Nostril Technician

On the way home last night, Katy Rose and I had a little conversation in the car that I decided to commit to memory so I could blog it.  This is the kind of stuff that makes me laugh and will quite possibly provide me with good material for eliciting cooperation during her teenage years.  Then again, perhaps it is merely an indication of a potential future in science or medicine.  Observation, diagnostics, experimentation, even an attempt to rate the level of pain.  Well, alright, maybe I’m overreaching a bit.  But it is, if nothing else, a brief pointless story.

Katy Rose: Mommy, my right nostril hurts.

Mommy: Does it hurt on the inside or the outside?

KR: On the inside.

M: Does it hurt all the time?  Or just when you touch it?

KR: Well, it hurts when my finger is in it.

M: Oh!  Well, problem solved – don’t put your finger in it.  I know the hole is just big enough for your finger, but that doesn’t mean you should put your finger in it.

KR: Well, it also hurts if I push on the outside like this, or if I go like this (rubs nose back and forth with back of hand) to itch it.  Can you see in it?  Is it pink?  I think we should get the thermometer when we get home.  My other one, the left nostril doesn’t really hurt.  But my right nostril hurts like a hippo sitting on my belly!

M: Hmm… maybe you shouldn’t touch it at all then.

Tales from the Potty: Church Time & Sucker Punches

For some welcome change around here, I actually have a little funny story for today’s Pointless Story Hour.  In case you’ve forgotten that these are pointless stories, this entry will remind you because we have a long way to go to the little, funny part.  You know you love it.

It all started in high school . . . (insert flashback harp strings sequence here)

When I was a shy high school student, I learned that my greatest fear was not, as I had previously imagined, death by fire.  Nor drowning, nor large spiders.  My greatest fear was realized in the term of English classes designated Speech Class.  I was terribly afraid of having to stand up and talk in front of a whole class, and quickly sought to identify classmates who were worse at public speaking than I was.  It’s not that I was unfriendly or antisocial.  It’s that I was mortified of being The Worst Public Speaker.  I was the girl whose yearbook inscriptions historically contained gems like:

“Wendy: You’re so sweet and quiet.”

“Wendy: Wow, Latin was hard this year.  Have a great summer.”

“Wendy: You are so quiet.  You should talk more.”

So I struggled through the class, and got a little better each time I had to deliver a speech or a monologue.  But I came to realize that my fear of public speaking…well, it sucked.  I didn’t like being afraid of this.  I felt like it was something that would dog me my whole adulthood if I didn’t do something about it.

At the end of my sophomore year of high school, I got involved with my church’s youth group.  This only happened because my mom forced me to go on a retreat with them.  Being shy, I fought her about going because I didn’t know any of the kids.  On the retreat, I made great friends, some of which I’m still in touch with today.  I had my first kiss thanks to my first game of Truth or Dare, and met the guy that became my first boyfriend.  We ended up dating for 3+ years.  But I digress.

As I got more involved at church, I decided I wanted to train to become a lector.  What could better cure me of my fear of public speaking?  Not only is it a huge audience – a whole church full of people – it’s also specific words I had to deliver.  On one hand, this was good, because I didn’t have to write it myself, and I had a guide to teach me where to pause and what words to emphasize.  On the other hand, it could be bad because if I screwed up, I’d be screwing up Liturgy in front of the priest and a whole church full of people who were depending on me to deliver a reading from the Bible.  But there was something about this challenge that made me excited to tackle it.  So I did.  I was a lector in high school.  I don’t think I did it more than a handful of times, but it did wonders for me.  When I went to college, I decided to minor in Speech Communication.

As an adult, I enjoy public speaking.  I crave opportunities for it because I know I always have room for improvement, and practice is the only way to improve.  I must be in the minority though, especially in my family.  I have three sisters, and I was maid of honor for one of them.  The other two, who chose each other as their maid of honor, both allowed me to make toasts for them at the wedding reception where they were the maid of honor.  I wasn’t fantastic, but I also wasn’t afraid to stand up and take the microphone.  It’s not that I don’t get nervous, because I still do.  But I think a little nervousness keeps me on my toes, so I don’t get complacent or overconfident.

Last summer, we joined a new church.  We were putting Katy Rose into preschool, and the school happened to be at this church.  We didn’t feel a strong connection to the church where we had been registered, so it wasn’t a very difficult decision to change parishes.

In addition to volunteering with the preschool, I decided now was the time to get involved again as a lector.  I had wanted to lector for many years, but never made it a priority.  So I got in touch with the person that is in charge of the ministry.  Almost two weeks ago, I went to a training session with him and one other new lector.  He showed us the ropes and we did a trial run with a reading to the empty church.  Last week he emailed all the lectors and asked for our availability for the different weekend mass times in February and March, and I specified that I was available at 11am and 5pm masses on Sundays.

Last Friday morning, he emailed me to see if I could sub for the first reading at 5pm on Sunday, 1/29.  I accepted the assignment, and went into “cram” mode to prepare.  I figured it was better to just get on the first horse, so to speak.

The procedure at our church is for the lectors to come in with the procession and leave with the recession.  Our church is set up like a semicircle.  I had chosen our seats in the second pew, all the way to the left next to the musicians, so I would be as close as possible to the ambo when it was time for my reading.  The only bad thing about it was that we were visible to probably half of the church, and especially the priest and deacon. 

I processed in, delivered my reading, and was okay with it.  Mike thought I might have been a little too slow or had paused too much, so I will work with that in mind when I prepare for the next time.  We were almost to the end of the mass when Katy Rose received a nature call.  Knowing there was a small bathroom just behind the front area with the altar, I asked Mike to take her there.  I was afraid I would miss the recessional.

They went off to the potty, and thank God the choir was making music.  After a moment, through the music I could hear what I knew was the voice of my child crying very loudly.  Terror struck me… what on earth is going on back there??

Mike appeared next to the hallway with a serious face, beckoning me toward him.  Terror quickly turned to dread.  I’m betting she had an accident and is covered in pee.

I quickly walked over, painfully aware that pretty much everyone in the church can see the three of us as we skipped over there directly from the second pew.  Yes, Katy Rose is, in fact, crying very loudly, just steps from the rest of the congregation.

“What is going on??” I asked, seeing that she was not (hooray!) covered in pee.

Mike looked at me with a guilty and sympathetic face and explained that while he was trying to get her situated, something happened.

“I accidentally hit her in the face.”

Simultaneously, several emotions registered inside me.  Horror that my child took some kind of hit to the face.  Sorrow that she was upset.  Embarrassment that we are all here with this loud situation.  Sympathy for my husband and what was clearly an accident.  And somewhere in there, I was laughing at the hilarity of the situation.  Sometime (probably soon), I was going to tell this story of how I almost screwed up my first time as a lector because my husband accidentally hit our kid in the face during a potty break.  It’s the kind of thing you can’t make up. 

She wasn’t obviously hurt, so I figured the majority of the issue was hurt feelings as opposed to actual pain.  Once I calmed her down, she took her sweet time and wouldn’t let me leave her in Daddy’s care to wash her hands.  I was starting to freak out a little bit about making it back to our seats before the end of the mass.  Thankfully, there were some long announcements and I didn’t miss the recessional.  Phew!

Next time, I think I’ll insist she goes to the bathroom before mass starts.  No more sucker punches during church.

Some Cheese with That Whine? How About Civility, Respect, and Understanding?

Let me preface this post with a light warning: I am about to delve into thoughts that wander into politics a bit.  I am not here to inflame or accuse.  My intentions are to express my thoughts and opinions and to do so with honesty and compassion.  I don’t believe in bullying, but I do believe in self-defense.  I also believe whole-heartedly in love.  So there it is.

Unless you ignored all the TV and radio news, internet news, and social media the last couple of days, you’ve all heard about and/or seen the story of Arizona Governor Jan Brewer arguing with President Obama on the airport tarmac this week.  Because a picture is worth a thousand words, a particular photo of Jan Brewer with her finger apparently wagging in the President’s face has generated heaps of commentary.  Most of the comments I have read imply that Brewer is without class, disrespectful, and an embarrassment to the State.

This shouldn’t come as any surprise, because that’s what people do—make fun of Governor Brewer.  I’ll admit her public speaking skills leave much to be desired.  And I’m not always sure I agree with her positions.  But she has done something important to me—she has stood up for what she believes is right.  Those of us that believed in SB1070 when she signed it into law didn’t make a lot of noise.  So at first, it seemed to me that just about everyone was against 1070.  The more I talked with people, I realized I knew a lot of people who felt the way I did.  We just weren’t out there screaming about it.

One of the things I like about Governor Brewer is that she really tries.  I heard the text of the letter she handed to the President, and it sounded good.  Respectful of the President, putting our best foot forward, excited about the state’s economic recovery, and nicely inviting him again to visit the Arizona-Mexico border.  In the conversation on the tarmac, the President brought up Brewer’s book and expressed that he didn’t like the way she portrayed him in their meeting in D.C.  I don’t see how that’s relevant to the purpose of his visit, which was job creation.  He hasn’t even read the book, either.  I think it was inappropriate and rude on the part of the President.  And he is still ignoring Arizona and our immigration issues.  I’m injecting a bit of my own assumptions and opinions here, so please be patient with me.

When Democrat Janet Napolitano was governing Arizona, we had the same immigration issues.  I actually voted for her the last time, before she went to D.C. to head up Homeland Security.  How is it that the same fight Napolitano fought under President Bush is portrayed differently now that it’s Brewer and President Obama?  Brewer is doing the same things Napolitano did, sending the invoices to the Feds, and we still get zero response.  Except Brewer is vilified while Napolitano sits, lips mostly zipped, in her ivory tower.  Napolitano, as far as I’m concerned, has completely abandoned her former state.  She should know these issues better than anyone, and it’s as if she’s been brainwashed since she got to D.C.

Yesterday, as I saw comment after comment assuming things that people couldn’t know, I started to feel very sad.  It reminded me why I generally don’t like talking about politics – because my natural tendency is to mediate and everything out there in the media and social media feels so divisive.  It is easy to get caught up in the arguments.  We all have our beliefs and most of us probably feel attacked by the other side at one time or another (or maybe all the time).

Last March, my husband and I went to Tucson for a benefit concert.  The show was absolutely wonderful and had a large number of acts, both big names and not-so-big names.  The show was organized by Ron Barber, one of Gaby Giffords’ injured staffers.  The beneficiary was the Fund for Civility, Respect and Understanding.  The emotional atmosphere, the music, and the guest speakers led my husband, at one point in the show, to proclaim that he wanted to do something.  He needed to do something.  Something to help people, somehow.

I wonder how many other people felt that way after the Tucson shooting, or some other tragedy.  Wanted to reach out.  Wanted to extend a hand in the spirit that we are all neighbors, we’re all in this place together…  But how long does that last?  Why are our politics and debates and rhetoric so ugly and mean?  As soon as someone decides an appropriate amount of time has passed, we see how nothing really changed from that event, or the next one, or the next one.

How many of us identify ourselves as Christians?  I’d venture to say a majority of us.  How easily we forget the Ten Commandments.  How effortlessly we ignore God’s desire for us to love one another as He has loved us.  How quickly and repeatedly we abandon attempts to live like Jesus did.

I’m not perfect, I don’t know everything, and I’m not always right.  I try to remind myself of those truths when I find myself making assumptions.  The only thing we know for sure is that we don’t know what really happened on the tarmac.  But I am compelled to refrain from condemning either person because of a photograph or an article about the event.  There are always multiple sides to a story. 

Yes, personally, in my gut, I do feel the President can come off looking like a bully.  Like the time he told John McCain that the election was over.  Jan Brewer is no saint, but I think she isn’t one to kowtow to anyone that she knows doesn’t have our state’s best interests at heart.  If you ridicule someone for expressing a belief that is different from yours, then you are a bully.  My first instinct is to say, “Shame on you.”  But upon reflection, I remember I should instead act with civility, respect and understanding.  That also implies I should act with love.  And one of the greatest, and most challenging, aspects of real love is the necessity of forgiveness.

Looks like I've got my work cut out for me.

I'm Kind of a Big Deal

Do you blog?  Do you journal?  If you do, what happens if you don’t do it for an extended period of time?  If you’re like me, you feel like you’ve somehow let someone down for failing to record your life.  As if anyone actually cares about gaps in my own personal history.  We’re only human, we aren’t here forever, and no one escapes that reality.  So why do I care if I’ve let months or years (gasp!) go by without putting down any record of my thoughts or experiences?  Now don’t worry, I’m not hugely upset about it.  It just makes me wonder why this bothers me.

I started a journal when I was in 9^th grade, using a notepad of multicolored, lined paper that I figured my sisters would never want and therefore would never find if they went snooping.  And yet I have always written in a way that, while honest, wouldn’t leave me terribly embarrassed if someone were to read it.  I thought that as my life went on, I might want to come back to my thoughts and relive them down the road, just for fun.  Or maybe I would have kids someday and when I’m gone they might want to know what my life was like.  Is it just me?  Do you feel this way?

Recently I discovered a daily diary that my great grandmother used many, many years ago.  She didn’t write every day, but the days she did write made me wonder about her quality of life.  She would note the weather, visits to or by family members or friends, and then physical ailments.  Many times she would end the entry with something like, “Lord, please take away my pain.”

At first I felt very sad for her, seeing all of that documentation of pain in her daily life.  Then I thought perhaps it was just part of letting your troubles go up to God.  I don’t know.

I don’t remember if I wrote my feelings down during the two times in my life that I was close to suicidal.  My depression during my college years was not something I understood, and I did not know how to seek help on my own.  While depression is something I continue to battle as an adult, I feel fortunate that someone intervened in my last semester of college before any hideous, morbid thoughts on my part had an opportunity to develop into actions. 

In my journals, I’ve been up and down.  I’ve written about school, dating, fun, sadness, hopes, fear, work, friends, and family.  But there is one section of one of my journals that immediately comes to mind as the darkest of my entries.  It starts on the page I wrote in on 9/11/2001.  After several months, maybe even a year, I ended up marking the edge of those pages with a black pen.  I think I knew that this was something important in history, and maybe one day a young person would be interested in my account the way I used to ask my grandmother about living during the Great Depression.

I know I’m just me, just as important as the next person.  Contrary to Ron Burgundy’s assertion, I know I matter to my family and close friends, and that’s all that matters.  So it’s not important to me whether anyone reads my blogs or journal entries.  Perhaps I am simply interested in the preservation of history.  (Is this why I can’t seem to throw anything away?? J)  Looking forward into the uncertain future of life in the United States, I truly hope that 9/11/2001 is the only event that ever turns the edge of my journal black.