Mixing my kids and church as enlightened me in ways I never thought possible.
When we first started attending church, as the van was making its way to the service, the boys would imagine fantastic crash scenes where we would all die in an explosion involving bombs, the military, and aliens. However, they were POSITIVE we were all going to Heaven because we believed in Jesus AND we sang Veggie Tales.
And then came the night I was teaching class and started with the "Lord's Prayer:"
One of my sons decided that instead of ending with the common and well-known, "Amen" he would end with "Peace Out!"
He wanted God to be able to speak and understand the current language.
But, my favorite church happened on Good Friday this year.
One son wanted to know why I was dragging him to church on a perfectly fine Friday afternoon. His brother's reply: "This is day we go to church to honor Jesus for dying for us because a bunch of people wanted to punish him because they thought he was a poser.... They thought he was pretending be the Son of God and decided he should die for it....Right, Mom?"
Uh.....
Uhhh.....
Right, Son.
Because God speaks to His people in their language....just like my son did to his brother.
It's an amazing gift he has to transform an age old story into everyday language.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Rainbows and Hawain Shirts
Lauren loves to dress like a rainbow. More days than not, she comes out dressed like a tribute to the color spectrum. She is happy and sparkly. Her eyes are shiny and her smile lights up the entire dining room. Nothing about her clothes match and I have made an odd peace with her choice of wardrobe. Life is so short and Lauren is so happy with her outfits (that are age appropriate), that I don't have the energy or desire to fight her about her clothing choices. We only get into disagreements when she is not properly dressed for the weather. She can be a winter rainbow, but she better be a warm winter rainbow!
Brandon went to baseball practice tonight in a Hawaiin shirt, grey shorts, a hot red baseball cap, and blue high tops. Everyone else's kid had on long pants, sweatshirts, the same red hat, and tennis shoes or cleats. Brandon did have a sweatshirt that he refused to wear. He was happy and didn't complain about being cold. I could easily spot him on the field and he did an awesome job fielding and hitting the ball.
It's easier to let the kids be who they are and celebrate their victories with them then fight over their clothing choices every day.
Brandon went to baseball practice tonight in a Hawaiin shirt, grey shorts, a hot red baseball cap, and blue high tops. Everyone else's kid had on long pants, sweatshirts, the same red hat, and tennis shoes or cleats. Brandon did have a sweatshirt that he refused to wear. He was happy and didn't complain about being cold. I could easily spot him on the field and he did an awesome job fielding and hitting the ball.
It's easier to let the kids be who they are and celebrate their victories with them then fight over their clothing choices every day.
When Food Attacks
A long time ago, I went to school with a little girl who wasn't me.
What made this girl remarkable was that she was allergic to milk.
SERIOUSLY.ALLERGIC. to milk (or anything in the family of dairy). Her stomach would hurt, her nose would bleed, she would start vomiting, and all other kinds of unpleasantness would befall her if she drank milk.
Me being all of in the second grade, I didn't understand the enormity of her allergy, but I did understand this: THE LUNCH LADIES DIDN'T BELIEVE HER.
It was incredible in only the ways life experiences are when you live them but lack adequate words to explain them so other people can truly understand the sheer magnitude of horror to which you were not only a witness, but a helpless bystander:
Every day, this poor girl would patiently return her milk, explain her plight, and every day, the minute her back was turned, one of these ladies, would turn up her nose, and say, "I have never heard of such a thing. She's making it up."
Now, I have not in the past nor will I in the future, claim that I attended the most enlightened or progressive school in America. However, even my seven year old brain knew these ladies were wrong. I knew they were wrong in how they were handling the situation, how they were talking about this girl behind her back, and for not believing her doctor. However, even if I had told anyone, no one would have believed me (it was the 1980's and kids did not have a voice at that school).
This young girls mom spent months arguing with the lunch ladies, the lunch aides, and the school secretaries about her daughters allergy because they were all smarter than the allergist...a little bit of milk now and then wasn't going to kill her (the truth was, yeah, it could have).
Every now and then, one of the lunch aides would have the bright idea that this girl "was.going.to.drink.her.milk." Fortunately, mass episodes of vomiting and being lit up by the girls mom put a (rather sulky) but final end to the milk drinking.
Fast forward twenty-five-ish years, knowing what I know about food allergies, my heart aches for that little girl. I would like to think that the world has become more educated about food allergies since I have left second grade, but my experience is that as a whole, society still makes people with food allergies feel like they have done something wrong.
My kids go to school with kids who have peanut allergies, gluten intolerances, and who are lactose intolerant. The schools, like society, and food stores, make very little accommodations for these kids.
In October, I was diagnosed with severe lactose intolerance. So severe, in fact, I now carry an EPI pen with me. The journey has not been fun, but it has been informative.
Here is what I have learned:
PEOPLE BELIEVE WE MAKE UP OUR FOOD ALLERGIES. Duh. No. We don't. At the end of the day, it's your problem, not ours, but us food allergy suffers would appreciate it if you kept your opinion to yourself and didn't tell us to...
JUST EAT IT...That Little Bit Of The Food You Are Allergic To WON'T HURT ANYTHING.
Hives itch. Stomach cramps hurt. Bloody stool, not so fun. Body aches that feel like Sidney Crosby beat you with his hockey stick, not so great.
WE WILL KNOW WHAT IS IN FOOD BY OSMOSIS No. We aren't mind readers. We read labels carefully and are freaked out that there is no longer any real food in the stuff we eat anymore. However, if we come to your house, we need to know if the pasta is gluten free or if you used three kinds of cheese in that new dish you cooked. We're not being rude; we're trying not to cut the visit short with a trip to the ER.
AT THE END OF THE DAY, SOME PEOPLE WILL REFUSE TO ACCOMMODATE PEOPLE WITH ALLERGIES/INTOLERANCES. Ultimately, we are responsible for what goes into our body, so it's best to have always have a back up plan when are visiting places where food will be served. I have learned this lesson the very, very hard way. After one too many close calls and too many emergency trips for Benadryl, this is going to be my new mode of operation.
Knowing what I know now, I wish I could have been a voice for that little girl in second grade.
Knowing what I know now, I can and I will be a voice now. Today.
What made this girl remarkable was that she was allergic to milk.
SERIOUSLY.ALLERGIC. to milk (or anything in the family of dairy). Her stomach would hurt, her nose would bleed, she would start vomiting, and all other kinds of unpleasantness would befall her if she drank milk.
Me being all of in the second grade, I didn't understand the enormity of her allergy, but I did understand this: THE LUNCH LADIES DIDN'T BELIEVE HER.
It was incredible in only the ways life experiences are when you live them but lack adequate words to explain them so other people can truly understand the sheer magnitude of horror to which you were not only a witness, but a helpless bystander:
Every day, this poor girl would patiently return her milk, explain her plight, and every day, the minute her back was turned, one of these ladies, would turn up her nose, and say, "I have never heard of such a thing. She's making it up."
Now, I have not in the past nor will I in the future, claim that I attended the most enlightened or progressive school in America. However, even my seven year old brain knew these ladies were wrong. I knew they were wrong in how they were handling the situation, how they were talking about this girl behind her back, and for not believing her doctor. However, even if I had told anyone, no one would have believed me (it was the 1980's and kids did not have a voice at that school).
This young girls mom spent months arguing with the lunch ladies, the lunch aides, and the school secretaries about her daughters allergy because they were all smarter than the allergist...a little bit of milk now and then wasn't going to kill her (the truth was, yeah, it could have).
Every now and then, one of the lunch aides would have the bright idea that this girl "was.going.to.drink.her.milk." Fortunately, mass episodes of vomiting and being lit up by the girls mom put a (rather sulky) but final end to the milk drinking.
Fast forward twenty-five-ish years, knowing what I know about food allergies, my heart aches for that little girl. I would like to think that the world has become more educated about food allergies since I have left second grade, but my experience is that as a whole, society still makes people with food allergies feel like they have done something wrong.
My kids go to school with kids who have peanut allergies, gluten intolerances, and who are lactose intolerant. The schools, like society, and food stores, make very little accommodations for these kids.
In October, I was diagnosed with severe lactose intolerance. So severe, in fact, I now carry an EPI pen with me. The journey has not been fun, but it has been informative.
Here is what I have learned:
PEOPLE BELIEVE WE MAKE UP OUR FOOD ALLERGIES. Duh. No. We don't. At the end of the day, it's your problem, not ours, but us food allergy suffers would appreciate it if you kept your opinion to yourself and didn't tell us to...
JUST EAT IT...That Little Bit Of The Food You Are Allergic To WON'T HURT ANYTHING.
Hives itch. Stomach cramps hurt. Bloody stool, not so fun. Body aches that feel like Sidney Crosby beat you with his hockey stick, not so great.
WE WILL KNOW WHAT IS IN FOOD BY OSMOSIS No. We aren't mind readers. We read labels carefully and are freaked out that there is no longer any real food in the stuff we eat anymore. However, if we come to your house, we need to know if the pasta is gluten free or if you used three kinds of cheese in that new dish you cooked. We're not being rude; we're trying not to cut the visit short with a trip to the ER.
AT THE END OF THE DAY, SOME PEOPLE WILL REFUSE TO ACCOMMODATE PEOPLE WITH ALLERGIES/INTOLERANCES. Ultimately, we are responsible for what goes into our body, so it's best to have always have a back up plan when are visiting places where food will be served. I have learned this lesson the very, very hard way. After one too many close calls and too many emergency trips for Benadryl, this is going to be my new mode of operation.
Knowing what I know now, I wish I could have been a voice for that little girl in second grade.
Knowing what I know now, I can and I will be a voice now. Today.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Dude! Checkmate!
En mass, the kids have discovered the game of chess. Let me assure you that critical thinking is alive and well in the Tolbert house. Atop the dining room table, strategies are well thought and Knights are nobly sacrificed in the defense of Kings and Queens.
Unless you happen to be me and have not played the game of chess for many, many years.
Last night can only be described as Jon and Noah taking turns humiliating me via pawns and rooks.
Frankly, I was hasty, I used poor position play, and worse, I did not always think (at minimum) two moves ahead to form a cohesive strategy. I deserved to lose (how fast and how epically to a twelve immediately followed by a ten year old, is an issue for another day).
For the record, I am not a novice to chess. First, my dad taught me how to play the game when I was in sixth grade. It is important to state my father has a firm policy that he does not let his children win games to make them feel good...Ever...so that prepared me for the next chess phase of my life.
In junior high and high school, I had the privilege of playing against extremely talented chess players. During lunch time I honed my crazy chess skills. Although my losses were far, far greater than my wins, I kept playing the game.
(To maintain some street cred, I was not in chess club. Okay, truthfully, I was not and still am not, that good of a player.)
As the kids and I are gathered around the table, I am taken back to those times in the library: The people playing the game, the spectators offering (unsolicited) advice, the competition, the critical thinking, and the sheer mind bending that it takes to check-mate your opponent.
As a family, we are supporting each other, laughing together, and agonizing together. The kids are enjoying discovering the finer points of the rules and sharing them with me. I love being a part of their new found knowledge.
I cannot wait to surprise them with an official Chess Rule Book for our family to pursue and discuss.
As a point of pride, I did win the rematch against Jonathon tonight. Jon held his own; admitedly he was surprised to find out I had learned from my mistakes from last night. Ultimately, Jon underestimating me was his downfall. We are now tied 1-1.
Unfortunately, due to bedtime contraints, the rematch with Noah was postponed.
Unless you happen to be me and have not played the game of chess for many, many years.
Last night can only be described as Jon and Noah taking turns humiliating me via pawns and rooks.
Frankly, I was hasty, I used poor position play, and worse, I did not always think (at minimum) two moves ahead to form a cohesive strategy. I deserved to lose (how fast and how epically to a twelve immediately followed by a ten year old, is an issue for another day).
For the record, I am not a novice to chess. First, my dad taught me how to play the game when I was in sixth grade. It is important to state my father has a firm policy that he does not let his children win games to make them feel good...Ever...so that prepared me for the next chess phase of my life.
In junior high and high school, I had the privilege of playing against extremely talented chess players. During lunch time I honed my crazy chess skills. Although my losses were far, far greater than my wins, I kept playing the game.
(To maintain some street cred, I was not in chess club. Okay, truthfully, I was not and still am not, that good of a player.)
As the kids and I are gathered around the table, I am taken back to those times in the library: The people playing the game, the spectators offering (unsolicited) advice, the competition, the critical thinking, and the sheer mind bending that it takes to check-mate your opponent.
As a family, we are supporting each other, laughing together, and agonizing together. The kids are enjoying discovering the finer points of the rules and sharing them with me. I love being a part of their new found knowledge.
I cannot wait to surprise them with an official Chess Rule Book for our family to pursue and discuss.
As a point of pride, I did win the rematch against Jonathon tonight. Jon held his own; admitedly he was surprised to find out I had learned from my mistakes from last night. Ultimately, Jon underestimating me was his downfall. We are now tied 1-1.
Unfortunately, due to bedtime contraints, the rematch with Noah was postponed.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
My T-shirt has a First Name
We have a vast array of T-shirts in this house because the kids are involved in lots of different activities. I'm not even sure if the kids go to their activities anymore or if they just wear different T-shirts to throw me off-kilter like their father tried to do when we were first married:
Me: (curious) "Rich where did you get that T-shirt?"
Rich: "Oh, my brother sent it to me. I didn't run this race."
Me: "Then why would you wear the shirt?"
Rich: (patiently, as if he is talking to two year old) "Because it's a Teeee-shirt"
Me: (looking at him like he's stupid) "What the ???? What does that have to do with anything? You didn't run the race. Why would you wear the shirt?"
Rich: Explains guys, T-shirts, and how no woman can or should ever interfere with such a sacred bond.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the thrill of the T-shirt. It tells the world that, for a moment, for a season, for a part of your life, you were bigger than something than just yourself. No one can take that pride, that sense of accomplishment, or that T-shirt away from you.
Let me empahsize: NO.ONE.CAN.TAKE.AWAY.THE.T-SHIRT.
Rich (along with some other men who I will not name, except for Mark K.) will not give up their T-shirts. This has to be male chromosome deficiency that science has yet to figure out...the "I can't part with my T-shirt's and you can't make me" gene. I have no other logical explanation for why otherwise reasonably well dressed men cling to remnants of cotton that tell life stories that are not necessarily their own.
Even the T-shirts that do brag of an accomplishment, a race run, a milestone reached, should do so with pride, not looking ratty, dirty, holey, nasty, ill-fitting, and smelly to boot.
I have tried to make the arguement that you are dishonoring the T-shirt when you wear it in such a manner. However, that is female point of view. Boys never change: Dirtier is better. The kids with the biggest mudhole wins. Same goes for the T-shirt wars. Rip It. Shred It. Get Paint On It. It's a T-shirt. It can take it.
Rich has passed his T-shirt addiction down to the boys:
Jump off a 250 foot cliff? Are you crazy? No way....Free t-shirts? We're in!
We'll have the T-shirts to prove it.
Me: (curious) "Rich where did you get that T-shirt?"
Rich: "Oh, my brother sent it to me. I didn't run this race."
Me: "Then why would you wear the shirt?"
Rich: (patiently, as if he is talking to two year old) "Because it's a Teeee-shirt"
Me: (looking at him like he's stupid) "What the ???? What does that have to do with anything? You didn't run the race. Why would you wear the shirt?"
Rich: Explains guys, T-shirts, and how no woman can or should ever interfere with such a sacred bond.
Don't get me wrong, I understand the thrill of the T-shirt. It tells the world that, for a moment, for a season, for a part of your life, you were bigger than something than just yourself. No one can take that pride, that sense of accomplishment, or that T-shirt away from you.
Let me empahsize: NO.ONE.CAN.TAKE.AWAY.THE.T-SHIRT.
Rich (along with some other men who I will not name, except for Mark K.) will not give up their T-shirts. This has to be male chromosome deficiency that science has yet to figure out...the "I can't part with my T-shirt's and you can't make me" gene. I have no other logical explanation for why otherwise reasonably well dressed men cling to remnants of cotton that tell life stories that are not necessarily their own.
Even the T-shirts that do brag of an accomplishment, a race run, a milestone reached, should do so with pride, not looking ratty, dirty, holey, nasty, ill-fitting, and smelly to boot.
I have tried to make the arguement that you are dishonoring the T-shirt when you wear it in such a manner. However, that is female point of view. Boys never change: Dirtier is better. The kids with the biggest mudhole wins. Same goes for the T-shirt wars. Rip It. Shred It. Get Paint On It. It's a T-shirt. It can take it.
Rich has passed his T-shirt addiction down to the boys:
Jump off a 250 foot cliff? Are you crazy? No way....Free t-shirts? We're in!
We'll have the T-shirts to prove it.
Dirty Laundry
Folding laundry is no small chore in this house. Especially since my husband passed down his love of T-shirts to our children. I cannot separate what activities my kids have joined because they truly wanted to join them or because, much like their father, they were seduced by the offer of the free T-shirt.
So, when I was folding the clothes this week, I thought it would be a cool thing to list all things that we live for at the Tolbert house:
So here I go:
Football is life. (Stevens Point Youth/UWSP/Pitt/Penn State/Packers/Badgers/Steelers)
Soccer is life.
Baseball is life.
Dance is life.
Wrestling is life.
Mission Trips are life.
Redeemer Lutheran Church is life.
Running is Life.
Tiger Track/Racing is Life.
South Dakota is Life.
Chocolate is Life.
Emy J's is life. (Stevens Point coffee shop...Personally, I think it makes life me more bearable so I can life a more full life, but that's my honest opinion.)
Buffalo Wild Wings is life.
Princesses are life.
Karate is life.
Theater is life.
We are a busy, active group over here doing a lot living. A lot of loving. And we have the T-shirts to prove it!
So, when I was folding the clothes this week, I thought it would be a cool thing to list all things that we live for at the Tolbert house:
So here I go:
Football is life. (Stevens Point Youth/UWSP/Pitt/Penn State/Packers/Badgers/Steelers)
Soccer is life.
Baseball is life.
Dance is life.
Wrestling is life.
Mission Trips are life.
Redeemer Lutheran Church is life.
Running is Life.
Tiger Track/Racing is Life.
South Dakota is Life.
Chocolate is Life.
Emy J's is life. (Stevens Point coffee shop...Personally, I think it makes life me more bearable so I can life a more full life, but that's my honest opinion.)
Buffalo Wild Wings is life.
Princesses are life.
Karate is life.
Theater is life.
We are a busy, active group over here doing a lot living. A lot of loving. And we have the T-shirts to prove it!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friends
Prior to moving to the city in which we now reside, Rich and I moved three times in two years. During the last two moves, I was pregnant. Really pregnant. The kind of pregnant where people not jokingly say, "Don't have that baby while you're moving that box." So, not only was moving less than fun, we never had time to establish many long friendships and community ties.
Alright, it's me writing this blog. I made friends when we lived in these places, I won't lie. But it's different here.
Now, my family has a support system of friends. People that cheer when our kids are doing well and cry with us when my grandma died. We have a church full of people with generous hearts and amazing personalities. We have family that is close enough and willing enough to make trek back and forth so we can celebrate holidays and milestones together.
Friends. People to invite over to a Super Bowl Party....who are genuinely concerned about the state of our marriage post-game. Crazy and wonderful people who take all four our children as one big group so Rich and I can have conversations that do not start with "It's your turn to deal with ____" or give us relief from dividing up the map of our town and having a contest to see who can take the kids to the most places the fastest on a Monday night.
These friends also entrust their children to us for the day or the night or to ring in 2011. It's wonderful to watch all these kids grow and hear them laugh (plot) at our house. There are times I am curious whose plan for utter and total world domination is going to succeed. I haven't the heart to them I have been hatching my own plan for years....
There are also friends that I maintain contact with through email and facebook that are no less dear to my heart. We celebrate and commiserate via electronic communication; one of the more useful ways I have utilized advances in technology.
I wake up so grateful for the blessings that these friendships have brought into the lives of our family. On the best of days, raising four kids to be amazing people is a daunting task; it is a wonderful feeling to know Rich and I have so many family and friends to help and encourage us on this wild journey called parenthood.
Alright, it's me writing this blog. I made friends when we lived in these places, I won't lie. But it's different here.
Now, my family has a support system of friends. People that cheer when our kids are doing well and cry with us when my grandma died. We have a church full of people with generous hearts and amazing personalities. We have family that is close enough and willing enough to make trek back and forth so we can celebrate holidays and milestones together.
Friends. People to invite over to a Super Bowl Party....who are genuinely concerned about the state of our marriage post-game. Crazy and wonderful people who take all four our children as one big group so Rich and I can have conversations that do not start with "It's your turn to deal with ____" or give us relief from dividing up the map of our town and having a contest to see who can take the kids to the most places the fastest on a Monday night.
These friends also entrust their children to us for the day or the night or to ring in 2011. It's wonderful to watch all these kids grow and hear them laugh (plot) at our house. There are times I am curious whose plan for utter and total world domination is going to succeed. I haven't the heart to them I have been hatching my own plan for years....
There are also friends that I maintain contact with through email and facebook that are no less dear to my heart. We celebrate and commiserate via electronic communication; one of the more useful ways I have utilized advances in technology.
I wake up so grateful for the blessings that these friendships have brought into the lives of our family. On the best of days, raising four kids to be amazing people is a daunting task; it is a wonderful feeling to know Rich and I have so many family and friends to help and encourage us on this wild journey called parenthood.
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