the account, so I called. They said it was all right. I shouldn't have believed them.
But the phone that was supposed to have come within five business days still hadn't arrived after two weeks. I lost my temper with the poor young man who was only trying to do his job.
After the phone was finally delivered, some other customer service representative told me that I had only signed up for a single line. "No," I told them, and explained the plan we had set up three weeks before.
Finally, after the phone came and we got things straightened out with my name and James's contacts (by going into the store, of course), I was able to transfer my number and start using the account. We still had to wait for James's number to be released by his parents, but it was all right. We had our two lines, our texts, our minutes, our account, and the latest in a string of customer service representatives assured me we wouldn't be charged for the entire month of June since we didn't activate the account until the end of the month.
We got the information we needed for transferring James's number, so we called today. Pretty straight-forward. Here's the previous account number, pin, and account holder name. Yes, they'll release the number. Automatic text message comes up, telling us the phone now uses the old number. It's all set. Yes. Oh, but we need to check that one weird message we got about adding data. We didn't add data. Let's create an account online to see what happened.
What does "?!" sound like? Maybe some kind of groan or shocked guttural sound. That was the sound we made---in unison. We had a $407 bill. Ummm . . . What happened?
So two and a half hours of calling (and losing the call and calling back and transferring to supervisors and talking with multiple customer service representatives) later, they dropped the excess charges for "changing" our plan to the plan we had initially signed up for, and blocked the data option, and moved the billing date to the end of June instead of the week before we had first called.
Fixing phone problems is a really time-consuming way to spend a Tuesday afternoon. I'd rather have a Moody Blues kind of day with quiet reflection and whistling, but at least we have saved about $250 in unjustified charges.
It's just one of those things responsible adults have to deal with.
Don't get me started on insurance . . .
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
No One Reads My Blog Anyway . . .
James writes on his Mormon Midrashim blog two or three times a week. Two hundred people are reading it every day.
I am still unsure as to why I started writing on this blog. When I'm at home, I don't want to cuddle up with my computer and write about the cute or weird things my children did that day, or complain about how exhausted I feel after working for three hours and walking across campus because my second trimester energy boost hasn't kicked in yet. I want to space out or play games or read young adult books on James's Kindle.
But here are a few thoughts:
Today is Boo's last full day of second grade. The kids are supposed to go for an hour and a half on Thursday, but since she doesn't go to school in the morning, we figure she's fine. Besides, we've already given up on her report card; it certainly isn't a reflection of what she knows, only what she's done in her teacher's classroom. James decided that Boo's teacher isn't bad; she's Javert. You know, Javert from Les Misérables. She is cold and calculated not for villainy but because she works entirely by the book. No accommodations. Javert is not a good second grade teacher. Maybe she missed her calling as an inspector.
I ended up in a BBC news article yesterday. James found it while looking at headlines. After the broadcast last week, Paul Adams interviewed four of the five panelists about some of our experiences and perspectives. I referred to The Book of Mormon Musical to explain how Mormons are viewed as both naive and out-of-touch as well as "the world's last optimists." I'm pretty sure I'm not naive, but neither am I as optimistic as many other Latter-day Saints. I admire the optimists in my faith; they seem to know a lot more than I do.
Grading is intolerable anymore. I have managed to grade two papers since Friday. Maybe it's this pregnancy brain cloud that keeps me from thinking or reading well, but I feel sick at the prospect of grading fourteen more papers.
James, Boo, Ji, and I joined my mom and dad at their house for a barbecue on Memorial Day. It was so quiet with just the six of us. Boo was hoping to have cousins to play with, but I appreciated the quiet night in which we could watch hummingbirds flit around the backyard. The neighbors came by, so she had some play time. I think I need more quiet time outside. Right now I'm either running around busy or completely useless and wiped out.
Yesterday I spent an hour in the Temple. I felt like crying every time I heard the promises the Lord has made. Maybe because He is so good and generous; maybe because I am so emotionally unstable. Either way, I want to live up to those blessings. I want to be worthy of such gifts.
I am still unsure as to why I started writing on this blog. When I'm at home, I don't want to cuddle up with my computer and write about the cute or weird things my children did that day, or complain about how exhausted I feel after working for three hours and walking across campus because my second trimester energy boost hasn't kicked in yet. I want to space out or play games or read young adult books on James's Kindle.
But here are a few thoughts:
Today is Boo's last full day of second grade. The kids are supposed to go for an hour and a half on Thursday, but since she doesn't go to school in the morning, we figure she's fine. Besides, we've already given up on her report card; it certainly isn't a reflection of what she knows, only what she's done in her teacher's classroom. James decided that Boo's teacher isn't bad; she's Javert. You know, Javert from Les Misérables. She is cold and calculated not for villainy but because she works entirely by the book. No accommodations. Javert is not a good second grade teacher. Maybe she missed her calling as an inspector.
I ended up in a BBC news article yesterday. James found it while looking at headlines. After the broadcast last week, Paul Adams interviewed four of the five panelists about some of our experiences and perspectives. I referred to The Book of Mormon Musical to explain how Mormons are viewed as both naive and out-of-touch as well as "the world's last optimists." I'm pretty sure I'm not naive, but neither am I as optimistic as many other Latter-day Saints. I admire the optimists in my faith; they seem to know a lot more than I do.
Grading is intolerable anymore. I have managed to grade two papers since Friday. Maybe it's this pregnancy brain cloud that keeps me from thinking or reading well, but I feel sick at the prospect of grading fourteen more papers.
James, Boo, Ji, and I joined my mom and dad at their house for a barbecue on Memorial Day. It was so quiet with just the six of us. Boo was hoping to have cousins to play with, but I appreciated the quiet night in which we could watch hummingbirds flit around the backyard. The neighbors came by, so she had some play time. I think I need more quiet time outside. Right now I'm either running around busy or completely useless and wiped out.
Yesterday I spent an hour in the Temple. I felt like crying every time I heard the promises the Lord has made. Maybe because He is so good and generous; maybe because I am so emotionally unstable. Either way, I want to live up to those blessings. I want to be worthy of such gifts.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
A Possible Reconsideration
I used to listen to NPR, read news magazines, and keep up with internet headlines.
I've given up the news. That was five years ago.
The news has been particularly difficult lately. Of course I am thrilled about Egypt's first free democratic presidential elections. And it's good to see Aunt Sheila's concerns about her seventeen-year-old driving home with friends after being up all night at a graduation "lock-in" party. The recent news stories I find most disturbing have been about Mormons.
I don't fault Mitt Romney for running for president. It's his call; no big deal. The problems arise when people say, "Mitt Romney isn't Christian. He's part of a secretive, polygymist cult." "Mormons are racist, sexist, and homophobic." Or my personal favorites go something like this: "I had a Mormon boss once, and he was a tyrant. He was a bishop, too, and he treated us like children. I would never trust a Mormon to run the country." (Maybe I should refer these journalists and internet commentators to our series, The Beatles Teach Logical Fallacies. They might learn something about sweeping generalizations and guilt by association.)
It makes me want to take a long, long nap and wake up after November 6th.
I guess I want to stop composing defensive, over-reactive responses when I'm unable to fall asleep or driving to work. Maybe I just want to shout to the masses, "I'm a Mormon woman, and I'm not oppressed!" I probably think so highly of myself that anyone who tries to tell me I'm brainwashed, clueless, or naive just pisses me off.
So, I'm going to shout a little something here:
I am a Mormon woman. I am not oppressed. I have had access to excellent educational opportunities. My family has strongly supported me in my educational goals. My husband is awesome. He actively seeks my feedback on his work. He completely supports my desire to keep working and be an otherwise full-time mother. I have a sense of self, a unique identity, and a relationship with God. I also know countless amazing women in the LDS Church: they are doctors, nurses, attorneys, artists, teachers, yoga instructors, editors, therapists, photographers, office managers, and homemakers. They are tall, short, large, small, funny, serious, lively, mellow, athletic, physically limited, curious, joyful, and complicated. These are individuals. They have opinions, ideas, and energy. Anyone who has seen a group of LDS women arrange a service activity knows exactly what I mean. Even after twenty funerals in under three years, the women in my ward have continued to step up and make and serve luncheons for fifty to a hundred of the deceased's relatives. These are all volunteer hours.
Relief Society is a big part of why being an LDS woman rules. I belong to the largest and oldest women's organization in the world. We learn to serve each other, our families, our communities, and the world. We truly have the power to change the world. That kind of power can't be oppressive.
And guess what?
I got to talk about it on BBC radio today.
You know, World Have Your Say's host and producer, Paul and Richard, were such nice news fellows, I just might reconsider giving up on the news.
I've given up the news. That was five years ago.
The news has been particularly difficult lately. Of course I am thrilled about Egypt's first free democratic presidential elections. And it's good to see Aunt Sheila's concerns about her seventeen-year-old driving home with friends after being up all night at a graduation "lock-in" party. The recent news stories I find most disturbing have been about Mormons.
I don't fault Mitt Romney for running for president. It's his call; no big deal. The problems arise when people say, "Mitt Romney isn't Christian. He's part of a secretive, polygymist cult." "Mormons are racist, sexist, and homophobic." Or my personal favorites go something like this: "I had a Mormon boss once, and he was a tyrant. He was a bishop, too, and he treated us like children. I would never trust a Mormon to run the country." (Maybe I should refer these journalists and internet commentators to our series, The Beatles Teach Logical Fallacies. They might learn something about sweeping generalizations and guilt by association.)
It makes me want to take a long, long nap and wake up after November 6th.
I guess I want to stop composing defensive, over-reactive responses when I'm unable to fall asleep or driving to work. Maybe I just want to shout to the masses, "I'm a Mormon woman, and I'm not oppressed!" I probably think so highly of myself that anyone who tries to tell me I'm brainwashed, clueless, or naive just pisses me off.
So, I'm going to shout a little something here:
 | |||
| Maybe I am using this blog as my personal soapbox. |
I am a Mormon woman. I am not oppressed. I have had access to excellent educational opportunities. My family has strongly supported me in my educational goals. My husband is awesome. He actively seeks my feedback on his work. He completely supports my desire to keep working and be an otherwise full-time mother. I have a sense of self, a unique identity, and a relationship with God. I also know countless amazing women in the LDS Church: they are doctors, nurses, attorneys, artists, teachers, yoga instructors, editors, therapists, photographers, office managers, and homemakers. They are tall, short, large, small, funny, serious, lively, mellow, athletic, physically limited, curious, joyful, and complicated. These are individuals. They have opinions, ideas, and energy. Anyone who has seen a group of LDS women arrange a service activity knows exactly what I mean. Even after twenty funerals in under three years, the women in my ward have continued to step up and make and serve luncheons for fifty to a hundred of the deceased's relatives. These are all volunteer hours.
Relief Society is a big part of why being an LDS woman rules. I belong to the largest and oldest women's organization in the world. We learn to serve each other, our families, our communities, and the world. We truly have the power to change the world. That kind of power can't be oppressive.
And guess what?
I got to talk about it on BBC radio today.
You know, World Have Your Say's host and producer, Paul and Richard, were such nice news fellows, I just might reconsider giving up on the news.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Batman Is Constantly Throwing Me Off
While I am teaching, I try hard to stay focused.
That's not totally accurate.
I do try, but I don't always succeed. When we're having fun in class, it's easy to go off on a tangent. Today's tangent was Batman.
Let me back up.
We read and analyzed a really interesting essay by Barbara Kingsolver titled "Life Is Precious, or It's Not." Her main argument is that we are a society that glorifies violence so our children are learning that killing is acceptable. Her call to action is to get rid of all of our books, movies, video games, and music that represent murder ("however symbolic") as anything but the tragic loss it is. This pushes students a little too far. That's why we analyze it. I told my class today that I am unwilling to give up my Batman movies (and graphic novels).
Just before moving into the next phase of the lesson, a student asked if I had seen the newest trailer for The Dark Knight Rises. Well, he got me. We spent two minutes of class watching Bane torture Batman, and Selena Kyle in her catsuit.
It was awesome.
My life has been full of Batman awesomeness lately. Last week our friends invited us over to play the Wii LEGO Batman game.
We were greeted by this:
On the kitchen table were a selection of snacks, like these:
They had a balloon pit for the kids (not a Lazarus Pit, thank heaven). Their littlest is just younger than Ji, and those boys went crazy with the balloons.
After the girls had both had a turn battling bad guys as Batman and Robin, I was paired up with their four-year-old to battle Mr. Freeze.
Here's a confession: I think this was the second time in five years that I've played a video game (if you don't count the three times I've died on Google Pac-Man). The last time I played a game was Dr. Mario on a Super Nintendo. My brother, sister, and I had a three-player game going, but since my gaming skills are pathetic they put me on the easiest level. They were busy competing against each other, watching the other's progress and freaking out because their diseases weren't eradicated quickly enough. The screen suddenly stopped; they both thought the game had frozen. The truth was that I had won. They hadn't even noticed my few laughing diseases had all been cured by my slow-falling Dr. Mario pills. I think that's the only video game I've won.
But I stood up and played LEGO Batman.
If I look confused, it's because I am.
I kept having to pause and figure out where the A, Z, and B buttons were. Our friends' four-year-old was politely asking if he could do different tricks, like constructing some LEGO carts and things. As a heavy magnetic-suited Robin, I fell down into the depths of Mr. Freeze's ice cream factory dozens of times.
It's good to be humbled. I may be able to rhetorically analyze an argument with my hands tied behind my back, but even Batman can keep me guessing.
That's not totally accurate.
I do try, but I don't always succeed. When we're having fun in class, it's easy to go off on a tangent. Today's tangent was Batman.
Let me back up.
We read and analyzed a really interesting essay by Barbara Kingsolver titled "Life Is Precious, or It's Not." Her main argument is that we are a society that glorifies violence so our children are learning that killing is acceptable. Her call to action is to get rid of all of our books, movies, video games, and music that represent murder ("however symbolic") as anything but the tragic loss it is. This pushes students a little too far. That's why we analyze it. I told my class today that I am unwilling to give up my Batman movies (and graphic novels).
Just before moving into the next phase of the lesson, a student asked if I had seen the newest trailer for The Dark Knight Rises. Well, he got me. We spent two minutes of class watching Bane torture Batman, and Selena Kyle in her catsuit.
It was awesome.
My life has been full of Batman awesomeness lately. Last week our friends invited us over to play the Wii LEGO Batman game.
We were greeted by this:
On the kitchen table were a selection of snacks, like these:
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| Yes. That is actually a venus flytrap next to Poison Ivy's carrot cake. |
They had a balloon pit for the kids (not a Lazarus Pit, thank heaven). Their littlest is just younger than Ji, and those boys went crazy with the balloons.
After the girls had both had a turn battling bad guys as Batman and Robin, I was paired up with their four-year-old to battle Mr. Freeze.
Here's a confession: I think this was the second time in five years that I've played a video game (if you don't count the three times I've died on Google Pac-Man). The last time I played a game was Dr. Mario on a Super Nintendo. My brother, sister, and I had a three-player game going, but since my gaming skills are pathetic they put me on the easiest level. They were busy competing against each other, watching the other's progress and freaking out because their diseases weren't eradicated quickly enough. The screen suddenly stopped; they both thought the game had frozen. The truth was that I had won. They hadn't even noticed my few laughing diseases had all been cured by my slow-falling Dr. Mario pills. I think that's the only video game I've won.
But I stood up and played LEGO Batman.
I kept having to pause and figure out where the A, Z, and B buttons were. Our friends' four-year-old was politely asking if he could do different tricks, like constructing some LEGO carts and things. As a heavy magnetic-suited Robin, I fell down into the depths of Mr. Freeze's ice cream factory dozens of times.
It's good to be humbled. I may be able to rhetorically analyze an argument with my hands tied behind my back, but even Batman can keep me guessing.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Deliverance
Elisabeth asked her grandma what they would be doing for Easter Sunday. Grandma replied, “nothing pagan.”
So we kicked off the Gill family Easter weekend with an Easter egg hunt. Yeah, it’s pagan but when a nine-year-old who has lived in England for the last two years anticipates coming back to the United States just for the candy, I don’t feel too bad about stuffing plastic eggs full of cinnamon bunnies, speckled malt eggs, and jelly beans.
Passover started last night at sundown. Our seder started about two and a half hours before the sun set and lasted about thirty-five minutes instead of four hours because guests included six children, three teenagers, five grandparents, two aunts, three uncles, James, his sister, her boyfriend, and me. We reviewed the essentials of the seder, particularly the three symbols of the seder tray, which Rabbi Gamaliel expressly stated must be explained or one has not fulfilled his duty. We also played “Who knows one?” and tried to breathe out all thirteen principles in a single breath. No one passed out.
My favorite moment in James’s condensed, Jewish-Mormon seder is when we dip into our glasses of juice (not wine) and drop ten droplets onto our plates to symbolize the suffering of Egypt from the ten plagues. James then holds up an entire cup of juice and explains that when during the Last Supper Jesus says “This is my blood,” He was illustrating the power of the Atonement.
During Passover and Easter the Atonement is always foremost in my mind. That is, after all, the purpose of the holidays: to help us remember that God delivers His people—from bondage, from death, from despair.
And so in this season when snow tries to bury budding fruit trees and the ground cyclically freezes and thaws, I remember death came to Mary’s firstborn, just as it did to all of the firstborn sons of Egypt. But He rose triumphant on that Sunday, and on that day the cold earth could not hold back its bounty. Each of the sons of Egypt is delivered by Him, as is every soul who has come to this earth, and so am I.
So we kicked off the Gill family Easter weekend with an Easter egg hunt. Yeah, it’s pagan but when a nine-year-old who has lived in England for the last two years anticipates coming back to the United States just for the candy, I don’t feel too bad about stuffing plastic eggs full of cinnamon bunnies, speckled malt eggs, and jelly beans.
Passover started last night at sundown. Our seder started about two and a half hours before the sun set and lasted about thirty-five minutes instead of four hours because guests included six children, three teenagers, five grandparents, two aunts, three uncles, James, his sister, her boyfriend, and me. We reviewed the essentials of the seder, particularly the three symbols of the seder tray, which Rabbi Gamaliel expressly stated must be explained or one has not fulfilled his duty. We also played “Who knows one?” and tried to breathe out all thirteen principles in a single breath. No one passed out.
My favorite moment in James’s condensed, Jewish-Mormon seder is when we dip into our glasses of juice (not wine) and drop ten droplets onto our plates to symbolize the suffering of Egypt from the ten plagues. James then holds up an entire cup of juice and explains that when during the Last Supper Jesus says “This is my blood,” He was illustrating the power of the Atonement.
During Passover and Easter the Atonement is always foremost in my mind. That is, after all, the purpose of the holidays: to help us remember that God delivers His people—from bondage, from death, from despair.
And so in this season when snow tries to bury budding fruit trees and the ground cyclically freezes and thaws, I remember death came to Mary’s firstborn, just as it did to all of the firstborn sons of Egypt. But He rose triumphant on that Sunday, and on that day the cold earth could not hold back its bounty. Each of the sons of Egypt is delivered by Him, as is every soul who has come to this earth, and so am I.
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