Archive for March, 2012

Books, sweet books

The other night I dreamed that we walked into the new house, and they’d painted every single room beige. I was distraught, crying “Why? We were going to buy it anyway!”

Today I started packing my books. Besides china and extra blankets, they’re the easiest to box up first, yet paradoxically the very items I’m most anxious to have put away afterwards so I can feel truly at home. I’ll never forget having to leave almost all my books behind on vicarage, taking only my “how to raise a baby” type books for my first year with an infant. When Pastor Crown came in to see us for the first time, he announced that he always looks over a family’s bookshelves to get a sense of who they are. I was horrified, but too scared to scream, “This isn’t meeeeeee!”

The books are a decent historical record of all the silly and not-so-silly phases I’ve gone through over the years. One box is full of simple living books like Your Money or Your Life and In Praise of Slowness. A few more hold my ginormous wine tomes, although I finally passed my sommelier flashcards to a friend. There’s a box with my childhood favorites–the Laura Ingalls Wilder series, the Anne of Green Gables series, the Narnia series, and some Madeline L’Engle volumes. All of the books I studied for English lit classes in college, including the odd postmodern Irish literature collection. My Lutheran books, which multiply quarterly now that I’m on the CPH board and get boxes of all the new products. The stacks of law school books and writing books, including one creative book called The Artist’s Way that I almost dumped but then thought better of, because maybe I need a humbling reminder that I once thought some woo-woo “letting go of my childhood and all the people who are holding back my creativity” workbook would make me a bestselling novelist. (To be fair, a lot of my writer friends love Julia Cameron’s books. I am not one of them.)

Lookin' pretty bare in there.

A few of my books are actually my parents’, borrowed from their shelves in college and never returned. (Shhh!) And the rest are my favorite works of fiction, everything from my complete Oscar Wilde collection to Edith Wharton, Chaim Potok and Ernest Hemingway to Anthony Trollope and Henry James.

Is it too soon to already miss them?

My little shorn sheep

It’s spring, so we chopped off the hair. Sophia’s short curls really suit her spunky personality. Jonathan, despite his indignation at being made to sit for a photo, is handsome and looking like a boy again (his hair and eyelashes were so long, even when he was in head to toe blue people were calling him “she”). Kate, a newly-declared tomboy, decided to rid herself of four inches of dead weight. She’s running track this spring and loving it, but has decided everything “girly” in her life has to go.

You won’t hear me complain.

Inside the cave-purse

By request, the contents of my purse.

But first, you must know that until last month, I’d been carrying around a ginormous diaper bag. Ditching that for a regular purse was a huge move. I found this red beauty at the Habitat Thrift Store for $1.

If you hang out with me, like, ever, you know that everything I own is in a neutral color. A red purse is stepping out in a major way. (And wouldn’t you know, I get tons of compliments on it, even as I’m still sometimes shocked and even skeeved at its hideous brightness.)

Inside:

I won’t spread it all out, but here’s an inventory.

  1. Diapers and wipes
  2. Wallet, also red
  3. Lowe’s coupon
  4. Target list
  5. “Hanitizer” (Sophia’s portmanteau of ‘hand sanitizer’)
  6. A notebook for when I get bright ideas and/or the kids are bored
  7. Epi pen and Benadryl for Sophia’s nut allergies
  8. Gum, tissues, lotion, and Chapstick
  9. A neverending supply of crumbs from Jonathan’s snacks
  10. I just counted three pens in the bottom, though they’re never there when I need one

And that’s my purse. The rest of your purses look like Mormon blogging mommy purses. I’m trying not to be jealous of that.

Well, maybe the house will sell.

Yesterday I took the kids for haircuts, and when we got home, workers were putting a fence around the old school across the street. A few months ago, the mayor condemned the building unless someone put in a winning RFP; turns out a developer wants to turn it into assisted living homes. Nice.

So the news reporter came over and wanted to talk. It’s hard to explain how TV people look in person, except that I felt as if I were staring at this simultaneously normal guy/Greek god, with his flawless skin, manicured eyebrows, and glowing face, but ordinary features. I’ve actually done a few news segments; the last time was when they were thinking about closing the hospital down the street, and Sophia was a baby. She sat on the porch swing and they basically filmed her the whole time with my voice thrown in, and she was adorable.

This time it was just me, still sick and doped up on sinus-infection-reducing drugs, wearing old jeans and a T-shirt because nothing is clean. But I did it, because I have a hard time saying no to reporter’s requests since I make my living the same way.

The camera really does add 20 pounds. Right on the hips, people.

But the good news: they centered the story around the fact that we’re moving and that this news could help our house sale. I hope he’s right. I tried to sneak in a plug for Praise Lutheran, but that part wound up on the cutting room floor.

To house sales! (Click on the picture to watch the segment.)

Spring Break

It started off well, with gorgeous weather, a trip to the park, family walks, and baseball in the yard. And then, this morning my CPH cold had turned into a sinus infection, and all our fun break plans went out the window when instead I had to drug myself with ibuprofen and drag all three kids to the doctor and pharmacy. Jonathan was pretty much passed out the whole time–thank goodness for Kate, who carried his sleepy body all over for me.

And, it seems I just signed up to write wine pairings for Cooking Light’s big, bad, benchmark anniversary cookbook. Which is fabulous and a huge honor. But they’re due Friday. And, since my left sinus is throbbing and I can’t even begin to think about wine until this combo antibiotic and decongestant kick in, I’m sitting on the porch swing watching the kids play and thinking how nice my bed would feel if I were curled up in it, but alternately tearing up and laughing at their antics and wishing I could freeze them in time, right now.

And, since it seems I always pick the times when I should definitely be concentrating on all the big life changes and my ginormous to-do list to launch a big old work project, well…I’m launching a big old work project. Maybe it’s an escape mechanism, so I don’t have to think about collecting boxes and packing. Derek hates my timing, but you can’t put a stopper on the Muse.

She will have to go into the holding pen for awhile, though. I have wine pairings to write, parks to explore, playdates to attend, and, unfortunately, boxes to pack.

False advertising

As much as I love the things I think about in my work life–the perfect choice of words, how to brand a company via their website copy, the most persuasive way to bring in customers and clients–I never like to apply those elements of marketing to matters of faith. It’s painful to see Lutheran churches chase after silly marketing principles in a misguided effort to bring people in, when all they have to do is read the Scriptures to really understand Whose church it is and Who is in control of the church–and the people outside of it. (In case those capital W’s didn’t give you a hint, I’ll just say it: God.)

Still, if you’ll indulge me for a few paragraphs, I’d like to draw an extended metaphor using the methods the more liberal factions in the churches themselves use, in an utter failure in logic.

Simply put, their advertising is false. When a pastor and a congregation promise to uphold the Scriptures and the Lutheran confessions, and then turn to evangelical, Baptist, and nondenominational resources, methods, and worship in an effort to reach out to the culture, they are lying to people who walk in the door. They’re promising something–Lutheran worship–and then not delivering. If the Lutheran church were a franchise–say, Olive Garden–then anyone walking through the door should know what to expect. Good value wine, breadsticks, Zuppa Toscana. Sure, some of the wines vary from location to location depending on consumer preferences in that area and availability, but you generally know what you’re going to get.

Likewise, you should know what you’re going to get when you walk into a Lutheran church. The liturgy. A sermon with the law and gospel rightly divided. Closed communion. Of course some practices vary from church to church, but the general feel of a Lutheran church should be the same.

But it’s not. Visiting different Lutheran churches is like going on a cross-country road trip where you only stop and eat at Olive Gardens, and though they have the same name, the similarities end there. Some have great service, great food, and nice decor. Others are humbler but the food is outstanding. Still others stink at everything and are on the brink of being closed down by the health department. In some locations the staff is so over the top that you’re embarrassed to be sitting there and hope you don’t run into anyone you know.

Some Lutheran churches try to be as un-Lutheran as they can. Others are as Lutherany Lutheran as they can be. And, sadly, many Lutheran churches just don’t understand or appreciate what it even means to be Lutheran, and they’re in that wishy-washy middle ground where they’re neither very Lutheran nor very anything else.

Since these people brushing aside real Lutheranism love marketing so much, surely they must realize the irony of their not falling in line with their own church’s historic branding? And here’s the worst irony: they are throwing out the best part of what it means to be Lutheran. I can’t say they’re keeping the fluff, because Lutheranism is very substantive, but I will say that they’re throwing out the good stuff and substituting fluff.

Let’s say an Olive Garden decided it wanted to be more like Burger King, and instead of simply getting out of the Olive Garden franchise and becoming a BK, it started serving “Have it Your Way” pasta dishes and put in a drive-through window and serving ginormous Cokes in disposable containers. Olive Garden executives would never stand for that kind of brand dilution. It devalues the brand and is confusing to customers. If you want to be a Burger King, then be a Burger King. Don’t use the Olive Garden name and serve BK food.

I suppose you could blame our church’s polity on the way things are. With no central command, there’s less chance of the abuse of power, but also less chance of cohesiveness, of truly walking together, as the word Synod implies.

But with all their marketing savvy and cultural expertise, I do wish those non-Lutheran Lutheran churches would either get with the brand or break it off. They’re giving us all a bad name.

 

Just a good dad

I was in St. Louis last week for another quarterly CPH meeting. It’s been almost a week and I’m still thawing out and nursing a cold I caught in the board room (which is generally about 40 degrees below zero year-round), but otherwise it was a great meeting and smooth travels.

When I get back from these trips, people always ask how Derek did, and I have a hard time answering, because they seem to want to hear that he struggled, that he made a mess of things, because, after all, he’s a guy.

Lucky for me, that’s not the case at all. He’s fabulous with the kids. When I come home from a trip, the house, the kids–everything is in perfect order. I couldn’t have done it better myself. But somehow, saying he’s a great housekeeper and child-carer sounds just as emasculating as saying he’s clueless. Like he’d be more of a man if I said I came home to three feet of dirty dishes, three dirty kids, and a husband zoned out in front of ESPN, not because he couldn’t do it right, but because he didn’t want to. (Not that coming home to that situation would make me even remotely happy. Nope.)

So I say that he always does well, the kids are happy and healthy, but that I realize it’s hard on him because, after all, he is the one who works full-time-plus, while I am the one who cares for the kids and the household miscellany the majority of the time. His sacrifice makes it all the sweeter, because I know he does it for me. Not because he’s one of those wimpy dudes in the sitcoms whose wife has a high-powered job while he wipes the baby’s butt and acts like a clown, but because he is a good husband, and a good dad. And that is exactly as it should be.

Father's Day 2008

When I got back, he told me there is one–only one–advantage to my being gone: the bed is easier to make. I laughed, because that’s exactly what I think when he’s out of town.

 

 

Dress-up

For National Lutheran Schools Week, the kids get to dress up in themed outfits every day. Today is Generation day. Kate’s class is dressing like grownups. Sophia’s class is dressing like grandparents.

Kate chose a businesswoman suit. She couldn’t decide exactly what she does, but she said, “I work in an office. Kind of like you, except you work in your bathrobe and you never go anywhere.”

Yes, that. It is a real perk of my job.

Sophia decided to dress like Grandma Roberts. When we were upstairs trying to decide on an outfit, Kate told her, “Grandma wears tan pants and really bright shirts.” You see how she ended up: white jeans, brown shoes with pink flowers, a pink heart shirt, and a black and white leopard print sweater. She kind of looks like a Vegas grandma, minus the red lipstick, cigarette, and booze. Sorry, Maureen. :)

Today is Kate’s ninth birthday. Nine years ago we were shocked into being parents. We didn’t know what we were doing, but we loved it. Now, we know a little better what we’re doing, and we love it even more.

Happy birthday, sweet Kate.

And, I’m off to St. Louis!

 

Cake pops for Kate

This little girl

is turning nine on Tuesday. Since I just interviewed Bakerella, inventor of cake pops, for a story, we decided to make some to take to school for her birthday.

We started by baking a cake and then crumbling it into a big bowl.

Then we added frosting (we made our own from cream cheese rather than use a can) and mixed it up.

Then we rolled the cake-frosting mixture into balls and stuck them in the freezer for awhile.

When they were hardened up, we dipped them in candy coating. Kate chose some pretty cool colors.

Sophia demonstrated Bakerella’s wrist-tap technique, in which you tap your wrist with your other hand to get the excess coating off. If she’d been doing it on her own, she would have just banged the pop against the glass until the cake fell off. :)

Kate put the finished pops into styrofoam to dry.

The purples turned out pretty well.

So did the greens.

Then the girls scattered and left me with this.

(And you haven’t even seen the floor.)

Not many of you should become teachers

In our new congregation, I’m working on learning names, faces, and stories. I’ve dipped my toe in the volunteering waters by signing up to bring a pan of lasagna on Sunday for our family’s welcome dinner, and pots of soup for two soup suppers in Lent. That’s it so far, because I want to see where the holes are and–as importantly–see if I’m the person to fill them.

At First, it was easy. There were needs in areas I’m good at, and it was a simple thing to step in and volunteer. Here, I’m afraid they need help in two areas many pastor’s wives are typically talented in, but for which I’d get a big fat F: playing piano/organ, and teaching.

When it comes to teaching, I stick with James.

Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness. For we all stumble in many ways. And if anyone does not stumble in what he says, he is a perfect man, able also to bridle his whole body. If we put bits into the mouths of horses so that they obey us, we guide their whole bodies as well. Look at the ships also: though they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are guided by a very small rudder wherever the will of the pilot directs. So also the tongue is a small member, yet it boasts of great things.

James 3:1-5

Scary stuff, eh? I’d rather leave teaching to the pros.

But I do love to cook. One of the ladies told me I must think all they do at Praise is eat. I told her, “You have no idea how much we love to eat. We will fit right in here!”

 

Hello, potluck.