I have a special super power.

Some people might label it “poor communcation.”  Others won’t acknowledge that it happens.  A few others might even call it sexism.  Since my husband and I see the world through the lens of super heroes and Jedi, I prefer to think of it as a super power.  We recently realized that I have the amazing ability to throw my voice, so that only one of the two other people in the conversation actually hears what I said.  It could be that I didn’t talk loud enough, or didn’t wait for a break in the conversation.  I would have chosen that explanation, as well, initially, but it didn’t happen only once – and the other people around seem to hear me just fine.  I’ve been using this special power most of my life, but I’ve stepped it up lately, it seems.

First it was the wonderful, elderly man who sold us the farm.  Several times, he was explaining some piece of machinery, or one of the mechanical systems on the house to us, and I would follow up with a question.  He’d hesitate briefly to look at me, then continue on with his explanation as if I hadn’t said anything.  My husband and I brushed it off, telling each other that at 90-plus, the apparent lack of regard for my question might have actually been due to hearing impairment.  Usually my husband would find a way to work my questions into his dialog with the gentleman, so at least we still were able to gather the information.  Because he was so gracious, kind, and helpful to us, I felt bad for using my super power on him, but I figured a person of his generation probably didn’t expect a person of my gender to be asking questions about mechanicals anyway, so he probably wasn’t that upset that I had made my voice inaudible to him; probably no need for me to apologize.

Once the old 9N tractor failed on us, I started using my super power indiscriminately.  The salesperson at the Kubota dealership was showing us a sub-compact with a 3-point hitch.  Although it had the 3-point, the machine looked too small to handle the pasture we need it for, so when he took a breath in his sales pitch, I asked whether that machine was powerful enough to run our 60” brush hog.  He looked at me just like the old man had and kept on talking, just like the old man had; but he was not an old man, he was our age!  I waited patiently through another few minutes of sales before finding another break to repeat my question.  This time, I spoke louder and slower, but got the exact same results.  It was so obvious that my husband glanced over at me uneasily, and we both laughed a little.  He didn’t pick up on our frustration and went on talking to my husband.  Finally, my husband interrupted him to say, “Hey, did you have a question?”  Apparently his intervention was Kryptonite to my super power, because the salesman finally heard me, and replied that, no, we would need to purchase a smaller brush hog.  Was he avoiding the no sale or did he actually not hear my question?  Was it because I was female, or because I was invoking my amazing Jedi mind tricks?  It’s not like I was asking what color it comes in, or whether it has a make-up mirror.

The new tractor delivery.

The same thing happened at the Case dealership, when I wanted to know how moving up a model size affected the price of the machine.  Then it happened again in our driveway when I suggested we move the trailer to the disabled tractor, instead of freewheeling the disabled tractor (that has no breaks!) down a hill to get it to the trailer.  When the tractor guy told us his seemingly life-threatening plan, I outlined my own suggestion for getting the tractor on the trailer.  He gave me the old man look, and then he repeated my plan back to us, as if he was suggesting it for the first time.

It may not be a complete coincidence that we made our purchase, not from a salesperson at all, but from a mechanic who came out of the garage and never once fell victim to my super power.  He patiently answered both of our questions; he showed us all the levers; he never took my husband aside to tell him to keep me away from the farm machinery.

I’m blessed by a husband who does hear my voice and show regard for my thoughts, ideas, input, and questions.  Being valued by the most important person in my life gives me the patience to stay gracious and laugh it off when my amazing Jedi abilities complicated communication elsewhere.  He even lets me drive the tractor.

They have ears, but cannot hear Psalm 115:6

$2 is too rich for my blood.

Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks PowerBall blew it by doubling their ticket price.  They made the move because they wanted higher jackpots to set them apart from the other lottery games, but they drove their customers to Mega-Millions, and now it’s Mega-Millions that is all over the media with a half billion dollar jackpot.  Why would you pay $2 to lose at a game that you can lose at for $1?  Whether it costs $1 or $2, I am ambivalent to the lottery.

On the one hand, it is definitely a poor tax in my mind.  People who can least afford to play are the ones who spend the most.  Legislators spend all kinds of time debating our tax code, trying to determine how to fairly distribute the load, and many people argue tirelessly that the burden needs to be lifted off of struggling families, but those same families go out and spend an average of $500 a year on lottery tickets (according to this morning’s news), leading our government to pay for schools and roads by institutionalizing gambling, instead of taxing wealth.

On the other hand, who doesn’t want in?  I’m not spending my dollar because I think I’ll win.  I’m spending it, because if they’re giving away millions of dollars, I at least want my name in the pot.  I’m like my daughter, who puts $1 into the Crane Machine at the arcade every time we go.  We know that we are wasting our money.  We know that we have better chances of contracting Mad Cow Disease from a panda, than actually winning.  But if someone’s going to walk away with a stuffed Scooby Doo the size of a yak, for $1, we want our shot.

If everyone approached the lottery with that mentality, I probably wouldn’t loath it the way I do.  Yes, I buy a ticket now and then.  I will even buy a ticket when the pot is only $20 million.  Maybe I couldn’t pay off my house, send my kids to college, visit the Great Barrier Reef, and help plant a church with that, but…wait…yes, I could do all that with even the smallest jackpot.  So I throw my name in the hat for the price of a pack of gum.  But despite playing, I still loath the way it tempts us.  I hate that people buy lottery tickets instead of milk for their kids.  I despise that it reinforces the American cultural aspiration that we are all going to somehow get rich quick; an aspiration that fuels our drive to climb on each others’ heads to get what we want.  An aspiration that more often than not makes people poor, instead of rich.

Let’s face it.  The house always wins.

you abuse the poor and demand heavy taxes from them. Amos 5:11

I'm itching for a road trip.

Between the baby, the move, and financially preparing for me to quit my job, family vacationing has been off the table for the last couple years.  Granted, and my husband would be quick to point it out, we did travel with the kids each of the last two summers, to Arizona and to Wyoming, but both times it was on short notice for a memorial service.  We tried to make the most of the time off and family togetherness, but, in my mind, it really doesn’t qualify as a true “family vacation.”  We have thoroughly enjoyed a few weekend visits to neighboring cities, and I wouldn’t complain about Minneapolis, Chicago, or the Wisconsin Dells, but, again, these short, fun weekend trips were really more “getaways” than “vacations.”

Mostly, those occasions served to remind me how awesome it is to hit the open road with the whole family in tow.  I love those long carefree days of seeing new things together, listening to old school music on the radio, eating deviled ham sandwiches for lunch, and taking turns watching Star Wars movies in the back seat with the kids.  There’re KOA campgrounds calling my name, World’s Biggest Balls of stuff to be photographed and explored.  There’s national history to be learned in person, hotel pools to be cannonballed into, mountain paths to be hiked, and, I hope with all my heart, an ocean to be splashed in.  I don’t care whether we go east, west, or south; I just have that deep hankering to go.

It’s not entirely reasonable.  The baby’s still small.  The house isn’t unpacked or organized.  The summer is still months off.  It always costs more than you budget, someone inevitably spills, craps, or vomits in the back of the van.  At some point, your will to rough it breaks down and you spring for a two-room suite that gives you a locking door between yourselves and the kids.  Yes, I know all the limitations.  But the heart wants what the heart wants.  I long for a 2-4000 mile, 14-20 day adventure, together with my favorite people.  I think it’s road trips that make us American; it’s our patriotic duty to explore this vast and beautiful nation.  Are you buying this?  Because I really want to go.

You brought us here and gave us this land rich with milk and honey. Deuteronomy 26:9

I used bad words on my kids.



Hopefully not in our near future!

It’s always embarrassing when I spout off at the mouth.  No one would ever mistake me for a sailor, but there are certainly moments when my word choice is, to say the least, unbecoming.  Who hasn’t endured a moment where a heavy object fell on their toe, or a splash of boiling water seared their finger, and one of those words – the ones we usually refer to by only their first letter – involuntarily erupted?  Not wanting a young child to “out” me by repeating such choice vocabulary, I used to follow up with a series of decoy words.  For example, a carton of milk slips through my fingers and floods across the kitchen floor, and I blurt “Sh#(!” as it goes down, right in front of a very verbal 2 year old; if I think quickly enough, I followed it closely with, “Sugar!  Speedboat! Sassafras! Banana Split!”  If the practice didn’t completely confuse my daughter, it left only a 1-in-5 chance that she would drop a crayon in the church nursery and entertain her caregiver with a PG-13 expletive.  And what’s cuter than a little one who blurts out “Speedboat!” when they drop things!

10 years into this mom-thing, I’ve done pretty well at eschewing those words from even my non-voluntary speech patterns [sorry for making you look up eschew, but at least it’s a fun word you can repeat in mixed company].  In fact, my daughters have a nearly puritanical attitude toward word use.  It cracks me up every time I have to apologize for calling a malfunctioning appliance or misbehaving pet, “stupid.”  I’m not sure if their horror stems from a true belief that “stupid” is a really bad word, or if it’s the tone of disgust I’m using when I drop the S-Bomb.  I’ve tried several times to explain to them that it’s only a bad word when it’s directed at someone.  That strategy my someday backfire, however, when they decide to apply the same criteria to other words.

This week, we had an insanely frustrating afternoon, during which I hauled 20-some pounds of carseat and baby in and out of every store in town that carried children’s shoes.  As we were boarding the minivan at the end of the day, still empty-handed, my oldest began to snap at me for not buying her the ill-fitting and over-budget tennis shoes she had found at our last stop.  While I was in the midst of both reprimanding her for her tone and explaining to her that money is finite, so we do not waste it on items that do not suit our purposes, my middle daughter wanted something my oldest daughter had, and began demanding it, loudly and repeatedly.  Rather than honoring her with a response, I tried to finish the conversation with my older girl, before dealing with the younger, but she got louder and more insistent, the longer we ignored her.  In short order, the van was ringing with angry voices and the baby started to cry.  My older daughter added to the cacophony by starting her counter-argument before I finished my statement, leading to all four of us, baby included, raising our voices in ugly tones, at the same time, inside a closed up vehicle.  Completely frustrated, with my head and ears ringing, I went up another decibel to shout, “SHUT UP!"

The silence was instant – even the baby seemed to drop off in shock.  The big girls’ eyes got huge and welled up with tears.  I might as well have called them the B-word.  Or said I didn’t love them.  My heart was heavy; I was so frustrated, I took the cheap way out.  I knew using those words would have exactly that effect.  And I sold out my values to obtain silence.  I finished, calmly, explaining why we didn’t buy the shoes, then apologized for using those words, and told my middle daughter that I was sorry for how I said it, but I wasn’t sorry for making her stop interrupting, because she knew better than that.

We haven’t yet had an outbreak of “shut up” around the house, so hopefully they know that, even if Mommy says it, that doesn’t make it right.  And I realize that there are plenty of quality parents out there who use far harsher phrases on their kids than “shut up,” but I still get a little heavy hearted when I think of how hurt they were, because for our family, it was a verbal grenade.

A kind answer soothes angry feelings, but harsh words stir them up. Proverbs 15:1

A training bra made me cry.

Hopefully it is just a hormone thing, but I felt the tell-tale itchiness around my eyes this morning at Walmart. It took me by surprise and was, well, embarrassing. Fortunately, no one actually saw me on the verge of tears in front of the girls’ training bras, but it happened, and I’m going to get it all off my chest.

You’re probably thinking that this all goes back to being sentimental about my daughters growing up – which, in all honesty, I am – but that was not the reason for this morning’s weak moment. This has been building up since my first venture into the girls’ section, when my “110th percentile for height and weight” toddler needed to start wearing 4/5’s at not quite three years old. Up until then, I’d noticed that there were platform go-go boots and camouflaged mini-skirts in the baby section, but was able to ignore them. There were still plenty of jumpers and Mary Jane’s to choose from. When I had to move out of the toddler section prematurely, is when I starting feeling strong discomfort with the fashion trends for young girls. I had to navigate aisles of low-slung jeans, and slim-fit t-shirts with sassy sayings; it was very discouraging to shop there for a three year old. I could have dressed my preschooler for a night out at the dance club as easily as for a day at the park.

I’ve read that marketers found decades ago that the cheapest way to add new buyers was to employ a technique called “compression.” Whatever you have successfully marketed to a particular age demographic, you then market to the next youngest age. They are usually primed to desire these styles and items, because they’ve been seeing them in use and associate them with the next stage of maturity. First they started marketing college stuff to high school girls, then once that was maxed out, they kept moving down. I think platform shoes on children who are just learning to walk pretty much illustrates how far beyond reason compression has pushed us.

I’ve tried to set a fashion standard for our family where modesty does not require fashion blindness, but little girls must look like little girls. Still, my daughters can both recite my typical response to their requests for high heels or mature clothing styles, especially when they try to invoke their friends’ fashion choices to support their cause. “[Insert friend’s name] is not my daughter, she can wear what her mom says is OK. You are my daughter, so you can wear what I say is OK.” I’ve been able to live with that, and overall, I think the girls have been comfortable living with that, too.

This morning, my “I can dress my children appropriately without judging other moms” mantra came crashing down, and it honestly smarts. As I walked past the training bras, one in particular caught my eye. It was so tiny. I think it was a 30A, or possibly a 28A. Put it this way, this bra might have fit a six year old. Now, especially the way weight and nutrition have hastened puberty in young girls, I don’t deny there might be a six year old out there that needs a training bra. But this bra, tiny as it was, had an underwire and a good ¼ inch of padding in the cup. This bra was not designed to help an awkwardly blooming little girl achieve modesty under her t-shirts. This bra was designed to make a very young girl look womanly.

My first thought was, “Fine, let some other mom buy this thing for her kid. My kids don’t need to be attracting that kind of attention – ever.” Then I thought about that other little girl. My girls are going to be in school with her. As the physical changes and self-criticism of adolescence set in, my girls are going to be comparing themselves to those little girls. The other kids are going to be comparing them to those little girls. What kind of a body ideal are our girls going to have by Sixth Grade, if they start wearing padded underwire bras in Second?

Kids are notoriously foolish. They won’t realize that it’s that girl's ridiculous undergarment that makes her look like a teenager or that my daughters’ shape is natural and real. Whether anyone says hurtful things or not, how can I shelter my girls from the warped perceptions that will inevitably arise from our cultural obsession with dressing little girls like miniature grown-ups? If I compromise my ideals, I contribute to the trend; if I uphold my ideals, my daughters may end up feeling awkward or inadequate next to their over-developed looking peers. There is no way to win; whether I buy padded underwire bras for my sweet, little girls, or not.

I thought adolescence was hard back when I went through it, but that was a cake walk. Raising these three girls to be confident and secure – able to show humility, yet feel certain of their beauty and value – feels like a bigger challenge this afternoon than it did when I woke up this morning. And it makes me want to cry a little.

Let's pray that our young sons will grow like strong plants and that our daughters will be as lovely as columns in the corner of a palace. Psalm 144:12

I’m a re-gifter, but I still don’t want your junk.

As the holidays are approaching, my husband and I are once again confronted with the challenge of gift-giving. It starts early, when you have out of town family to consider. It is always amusing to plan gifts with my husband; I have some values about gift giving that have been both refreshing and challenging to him through the years, because they differ so significantly from his family of origin. I remember when we were dating how he saw a Star Wars cap he liked and made the purchase, then dropped it off at his parents for them to give him for Christmas. They nonchalantly pulled the cash out and made the trade. I almost fell on the floor.

In my family, the importance of surprise in gift giving far outweighed the importance of the gift’s perfection or actual monetary value. There was almost no point in giving my parents a gift list, because we never got something we actually asked for. Instead we got crazy stuff that sometimes confused, but always entertained. Most of it was socks and chapstick, but at the end of the morning we’d end up seated back-to-back to tear the paper open on three sets of matching roller skates, or a complete family set of lazar-tag equipment. Sometimes it was a perfect match, sometimes it wasn’t, but it taught me a valuable lesson about gifts that has served me well: don’t expect anything.

In my opinion, the minute you start thinking you’re entitled to something you really want or need, something that has a specific use or value to you, gift giving becomes a perfunctory exchange of commodities. If you need a particular perfume, go buy what you like. If you want a gift from me, expect something that has a little flavor of me, and a little flavor of you. Something that reflects the joy I feel in having a relationship with you.

That, to me, is the essence of gift giving. It honors the relationship. The gifts we give are derived from those first gifts, brought to Jesus by the Magi. Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh: gifts no infant would enjoy. But they were meant to demonstrate the meaning of his Advent; that divinity had come to Earth to reach out to humanity in sacrifice. It honored the new relationship God was forming with us.

So, I am not ashamed to say that I regift. I’m not crazy or independently wealthy. If I get something lovely, that I’m just not in love with (especially if it is a commodity offered to me out of obligation, instead of a reflection of relationship), and I know of someone for whom it might just be a match, I will more than gladly turn it out in lavish new paper and bow for someone else to enjoy. But when I get stuck with one-off kitchen towels with a mushroom motif, I draw the line and put them in the rag bin.

I try to pay attention to budget, but not cost, in gift giving. What I try to pay the most attention to, though, is my friends and loved ones, so I won’t be at a loss when the time comes to give them something. I might give the occasional lame duck (not sure my sister-in-law was as excited about the first season of Big Love as we were), but now and then I really hit the nail on the head – and isn’t that fun for both of us? Best of all, no one ever has to wonder whether I just pulled something off the shelf and passed it off on them. I’d sooner give you a gag gift of fake barf I think will make you laugh, as a set of diamond earrings that I don’t think you’ll really love. I’m out for one thing – to let you know you matter to me.  The real gift is my affection - some people accept it with joy, others would prefer a gift card.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17

I Was Too Direct With the Salesperson

When he got completely tongue tied and disappeared into the back office for several minutes, my husband started cracking up.  At first, I didn't realize what I'd done.

We're trying to get a backyard playset for the girls without taking out a loan. Complicating our search, our older daughter is fascinated with monkey bars.  It is remarkably hard to find an affordable playset with monkey bars!  So we wandered into the various backyard playset stores, braced to hear unthinkable numbers, but hoping to find out what they could do with monkey bars.  At the first place, a low-key salesperson came over and showed us the options, giving us a catalog and price list so we could measure our needs against their offerings.

At the second place, we got the pitch.  When he heard "monkey bars," dollar signs seemed to circle his head like the tweeting birds on Tom & Jerry.  Monkey bars must be a serious jackpot for playset salespeople.  Instead of answering our questions, he picked out a monstrous castle with a million cargo nets and rope swings.  He informed us that we need to add on a bigger swing beam right at the get-go because our five year old isn't going to be satisfied with a ten foot beam.  If we don't get her the twelve foot beam, the whole multi-thousand-dollar playset is going to sit unused by our bored, ungrateful kids.

My husband, ever good-natured, was trying to wait the guy out, but every add-on we didn't challenge encouraged him to suggest another add-on.  I could see my life slipping away from me; time I could never get back.  So I asked him to pause his sales pitch and said, "I know it's going to sound like I haven't been listening to you explain your philosophy on challenging kids to grow into their playset, but you keep trying to up-sell us and I'd like to redirect you to down-sell us instead.  We're looking for a small fort with monkey bars," there were probably three sets in the room that were more like what we had asked for, so I gestured to one of them, "like this one here...can we put monkey bars on that?"

He stammered a little, but hadn't given up on the castle.  After pointing out a few features on the smaller set, he began to emphasize its limitations and was motioning back toward the castle.  I wasn't having it. "I'm sorry, but it seems like you are starting to try to up-sell us again.  We came in to find out about a playset we might want.  You need to give us the information we are asking for, instead of telling us what you think we should do, so we can make a decision about what we really want."  Then he stammered fitfully and retreated to the office.

I honestly thought I was being helpful to the guy.  We're not going to buy the castle.  He's wasting his time and ours, and he is also potentially missing out on selling us what we actually want.  My husband, who is an expert on "handling" me, pointed out the stammering and long absence (through his mirth).  The salesperson's discomfort hadn't actually registered with me, because I was focused on the task at hand - finding the right playset - not on the social implications of hurting a salesperson's feelings.  When he came back out, he did have better information for us, and even felt courageous enough to run back to the office and get his card to staple to the catalog (no price list) he gave my husband.

But now I feel bad.  I thought it was about a business transaction.  But, and in my line of work I should know this, nothing is just business.  Even between strangers, it's still about relationship; otherwise there wouldn't be road rage, right?  So I'm sorry Craig or Greg or whatever your name is.  I know you're just doing what you've been trained to do.  I'm not out to get you.  I just wanted to know about the smaller playsets.  Next time, I'll try and say it nicer.  I really didn’t want to be mean.  If it's any conciliation, there's a clerk at SmashBurger who hates me, too.  I declined to add a $5 side salad onto my daughter's kid's meal when she asked for roughage instead of fries.  I think she thought I should have bought the salad; our relationship hasn't been the same since.

You can tame a tiger, but you can't tame a tongue—it's never been done. James 3:7-8