This morning during the church service we had communion, and as usual Gabe and Zach participated, with many whispered prayers and reassurances that while the crackers were indeed delicious, they also were paying attention. Usually communion is a good time to reinforce some basic tenants of our faith, and today Gabe had a couple of questions regarding the "bread" and "wine" (crackers and grape juice). After explaining as quietly as I could about the juice, I went on to his next question, the gist of which was Jesus as the bread of life. We went back and forth for a minute, all the while I was delighted at how astute my son appeared as he considered these weighty matters. Almost done, I continued my explanation, then wrapped things up, or so I thought. As I settled back in my seat Gabe's eyes got wider and wider.
"Jesus was made of wheat?!"
I had a little more explaining to do.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Holiday Hilarity Part III: the Godseys get the Giggles
Every year by Christmas Eve I come to the sad re-realization that I am a procrastinator. The nights leading up to Christmas involve staying up into the wee hours, wrapping gifts, making lists, baking, etc. Throw in a big pair of red pants and forget to wax, and I'd be just like St. Nick himself. This year was particularly grueling as we had a newborn and I was working, so sleep was precious and hard to come by. Our tradition has always been Mexican food, followed by the Christmas Eve service, with Uncle Bill who was always up for the holiday. We missed him this year as he celebrated with his new family in Texas. But I digress.
We invited my friend Lara and her parents and siblings to attend the service with us this year, and it was the first time I met some of them. Taking up two rows, my growing family and her grown up family all were able to sit together on the right side of the church, and things were going fairly well until Rilla had her bottle. At just seven weeks, Rilla was still needing to be burped throughout her feedings, much to her brother's delight. Just as someone (I still don't know this lovely lady's name, and plan to never find out) stepped up to the mic and began a mellow, melodic rendition of "Mary, did you know?", my baby burped, which led to Zach squeaking out a giggle. In the reverent silence, Rilla's burp rang out like a ram's horn, but for some reason she couldn't stop. Burp after echoing burp, my tiny daughter continued, rivaling the song for length and volume. Zach was beside himself, with big sidesplitting giggles, and John and I were elbowing for all we were worth, one on each side.
At this point, the unthinkable happened. John started to giggle. In my sleep-deprived state, it was a useless battle, and I gave in as well. So there we sat, on Christmas Eve, listening to a meaningful, spiritual hymn, surrounded by guests we had invited to experience the beauty of the evening, laughing like demented hyenas. Great big tears rolled down my cheeks as I tried without success to somehow mute my laughter, Zach's giggles, Rilla's burps, and John's cackling. Lara's family sent bewildered looks our way, then trained their eyes forward in an attempt at politely ignoring our insanity. The song ended, and so did the burping. And giggling. But my face stayed red long after it was all over.
We invited my friend Lara and her parents and siblings to attend the service with us this year, and it was the first time I met some of them. Taking up two rows, my growing family and her grown up family all were able to sit together on the right side of the church, and things were going fairly well until Rilla had her bottle. At just seven weeks, Rilla was still needing to be burped throughout her feedings, much to her brother's delight. Just as someone (I still don't know this lovely lady's name, and plan to never find out) stepped up to the mic and began a mellow, melodic rendition of "Mary, did you know?", my baby burped, which led to Zach squeaking out a giggle. In the reverent silence, Rilla's burp rang out like a ram's horn, but for some reason she couldn't stop. Burp after echoing burp, my tiny daughter continued, rivaling the song for length and volume. Zach was beside himself, with big sidesplitting giggles, and John and I were elbowing for all we were worth, one on each side.
At this point, the unthinkable happened. John started to giggle. In my sleep-deprived state, it was a useless battle, and I gave in as well. So there we sat, on Christmas Eve, listening to a meaningful, spiritual hymn, surrounded by guests we had invited to experience the beauty of the evening, laughing like demented hyenas. Great big tears rolled down my cheeks as I tried without success to somehow mute my laughter, Zach's giggles, Rilla's burps, and John's cackling. Lara's family sent bewildered looks our way, then trained their eyes forward in an attempt at politely ignoring our insanity. The song ended, and so did the burping. And giggling. But my face stayed red long after it was all over.
In the Eye of the Beholder
John has worked in a nursing home for many years now, and often the boys and I stop in to say hello, smile and hug some of the residents, and occasionally visit the giant fish tank up on the fourth floor. This last activity was especially popular with the boys when they were a bit younger, so we took many elevator rides up to the fourth floor with Daddy when they were around ages four and five.
One time we were just finished staring at the fish (really, watching three fish swim about for five minutes was somehow the highlight of their young lives, which is thrilling to any mother who is searching for cheap field trips - a nursing home and a fish tank - I may be considered a skinflint, but it worked!) and were headed down the hallway towards the elevator when I spotted a resident parked in the hall in her wheelchair. Whenever we encountered folks in the hallway, I would encourage the boys to say hello, knowing what cheer small boys can bring to the elderly. Gabe gallantly walked by with a polite wave and equally polite greeting. Zach veered straight over to the lady, who was admittedly a bit hunched over, most likely about a hundred years old, kind of bent, with one eye open, and did a quick wave, while exclaiming,
"Hello, little monster!"
Praying she was hard of hearing (eek, is that even allowed?) I was quick to grab my youngest son by the shoulders and steer him into the elevator before he could elaborate.
One time we were just finished staring at the fish (really, watching three fish swim about for five minutes was somehow the highlight of their young lives, which is thrilling to any mother who is searching for cheap field trips - a nursing home and a fish tank - I may be considered a skinflint, but it worked!) and were headed down the hallway towards the elevator when I spotted a resident parked in the hall in her wheelchair. Whenever we encountered folks in the hallway, I would encourage the boys to say hello, knowing what cheer small boys can bring to the elderly. Gabe gallantly walked by with a polite wave and equally polite greeting. Zach veered straight over to the lady, who was admittedly a bit hunched over, most likely about a hundred years old, kind of bent, with one eye open, and did a quick wave, while exclaiming,
"Hello, little monster!"
Praying she was hard of hearing (eek, is that even allowed?) I was quick to grab my youngest son by the shoulders and steer him into the elevator before he could elaborate.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Easter Sunrise Surprise
Every year our family attends the Easter sunrise service at church; it's a lovely way to celebrate the day, and being held in the field across the street from church, it's truly beautiful. Although casual (when Easter falls in March is it especially casual, as I have to bundle everyone up in snow suits, blankets and boots, usually on top of their pajamas), last year Katy and her best friend tried their hand at "dressing up" for the occasion, and nearly put the me through the roof when they came out of her bedroom at 5:30 in the morning dressed in:
Short colorful dresses
over metallic leggings
with tall boots
colorful scarfs, hats,
and on top of everything
A red velvet hooded cape and
Gabe's Darth Vader Star Wars hooded cape.
All ready to go, and with NO IDEA why I made them go change.
Attention, anyone?
Short colorful dresses
over metallic leggings
with tall boots
colorful scarfs, hats,
and on top of everything
A red velvet hooded cape and
Gabe's Darth Vader Star Wars hooded cape.
All ready to go, and with NO IDEA why I made them go change.
Attention, anyone?
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
A Parable about Keeping an Eye on the Kids
One way John would often help me when the boys were younger would be to take one of them with him while he was running errands; as any mother knows, little boys (maybe girls are the same but I guess I won't know for sure) love to egg each other on, especially little boys like mine who have very different interests. My husband loves to read, loves buying books, looking at books, collecting books, et cetera, and many times stops in at the local Parable Bible Bookstore to peruse the shelves.
When Zach was three and freshly potty trained, John was out with him and decided to stop in at this particular store; the ladies there are very sweet but mostly a bit older, giving the impression that they have forgotten what small boys are like - it was my own personal nightmare to take them into the Bible bookstore due to the numerous glass figurines placed on low shelves all throughout the building. However, where books are concerned John is fearless, so in he and Zach went.
John ushered Zach over to the children's play area, where a veggietales movie was playing and a table of giant legos waited to be played with. As he was skimming over a book, one of the sales ladies came over with a small smile.
"Isn't he cute?" she said, gesturing to Zach.
"Mm Hmmm, " my vigilant husband replied, politely glancing up before returning to his book.
"Yes, he's really something." She kept the conversation going, waiting for John to reply. He finally got the hint and lowered the book, only to see his son racing around the store, completely naked from the waist down.
When Zach was three and freshly potty trained, John was out with him and decided to stop in at this particular store; the ladies there are very sweet but mostly a bit older, giving the impression that they have forgotten what small boys are like - it was my own personal nightmare to take them into the Bible bookstore due to the numerous glass figurines placed on low shelves all throughout the building. However, where books are concerned John is fearless, so in he and Zach went.
John ushered Zach over to the children's play area, where a veggietales movie was playing and a table of giant legos waited to be played with. As he was skimming over a book, one of the sales ladies came over with a small smile.
"Isn't he cute?" she said, gesturing to Zach.
"Mm Hmmm, " my vigilant husband replied, politely glancing up before returning to his book.
"Yes, he's really something." She kept the conversation going, waiting for John to reply. He finally got the hint and lowered the book, only to see his son racing around the store, completely naked from the waist down.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Gone Fishing
We live the downtown part of Concord, so there are two parks close by, and we often walk to one or the other of them when it is warm out. Which park we go to is determined by our willingness to chase the boys around, since one is much bigger, although this has gotten easier as they have gotten older.
As toddlers, one of their favorite things to do was go to White Park, where we could feed the ducks as well as enjoy the playground, so we spent a lot of time there with our stale bread when they were younger. The pond is a duck pond - slimy, shallow, but lovely in its own right. The type of pond that makes me issue these warnings often - "Back up. Don't get your feet wet. Honey, BACK UP."
One day we were down there with our leftover offerings, and two year old Zach suddenly took his summer hat off his head, and threw it as far as he could (about five feet) into the water.
I looked at John, telling him without words there was NO WAY I was going into that water. As soon as Zach realized what he had done, he began to cry.
"I want my hat. Hat! Hat! Get it!" It was starting to sink into the green water when suddenly, another hat joined it - plop. Gabe had decided to get in on the fun, and tossed his hat in as well.
Now they were both crying as their hats began their descent into a watery grave. Still, John and I didn't move; it was a hard call, facing the crying children and buying new hats seemed much easier than facing the slime, the feathers, the mud. In the end we knew we needed to rescue our darling boys from watching their summer hats drown, so we sprang into action.
Looking to the right and left, I attempted to find something we could use to grab the hats, but being a duck pond there wasn't a whole lot in the way of tools lying around. About twenty feet away a young man was fishing, calmly ignoring us. Without a moments hesitation I marched over to him, smiled as I gestured to my screaming children, and requested the use of his fishing pole. With one look at the boys, who were pointing and yelling and making a general ruckus, he handed me the pole. John made quick work of catching the hats, we returned the fishing gear, and made a snifffling, drippy retreat, having become a little wiser in the art of feeding ducks.
As toddlers, one of their favorite things to do was go to White Park, where we could feed the ducks as well as enjoy the playground, so we spent a lot of time there with our stale bread when they were younger. The pond is a duck pond - slimy, shallow, but lovely in its own right. The type of pond that makes me issue these warnings often - "Back up. Don't get your feet wet. Honey, BACK UP."
One day we were down there with our leftover offerings, and two year old Zach suddenly took his summer hat off his head, and threw it as far as he could (about five feet) into the water.
I looked at John, telling him without words there was NO WAY I was going into that water. As soon as Zach realized what he had done, he began to cry.
"I want my hat. Hat! Hat! Get it!" It was starting to sink into the green water when suddenly, another hat joined it - plop. Gabe had decided to get in on the fun, and tossed his hat in as well.
Now they were both crying as their hats began their descent into a watery grave. Still, John and I didn't move; it was a hard call, facing the crying children and buying new hats seemed much easier than facing the slime, the feathers, the mud. In the end we knew we needed to rescue our darling boys from watching their summer hats drown, so we sprang into action.
Looking to the right and left, I attempted to find something we could use to grab the hats, but being a duck pond there wasn't a whole lot in the way of tools lying around. About twenty feet away a young man was fishing, calmly ignoring us. Without a moments hesitation I marched over to him, smiled as I gestured to my screaming children, and requested the use of his fishing pole. With one look at the boys, who were pointing and yelling and making a general ruckus, he handed me the pole. John made quick work of catching the hats, we returned the fishing gear, and made a snifffling, drippy retreat, having become a little wiser in the art of feeding ducks.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Not to be confused with utter UTTER humiliation
Stopping to pick up groceries with the kids is never fun, and for some reason stopping to pick up one thing seems even worse - it isn't logical, but the bother of getting everyone in and out of the car, traipsing into the store, NOT buying everything the kids want, finding that lone item - it's just a huge pain. This particular time, the culprit was a gallon of milk.
The boys were a bit younger, four and five I would say, and we had to stop at Hannafords on the way home. We piled out of the van, found the milk and had made it to the express lane without incident. I was handing some money to the cashier when I felt an insistent tapping on my leg. Zach was standing just behind me, and was not going to stop tapping until I acknowledged him, so I looked down to ask what was up. As I was glancing down, a couple of things happened:
Zach said, "Mommy, look!"
And I saw a very large woman in line behind him.
Time slowed as my brain began to put two and two together, but Zach was not slowing down. "Look, Mommy!" he said again, pointing this time. "She has a really big bottom!"
Horrified I quickly looked to see if she heard while my arm reached out of its own accord, yanking Zach over to me. My face was on fire, the cashier was handing me my change, and Zach wanted to keep talking about it. I looked him in the eye, steel in my voice as I said, "Zach, STOP TALKING."
His face crumpled at my tone. Blindly I grabbed the milk, my two boys, and turned to make my exit, praying the poor woman was unaware of what was going on. But Zach wasn't done.
"Mom, you won't listen to the the truth!" he wailed. We were almost to the door and I knew if I kept dragging them quickly toward the exit I would be in the cold fresh air and maybe able to start breathing again, so I ignored him and kept going.
"MOM!" he yelled. "LISTEN TO THE TRUTH, MOMMY!!"
We made it to the van, and I got the boys inside as quickly as I could. I lectured with gusto.
"We do not use the word fat. We do not point at people. We never talk about the outside of people, we talk about the inside. We don't want to hurt people's feelings." Zach stuck with his argument that I should listen to him when he is telling the truth, and shouldn't get mad. Somehow I knew I needed to get my point across, but temporarily gave up once Gabe piped up from the back, in all of his big brotherly glory:
"Yeah, Zach. Next time, go up to the lady and say 'Hi, you're really skinny!' "
The boys were a bit younger, four and five I would say, and we had to stop at Hannafords on the way home. We piled out of the van, found the milk and had made it to the express lane without incident. I was handing some money to the cashier when I felt an insistent tapping on my leg. Zach was standing just behind me, and was not going to stop tapping until I acknowledged him, so I looked down to ask what was up. As I was glancing down, a couple of things happened:
Zach said, "Mommy, look!"
And I saw a very large woman in line behind him.
Time slowed as my brain began to put two and two together, but Zach was not slowing down. "Look, Mommy!" he said again, pointing this time. "She has a really big bottom!"
Horrified I quickly looked to see if she heard while my arm reached out of its own accord, yanking Zach over to me. My face was on fire, the cashier was handing me my change, and Zach wanted to keep talking about it. I looked him in the eye, steel in my voice as I said, "Zach, STOP TALKING."
His face crumpled at my tone. Blindly I grabbed the milk, my two boys, and turned to make my exit, praying the poor woman was unaware of what was going on. But Zach wasn't done.
"Mom, you won't listen to the the truth!" he wailed. We were almost to the door and I knew if I kept dragging them quickly toward the exit I would be in the cold fresh air and maybe able to start breathing again, so I ignored him and kept going.
"MOM!" he yelled. "LISTEN TO THE TRUTH, MOMMY!!"
We made it to the van, and I got the boys inside as quickly as I could. I lectured with gusto.
"We do not use the word fat. We do not point at people. We never talk about the outside of people, we talk about the inside. We don't want to hurt people's feelings." Zach stuck with his argument that I should listen to him when he is telling the truth, and shouldn't get mad. Somehow I knew I needed to get my point across, but temporarily gave up once Gabe piped up from the back, in all of his big brotherly glory:
"Yeah, Zach. Next time, go up to the lady and say 'Hi, you're really skinny!' "
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