ElizabethEsther.com

Why socks deserve a special place in Hell

When I was in college, I took a graduate level class on Dante. Lemme tell ya: Inferno was a whole lot more interesting than Paradiso. Although as far as my eternal destiny is concerned, I'm pretty certain I'll land somewhere in Purgatorio. There's just no way St. Peter is letting me right into Heaven, especially after I write this post.

Anyway, the point is, Dante forgot to make a special place in Hell for socks. And oh, oh how socks deserve Inferno!

Socks, those abominable creatures! They sneak away just when I need them most! Socks, whose absence gives me nightmares! Socks, who stress out my brain more than the FDIC admitting to balance sheet fraud!

This means, of course, that if the federal Government thinks it can cheat its way out of a Recession, there will be Hell to pay. And if the Sock Monster thinks he can eat my socks with impunity? Mark my words, there will be a reckoning.

Except socks deserve a lower circle in Hell because they annoy me every day while the Government only annoys me every other day.

I am responsible for the socks of seven people. Watch these smokin' math skillz: that is FOURTEEN FEET that must be shod with small matching pieces of cotton.

Need I go on?

This sock-induced insanity is enough to make a Christian woman cuss. Like every school morning when, one minute before leaving, the kids are still rooting through the dirty clothes/mismatched sock pile(s).

Here's what I'd like to know: why, WHY haven't disposable socks been invented yet? How is it that we have one-size-fits-all but no single-use-for-all? It's a moral outrage, that's what this is.

But apparently, socks are here to stay. And so are the seven people who must wear them. I'm trying to make my peace with this because ignoring the problem isn't working too well. I made this brilliant deduction after my mother, in her abundant loving- kindness, brought over like the millionth pack of new socks.  

And I was all: hmm...what IS the message here? 

It took me a few tries, but I finally figured it out: either my mother keeps buying new socks for me and my kids or I ACTUALLY SOLVE THIS PROBLEM.

This is how I solve my problems: I whine about it on Twitter. And my kind peeps on Twitter offered tips.

So, here's my new solution (thanks to a Twitter friend): one basket just for mismatched socks. Once a month I'll dump it out and see if enough random socks have landed there in order to make a few matches.

If that doesn't work? Well, I'm going back to ignoring the problem. Because by that time, summer will be here and my #1 rule for summer is: EVERYONE GO BAREFOOT!

Doing what scares me

The sign said: do not ride if you are uncomfortable in small, dark, enclosed spaces.

The kids glanced at me. "Mom, are you gonna be OK?"

They know me. I hate elevators and airplanes. I get claustrophobic.

James took my hand, pressed it to his heart: "I think you should tell the attendant that you have claustrophobia."

I was like: "Forget that. I'm so proud of you for using a big word like attendant!"

He smiled. "Mom. Seriously."

"I'm gonna be OK," I said.

"Are you scared?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "But I'll just close my eyes if it gets really bad."

The gates opened and we walked toward the yellow submarine. I paused at the top of the spiral staircase and looked at the attendant. I sorta did this embarrassed cough. 

"Um. Hi. Uh..." I stammered. "Is there..um? Well, how long is this ride?"

"About fifteen minutes," he answered quickly. What he meant was: you're holding up the line, lady.

"Oh." What I thought was: Shoot, I can't hold my breath that long.

"Um, so," I continue."Uh. Is fresh air pumped in?"

"No," he said. "They pump in hot, stale air."

I stared. He grinned. And then I burst into hysterical laughter. Somehow, he made it all OK and I followed my family down the stairs.

As we settled into our seats, my two sons held my hand and patted me reassuringly. So, there we were in the small, dark, enclosed space of the Finding Nemo Submarine Voyage at Disneyland and it was actually, really wonderful.

(Except for that one part at the end when we had to wait inside the submarine while the other submarines GOT THE HECK OUTTA OUR WAY. Thank God for the calming distraction my iPhone).

That's when Matt reached over and kindly patted me on the shoulder. 

And I was all: Look, honey! I'm using the pretty coping mechanism...er, iPhone you gave me for my birthday!

He was proud of me.

It wasn't until we were debarking that I noticed the flotation devices stacked in the corner. 

I'm glad I didn't see those when I first sat down. It was hard enough overcoming my fear of small, dark, enclosed spaces. If I had to worry about drowning, too? Well, you know. A skittish mind can only handle so much.

The point is, I DID IT! I CONQUERED THE SUBMARINE RIDE AT DISNEYLAND!

(Hi, I'm Elizabeth and I get excited about small accomplishments.)

I'm proud of myself. I faced my fear and thankfully, I didn't have to face it alone.

My sons talked me through the entire thing.

Who's the parent around here, anyway? :)

p.s. Many thanks for all the kind birthday wishes yesterday. I felt so loved. It was a wonderful birthday!

The big picture

We took a spontaneous trip to San Diego on Valentine's Day.

My favorite part was driving over the Coronado Bridge. It's a spectacularly high bridge that connects the mainland to Coronado Island. For me, it's terrifying but also, strangely exhilarating.

There's something inexplicably satisfying about gazing out over an expansive view. The view from way up high looks so breathtakingly beautiful. 

It made me sort of wistful. Sometimes I focus too much on the "street view": the cracked pavement, dirt, man-holes, litter. It's easy to forget that a bigger picture exists.

Maybe that's why taking a spontaneous trip is important. Sometimes we need to get outside our "street-view" lives and see the big picture--if only to remind ourselves that it's really there. I know that I need to allow myself to bask in the joy of life more often.

It's easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of a busy, hardworking life and forget to create space for fun and enjoyment.

Marriage and a big family is hard, difficult work. But then there are moments when I catch a brief, fleeting glimpse of pristine beauty. And it takes my breath away.

A new chapter

 Our family is complete. I've never felt this way before. Not after my second baby, not after my third. But now, with five children--I'm all filled up.  

A few weeks ago I finally began acknowledging it: I let Matt cart off a bunch of baby stuff.

Some of it went to a teen pregnancy shelter. Other stuff went to foster care program. 

I got all teary eyed packing away preemie clothes and shoes, newborn outfits, baby gear. I can feel myself transitioning into a new chapter of life.

I find myself saying things like: "Oh, this is the last time I'll make a bottle. This is the last time I'll go shopping for toddler clothing." 

My babies are toddlers now. They've given up their bottles and soon will be out of their cribs.

I feel an ache of sadness/longing, but also a sense of peace. A certain kind of rightness. It seems like all the puzzle pieces have come together and the timing is right. I've been blessed beyond measure with five wonderful, healthy children.

I know that our hearts will always be open to more children. But I'm also listening to my husband who knows me so well. He says I need a rest. He says it's time to let the field lie fallow.

I think he's right. 

Is it strange that I also think I might let myself have a wee little cry? 

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Do Christian women have a responsibility to dress modestly?

The comments to my anti-Victoria's Secret catalog post were truly eye-opening. It made me realize how many of us are outraged by the onslaught of pornographic images in lingerie ads, fashion magazines and even fast food ads.

Most of all, I was reminded that modesty matters.

Perhaps the underlying problem of rampant pornography and sexual violence against women began with the mass uncovering of women's bodies. Somehow in the last 40 years, women abandoned one of the chief guardians of feminine dignity and safety: modest clothing.

Of course, uncovering one's body was done in the name of "empowerment." But there couldn't be a bigger lie. Public nudity will never be empowering. It will always be degrading because it displays what should be private. 

And by exposing the mystery, we make it cheap. We defile the sacred.

I've admitted to struggling with modesty. Part of this was me sifting through my legalistic past. Part of it was just plain ol' inconsideration. I didn't want to admit that, as a Christian woman, I had a responsibility to dress modestly.

I viewed dressing modestly as a choice between looking frumpy and looking fashionable. But now there are so many more options for beautifully modest clothing that I don't really have an excuse anymore (if you don't believe me, go check out Betty Beguiles' blog--she always has such cute picks).

Which makes me wonder: why do so many Christian women dress immodestly? Do they not know what modesty looks like or have they chosen to simply disregard it altogether?

This year I'm making a concerted effort to dress modestly. It's my own personal campaign against the proliferation of public porn. And it's also my way of tangibly showing my children (especially my daughters) that yes, modesty matters.

What do you think? Do Christian women have a responsibility to dress modestly?
Why or why not? 
 Do you have any links to companies that specialize in modest clothing? 
 Please share!

Sitting with the dead

::view from a cemetery near my home::

I like to sit with the dead. Sitting in the silent finality of a cemetery gives me perspective, reminds me to redeem the brief time I've been given. And in a cemetery, nobody minds if you're crying.

I love the cemetery because prayer comes easily there. I don't know why--perhaps the absence of distraction? The fading away of competing sights and sounds? In the quietness of a cemetery, prayer seems natural. And oh, how I've needed to pray.

I don't do well in small groups or prayer meetings. I'm far too self-conscious. My tongue is tied, my hands tremble. But when I'm alone and surrounded by silence, my heart is free. I can speak easily with my Lord, perhaps like an old friend.

After all, I've been meeting Him in prayer at cemeteries ever since I was 16. When I was a teenager, I would flee the cacophony of my communal home, the burden of spiritual exhibitionism, the compulsion to "prove" I was walking with God--and I would meet Him in silence. At the grave.

I know it sounds morbid, but it's actually a powerfully uplifting experience for me. There is no dread. No fear of death. Indeed, I find a source of strength that comes from being surrounded by those who have gone before, those who have finished their race.

I go there when I've been fighting the shadows in my mind. Sometimes I fear the shadows will overwhelm me. I feel the weight of responsibility--I have five souls to raise. I feel the piercing sting of grief--I mourn a life that has vanished like vapor. I grieve the divisions and soul-rending that were the fallout of my fundamentalist past.

But I always leave hopeful. For me, the cemetery is not a place of endings. It is a place of beginnings. 

O blest communion, fellowship divine!
  We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
 Yet all are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
 --William Walsham How

On being a self-righteous prig who gets me to the church on time

My daughter is certifiably obsessed with being on time. And, for her, being on time means: arriving fifteen minutes early.

Or as she says: "Arriving on time like everyone else is actually arriving late."

Holy moly. I have created a monster.

It was entirely unintentional, I promise. As a child, I was taught that arriving on time was akin to keeping one's word. Tardiness was a sign of poor character. Being late demonstrated your lack of commitment and reliability.

All of which to say: I have smokin' time-management skills. I thrive on deadlines. I'm somewhat fetishistic about start-times.  

I mean, the whole reason I can raise five kids + write this blog is because I'm sorta a freak about not wasting time.

But apparently, my daughter has just one-upped me. I arrive ten minutes early. She'd prefer fifteen.

And nothing makes us more anxious than the possibility of running late. Or, you know, Arriving on Time Like Everyone Else. 

Yes, this is a sickness. And I want to be cured! Arriving early is not all it's cracked up to be. There's no compassion, no reward for arriving on time.

But, oh! Oh, to experience the sympathy given to the chronically late person! How I would love to be the last-minute straggler, the scene-stealer, the profuse apologizer with no moral qualms about making everyone else wait.

For just once in my life I'd like to know what it feels like to hear people say: Don't worry, you didn't miss a thing. Or: No problem! We didn't mind waiting for you!

Because for all my life I've been the one saying these nice, consoling, forgiving things (all while fighting back irritation on the inside).

The truth is, I'm TOTALLY judging late people for wasting my time. TOTALLY annoyed. TOTALLY assuming they have bad character. TOTALLY thinking: if I can be on time with five kids, what's THEIR excuse?

Man oh man. I'm a self-righteous prig. 

Maybe I should try being late once in awhile? I hear it's fashionable. I'm almost convinced it's morally superior, too.

Sleeping in the valley of the shadow of bad breath

It was a subtle decline. A slow surrender. And at first, my husband thought I was to blame.

"Roll over," he would whisper, in the middle of the night--gently nudging me. "Scoot over. You're hogging the bed."

It became a sorta mantra he repeated every night. Roll over, roll over, scoot da booty right over.

Out of nowhere I had become a bed hog. Or, as he called it, a heat seeking missile.

"Are you cold or something?" he asked one morning. "Maybe you should start wearing long pajamas to bed."

"I'm not trying to be a heat seeking missile," I said.

"I know," he said. "You're a cute, midnight cuddler. But it's uncomfortable."

I tried my best to stay on my side of the bed--I mean, as hard as a person can try while dead asleep. I wore long pajamas. I threw on an electric blanket.

Nothing worked. I always ending up rolling into the middle of the bed, smashed up against his back.

We were on the verge of calling it a night and buying twins beds (not really) when it happened.

He crash-rolled into the middle of the bed, too.

"Dude," he remarked, "I think our mattress just caved in."

It was true. Our beloved mattress had given up the ghost. Strung up the white flag of surrender and collapsed. And there were were, rolled up together like two hot dogs in a bun.

"See, I'm not a heat seeking missile!" I crowed, triumphant.

My triumph was short-lived. Now we had to figure out a way to sleep in that cursed valley.

So, we girded our loins and hiked our way back up our own sides of the bed. I claimed my territory, planted my flag and tried to sleep.

But it's tough to sleep when you're clinging to the edge of a cliff.

Inevitably, we rolled back into the valley of the shadow of bad breath.

"We could try flipping the mattress," he offered.

But we've already done that. Twice.

"We could buy a used mattress on Craig's List," he offered.

Ewwwww. 

Oh, well.

Life as a heat-seeking missile isn't so bad. Especially if you ditch the long pajamas.

HELP HAITI

Haiti EarthquakeOur family sponsors a child through Compassion International. I donated to the Haiti relief fund through their site. It's easy and it's safe. 

Reacting to life instead of living it

I fell down the stairs today.

 But that's not the worst part. I fell and dropped a baby.

We're OK. A bit bruised and sore, but OK.

So many times I have told myself to slow down, be careful, hold the rail.

Today I was moving too fast. Hurrying. Not being mindful.

My feet flew out from underneath me and I screamed--caught the railing with my hand but it was too late. We tumbled down several steps and Jorie fell backwards out of my arm, hitting her head on the wall. 

I gathered her into my arms, checking her over, soothing her. We clung to each other and both cried for a moment. The thoughts flew through my mind:

Thank You, Lord, that we have carpeted stairs.

Thank You, Lord, that I fell backward and not forward.

Thank You, Lord, that my baby wasn't hurt--just scared.

And that's when it hit me (call it an adrenaline fueled epiphany).

Dude. This is a metaphor for my life!

Falling down the stairs happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly. There was no time to prepare--hardly even time to react.

And it made me wonder: how much of my life am I living in "Reaction Mode" instead of "Enjoy Life Mode"? Um, yeah. I've been living on high-alert for way too long.

I mean, part of this was necessary: the twins' premature birth necessitated no-holds-barred nurturing. There was no time to really enjoy them because I was so buried in the trenches of survival.

But in the last month or so, I have felt yet another life shift. The twins are now solidly 2 years old: healthy, vibrant, happy. 

I can honestly say: I have done a good job. No, I have done an AMAZING job.

I am 32. I have given birth to five human beings. I have poured my entire life into these children. My race is not over, but dude, I think I just passed a milestone.

I think it's time to start enjoying life, to take care of myself, to look back at how far I've come, to relish this very moment.

To live life.

But before I go all carpe-diem on you, I'm gonna go drink a glass of wine and put a hot pack on my neck.

Because, wow. I'm not so young anymore. Falling down actually hurts.