Homemade Sin

"At the table of hospitality in the South, kindness is the centerpiece filled with bright roses, rich greenery, and fresh babies breath. The essence of our breed of womanhood is to go out of our way to be kind to others either in word or deed." -Rhonda Rich

True dat Rhonda, except lets stop you right there. I'd like to counter that we replace the babies-breath-rose-bouquet (CrInGe), with something a bit more simple, and a tad less cliche. Wild flowers, daisies, sunflowers, or eclectic branches are friendly and cheap, lets go with those. Preach on sister...

 "Pretty is as pretty does," our mamas admonish us from the nursery up, reminding us often that beauty lies in how we treat others and not in the creaminess of our complexions or loveliness of our faces. My momma preached "pretty is as pretty does" as often and as stridently as she touted John 3:16." -Rhonda Rich

 16 ¶For ^aGod so ^bloved the ^cworld, that he ^dgave his ^eonly begotten ^fSon, that whosoever ^gbelieveth in him should not perish, but have ^heverlasting ⁱlife.

 17 For God ^asent not his Son into the world to ^bcondemn the world; but that the world through him might be ^csaved.

 18 ¶He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that ^abelieveth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the ^bname of the only begotten ^cSon of God.

 19 And this is the condemnation, that ^alight is come into the world, and men loved ^bdarkness rather than light, because their ^cdeeds were evil. -John 3:16-19

 "Of course, I welcomed knowing that I could be pretty in actions, since I was so plain in looks. Maybe I wasn't "as ugly as homemade sin," a favorite saying of my people and one I never understood, but my chubbiness, freckles, and overbite would never have put me on anyone's list of beauties. 

"Why do you suppose that so-and-so didn't do such-and-such ?" my sister, Louise, will say from time-to-time, talking about someone who has not responded to kindnesses with similar kindnesses. 

"Because not everyone thinks the way we do," I'll reply. "Especially like you think."

-What Southern Women Know About Faith, Rhonda Rich, p. 159 

This line made me simultaneously wince, blush, chuckle, and nod in absolute agreement. We all could use a regular dose of those words:

"Because not everyone thinks the way we do. Especially like you think."

Yet, even if no-one else thinks the way I do on this, I'm still going to take a shot at defining "homemade sin" to myself, to you, to y'all. Preach on sister. 

Homemade Sin: those actions which you likely have either a "love/hate" relationship with, or an intense desire for, and/or inclination towards, which when acted upon, brings you into a position of enmity with yourself, and with God. Homemade Sin is either a product or by-product of pride. Often with the acute inability, or reluctance to bend, kneel, and humble to the changes that He/She/We has in store for you. Changes which essentially include sacrificing your "homemade sin." Homemade Sin can often be a type of an indulgence, or a lack of control over emotional responses. It turns the most ugly when it is an action which places us in enmity with others and ourselves. Essentially our souls are our home. And if we craft and cultivate, and ultimately indulge in an act which places us at war with others, and with an element of our very self, such as our heart, mind, spirit, or body, then aren't we essentially sinning against our home? Against our self? Homemade sin is a form of self-deception. Some people will never feel at war for their self. For their soul. If you haven't? You've lived in a different existence than I. For me, the decisive rejection of and repentance from "homemade sin" is deep-dark-dirty soul work. Still, there is sacred ground in treading it. Especially, if it means putting your homemade sin on the pyre. And if I haven't mentioned already? I'm no pyro.
-as defined by, Janelle Jensen Fritz

Art-N-About

On our first day of summer vacay we took a field trip to an art museum. It wasn't until we arrived for our personal tour by my docent friend at The Kimball Art Museum that I realized it was maybe just a tad ambitious to take a two year old on a guided tour of the permanent collection gallery. On the drive there my six year old also made it clear that this was not his number one field trip venue as he said, "Looking at paintings is not my favorite, it is your favorite, Mom." I couldn't really argue with that, but I also couldn't turn down a personalized free tour directed to young children. I must say I felt quite a bit better as I witnessed her having to pry her own 6 year old off her legs after the first tour and cram him into our friends mini-van so that she could begin our tour. This wasn't my 6 year old and 2 year olds first time in an art museum. That being said we've had mixed experiences. Ranging from an embarrassing display at The Modern where we were essentially kicked out, to a fun filled afternoon during the Bellini exhibit at The Kimball during their Family Festival. Parents, as you know,  it can go either way. Art museums are not the only place that the pendulum swings on behavioral bliss to tantrum turmoil with a toddler in tow. So sometimes we take the plunge and hope for the best. 

We landed on the best side of things this time around. Even as we started with a wardrobe compromise that resulted in an eclectic pairing that would have been less noteworthy had I just allowed Z his initial selection. For some reason I thought perhaps on a cultural outing we could for-go the basketball shorts for one afternoon. So Z then decided that he should get to chose to wear his cowboy hat. Far be it from me to squelch his artistic expression. Besides, it proved prop worthy during his theatrics at the statue out back the Kimball. That is until he began pontificating the art. His sized up assessment was, "Mom, this statue is a woman." 
"Oh, how do you know?" I don't know why I prompted, I knew perfectly well why, I guess I just wanted to know how his critical thinking was coming along!?
"Because it has breasts." Right you are son. His critical thinking is coming along fine. And...now why don't we head inside for the tour. During which, I was pleasantly surprised that my six year old stayed intent with the group and chose a Caravaggio as his favorite piece. We Fritz's love our rebels. 

The Cardsharps. Caravaggio. 1595. The Kimball Art Museum, Permanent Collection.

My two year old made it through the gallery without any of his screeching sounds that we are attempting to remove from his "I'm displeased" repertoire. I don't know when he transitioned from a normal cry to this high pitch ear hell, but I'm praying eradication is possible. He even sat serenely on the ground and doodled on a paper while I listened to a fascinating history of the French painter Elisabeth Louise Vigee Le Brun, the only female artist on exhibit in the permanent collection at The Kimball.

Self-portrait. Elisabeth Louise Vigee Le Brun. 1781

After we exited the gallery we went over to the gift shop to browse and were pleasantly surprised with the hard to find off-line and year-waiting-period at the library "Elephant & Piggie" books by Mo Willems. A pre-school educator friend of mine has children that hoard these books in her classroom. The pictures are silly, and the stories simple enough for my Kindergartner graduate to read by himself. He read through a couple and I let him choose one to bring home. He chose "Happy Pig Day!"

   

Not only did we think the book was fun but the idea of a pig having his own special day resonated as just last Fall, my then five year old declared one morning in October,  "We already had Mothers Day and Fathers Day. Today should be Kids Day!" And so it began. While he was at school I painted a banner (very quickly, please don't judge my talent by this.) And put out Oreo's with sprinkles over-top. Ta-da, Kids Day! 

Our final stop on our art circuit is a must with children. The large sculpture outside The Modern in Fort Worth. It is genius and if I had the funds? I would commission one for a playground in every major city. You enter the center of the sculpture and it creates an echo chamber. My kids happily stomp, run, shout, jump, dance, and laugh in pure joy. 
FYI: If you do choose to play the video of them dancing, then I might suggest turning the sound way down or off. You will miss their dubstep beat, but you will also dodge the amplified version of the two year old screech.

Something about the interior of the statue even transforms adults into a trance of child-like wonder. Instead of turning pretentious crusty looks on these exploring little souls they usually join in clapping, stomping, and jumping. It is a sculpture that is an instant smile maker. As are "friend fries" from In-N-Out to end our Art-N-About field trip. 

Hells Bells, a cowboy!?

Last week my Facebook newsfeed blew up with links to Jen Hatmakers blog post "Worst End of School Mom Ever." I laughed with the worst of them, and felt more than a twinge of commradorie in the humoristic realities of the modern momma eking out my first Kindergartners final stretch. 

Why on that very morning before the infamous link circulated, his right strap on his Batman backpack unstitched, and was dragging on the ground. No matter, I just "hulked" it off with my bare hands, threads flapping in the breeze, and informed him that he had 6 days left to wear it across his body with one strap. 

About a week ago, his once a week purchase of school lunch switched to me hunting down change every other day. I'm sure the lunch lady in the cafeteria wants to strangle me. Recently my husband went and met Z for lunch for the first time this year. Afterwards the man entered our home with a glazed look of overload, walked directly to our bed, laid down and stared blankly at his iPhone for a good hour. I don't think he would ever recover from counting out $2.35 in quarters, dimes, and nickles as the noise level in the elementary school cafeteria climbed off the charts. If I owe any staff member an end of the year a gift, it's probably her. Maybe I should present her with her own brown bag, adult contents included. 

All-in-all we were still riding out the year in a fairly operative manner, considering. I can't really say we were "awesome" on day one. We made it to school with everything, except any kind of camera. As we walked Z inside we passed hoards of parents and children, cameras flashing, and pictures snapping. I sort of thought we should be walking on red carpet, but I didn't really twinge with any 'worst parent shame'. The thing was I didn't really care. I got a great smiley excited picture of him with my phone right before we left the house, which was why my phone was probably lying on the kitchen counter. I didn't really need photographic proof we had made it in one piece outside the brick building. 

Today was his Kindergarten graduation. We had made it. Or so I thought. Just last week I had laughed as Jen described her "fresh hell" of piece-mealing together a last minute Benjamin Franklin costume for Living History day. You'd think it would've prepared me for the moment my husband burst through the door this morning after dropping Z off. "Don't you answer your phone?!! His teacher is calling us. He's not supposed to be in khaki's and a polo, he is supposed to be a cowboy!" 

HELLS BELLS, a cowboy. Now why didn't I think of that? I have since scoured my email and we were somehow by-passed on that correspondence. And my son? Well I found out the "surprise" at graduation that he had been referring to all weekend. So take it from me parents, next time your Kindergartner tells you they have a surprise part in a performance? It might be wise to extract the info, pronto. Or else you will be surprised. You will be running around with hot rollers in your hair conjuring up the makings of a cowboy from the four corners of your home. All I can say is "praise" we weren't the chef, or the policeman. We would've been stranded up a creek. 

 

My husband felt as if his world had just warped into crazy town. He doesn't get the modern day parent protocol. He could barely even comprehend why we were holding a Kindergarten graduation in the first place. As we pulled up to the school, I was clutching the cowboy garb and ready to make a mad dash for the entrance. Suddenly I saw sun-dressed mothers in heels, and exclaimed in dismay, "Oh no, look at all the moms, I'm not wearing a dress, only platform shoes." He looked at me and said, "are you all kidding yourselves!? I don't even know who you are this morning." To which I rolled my eyes, made a mental note to never put this man on costume duty, and leaped from the car bee-lining it to the principal. She was already outside engaged in arguments with angry parents who hadn't got the memo for the pre-registration security process for admittance to the graduation. Whew, at least we dodged a bullet there, since I had somehow gained access to that elite form and submitted it. She looked at my apologetic anxiety heavy face and the cowboy garb. She unaffectedly reached out for the bundle and asked "What class?" Whew. We did it. We made it in time to outfit our cowboy for the adorable beyond words musical program of "What I Wanna Be, What I Wanna Be, What I Wanna Be When I'm Big Me."

I don't even care that a cowboy isn't my top choice for his chosen profession, I'm just so relieved he was given the part that we could scrap together today. You know, so his "surprise to us" wasn't ruined and all. We learned as he walked across the stage that his chosen profession is to be a Secret Agent. The weapon technology is supposedly top rate. How I love my amazingly imaginative 6 year old! 

After the program, we were ushered outside to enjoy a punch and cupcake reception. It was there that I was redeemed from the low man on the totem pole of the worst parent spectrum. Not that I'm keeping track. But my favorite quote was from a young Kindergartner girl from another class. As she sipped her lemonade, she loudly announced, "It tastes like a margarita!"

 

TWO-HEADED MONSTER

Faux Guac

My family are often the recipients of my avant garde flair for experimentation. On the most regular and utilitarian basis, this occurs in my kitchen. I am a proponent of family meals, table dinners, and prepare dinner on a regular basis. Several times a week with some intermittent sandwich nights or something equally as low-key interspersed. It leaves me enough recuperation to keep the cycle in operation. I follow rules, but don't usually follow recipes. Except on the rare event I attempt bread. I have no feeling for it, so it requires that I follow explicit instructions. 

Occasionally I access the blogosphere  to affirm or discount a new idea that has popped in my head. I have to say my successes trump my fails. Still, I never post recipes, and the thought of taking pictures during the cooking/baking process makes me shiver. I appreciate the lovely photo spread cooking demo photography, but there is no way that is going to happen here. Photography is not my forte, neither is the stop & start  of the creative process. Easily apparent to the few of you that endure my iphotography, and its pure lack of aesthetic quality on a regular basis. 

Today at a pre-summer pot-luck lunch with moms and kids,  I realized that I may even have less "fails" than I once thought. Usually my critics are two young boys and a man that has foodie tenets but with a staunch preferential for meat & potato varieties. So naturally when I make anything vegetarian, its not usually met with overwhelming cheers and fist pumps in the air. (I'm not really a vegan gal, although I do have a few vegan recipes up my sleeve.) 

So here is the on-the-fly faux guacamole recipe that my husband and boys rated as an utter fail, but my fellow mom friends lauded as a success: 

Faux Guac
(Spinach-bean dip)  

4-6 cups of fresh spinach
1 can of black beans
1-2 green onions
juice from 1/2 a lime
1-2 tsp of cumin
Salt & Pepper to taste
1 TBSP of chopped cilantro
1/2-1 TBSP of Srirachi (Rooster Sauce) 
1/4 cup of sour cream 

Add spinach, onion, cilantro, lime juice to a food processor. Blend. 
Add black beans, cumin, srirachi sauce, and S&P  to mixture. Blend until smooth. 
Fold in sour cream until the dip lightens to a faux guac color. 
Serve with veggies, meat, or chips. 

 
 

 

My 3 Lil' Piggies That I Love

Nineteen hours or so is what the polls say the average American woman puts into her household cleaning each week. That just depresses the hell out of me. Not because I know its true, oh no, most weeks I'm certain that is low ball figure. The depressing part is that on most given days if you just show up at my house unannounced you are met with what resembles a spinning whirlwind. As fast as I can pick things up, they are displaced in another location. There has to be some scientific law in relation to boys and a clean home. Newtons third law of motion states: 

 Third law: When one body exerts a force on a second body, the second body simultaneously exerts a force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction to that of the first body.

"A force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction." Yup, that sounds about right. Fortunately, I overhear convo's of clusters of mothers at the park in which they express this exact problem. But the validation is short lived. Images of their homes suddenly come flashing to mind, and then the comparisons begin. Motherhood comparisons are a wicked cycle. Never a great idea, yet the inevitability of comparing, is a correlative law of womanhood. I'm not saying it can't be stopped, I'm just saying, that when you are tired, overwhelmed, frumpy, and bummy it is an easy 'go-to,' that is always lurking on the sidelines waiting to pounce on an already degraded self-esteem. 

So back to the housework. Why not just throw in the towel, toss in the bandana, and eliminate the disinfecting? Because that is gross, and dents my sanity and self-esteem more than feelings of perceived inadequacy. It is also a health hazard. Honestly, I'm not kidding. If you clean up the bathroom of young boys, or older boys for that matter, then you are right there with me. I won't post the picture of their bathroom that I sent to a couple "lucky" friends a few weeks back. Ew. 

Recently, I picked out a smashed M&M out of the zipper area of P's pants, a taffy off the fireplace, and a fruit-roll up off a stool. Vacuuming has become a one man search and rescue mission, as I intermittently stoop down to rescue leg and limb of the Star Wars figures. And one of our new playtime favorites is color changing cars in the kitchen sink (aka flood the kitchen.)

 

So it is Friday, I've worked at the house all week. Probably not with the vigilance of say a pre-relative visit, but still, I've made a considerable effort. I have a mountain of unfolded, clean clothes on my bed. Piles of papers and mail, and coloring books on the kitchen table. My office is crammed full of artwork, projects in progress, paperwork, magazines, and frames. The boys playroom is a disaster. My front hallway is littered with Matchbox cars, a dog bone, a pillow, a Thor hammer, books, socks...and yes I picked it up this morning. My kitchen is clean, my counters are disinfected, the dishes are done, the laundry is clean, my bathrooms were cleaned a couple days ago, and there are not crumbs all over the family room carpet. It's times like this that I need to restate a mantra I saw on one of those FB shares: "My house is clean enough to be healthy, but messy enough to be happy."  

So with that sentiment here are a couple of *my tips* to try to outwit the housework forces of nature that are seeking to destroy your sanity:

1. Forget about the grout. I don't know why this has become the subject of so many of my friends frustration, but it has. You are the only one that notices. Seriously, scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush is only going to intensify the OCD, and therefore the frustrations that follow. Inevitably the moment you've wiped off your rubbed-raw hands, someone will spill juice, while another walks in with dirty shoes. Relinquish this one. Sweep and mop your floor if you must, but LET THE GROUT GO. 

2. Unless ironing is your therapy, then LET IT GO. I know I've probably sentenced the man to fashion faux pas hell, but I even gave up on my husbands work shirts. He usually throws over a lab coat anyway. The wrinkle out spray with the hang up method is my new go-to. As for me, I wear iron-ready clothing about as often as I style my hair outside of my classic pin-up girl up-do with a bandana. Once a month date night, and a Sunday here and there I'll break out something iron-worthy from the wardrobe.

3. If all else fails, THEN GO BUY FLOWERS. Choose a bright, cheap bouquet that makes you smile. Go home and clear & clean a table. Place the flowers in a vase, or jar and set them on the table. Put on your blinders to the rest of the house. 
  
 And for me, there is hope on the horizon. My littlest piggy that I love, is a 'helper.' The messes frustrate him too, but he doesn't quite have the skills to keep up with it all. For now, he gives me glimpses of hope for the future, and melts my heart with scenes like this, and reminds me of a poem I once saw in my moms office: 

Sometimes you get discouraged 

because I am so small
And always leave my fingerprints 
on furniture and walls
But everyday I'm growing
I'll be grown up someday
And all those tiny fingerprints 
will surely fade away
So here is a final fingerprint 
Just so you can recall 
Exactly how my hands looked
When I was very small
 

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"Proud Mother"

Yesterday my husband and sons gave me a great gift. A clean house. I don't know if I can express the measure of this gift. Basically, I live with 3 boys, who I affectionately, yet exasperatingly refer to as, "my 3 lil piggies that I love." Hubby task-mastered the bedrooms, and toy-room while I attacked the bathrooms, sans little hands. Yes, allowing me to clean the bathroom uninterrupted top-to-bottom has somehow become a privilege. Play rewards work though, so afterward they took me out on the town. My #rockNrollsoul merged with my #mommaNtheburbs for a memorable Mother's Day dinner out with my boys. On our Texas main-street town there is Bronson Rock,a burgers & beer tribute to the American 'legend' Jim Bronson. (A modern version of the solitary cowboy wandering the American West. Riding a Harley Davidson Sportster in search for soul, on the "Long Lonesome Highway.")

P, Checking out the bike. Z, with his 'rock hard' face.

Patio picnic tables, live rock-n-roll, burgers, black leather & bandana's, and rows & rows of Harley's glittering in the Texas sunshine. It was a #rockNrollsoul dream come true. 

Some how Z fortuitously projected my order earlier in the week while creating my "Mother's Day book" at school. He filled in the blanks on an information page in relation to some of my features and favorites. He stated my favorite food as..."jalapeno burgers." (For the record, it's my favorite burger, but not favorite food.) I felt instantly more young, thin, and fun after reading the rest of his favorable fill-ins: 

While we waited for our meal, I toured the bike lot with my boys. We oo-ed & awed over pin-striping, motors, wheels, and details. A couple bikers, came out from their tables and offered to let my boys sit on their bikes. P utilized his time to carefully examine the aesthetics from the passenger seat vantage point. Unfortunately, we were not offered a chance to test out the aerodynamics. 

 I had one better than the ride though. After the bikes, a fellow mother of boys shared her Harley Davidson vest emblem honoring her Marine. Her son is a fallen member of the Marine Corps. She held the grace of a "Proud Mother" with more than her patch. She shared a warmth that superseded the "Sons of Anarchy" stereotype, although I'm pretty sure she'd cut you if you messed with her kids. I'd do the same for my children. This Mother's Day I honor her and all other military mother's who support our nation with their lives.

I too am a proud mother. I have two wonderful boys. A friend of mine coined the phrase, "her boys are her busiest blessings." I echo this sentiment. This morning my wonderful boys served me a frenzied breakfast in bed. It was complete with tackles and tears. But served with love and a sesame seed bagel, with 2-year-old nibbles off it and finger poked shmear. My 6-year-old squeezed me 2 oz of fresh juice from one orange. Then I was presented with lovely-lady-like gifts. A long white vintage maxi skirt from Lulu's Unique Shop and a wooden chain necklace from a Dallas artisan at Hale House Vintage Living. (To my hubby's glad appreciation, I had previously purchased both and handed them over to him on Saturday.) Good wife? Maybe. Proud mother? Definitely. 

My Mom...

My 6-year old has a great sense of humor. He is still in the process of figuring out appropriate timing, appropriate subject matter, and appropriate settings. But he's 6, and even if he doesn't always hit the mark for the adults, he usually can get a laugh out of his peers. I'll give him props though, because he's learning. And more often than not, he nails it even for the adults. Especially when I am the scapegoat.

Case in point, last week when we went to the dentist for our cleaning. Z & I were both scheduled for the same time slot. Which meant he was in the room next to mine. I heard intermittent chatting, but since it's the dentist, he was verbally restrained for a while. Until all of the sudden, I hear the loud declaration of "My Mom doesn't brush her teeth. She only brushes her teeth on Sundays." I was getting tartar chiseled off my upper teeth at the moment that I burst out laughing. Along with everyone else in earshot. Both the dentist, and Z's hygienist promptly came over to us still laughing, to see if we heard his take on my so-called apathetic personal hygiene.Thankfully I didn't have any cavities, so my neglect wasn't called into question. 

I must say, my infractions, are steadily stacking against me. On a recent Sunday, I was stopped in the hallway at church by his Sunday School teacher. The week previously I had stayed home with the coughing 2-year-old and Z and his Dad had attended together. She told me that last week he had announced that, "My Mom is at home sleeping. She sleeps ALL day on Sunday." In all honesty, I had probably slept in that morning until 9am. From time-to-time Johnathan and I try to trade "a sleep in day" on the weekends. And because a sick 2-year-old doesn't sleep well during the night, and there were a couple days compiled with some deprivation on my sleep schedule, it may have even been until 9:30am. Come to think of it, I may have even had the audacity to read for 20 minutes when I woke, before I emerged into the house over-run by my 3 boys after their several hours awake. Though, I recall, while they were at church, I didn't take a nap, I restored order. 

But he cracks me up, and I laugh freely. Even if the perspective painted by my 6-year-old is that even though I "sleep ALL day on Sunday", at least that is the day I brush my teeth. 

My spirit is about 2-years-old

Body, mind, heart, and spirit. These four entities comprise the elemental cornerstones of an individual traversing the human condition. I was told this week that as adults we are each about 2-years-old in the sense of spiritual maturity. I agreed, I was already there, and had the metaphor to back it up. 

This revelatory example occurred at our local library. I bribed my 2-year-old with "computer time" in order to allow me the "privilege" of taking 3 minutes to select a book for myself without complete chaos ensuing.

The library has child size mouses which fit the hands of a toddler. The only problem is today's toddlers have already learned how to navigate an iPhone, or a tablet, and so the concept of using a mouse is ludicrous to them. Frustrating beyond belief. He kept looking at me as if I were purposefully torturing him with the primitive technicalities of a mouse. And as anyone with a 2-year-old realizes you cannot "help" them. Oh no, it doesn't matter that it took multiple attempts on my part to transition him from the home screen in which NOTHING was happening, to a simplistic beginner screen where bubbles were rising with letters in them. No matter that this was just the introductory screen to the game. He was insistent that I let him do it himself. So...I stepped back. And had my own realization. This was totally the play-out that God and I have on a frequent basis. I'm sure he regularly throws his hands up in exasperation, and says, "Fine. Do it your way. Have fun with your boring bubbles, and when you figure you want something a little more complex and meaningful? Give me a call." 

"You Can't Take Me, I'm Free"...or are we!?

 

"Horse Trailer", Photograph. Circa 1986, Janelle Jensen Fritz & her 6 days older cousin Leah.

At times, I can be a bit impetuous. On special occasions, I can even be considered impulsive. A couple weeks ago my 6-year old son and I were setting off on a Saturday afternoon/evening shopping excursion. I was fretting about our timing, and I felt anxious about whether we would be able fit in our itinerary. Costco, Toys-R-Us, Gas fill-up, your basic middle class Saturday, but with pizza back for dinner for the two-at-home. From the back seat, I hear, "MOM, hold your horses! We will get there." Smiling I said, "you are right, I'm probably just getting ahead of myself." To which he promptly responded, "Yeah, and did you know that you also have a bull you need to hold onto too?" 

Honestly, that one stunned me speechless. All of the sudden I realized that this was not just one of those "cute exchanges with my 6-year old".

From time-to-time this boy imparts hard truths. Ones that as a parent I'd rather not face, but ones that he is able to bring up in figurative language, nonetheless. It's an act of brilliancy blended with my own inner voice being re-projected through my son. The timing is always such that I can't deny it away coincidentally. Especially, as it has happened to me on several occasions, and, my husband can attest to this as well.  When I related the previously stated exchange to him, Johnathan stated quite accurately, when he replied, "Yes, I know exactly what you mean. It happens to me too. It's like your own inner monologue coming and striking you in the ass, but with the voice of your innocent loving child." 

"Out of the mouths of babes", INDEED. 

Thus...I suppose, I should give credence to Psalm 8:2  ...

"Out of the mouths of babes, and sucklings hast thou ordained strength because of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger." 

The thing with figurative language, is that when you apply it directly, the meaning is usually clear. Though, when you start to play around with the context? It can get shifty. 

I knew what he meant when he said it. I knew my bull, and the horses. I know my stampede, and there are definitely some wild feral mustangs in my herd. And that bull? That is dependent on my current state of litany. But, like I said, they are wild mustangs. And, if you don't have any of your own? Then realize, they are beautiful. Captivating, and  our country has some, as in our good ol' US-of-A.  If you are still in the dark and ambivalent? I invite you to live vicariously....or so catch a drift...with a pick from my 18-month old niece with "You Can't Take Me....I'm FREE!" This past summer she chose "You Can't Take Me" as her favorite song from the movie Spirit, about wild Mustangs that are being bound & broken by man. Love her. During the video, when "Spirit" (the mustang) is bound, the lyrics "I'm Free" ring out. Are the faculties holding hostage? Or is the rebel truly, "with out a clue"? In the video it is only when he is literally "free", that he truly makes the literal leap of faith across an expansive chasm.

CSNY stated it as an economic equation: 

find the cost to freedom
buried in the ground
mother earth will swallow you
lay your body down

"Steering."  Janelle Jensen Fritz. Sandy, UT circa 1986

Happy Birthday, Duck & Cover!!!

Are you familiar with those days, where the moment-to-moment seems to roll out chaotically, yet, when you package the whole of the experience together it seems a memorable gift? This is precisely the birthday present I gave my friend today.

For starters, I had her birthday month secured wrong in my head. Correct day, but I thought I had another month. Obliviously I called to see if she and her kiddos wanted to join P & I in feeding the ducks at the park. She talked me into hitting up a playgroup before the park. It was there that I foot-in-mouth inquired on her "upcoming" birthday. 

As we left the playgroup park-bound, in an act of redemption, I drove through and grabbed fast-food-fajitas (I figured Sonic wasn't conciliatory enough). Once at the park, we toddled towards the river benches. Cautiously guiding two 2-year-olds carrying fountain drinks, a 4-year old in 1/16 inch healed sandals, my 5lb dog Moo-shu, and arms full of Rosa's takeout. We were wary of the approaching geese, as experience had proven them aggressive. We were 5-feet from the bench when we allowed our misgivings to slack as we loosened our protective huddle. It was then that the crippled goose struck. I was setting the bags on the bench when a loud honking and child screeching pierced the air. I turned to see my friends 2-year-old boy being attacked in the stomach by the goose. Motherly instinct kicked in literally, as she kicked then chased the goose away. Quickly we hijacked it the hell out, taking cover behind a flag pole structure with a 3-foot protective wall. Geese & ducks from all directions advanced. As the children and I tossed them bread, in order to curtail their trespass into our refuge, my friend reverted from momma bear to animal-lover lamentations about kicking a crippled goose. Heart-sick she looked up Animal Control, and placed concerned calls on it's behalf. Miraculously, her little 2-year-old tossed his former attacker crumbs, and talked unaffected, as if an over-exuberant puppy had overtaken him. When we ran out of bread, we knew we only had a short window in order to make it away from the river and the ravaging fowl. "Okay kids, we have to race to the playground, run fast." 

We finally managed to set down a successful picnic, and enjoyed the sun & company. After lunch the children played wonderfully on the playground. We watched from a nearby bench, as we all but, shrink-couched our skeletons from their closets. Who says you don't need a good venting on your birthday!? But not too worry, before we delved too deep into realms best traversed by a paid professional, momma duty called. 

Bathroom bound with a potty training toddler, they didn't quite make it. (And might I add, who engineers the bathroom at a park a good football field distance away from a playground!?) Playtime over, she held his sopping, dripping shoes, and we rallied the troops for departure. In the 5 seconds in which she diverts her attention to call for her 4-year-old, and I gather up my 2-year-old in my arms while holding the leash in my hand, he strips. Bare butt and streaking. We exit, stage left. We leave our audience laughing as we make our way to the parking lot. I sing out a timely Happy Birthday, as we are just about in hysterics ourselves. At the car, she changes him, and we say our goodbyes. Suddenly, I look around panic stricken. "Where is P? I don't see him! Do you see where he went!?" To which she replied amusingly, "Ummm, Janelle? He is in your arms."

 Blame it on the sun-exposure....

The thick icing on her cake was a bright red sunburn which revealed late afternoon. A gift that just keeps giving. Fortunately, she loved the packaged experience for its amazing hilarity, and declined my promise to disengage myself completely next year with a simple card.

Button Pusher v. Paranoid Eye

Road trips with children are a been there-done that sort of realm in my book. During my growing up years, my parents, 5 siblings, and I would trek cross country in a round-trip van excursion from Michigan to Utah to California and back again every summer to visit family. I could write a chapter book on some of the stories from those weeks-on-the-road. Comic relief aside, I'll spare you the page turner synopsis for now...

Tonight I arrived back home from a round-trip Texas to Utah jaunt in the car with my boys. The visit for my sisters wedding was so wonderful, I really can't say the car-ride wasn't worth it. But, that doesn't mean it was perfect. 

Our favorite Z-ism's on the way to Utah started when we crossed over from New Mexico to Colorado. He had located the Four Corners on Google Maps. For you non-Western or non-American folks? This is the intersection between Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, in which the boundaries exist in orthogonal lines. Smartphone in hand, when he noticed we were not going directly from NM to UT he became convinced that we had deviated from our course. He didn't really make it a mystery that we "had no idea where we were going", "had made the wrong turn, "were driving in circles", "were going the wrong way", "had missed the turn to Grandpa & Grandma's house", and (my personal favorite) "were just driving in circles until dinnertime". These statements were repeated regularly from Colorado to my parents house. Yes son, because the joytime of being in the car for 2 straight days with small children and hubby...is my heaven-on-earth. TIC.

On the return trip Z's repeated phrase shifted, garnering the tone of one of his recent pre-springbreak declarations, "Everyone else has better siblings than me." Before I share his mantric repetition, I must admit, he got this from me, AND it rings of a stance that soooo many of us take against each other, all too often. Here is the text I sent out to my family, to which my siblings promptly responded with quotes from our own past:
:

Yes, the "Summer, stop breathing on me!" was exclaimed more than once by my own lips. Button pushing, reciporacal annoyance, or whatever you want to term it, is one of the common denominators in most families. My husband and I couldn't even roll our eyes in joint exasperation. We glanced knowingly at one another in joint acknowledgement that we too had just played out this scenario 30 minutes prior, and thousands of times before. For those of you that don't know us well? Johnathan is the self proclaimed "button pusher", and I'm the hypercritical "paranoid eye"...most of the time. If we really break it down though? When we get into these roles we are both playing out the "heart of conflict", "heart of war" battle. I think the Arbinger Institute explains these positions well in their promotion of changing our approach to others with a "heart at peace". In an article titled "Resolving the heart of conflict", James Ferrell of the Arbinger Institute states:

 "When I choose to see people as objects, I become invested in seeing them poorly, which investment invites them to respond poorly to me, which mistreatment I then count as justification. I end up valuing problems more than solutions and conflict more than peace. The grim truth is that whenever we start seeing others as objects rather than as people, we value justification more than results and find more advantage in war than we find in peace. In conflict, the heart of the matter is that our hearts have come to find advantage in conflict. Until we can escape this need for justification, we will continue to wallow (and find advantage) in the problems of the past. Until we can learn to acknowledge the obvious truth—that my coworkers, family members, and fellow citizens are as important and legitimate as I am—then my relationships will continue to be strained and our results together much less than they could be."

Well for now, at least our results together got us all home safe & sound, but that doesn't mean we aren't "Still Truckin" for the long haul. Though, we are blessed with some fabulous scenery for our journey.

Bend in the Four Corners, iPhoto. Janelle Jensen Fritz

A week in the life of BIG MALARKIES

It's Monday, it's a new week. I'm pretty sure our household is on the up & up now. But before I let last week settle in the dust, I have to give a shout out to my neighbor. Because my week, last week? Is pretty much, her week, every week. She's a pro, and doesn't let it get her down. I'm not exactly sure what her mantra's are. If I had to guess? They would somehow encapsulate the phrase: "You've gotta do, what you've gotta do.", or something to that effect. She's a great mom, and a lovely woman, and my role model for "rolling with the punches". To protect her privacy, I have affectionately named her "Big Malarkies". 

Instead of typing out the whole week I'll just give you the abbreviated version in equation form. 

Sunday+ 2 year old+ (Pink eye * Fever) = Urgent Care + Pharmacy + (a weeks worth of traumatic eye drops)

Friday+ 6 year old+ (Cold sore * nose sore * rash) = Pediatrician + Pharmacy + (Creams & Antibiotics for a week)

Friday+ Moo-shu+ (bladder issues) = Vet Visit + X-ray + Shot

Saturday+ Hubby+ (head cold * nausea * in bed & out of commission) = I'm healthy + I'm exhausted

Sunday + Sick Hubby+ 2pm church= NOT a Lazy Sunday

The total cost equals $325, just a little bit more than I had budgeted for our weekly breakdown...

I have to say, with my superstar "Big Malarkies" exemplar, the week rolled out better than what I would have conducted in the past. Attitude really is a make it-break it mentality. This is me, hoping with a positive attitude, that we all experience at least a notch up on the smooth-sailing-spectrum this week. But if not? I found this Backdoor Survival to Rolling With the Punches for us all.  
 

Saturday Morning Shuffle

Our Saturday mornings vary, but you can pretty much bank on the probability that we don't jump feet first into warp speed. Unless there is a soccer game. Then we can rally. 

Some of our low-key favorites include, Dad-made pancakes, or Dad-bought donuts. Movies, cartoons, and Lego extravaganza are also frequent favorites. The Lego spread is not a weekly tradition, but I'd say at least once a month or more, we end up with a family room full of Lego's. I think it dates back to my childhood. I vaguely recall Pee-Wee's Playhouse and a carpet full of Lego's on Saturday mornings. 

There was one Saturday where a specific request was made of me. It sounded simple enough. As in, reconstruct the disassembled Lightening McQueen and Mater Lego figures from Cars. I had the instruction booklets, but all of the pieces were mixed in with the two large buckets of individual or stray pieces. I still can't say what possessed me to acquiesce to this request. Cute little boys in pj's with rustled hair that offer hugs & kisses probably had something to do with it. I will never admit or acknowledge the amount of time it took me to sift, sort, and retrieve all the pertinent pieces, as well as assemble these two small Lego Cars figures. I recall my victorious emergence with both vehicles held in opposite hands, built in exactness. A quick glance at the microwave clock, and all semblance of success deflated, as I realized how long this assembly had actually taken me. Lets just say, that I will not be winning any speed records in Lego construction, EVER. My Lego engineering pace is definitely a slow shuffle.

Donuts, artwork by Janelle Jensen Fritz