Woman-y Things

When my husband and I were dating, Nicaraguan culture didn’t quite know what to do with me. Here I was, clearly a lady-girl, yet I had more in common with the men than with my own gender. I had an employment history, an education, I could drive, and I had absolutely no idea how to sweep the floor with a towel/stick apparatus. I was also 26 with not one single child. I did my best to learn woman-y things like cooking Nicaraguan cuisine, laundering clothes by hand and straightening hair. And although I did, in fact, become proficient in all such feminine pursuits, by that time I had already been accepted into the world of men, and there I stayed.

Going back to visit proved very different.

Now I had a baby to take care of. And the baby was very disoriented by the sudden, sharp, change in climate, routine and people. Clearly objecting to all these strange new people holding him, all he wanted was Mommy.

And that’s when I fully entered into the world of a Nicaraguan woman. Apparently, men go off and do fun things; women stay in the sweltering house and work really hard.

Case in point, we went out to the country to visit Eli’s grandma. As you might remember for my previous horrifying trips to La Mina, I kind of hate the country. Eli stuck me in his grandma’s windowless house in 100 degree heat (no air conditioning, not even a fan, people!) and gallivanted off in the hills with his brothers. While he ate fruit from the trees and enjoyed himself, I had my hands full of a hot, grumpy baby who very quickly developed a high fever.

As Troy snoozed fitfully on my chest in a hammock strung across the living room, I had a lot of time to ponder gender roles in the world. I watched Eli’s aunts toil silently, preparing food, scrubbing clothes, wetting the dirt in the front yard so it could be swept bare. You never see men helping with these endless, backbreaking chores. Eli is nearly the only male in his whole family who even knows how to cook (his dad learned late in life after his wife passed away).

Sure, women and men are made different and are supposed to have different functions. I have upper body strength suitable for hauling around my little chunky monkey, not chopping down trees. If there’s a tree that needs chopping, I’m calling in a dude. So I’m not saying that men and women should be and do the same things.

Grandma's House

But.

Dear lord how on earth did we get here?! The injustice felt even more oppressive than the relentless heat.

The day before, one of my brothers-in-law complained about the new domestic violence law in Nicaragua. It’s called something like The Protection of Women from Domestic Abuse Act and means a man who beats his woman automatically goes to jail even if she doesn’t want to press charges. His main objection was that it only applies to men. What about women who beat their men? How is that fair?

I pointed out that my husband could probably fend off my puny, ineffectual fists without the help of law enforcement but he was still grumpy about the inequality of the new rules. Maybe the law isn’t fair and just as it should be. But somebody needs to look out for all the women who are already at a cultural disadvantage. Their lives are hard enough without giving any man an inch of space to abuse them.

In any case, I am grateful to be back in the States in my own culture that is flawed in different ways. And I am glad that it didn’t take Troy very long to adjust to all the new faces and embrace his big Nica family. Maybe he also thought that after 50 consecutive hours of quality time, we really needed to see other people. 

Good Dads

The other night, I heard several Spanish exclamations by my husband emanating from our bedroom. The next thing I see is husband running down the hall with a diaper in hand, gagging. Then husband running down the hall with a naked baby. Then husband running back to our room with a wet naked baby.

Clearly, there was a poo incident of some magnitude.

And after I stopped laughing hysterically (but supportively!) I thought about what a great dad Eli is. He does it all – from diapers to peek-a-boo to coating the baby liberally with squash (probably some of the food goes inside the baby too). Whenever Troy is in daycare and hears Daddy’s voice he stops whatever he’s doing and gets happy.

Papa Bear and Baby Bear

If you think about it, any time a guy is a great dad, it’s kind of impressive.

Last year, our church had a lovely Mother’s Day service. As you can probably picture, they passed out carnations to the mothers and had a hooray-for-moms themed sermon. A month later, for Father’s Day, our church had…a regular old service. Right at the end they crow-barred in a prayer for all the dads. Eli turned to me and said, “Wow. Mother’s Day is a LOT more important here than Father’s Day.”

You bet your ass it is. I was in labor for over twenty hours to eject our son from my body into this world. Twenty hours, dude. Twenty.

Mothers are heroes.

But today, I would like to make it known that a good dad is, by far, cooler and more awesome than even a great mom.

Why?

Because fathers choose whether or not to love their kids.

The moment I came down with pregnancy, I was blessed (?) with an abundance of some very muscular hormones. These hormones took over my life, erased my memory, and turned me into a giant incubator who hated potatoes. They also triggered a lifelong bond of love. There’s a reason the very first moment I saw my son – all squashy and slimy and gross – I thought he was the most beautiful thing that has ever existed, ever. Oh yes, hormones.

Women have a pretty powerful biological, evolutionary, spiritual, or whatever you call it, need to love their kids. It’s kind of important for the species to continue. Otherwise, we probably would leave them out in the yard when they just. wont. stop. crying.

Guys don’t really have those hormones.

Dude hormones are more for fighting off barbarian hordes (or being barbarian hordes) and bringing down a wildebeest for dinner.

My point is not that I am super bad at science. My point is that falling in love with a tiny, helpless, mystery-fluid-spewer is not written into male DNA.  Men make a choice.

Being a parent is hard. I feel really fortunate to have stuff like instinct and hormones to propel me along the path to Good Motherhood. I am totally content to know, deep in my bones, that my child is the best one that has ever walked, crawled, or rolled upon the face of the earth – just like you other mothers know that about your kid!

And that is why I am totally in awe of all the great dads out there that every day, without chemical help, make the choice to love their kids and to treat them with kindness.

Dads are rad!

Hey look! A comment box! Give a shout out to a Rad Dad you know. 

Hidden Treasure

I stayed up past my usual 7:30 pm bedtime last night. Check this out: I was awake until 10! WHA!! I know, crazy awesome right? (Wrong; it’s lame.) And today there appears to be far too much blood in my caffeine system.

But it was totally worth it. I went to a Jason Gray concert last night, sponsored by our local Christian radio station. If you don’t know who he is, I strongly encourage you to go to his website and check him out. And if you ever get the chance to see his live show, do. Because not only is he a talented musician but he is hilarious. The show was equal parts music, poignant stories of God’s grace and stand up comedy.

Before the memory of last night falls out the back of my tired mommy brain, I want to share with you, my 12 readers, something Jason Gray said last night that really spoke to me.

The Parable of the Hidden Treasure

"The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field."

- Matthew 13:44

Who is the man? What is the treasure?

Many of us (me included) have always interpreted the story pretty literally: the Kingdom of Heaven is so nifty and valuable that anyone who stumbles upon it should immediately sell all their stuff and then go follow Jesus.

And while I am not saying that the above isn’t a valid interpretation, or that Jesus isn’t worth unloading all your worldly possessions, last night I heard a new interpretation that I think fits much better. After all, the point of parables is to not be literal!

What if the man isn’t me?

In the parables right before this one, Jesus tells the story of a farmer scattering seeds on the ground. Then he compares the kingdom of heaven to a mustard seed growing into a whomping huge tree and then to a tiny little yeast granule that works through the whole dough to make it fluffy and delicious bread.

In the two seed sowing stories, I am definitely not the farmer character; I am the ground. Actually, in all the parables leading up to verse 44 the action is being done by God. So I think it’s safe to assume that the treasure-finder is also God.

Which makes me the treasure.

Imagine that. Jesus thinks I’m so nifty and valuable that when he finds me he is so stoked he gives up everything. And he doesn’t just buy me, he buys the field. All my dirt, all my empty, wasted potential – he scoops that up too just to acquire the hidden treasure that is me.

And you. You are a shining treasure too.

So often, I go to bed thinking, “If only I could be a better wife/mom/person/Christian. If only I was closer to God.” Maybe if I tried more, gave up more, valued the Kingdom more then maybe God would like me more. It’s exhausting and futile.

That’s why this story got me. I don’t ever love God first. I don’t. I don’t any more than Troy loved me first. Before he was cute enough to melt plastic, before he snuggled into my side, before he ever made me laugh – I loved that kid. I loved him as he lay helpless and bruised on my chest in his first moment; I loved him as he wiggled around in my enormous pregnant belly; I loved him when he was just test results on a piece of paper. Long before he could be or do anything, Troy was my treasure.

Long before I could be or do anything, I was God’s treasure. There I was, covered in crap, hidden away in a field. And there was God, finding me, loving me, seeing in me something of enormous value.

My Treasure

So what about you? Can you stay up past 8?

A Protective Love

Early one morning, Jesus comes face to face with a juicy sin, or rather, a woman. She had been caught cheating on her husband – an offense punishable by death. She should die! Filthy sinner. She was screwing around, using her body for illicit sex, violating God’s plan for marriage between one man and one woman.

Here is a perfect opportunity for Jesus to show us all how God treats sexual sinners. Ready Jesus? Bring on the wrath and hellfire in three…

                                                                                 Two…

                                                                                         Wha---?

What’s he doing? He writing in the dirt? That’s very unsanitary, Jesus. Everyone’s leaving! What about Slutsville McGee over there?

Wait, what? He’s just letting her go? He didn’t even get her to confess her sins or ask for forgiveness. He didn’t even tell her about eternal punishment. He – he said he didn’t condemn her.

I really love the Young’s Literal Translation of the last thing Jesus said to the woman caught in adultery in John 8: “be going on, and no more sin.” It sounds a lot less like something the Judge of the World would pronounce and more like something your grandma might say after you were time out. It sounds like something someone who loves you might say.

I was thinking about this story as I read a story onESPN.com. 14 members of the Westboro Baptist “Church” (the quotes are mine) showed up on the campus of the University of Missouri to picket Michael Sam, a defensive end for the Mizzou Tiger football team who recently came out as gay. Two Christian girls got an idea to anti-picket, to form a human shield between the West-burros and Sam. Two thousand people answered their call and stood shoulder to shoulder – Christian with atheist, men and women, gay and straight – to protect one human being from seeing the signs, from feeling the hatred.

Oh man, how much do I love that?! A story about Christians and Gays that doesn’t give Jesus a huge black eye? Awesome!!

What an amazing witness of the love of Christ. Two followers of Jesus refusing to condemn, with grace and peace standing up for someone who could just as easily be punished for sexual sins. You know, kind of just exactly like Jesus did.

Look, I know this is a hot button issue and you may have a different view than I do. That’s ok. I know sin is a big deal. The sin in my own life is terrifying. I’ve been memorizing 1 John and right off the bat, he makes it pretty clear that anyone who thinks he has not or is not sinning is straight up kidding himself (I may be paraphrasing somewhat).

But I also know that every single person alive, no matter their sins, was made by our God. It’s not like he makes only the Christian babies and outsources all you other people to Walmart. God loves the people he made. And anyone who claims to love God must also love the people God made (that’s a little 1 John again there for ya!).

Love is not proud, it is not rude; it does not make signs claiming to know who God hates.

Love always protects.

Jesus replied, “Love the Lord your God will all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” All the law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments. – Matthew 22:37-40

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Idiot

My husband sent me a text at 5 am this morning: be careful, it’s really slick out and I don’t want you to fall. He’s really sweet.

Today we are experiencing a couple waves, yes waves! of freezing rain – one last kick in the teeth from Mother Nature before it finally warms up for a couple days. For those of you who do not live in the Continental 48, this winter has been unusually brutal with record cold, heaps of snow and a generous dollop of ice. Did I mention the cold? Yeah, I’m going to need a new ass come spring, ‘cause this one has frozen off. It’s like the sun has called in sick for three straight months. Seriously, somebody fire that lazy jerk and hire us a new sun!

Anyway. I heeded Eli’s text and walked very gingerly out to the car to stow my various bags. Then, with even more caution, I carried the baby out. Between his big all-encompassing coat and his –ahem- extensive natural padding, he would probably survive a driveway fall unscathed (really, he’d probably bounce), but I wasn’t taking any chances. I then proceeded to drive to daycare at a safe, sedate, dare-I-call-it grandma pace.

Really, I thought, the roads are not that bad. The city seems to have given up plowing a while ago but I guess we still had a little bit of salt left.

I dropped baby off near the toy bucket, blowing him kisses as he tried to figure out how to grin at me and stuff the whole rattle in his mouth at the same time. You know, just another Monday.

What, I wondered, what all this kerfuffle about the weather today? It was really not that bad.

AAAAAND that’s when I fell down in the parking lot.

My left leg want shooting out to the side and my hands, still clutching a cherry-cheese Danish, smacked into the filthy, wet asphalt. I crouched there for a moment, ninja-style, assessing the situation. Am I ok? Are my pants ok? Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph; DID ANYONE SEE THAT????

Like this but with less smiling
and more shame

Yes, yes and I fervently hope no.

Sigh, I am so over this winter. 

INterDEPENDENCE

My husband and I were recently invited to be part of a podcast discussing culturally mixed marriages. The timing didn’t work out but it got me thinking about the subject.

My love and I

                We are English and Spanish

                                Pale and brown

                                                American and err…uh more American*

My Guide to Hispanic Culture

*Maybe that should be Nicaraguan and Unitedstatesian. But that sounds dumb. So just know, that when I’m saying American, I mean estadosunidense and not all you people living in Central and South America who are also, if you think about it, Americans. And Americans whose ancestors have been here quite a bit longer than all us gringo folk. Geez.

Honestly, I’m not sure whether culture is as much of a challenge for us as the simple fact that one of us is male and bitches be crazy one of us is female. We have rarely had cultural clashes more significant than him wanting to go to church and me wanting to watch the Super Bowl, or my insistence that car horns should not be used as a form of sonic protection.

I kind of love that I get to learn a new way of experiencing the world. I have learned all these new words and ideas. Thanks to Eli teaching me Spanish, I can now even more precisely articulate my ridiculous thoughts.

On the most basic and simplistic of levels, I believe the main difference between American and Latino culture is independence versus interdependence. It’s the pioneer spirit versus community.

First of all, I am in no way suggesting that one is better than the other. What I am saying is that they are completely opposite ways of living.

I am all about the independence. “Yeah, I can probably do that” is my motto. I feel empowered when I make an awesome plan of epic efficiency and get everything done with time to spare for a bubble bath. You know what craps on my epic plans? Other people. Don’t slow me down, I’m on a roll!

But thanks to my cultural exchange program I sometimes call “husband,” I am learning the value of depending on others. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable. I don’t always like everyone knowing all my shit. Sometimes it’s downright scary. What if other people suck, as they are wont to do? But at its core, dependence brings security and peace. We were made to living in community, in fellowship. We are at our best when we are supporting one another; sharing both joy and sorrow, success and failure, scarcity and abundance.

It’s ok if I can’t get everything done, other people can help. It’s ok if I don’t have all the answers, other people have been here before me. It’s ok if I don’t have enough money, other people can stand in the gap. Tomorrow it will be me pitching in, or suggesting to a frazzled new mom that vigorous jiggling might help her baby calm down, or covering someone’s mortgage payment while they try to find a new job.

That’s what I love about community: the idea that we are in this life together. What affects one of us affects all of us. For better or worse, the way we treat our neighbor matters. It may be hard for me to rely on others but it’s important that I learn how to do it.

Also, outsourcing the cleaning of the bathroom is RAD.  

IN-Security System

This is super personal and hard to talk about...might as well put it on the internet!

When I start thinking about life insurance and retirement, I feel really old. It’s like I am physically carrying around each of my years – some of them twice – trying to haul them over the strange alien landscape of compound interest and term rates. My husband asked me the other day what I pictured for us in ten years. I said, “Ugh, I’ll be nearly forty!” in exactly the same way I might say, “I’ll have one foot right there in the grave.”

That’s pretty much the only time I feel like that, though.

Most of the time, I feel distressingly young. And small. And kind of runty.

I’m nearly the youngest of my cousins and of my close friends. And while it’s definitely a good idea to surround yourself with wiser, more mature, or at least more experienced people – sometimes I carry around my lack of years like a stone in my heart.

Please love me and accept me, pleads my soft baby soul. Please let me into your grown up club. Look! Look! I’m married too. See? I know it hasn’t been 10+ years and I know I know nothing about making a relationship last. But I have this ring, you know, and it has a few years on it.

Look! Look! I’m a mother too. See? I made this human being with my own body and he’s still alive 6 months later. Sure, I know nothing about potty training or the first day of school or college graduation. But surely these stretch marks still count right?

Look! Look! I’m an awesome cook too! You wouldn’t believe the deliciousness I can produce with no fancy equipment and severely limited access to ingredients.

Look! Look! I’m just as Christian-y as you. I work for a Christian organization. I go to two churches. I was a missionary! I know I’m a pain in the ass who uses words like “ass.” Is that what’s keeping me out of your club?

Holy Pathetic, Batman.

I mean jeez, why do I care? Why does it bother me so much when the women I look up to don’t really notice me? I am not five. I am a grown ass woman. I know I am because the term life insurance rate index told me so.

It doesn’t help my neurosis that I have two kids in middle school. I am definitely and legitimately waaaaaay younger than the rest of the parents at the school. There is no reason I should have my crap together (and boy do I not) but it’s still hard to see every single other person know what is going on and the proper response to it. Meanwhile, I am Bambi on the frozen pond of parenthood. I feel much like I did my freshman year of high school, keeping my nerdy, bespectacled eyes open, trying to figure out how the regular, non-homeschooled kids acted so I wouldn’t stick out like a doof.

I am forever trying to catch up to the cool kids.

The worst part is, this deep, integral need of my runty little heart severely clashes with pretty much every other part of my personality. Sometime shortly after my birth, I decided to go my own way in life. I do things (and say things!) that break the rules and upset people. I don’t really intend to make anyone angry or upset; I am just trying, in my own bumbling way, to follow God as hard as I can. Also I have bad filters between my brain and my ridiculous, snarky mouth.

I want to dance, freely, without shame or insecurity, to the music God is playing.

And almost as much, I want the people I admire to accept and respect me.

I am beginning to think that one of those things is not going to happen. And that hurts me.

What about you? Do you feel confident? Or do you wish you could run with the cool dogs?