One dog, one vote

I generally hesitate to talk politics, especially because I really don’t think Jesus was a Republican or a Democrat.  I see a lot of damage done to the gospel by Christians invoking their faith in support of one party, one candidate, or one issue, over the others.  While I do think that employing our faith in our ethical and political decision-making is essential and logical, up until this week I thought one-issue voting was a misguided practice.  I believed that it was a tool used by people of faith to try and manipulate one another – as if Christ came to earth to reshape the American political environment around a single issue – a particular sin.  That without examining any other aspect of a person’s life, choices, or faith practices, you could conclude whether they are truly a faithful follower, exclusively based on their voting record, sounded absurd to me.  That, of course, changed in 30 short seconds, when I saw the powerful message I’ve posted here:

 

Many churches want to tell me how to vote.  Many pundits want to tell me how to vote.  Many powerful, well-funded special interests want to tell me how to vote.  But now my dog wants to tell me how to vote?  For real?  My dog gets a say in how these elections should turn out?  Animal cruelty is now the single-issue litmus test I should employ for electing candidates?

Take it easy – I love animals and Steve King does kinda sound like a creep.  But I also love steak, and I could definitely see the sport in pelting a deer with an arrow and taking it home for dinner.  I absolutely love going to the races and seeing the swift and majestic horses run, even though it sometimes results in their untimely demise.  No, of course, I don’t support dog fighting.  And I definitely wouldn’t take my kids to watch two animals fight to the death.  But I’m not sure how heavy my concern is for whether pets get included in disaster plan legislation.  If my own home were to catch fire, I can assure you, getting the dog out would definitely be at the bottom of my "disaster plan," compared to making sure all the people get accounted for; it would, frankly, make me sad if first responders had to weigh a legal obligation toward my pet against getting back to the firehouse and being available to help other humans.

Let’s get real.  When we are consider the plethora of issues and problems with which our communities are struggling, when we confront all the exploitation and injustice that goes on around us, when we dream of how to make the world a better place – has the propagation of special interests gotten so out of hand that now even our pets get a say in the political process, provided they make a donation large enough?

 He responded, “The children have to be fed first. It isn’t right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.” Mark 7:27

I have puppet music stuck in my head.

Did you know I made the first cut to be on the second season of Big Brother? I submitted my tape (back then, it was all VHS), and got a call back to go up to Minneapolis and interview on camera. It was also back when “real” people appeared on reality shows, not models and aspiring actors who already have agents and gigs. Anyway, I went into my interview ready to shine, and they about fell out of their chairs laughing when I pulled the stars from my audition video out of a paper bag. Two puppets: Jesus and Moses. I think it was my attachment to my then one year old daughter that eliminated me from further consideration, because the prophets and I rocked the interview.

My husband and I started leading the puppet ministry at our church several years before I actually hired on as staff. As completely dorky as puppet ministry sounds, it is one of the most fruitful ways that we have been involved. The youth who are now graduating still talk about the music and messages they first heard from the mouths of felt characters, back when they were small. With our combined creativity and resourcefulness, my husband’s extraordinary gift at bringing the puppets to life, and my ability to manage young people, we’ve come up with fresh ideas and lively shows for probably 14 years now.

Back around the time I summarized my personality for casting directors by appearing with Jesus and Moses, we took on organizing a puppet dinner theater for Holy Week. It involved preparing a dinner, decorating a dining room, seating charts, ticket sales, and a million little mind-boggling details. But the biggest endeavor was working with half a dozen teenagers to put together a three act show that would keep the audience’s attention between courses of food. Apparently the six weeks of rehearsals that led to our Good Friday show made as big an impression on me, as they did on the puppeteers, because every Good Friday, the soundtrack from Fish Tales runs through my head like, “Baby, Baby, Yeah,” after a Justin Bieber Today Show appearance.

There was a song about the feeding of the 5000, where Jesus took one child’s lunch of loaves and fish, and multiplied it to feed the entire crowd: or as the song put it, “fish sandwiches! What a plan was his! Supernatural Supper for the multitude!” Of course, you can’t forget the Good Friday number, “It was a good day. On a bad day.” Or the finale, “Do not fear! He was crucified, but he escaped the grave, he’s not inside, no, he’s not here. He is alive!”

Ten year old puppet lyrics, trumpeting through my mind, and recalling at once both the demands and the joy of a vibrant ministry. And, at the same time, filling my heart and mind with the bittersweet, compelling truth that this week is all about: the teachings, the sacrifice, and the resurrection of Christ.

And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split Mathew 27:50-51

$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

The end of a season.

My husband picked up the soundtrack to Message in a Bottle back when we were first married.  The movie was nothing really special, but that CD played in the background through many of our early adventures and travels.  When our new, used minivan brought the luxury and convenience of a 6-CD changer into our lives, he dusted off the old soundtrack and plugged it into the rotation.

The last bleary-eyed new
parents picture.

Listening to these songs again invoked a wave of sentiment I didn’t expect.  Of all the milestones we’ve crossed so far, the one we’re crossing now seems to be the most bittersweet.  Our littlest girl turns one tomorrow and there are no more babies on the horizon for us.  We are beautifully complete as a family.  I am thrilled to be watching my children grow up, arm in arm with my dearest and most beloved best friend (who also looks pretty hot with a little facial hair).  I am excited for this next season of our lives, as our children become independent and our dreams have shifted and formed into our reality.  But I also feel the season of “young married life” slipping away: the falling in love, and getting married season; the getting to know your in-laws, and deciding who sleeps closest to the door season; the who is going to change that stinky diaper season; the what will our children be like season.

Every season of my life has had its high points, I have always found joy in the days as they go by, but this last decade-plus has been a treasure like none before.  I loved every minute, beautiful and ugly.  While childhood, high school, and even college came to an end for me with some relief, our early married life comes to an end with nostalgia and a little bit of longing.  There are many treasured moments still ahead for us, but for the first time in my life, I feel that something is passing away that I will miss and never get back.

Such a grown up girl already!



But, thanks in part to Hootie and the Cranberries, a large collection of photographs, and the best souvenirs ever – three darling little girls and the aforementioned husband – I’ll bid this season farewell knowing that the love and joy it brought can still be savored and recalled – like a sweet love letter, bottled up and waiting to be reread.

Happy birthday to my baby girl.

Everything on earth has its own time and its own season. Ecclesiastes 3:1

We're tablet addicts.

It was too late to head out.  My husband had a horrible day at work and was just too exhausted to load up the car and drive the first few hours of our Spring Break road trip.  Rather than push it, and potentially get the trip off to a horrible start, we decided to get a quick dinner and get everyone to bed early.  Then we could take off first thing, well rested, as the sun came up.  Or, as I like to call it – because it amuses and motivates the kids – the Butt-Crack of Dawn.

My husband’s day really didn’t improve when the IHOP waitress dumped an entire large soda on the baby and me, then cried while she served us the rest of our meal.  At least it wasn’t coffee, but it seemed ironic that we actually hadn’t ordered a pop.

By the time the kids were all in bed, we were exhausted, but still a little wound up from the day’s aggravations, so we got our tablets out to unwind for a few minutes before trying to go to sleep.  Suddenly my husband says, with alarm, “Do you know how late it is?”  No, I didn’t know.  I was just using up the last of my 150 moves on Tripletown and assumed it was getting close to 9:30.   “It’s 11 o’clock!  We better get to bed!”  Our oldest daughter had already set her alarm for twenty minutes before Dawn’s Butt would be Cracking, so there was no revising our departure.

The question we had to ponder was, where did two hours go?  What makes the whole thing even more pathetic is that we don’t even have wifi at our house – we were playing with the off-line features available on our tablets!  Lord help us when we stop at a McDonald’s with free wifi.  We may never actually arrive at our destination on this road trip.

If we had not wasted all this time, we could already have been there and back twice." Genesis 43:10

I felt guilty about the MP3 player.

My husband and I felt a huge wave of emotion when the girls opened their MP3 players this Christmas.  They were not the coveted iPod touches they had begged for since last Christmas.  Instead, they were affordable knock-offs that came in bright, personalized colors.  As we steeled ourselves for their disappointment, they floored us instead with their enthusiasm.  As they tore open the paper simultaneously and read the packaging, my oldest girl’s voice grew in volume and intensity as she saw and read aloud the all important phrase, “TOUCH SCREEN.”  We got the video camera out as quickly as possible to capture their unanticipated elation, but, as hilarious as it was, it still didn’t capture the overwhelming ecstasy of their first reaction.  We felt like Oprah on one of her Favorite Things episodes.

We outlined the attributes and limitations of the devices, because we did not want to mislead them about the reality that they were not iPods, but they were not disappointed in the least.  They, instead, were thrilled.  They immediately began snapping pictures and recording video.  They plugged in their ear buds to check out the music we had loaded for them, and our middle daughter took delight in looking through the library of photos we’d transferred for her.  They were the exact opposite of the kids in Jimmy Kimmel’s “I gave my kids a crappy present” montage.  My husband and I, with tears in our eyes, gave congratulatory glances to one another across the room.  Mission accomplished: an awesome Christmas gift that didn’t break the budget.  It felt like a real family accomplishment: our mad gift giving skills, the kids’ great and grateful attitudes; it all came together.

One of the great selling points (that we didn’t end up needing to sell, but still told them) was that these devices were affordable enough that the kids could be trusted with them.  Unlike high end devices, they could take their MiPods with them wherever they wanted.  This would be a test of their ability to be responsible with their own electronics.

Flash forward less than a week later.  My older daughter had her treasured touchscreen in the pocket of her hoodie, which she had slung across the couch cushion while we watched football.  I was crawling back to my accustomed spot in the back corner of the sectional, and proved that the weight of my body on top of my bony right knee was more than a knock-off touch screen MP3 player could handle.  At first, I didn’t comprehend her look of utter dismay, as she dug in the pockets of her jacket.  But when she pulled out the cracked device, and began to cry into my lap, it was all I could do to control my own emotions.  I tried to be parental and reproach her leaving something she valued so much in such a thoughtless place.  I reminded her that we had expressly told them of their responsibility to take care of the devices, and that putting them where they could be stepped or sat on was an explicit violation of that responsibility.  Through her tears, she determined to spend her own money to replace the defunct device, then continued to cry in my lap for another twenty minutes or so.  It was torture to sit by and let her mourn.

What my daughter doesn’t know is that after everyone was tucked in that night, I cried too.  In that one moment, I had gone from Oprah to the Grinch.  I could not believe that it was me!  I was the one who had broken my kid’s favorite gift.  I know it could have been anyone; after all, she left it hidden in a pocket on the couch.  But it was me.  I had disgraced our victory.  I had turned triumph to tragedy, in the world of a ten year old I love.

The next morning, when replacing her MiPod was her first and most emphatic thought of the day, I let her off the hook and told her I would split the price, because I wanted her to know how sorry I was for being the one who broke it.  I wasn’t sure if I should have done that or not.  But now that she has her new one, I don’t think it detracted from the lesson.  Both girls are taking care to keep them in cases and tuck them away when they aren’t using them.  And I’m going to be very careful where I step or sit.

We also bought the product replacement plan on the new one.  Duh.

I did feel bad at first, but I don't now. I know that the letter hurt you for a while. Now I am happy, but not because I hurt your feelings. It is because God used your hurt feelings to make you turn back to him, and none of you were harmed by us.When God makes you feel sorry enough to turn to him and be saved, you don't have anything to feel bad about. 2 Corinthians 7:8b-10a

I'm passing on Twilight.

I know I’m going to tread on some toes here, and there is not much I can say about the series that hasn’t already been said, but it seems to me that anyone over 25 who is fawning over these movies needs an express ticket to Cougartown.

When the mania began, and the facebook posting about glittery suitors became overwhelming, my husband and I figured we should check it out and rented the first movie.  We didn’t hate the movie, but we also weren’t overwhelmed by the drama, the characters, or the acting.  Mostly we thought it was weird that a 100 year old guy would find a teenage girl remotely captivating.  As for Bella – you have some serious father-figure issues if you are trapped in a love triangle with a vampire and a werewolf.  Anyone with any sense would pass on both.  As a parent, I find myself rooting for her to find a guy who’s too old for her, rides a motorcycle, has gages, tattoos and a chain wallet, and chews tobacco.  It would be safer and show better judgment.

I get more annoyed with the series every time another fang-inspired romance crops up and panders to my youthgroup and kids.  Girls, you should never consider a relationship with someone who assaults you, demeans you, or might eat you.  Even if you see the characters on the Disney Channel doing it.

But, who knows?  I did only watch the first movie.  Star Wars didn’t hit their stride until Empire Strikes Back.  Now there’s a series worth a midnight premier!

I think I know where this whole vampire thing got started, though.  There is someone whose blood holds the hope of eternal life.  Maybe it is all just a misunderstanding…

But if you do eat my flesh and drink my blood, you will have eternal life, and I will raise you to life on the last day. John 6:54

My daughter might have been eaten by pandas.

I love how whenever a child ends up in a mishap and the parent finds themself answering to a news reporter, whether the child was lost at the mall, fell into a pool, or was kidnapped by genetically modified panda bears, the answer is always the same, “You just can’t take your eyes off of them for even a minute.”  That poor parent is then flooded with shadenfreud, as the sea of solemn faces and words of comfort and pity only weakly mask the whispered “tsk-tsks” of the gleefully self-righteous parents around them – all of whom know better than to take their eyes off their  children.

So I’ll just get it out right now – I currently have, and frequently take, my eyes off my children.  Sometimes I need to shower, sometimes to cook dinner; every now and then I’m totally negligent and hide in my room doing nothing while my children fend for themselves.  They’ve generally come through these episodes without event, but there was that one time…

My middle daughter was all of one year old and had moved more quickly than we realized from barely walking to climbing.  My older daughter was a dutiful big sister: ever ready to tattle.  My husband and I had taken our eyes off both of them, trusting Caillou to keep them entranced so we could complete our daily grooming.  Our tooth-brushing was interrupted when we received word from our scout that the toddler was “eating all the vitamins!”  We looked down at her with skepticism, knowing that the vitamins were kept on the top shelf of the upper cabinets and they were sealed with a “childproof” cap.  Without much urgency, I headed to the living room to discover my toddler in the middle of a scattered pile of Flintstones, consuming them as quickly as her fine motor skills allowed (which fortunately, wasn’t very quickly, her gross motor skills being far more advanced than her fine ones).  Sounding the alarm with my husband, I gathered her up while he began collecting the vitamins.  I was stunned, as I went into the kitchen, to see the wake of her efforts.  A chair had been dragged from the table and pushed up against the cupboard.  The upper cabinets were flung wide open, and the contents of the uppermost shelf were upended.  It had never, ever crossed my mind that my small daughter was capable of such a feat.  I would have thought she’d need a nap, just after dragging that heavy chair across the kitchen.  Who would guess she would still have the muster to climb up on the counter, get the cupboard doors open, find the vitamins, and overcome the childproof cap!  Let alone get safely back to the ground to take her snack in to munch on while she watched TV.

In short, I caught a break.  I had taken my eyes off her.  She could have fallen down a well, been stolen by aliens, or run away with gypsies.  One of my friends recently mentioned her desire to wrap her toddler in bubble wrap.  This confession is my commiseration with the frustration she feels, trying to keep a boisterous, curious child safe, without surrendering to a lifestyle of fear.  Unfortunately, kids do get hurt sometimes, and sometimes it is because their parents are negligently inattentive.  But I’m not going to tsk at that poor parent whose child has been hurt or lost, because it happens incredibly fast, and there is no human way to avoid, now and then, taking our eyes off our beloved children.  It doesn’t mean we’re stupid, or that we don’t love our kids.  Sometimes our kids have to share our attention with life's other necessities, and in those moments, we have to rely on the benevolence of a greater power.

Just as shepherds watch over their sheep, you must watch over everyone God has placed in your care. 1 Peter 5:2a

My conscience needs a break.

With every passing year, the list of forbidden and required behaviors grows longer. I can just imagine the Happy Days remake where Fonzie gets fined every time he pulls up to the Cunningham’s without his motorcycle helmet. In the early 80’s, I knew a four year old who had a booster seat for the car and thought her parents were nerds. 

Now I’m the nerd, ah-gain, and to some degree it’s my own fault. I just couldn’t have another baby without reading the updated version of What to Expect the First Year. I’ve dutifully reminded myself of all the musts and must-nots required to bring a child safely through her first year. Now I must obey, because once I know something could harm my child, I couldn’t live with myself if something happened and I wasn’t obeying the rules. The car seat straps must be snug; the dog isn’t allowed to be loose in the room with her; big sisters have to wash their hands before playing with her; the pacifier has to be sterilized once a week; no rides in the bike trailer until she can sit up on her own; the only place higher than the floor she gets to lay is in the crib. The crib - which brings me to the biggest joke on new parents the scientific community has discovered to date.

As of today, my daughter is three months old. She has slept in a crib or bassinet all of never since we left the hospital. Now that sleeping babies are to be placed exclusively on their back, on a firm, hard surface, without blankets or bedding, I can completely understand why SIDS deaths have gone down – babies don’t sleep! If they aren’t asleep, they can’t die in their sleep!

In three tries, not one of my daughters has enjoyed sleeping on her back, on a hard mattress, without blankets or bedding. The first did most of her nighttime sleeping cuddled on my chest while I was propped up in a corner of the couch, half-awake with worry that she’d roll off of me, because the book said not to sleep with the baby on my chest, but I was desperate. The second was a non-stop eater, so we’d both end up asleep by the time she finished nursing. When she’d fuss, we’d roll over and she’d latch on the other side. It’s OK, What to Expect people, we weren’t co-sleeping; we were using the side-lying nursing position. That makes it OK, right? It’s too late to complain, she survived.

Desperation drove us to try putting our third girl in her car seat one night. Every time she fell asleep in the car, she’d stay asleep in her car seat another hour, once we got home. Something must be working, right? Getting her to fall asleep and putting her in the crib or bassinette, she would only sleep for 20 minutes. Just enough for us to almost doze off, before abruptly being back on duty. So, the car seat it is. She sleeps there every night, and has, as a result, been our best sleeper of the three. The crib is just a glorified changing table and, friends, you should always borrow a bassinet. They’re a waste of money, because babies never sleep in them, anyway. Someday they’re going to make one that cradles babies like their car seats, and when they do, babies will sleep again!

I’m glad for the declining SIDS rate. I don’t take lightly the heartbroken mothers whose babies stopped breathing in their sleep. I wonder that these little creatures are wired to prefer so thoroughly the very position that endangers them – sleeping on their bellies.

It is the seriousness of the potential outcome, no matter how remote the odds against it, that keeps me following all those tyrannical rules, from bike helmets, to car seats, to belly sleeping. But some days, my conscience just needs a break!

If you have good sense, instruction will help you to have even better sense. And if you live right, education will help you to know even more. Proverbs 9:9

Daytime TV may suck out my brains

I’m a TV snob. While we do normally watch a vast array of programs, even that scandalous reality television is on our usual diet of boob-tube consumption, we generally have the television on for just a few limited hours a day. The kids watch Electric Company once their homework is done, and my husband and I take in some Prime Time after dinner. This, of course, is “High” television, right?

But boob-tube is actually pretty descriptive of my viewing habits lately, and I’ve found myself able to tolerate at least one of the shows that are on, at nearly every hour of the day and night. I now know that the SNL skit about Kathy Lee and Hoda is not exaggerated; they really do drink alcohol and act giddy. I know that you can skip the whole Dr Oz show, because he recaps his findings at the end of the program; just flip over for the last two minutes. I know that Kate and Will are scheduled to kiss at 8:25 EST this Friday morning; can’t miss that. And I know that Julie Chen and Leah Remini are uncomfortable bathing with their kids or kissing them on the lips; it’s hard to imagine what life would have been like without this knowledge. Sometimes I’m pretty sure I can feel my IQ dropping while I consume yet another celebrity interview or expert opinion on whether the toilet roll should be installed to dispense over or under.

My first strategy to preserve my brain function was to surf for cooking segments. At least I could gain some useful knowledge that would help me feed my family better or more interesting meals. So far, however, I have not cooked a single one of Rachael Ray’s “What’s for Dinner Tonight.” But I have attempted and consumed Buddy Valastro’s funnel cakes. Yep, imagine that, deep fried pancake batter tastes great! Not only did we make them, but while on a diaper and groceries run, I purchased better equipment to improve our funnel cakes next time. So, while we are enjoying the delicious “fruits” of my cooking segment viewing, I wouldn’t suggest that it has improved our family’s standard of living.

My next strategy was to opt out and read during the baby's mealtime. I quickly found out that reading What to Expect the First Year while nursing is like juggling fine china and a brick, so I switched to this month’s This Old House magazine. The magazine was easier to juggle, but only lasted a day. So now I’m heading back to daytime until next month’s arrives.

As long as we get through the first three months without getting sucked into any soap operas, my dignity will remain intact. Let’s all agree to blame my declining vocabulary on sleep deprivation, instead of The View. Agreed? The real irony – I’ve read that breastfeeding is associated with higher IQ in the baby. Apparently she’s gaining the brain cells I’m losing with this endeavor. That makes it all worth it.

Our people should learn to spend their time doing something useful and worthwhile. Titus 3:14

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 Lost Interest in the Chilean Miners on Day 2

Although I would have to have my head in a hole not to know that on Day 69, the last one was brought to the surface, the tunnel was capped, and the international community gave a rousing standing ovation to the Chilean rescue effort, none of this captured my fascination. Nice work, everybody, now back to our regular programming.

I tried to muster my compassion and at least read an article about the rescue. But I got bored and started to skim two paragraphs in, when they started giving a book-jacket type bio of each miner in the order they were rescued. For real? Are we picking out heroes and villains for the TV Movie already? Based on?? I don’t know these men. I don’t share language or culture with them. The only reason they suddenly mattered to most Americans was because of the cameras pointed at them. If I were a geologist or something, I might have taken interest in the details of drill bits and torque, in case, some day in the future, I myself was responsible to free others from a half mile below the surface. If I were a specialist in Latin American politics, I might have been captivated by the political implications of all the positive media attention on a regime no one cared about back in July. But for that matter, how much did we care about those 30 miners back in July, either?

Do we care enough to lobby for safer mining in Chile and the U.S. (where our own mining mishaps have recently been considered newsworthy, as well)? Do we care enough to cut back on our use of the non-renewable resources these man go into the ground to retrieve for us?

I’m not heartless. I’m glad those men didn’t die in the mine. But how many multiples of 30 have died or languished in the last two months, while no expense or effort was spared for these guys? How many innocent lives were lost to things that such a font of attention and money could have prevented? I don’t know for sure, but I have the feeling that it’s a cheap fix to spend our compassion and jubilation on 30 Chilean miners, when there are people in need of rescue all around us. We’ll celebrate with Chile today, but then we go back to ignoring the people around us everyday, who are neglected and trapped by their own plights.

Just in our youth group, there are such deep and compelling needs. Broken families, grave illness, and drug addiction are just three of the many troubles confronting these kids and their families. I could turn myself inside out, trying to reach them in their every need and, short of adopting half a dozen more teenagers into my family, there are some needs I can’t address. But I know that if that kind of need and pain makes its way into a small youth group on the edge of the city, there are so many, such deeper needs, right in our own neighborhoods. So rather than sit in front of the TV, dispensing hours of love and compassion on 30 Chilean strangers that NBC says I should care about, I didn’t. Sorry, but I said a prayer and moved on. I was needed elsewhere and, frankly, I think you are, too.

When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, "The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Matthew 9:36-37