This post has sat in line, waiting for the right time, since May 29th of this year. Since the news was new at that time, I didn't know how Hoo would take it if he saw this on my computer. Now that we are almost two months out, I think this is a good, sweet memory for him; hence, the publication today. MommaJ
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One of the rites-of-passage that we parents get to deal with is the ins-and-outs of "love" that our kids inevitably will encounter. I'm talking about the kind of love that all the sudden seems to attack our kids when we least expect it. Cupid, if you will, for the much-too-young set.
The Nowell boys certainly aren't immune to this. Nickels has admired young ladies since he was in Preschool. Every year, in every class, there was a new love interest. Most of them could have cared less about him, but he seemed to be perpetually smitten. He is going to be a wonderful husband because he will be used to hanging with girls who aren't hanging on his every word. And, let's face it, women of the world: we have our moments when we don't exactly treat our men the way they deserve. Let's just say that Nickels will have the experience to be able to handle that.
At the tender age of four, The Babe encountered the new paradigm between girls/boys on the playground during his last year in Preschool. Seems a sweet young thing with three much older siblings wanted him to notice her something fierce. She was darling* but his posse of friends was still solidly in the "girls have cooties" zone and they formed a human barrier around him on the playground to keep The Babe from being infected. Apparently, during one of these chasing sessions, one of the boys attempted to kick little miss and, like an out-of-control zombie, it didn't faze her a bit. Can we collectively say "aggressive"? Thankfully, the end of Preschool meant the end of her.
Hooman, on the other hand, has been blissfully ignorant of everything girl-related. Not once has he mentioned that a girl was "cute" or "sweet". In fact, he has acted like a horse with blinders when it comes to girls.
So, imagine my surprise when he entered the car after school this week and had a "secret". He could hardly contain himself. I thought he'd pee his pants waiting to move out of the carpool lane to be able to tell me.
Her name is Katherine. And she told him she likes him. And he said he likes her, too.
CUE CUPID'S ARROWS, SILLY BOY GRINS, AND GIGGLING.
Today, on the playground, Hooman asked her if she liked him "as a friend or as a boyfriend". "As a boyfriend", she said. The same question, asked from her perspective was answered "As a girlfriend".
I fully expect, any moment now, the letters between them will start flying. You know the ones: folded in a tight square shape, with DO NOT SHOW ANYONE printed on the front with the following inside: Circle one YES NO Would you like to sit with me at lunch?
Oh, the memories.
I'm not going to break anybody's heart and tell them that, by the time you have your first underarm hair, she will be a distant memory.
I'm not going to jump in and buy my Mother's dress for their wedding.
I'm simply going to bask in the glory that is young "love". And be available should things to South before school lets out next week.
One thing is for sure: the boys are growing up. They are learning about feelings that can't be contained. They are getting their first tastes of attraction and the overwhelming desire to spend time with people of the opposite sex.
I'd be lying if I said there isn't a bit of anxiety about all this. I wonder if we've done the best job we can preparing the boys for rejection and how to treat a young lady and what love really means.
For all our children, I say a prayer: that they will remain true to their Christ, His values, His way, and His love. That, when they fall and get hurt or hurt someone else, they will find a way to forgiveness, either as the grantor or the receiver. That, even when the right person comes along, their allegiance to him/her would be subordinate to their fidelity to Christ. And that they would have the kind of 1 Corinthians 13 love that never fails.
Who knows where this crush will go. Certainly not I. But, I do know it takes a few crushes to get to the right person.
I just pray, in between the first crush and the last breath they take on this earth, that my boys find a woman who takes their breath away because of who she is in Christ. And that, ultimately, they are as blessed in their marriage as I have been in mine.
*Let's just say they would have made beautiful children together once they were married and in a solid financial position.....
Friday, July 29, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
A Cautionary Tale about Aging
One of the weirdest things about looking in a mirror after about thirty is that I still see that fresh-faced kid of my High School photographs. Maybe it's the Pollyanna in me coming out, but the wrinkles and the decidedly deeper smile indentions and the zit scar from days of yore just don't really register.
But when I'm faced with an actual picture of my forty-five year old self? I see all the imperfections and age come flying off the glossy 5x7.
My body, unlike my face, is easier to see age on. No picture required.
It's been through a lot in the last twenty-five or so years: three pregnancies/births, numerous pounds come and gone, gravity, breastfeeding, too much drinking. It is, honestly, surprising that everything on my body isn't just flat to the floor and unable to get up.
So, when I lost the entire month of May to a crazy schedule and summer with the kids started and I sacrificed the gym for three months in a row? My body looked a little more like gravity loved it and less like it had been to the gym. Surprise, surprise.
A couple of weeks ago, my workout partner, whose had the same "school's over" predicament, suggested we try a little class in the evening. Nothing daunting like Core Kickboxing or Intermediate Boot Camp. The simplistic sounding Body Flow.
This class was billed as a "yoga, Pilates, Tai Chi workout (that) builds flexibility and strength and leaves you feeling centered and calm." I have to admit, after leaving class for the first time last week, both of us couldn't stop yawning. Thinking it might be a fluke, I paid close attention to my reaction this past Monday; same thing--tons of yawning and a real desire to teleport directly to bed.
Then came Tuesday morning. And a perfect storm of masochistic torture that I'm still getting over on Thursday.
See, on Monday morning I decided to give up my daily coffee habit. My four-cup habit. My "when I run out of coffee in the house, I'll finally quit" habit.*
So, by mid-day, I was a little draggy. But, I managed to make it to class and worked extra hard through all the moves that I was learning the previous Monday. I even got into frog pose, hands on floor, knees on bent elbows, for about .000005 seconds. But, I did it!!!
When I woke up Tuesday morning, my head felt like an anvil to someones iron working hammer. My stomach was bloated and I was belching and tooting like a little kid who just tried broccoli for the first time. Then my throat got a little sore and my eyes felt like they were being attacked by sand monsters. Since I hadn't had a drink in too long to remember, I thought "Shoot. I'm coming down with something."
Then, I remembered the less than stellar week I had had with my eating, which culminated in my downing about a quarter of a bag of dark chocolate chips on Sunday night.
Let's just say that the thing that makes me move was absent when the thing that stops me dead in my tracks was added. Translation? No coffee + too much chocolate = constipation. That explained the stomach. And, quite possibly, the headache.
I made dinner for the family and went to bed at 5pm.
Wednesday wasn't much better. I spent the day drinking copious amounts of water and downed an entire box of dates, hoping for movement. By nightfall, I could have eaten an ox, including the horns and tail. So, I ventured into "real food" territory for the first time and had a little frittata and salad.
Again, I went to bed at 5pm. And that is when the muscles in my neck, upper shoulders, and lower back all decided to tell me a little bit about themselves. They were cranky, pissed, and overused, they seemed to communicate.
And that's when I understood that almost the entire state of my body was due to a Body Flow class that collided with better health habits and created the worst two days of my life.
The hypochondriac in me really thought I might have some dread disease. The realist in me, looking backward with perfect vision now sees the truth:
1. Too much chocolate is just too much for any body over a certain age. Obviously, I've passed that mark.
2. Giving up coffee cold turkey is as close to suicide as you can get without actually dying. You just wish you did.
3. Trying one of the hardest yoga moves I've ever tried or seen tried or wished I tried is just plain stupid. My body wasn't designed to go into some positions and that is, obviously, one of them.
4. The best remedy for over sore muscles, besides a nice massage by Mike, is the TENS machine my chiropractor hooked my up with. And to never, ever, ever again try the frog pose or anything that resembles it.
Thursday mid-day has arrived. My abs look a little more toned thanks to the crunches from the class and the water/date diet. My headache and sore throat have disappeared and my eyes are themselves again. My lower back has made a truce with the rest of my body.
But my shoulders and neck? They are on a tear. They won't give up. I fear that, come Monday, they'll finally feel better. And, delusionally, I'll enter that class and think "Shoot. That was a fluke."
So I beg you, dear readers, and will reward you handsomely, to please follow me on Monday and knock my silly butt over if I even attempt frog pose. Or get too low on the airplane pose. Or try to do the crunches with my hands to my sides.
Unfortunately, the mind is willing, but the body is no.longer.able.
*Since I had about five pounds of coffee in the house, I wasn't the least bit worried about quitting before Christmas.
But when I'm faced with an actual picture of my forty-five year old self? I see all the imperfections and age come flying off the glossy 5x7.
My body, unlike my face, is easier to see age on. No picture required.
It's been through a lot in the last twenty-five or so years: three pregnancies/births, numerous pounds come and gone, gravity, breastfeeding, too much drinking. It is, honestly, surprising that everything on my body isn't just flat to the floor and unable to get up.
So, when I lost the entire month of May to a crazy schedule and summer with the kids started and I sacrificed the gym for three months in a row? My body looked a little more like gravity loved it and less like it had been to the gym. Surprise, surprise.
A couple of weeks ago, my workout partner, whose had the same "school's over" predicament, suggested we try a little class in the evening. Nothing daunting like Core Kickboxing or Intermediate Boot Camp. The simplistic sounding Body Flow.
This class was billed as a "yoga, Pilates, Tai Chi workout (that) builds flexibility and strength and leaves you feeling centered and calm." I have to admit, after leaving class for the first time last week, both of us couldn't stop yawning. Thinking it might be a fluke, I paid close attention to my reaction this past Monday; same thing--tons of yawning and a real desire to teleport directly to bed.
Then came Tuesday morning. And a perfect storm of masochistic torture that I'm still getting over on Thursday.
See, on Monday morning I decided to give up my daily coffee habit. My four-cup habit. My "when I run out of coffee in the house, I'll finally quit" habit.*
So, by mid-day, I was a little draggy. But, I managed to make it to class and worked extra hard through all the moves that I was learning the previous Monday. I even got into frog pose, hands on floor, knees on bent elbows, for about .000005 seconds. But, I did it!!!
When I woke up Tuesday morning, my head felt like an anvil to someones iron working hammer. My stomach was bloated and I was belching and tooting like a little kid who just tried broccoli for the first time. Then my throat got a little sore and my eyes felt like they were being attacked by sand monsters. Since I hadn't had a drink in too long to remember, I thought "Shoot. I'm coming down with something."
Then, I remembered the less than stellar week I had had with my eating, which culminated in my downing about a quarter of a bag of dark chocolate chips on Sunday night.
Let's just say that the thing that makes me move was absent when the thing that stops me dead in my tracks was added. Translation? No coffee + too much chocolate = constipation. That explained the stomach. And, quite possibly, the headache.
I made dinner for the family and went to bed at 5pm.
Wednesday wasn't much better. I spent the day drinking copious amounts of water and downed an entire box of dates, hoping for movement. By nightfall, I could have eaten an ox, including the horns and tail. So, I ventured into "real food" territory for the first time and had a little frittata and salad.
Again, I went to bed at 5pm. And that is when the muscles in my neck, upper shoulders, and lower back all decided to tell me a little bit about themselves. They were cranky, pissed, and overused, they seemed to communicate.
And that's when I understood that almost the entire state of my body was due to a Body Flow class that collided with better health habits and created the worst two days of my life.
The hypochondriac in me really thought I might have some dread disease. The realist in me, looking backward with perfect vision now sees the truth:
1. Too much chocolate is just too much for any body over a certain age. Obviously, I've passed that mark.
2. Giving up coffee cold turkey is as close to suicide as you can get without actually dying. You just wish you did.
3. Trying one of the hardest yoga moves I've ever tried or seen tried or wished I tried is just plain stupid. My body wasn't designed to go into some positions and that is, obviously, one of them.
4. The best remedy for over sore muscles, besides a nice massage by Mike, is the TENS machine my chiropractor hooked my up with. And to never, ever, ever again try the frog pose or anything that resembles it.
Thursday mid-day has arrived. My abs look a little more toned thanks to the crunches from the class and the water/date diet. My headache and sore throat have disappeared and my eyes are themselves again. My lower back has made a truce with the rest of my body.
But my shoulders and neck? They are on a tear. They won't give up. I fear that, come Monday, they'll finally feel better. And, delusionally, I'll enter that class and think "Shoot. That was a fluke."
So I beg you, dear readers, and will reward you handsomely, to please follow me on Monday and knock my silly butt over if I even attempt frog pose. Or get too low on the airplane pose. Or try to do the crunches with my hands to my sides.
Unfortunately, the mind is willing, but the body is no.longer.able.
*Since I had about five pounds of coffee in the house, I wasn't the least bit worried about quitting before Christmas.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Confession
The boys are participating in a Bible study this summer with a few other gentleman-in-waiting on our street. I'd love to say that the draw is the fascinating conversation about what they've learned from the likes of Paul and Luke and John, but I have to be honest: it's the weekly desserts and opportunity to boy-bond (and possibly end up in the pool) that are the real drivers.
This study has been challenging for both the boys. The version of the Bible they are referencing, the NASB, isn't exactly King James, but, at times, it still requires understanding what you've read/been read and turning that into your own commentary. I struggled with this when I first started doing Bible studies somewhere in my early 30's, so I feel their pain.
Today we were finishing up the last part of the week's study and Hooman was wrestling with how his actions demonstrate he is a REAL Christian. Basically, the author was trying to help the young readers understand the point that when Christians sin, it isn't a place God wants them to dwell for long.
It took some batting around and some extrapolation from the (theologically baseless) statement that "I'm a Christian because I'm a good person", but he finally came to the following conclusion:
"You have to eccept (spelling error left intact) Christ and live a life of confession."
This struck me as poetic and dead on and so simple that it almost hurt my core.
I've never thought of living a life of confession. But, that's what it takes, moment-by-moment, sin-by-sin, to bring me back to a point of righteousness.
If I were to turn each and every instance of disobedience or impatience or unforgiveness back to God as a matter of confession in the moment those errors occurred, I would be living a beautiful life. I'd be giving the devil zero foothold on my life. I would find that mysterious peace that passeth understanding, I'm pretty sure.
I find it so simple to forget confession. Is that because we relate it to some mystic Catholic rite that is somehow on the fringes of "true" Christianity? Is it because we know we were born in sin and we tend to sin so much that it would just be too hard to confess everything? Do we, unknowingly, let the cross be our atonement and forget that confession is the bridge that we build between ourselves and Christ that reconciles us to Him?
We have so many opportunities to worship and pray and read the Bible. We can attach a monetary donation to a local mission's project via our paycheck or send our tithe via auto-debiting. Opportunities to hand food over to the poor exist on almost every street corner in south Dallas. And, hopefully, we do some or all of these things.
And while these things are obedient and kind and wonderful, they aren't all that is necessary for us to walk in complete obedience. We MUST confess our sins to come back into right relationship with Christ. As 1 John 1:9 says, "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
I don't have some secret formula for making confession part of my life yet. I'm just barely starting to understand what true forgiveness looks like and I certainly know that being able to completely forgive has components of confession grafted into it.
But, like forgiveness, I want to make confession a regular part of my life. I don't want to remember it only on Sunday when we confess our sins in the pew. I want confession to help block the devil from my life 24/7/365.
How about you? Is this whole concept a surprise? Does the thought of living a life of confession sound intriguing?
Join me and let's find out together!
This study has been challenging for both the boys. The version of the Bible they are referencing, the NASB, isn't exactly King James, but, at times, it still requires understanding what you've read/been read and turning that into your own commentary. I struggled with this when I first started doing Bible studies somewhere in my early 30's, so I feel their pain.
Today we were finishing up the last part of the week's study and Hooman was wrestling with how his actions demonstrate he is a REAL Christian. Basically, the author was trying to help the young readers understand the point that when Christians sin, it isn't a place God wants them to dwell for long.
It took some batting around and some extrapolation from the (theologically baseless) statement that "I'm a Christian because I'm a good person", but he finally came to the following conclusion:
"You have to eccept (spelling error left intact) Christ and live a life of confession."
This struck me as poetic and dead on and so simple that it almost hurt my core.
I've never thought of living a life of confession. But, that's what it takes, moment-by-moment, sin-by-sin, to bring me back to a point of righteousness.
If I were to turn each and every instance of disobedience or impatience or unforgiveness back to God as a matter of confession in the moment those errors occurred, I would be living a beautiful life. I'd be giving the devil zero foothold on my life. I would find that mysterious peace that passeth understanding, I'm pretty sure.
I find it so simple to forget confession. Is that because we relate it to some mystic Catholic rite that is somehow on the fringes of "true" Christianity? Is it because we know we were born in sin and we tend to sin so much that it would just be too hard to confess everything? Do we, unknowingly, let the cross be our atonement and forget that confession is the bridge that we build between ourselves and Christ that reconciles us to Him?
We have so many opportunities to worship and pray and read the Bible. We can attach a monetary donation to a local mission's project via our paycheck or send our tithe via auto-debiting. Opportunities to hand food over to the poor exist on almost every street corner in south Dallas. And, hopefully, we do some or all of these things.
And while these things are obedient and kind and wonderful, they aren't all that is necessary for us to walk in complete obedience. We MUST confess our sins to come back into right relationship with Christ. As 1 John 1:9 says, "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
I don't have some secret formula for making confession part of my life yet. I'm just barely starting to understand what true forgiveness looks like and I certainly know that being able to completely forgive has components of confession grafted into it.
But, like forgiveness, I want to make confession a regular part of my life. I don't want to remember it only on Sunday when we confess our sins in the pew. I want confession to help block the devil from my life 24/7/365.
How about you? Is this whole concept a surprise? Does the thought of living a life of confession sound intriguing?
Join me and let's find out together!
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