As most know, math is not, shall we say, my greatest talent. Okay, so my first grader understands algebra better than I do. So it comes as no surprise that I don't know the answer to the following question:
Is there a mathematical formula that expresses why time seems to fly past faster and faster the older I get? Because for some reason it seems that with each year that goes by, the Earth turns faster and the hands on the clock speed up.
It's Christmas time again, and I guess that it always makes me a little nostalgic. It doesn't seem that it was so long ago that I was anxiously waiting for Mom and Dad to FINALLY say that it was okay to get up and go open presents. And it was just last week, wasn't it, that I sat with hands across my swollen belly, hoping that my son would wait just a few more days and not be born on Christmas day? And wasn't it just yesterday that I held my newborn baby girl, still fascinated by every inch of her 10-day-old self, watching her yawn and stretch up her tiny hands as she snuggled in to my chest for another nap?
Today I've been able to spend a precious day with those same little spirits, each terribly excited for the sun to go down so that Santa can arrive at last. And, as it's rare that I have such an opportunity, I must admit to having some fascination with watching them play in the snow and plugging in the Christmas tree and having snack time and yes, arguing just a smidge. I suppose that in my own way, I've been taking "memory pictures" (as well as some digital ones) in an effort to create a movie in my mind that I can replay years from now. Because I have a sneaky suspicion that time will continue to speed up, and before I know it they will be teenagers...and then adults...and that they'll have lost the fascination they have with twinkling lights and snowball fights and the magical world of Santa Claus. That is, I suppose, until they get to have babies of their own.
So if there is such a mathematical formula out there, do you suppose that, some great mind could find a way to change it so that the world could stop spinning quite so fast? Because I need more days just like this one.
Merry Christmas to you and yours.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
On children and birds
Within the last couple of hours I have learned two new, extraordinarily valuable pieces of information. The first came about when, as we were driving down "Candy Cane Lane", a street upon which there are roughly 7 billion Christmas lights, Eme started one of her chats. She tends to talk to no one in particular; she simply expounds on whatever comes to mind. This time, as she chatted about this or that, I heard little phrases such as "Daddy and Eme and Ethan and Eme and on the roof" and "we was on the roof and Daddy and Eme and Ethan".
Hm. A theme.
Daddy. Ethan. Eme. And the one that really got me: roof.
"Emerson," I asked casually. "Were you on the roof?"
"Yeah," she called back. "Daddy and Ethan and Eme on the roof. Puttin' lights on."
Noting that my son was notably quiet, I decided that he knew the validity of his sister's statements.
"Ethan," I said, "did Daddy let Emerson go on the roof?"
Silence.
"Ethan, if she went on the roof, I know it wasn't your fault," I said gently, belying the rolling boil of a temper that was just beneath the surface. "You wouldn't be in any trouble at all. So...did Daddy let her go on the roof?"
I knew it. Once any threat of prosecution was removed, he did it. He sang like a bird.
"Well, you were out with the ladies, so Daddy decided to put on the lights," he said. "And so he let us go up on the roof with him, and Emerson was up there, but I was VERY careful, and Daddy let her."
"Yeah, Daddy let me," Emerson chimed in, not to be outdone.
Dave had the good fortune of being at Scouts when I got home. But then he walked in, with a smile on his face and a spring in his step, without a clue of my newly acquired knowledge.
"Hi honey," he said, blissfully unaware. "How was your day?"
He now knows exactly how my day went. He is also aware that his children will not hesitate to throw him under a bus if it means that they will avoid mother-cutorial prosecution.
And me? I'm looking forward to finding out just how many carats my Christmas gift will have.
Hm. A theme.
Daddy. Ethan. Eme. And the one that really got me: roof.
"Emerson," I asked casually. "Were you on the roof?"
"Yeah," she called back. "Daddy and Ethan and Eme on the roof. Puttin' lights on."
Noting that my son was notably quiet, I decided that he knew the validity of his sister's statements.
"Ethan," I said, "did Daddy let Emerson go on the roof?"
Silence.
"Ethan, if she went on the roof, I know it wasn't your fault," I said gently, belying the rolling boil of a temper that was just beneath the surface. "You wouldn't be in any trouble at all. So...did Daddy let her go on the roof?"
I knew it. Once any threat of prosecution was removed, he did it. He sang like a bird.
"Well, you were out with the ladies, so Daddy decided to put on the lights," he said. "And so he let us go up on the roof with him, and Emerson was up there, but I was VERY careful, and Daddy let her."
"Yeah, Daddy let me," Emerson chimed in, not to be outdone.
Dave had the good fortune of being at Scouts when I got home. But then he walked in, with a smile on his face and a spring in his step, without a clue of my newly acquired knowledge.
"Hi honey," he said, blissfully unaware. "How was your day?"
He now knows exactly how my day went. He is also aware that his children will not hesitate to throw him under a bus if it means that they will avoid mother-cutorial prosecution.
And me? I'm looking forward to finding out just how many carats my Christmas gift will have.
Monday, December 14, 2009
On Prayers and File Folders
Today several things occurred to me. Not that that's actually particularly surprising or unusual--indeed, things occur to me rather frequently. Like how I'd like my toes NOT to be cold, or the fact that by the time you get to be my age you do a lot of the same things day after day, or that I just can't help the fact that I like, and tend to be distracted by, things that sparkle. But today it was actually something with some significance: prayer.
I suddenly realized, as I skated (in my car) down the streets of Billings audibly praying that I would make it home without becoming intimately involved with any one of the large pickups navigating next to me, that my prayers vary widely based on situation. Generally, my "help me" prayers focus largely on things like making sure I can prepare for my kids' college education and protect them from every little thing that might hurt--or risk hurting--them, or helping DB in locating the perfect job in his field or giving me magic creative powers that will make David Ogilvy and his ilk look like raving mad men (no pun intended).
But I sometimes think that it's my little prayers that are probably heard first. The "help" prayers that get me home to my family when the roads are slick and the temperatures are below freezing, or the ones that somehow keep my babies safe from the moment they leave my sight to the moment I again hold them close, or those that make my budget seem to magically expand to make it through the month.
It makes me wonder if there is some sort of prayer hierarchy. One that, like my prayers headed up, are answered based on situation. You know, like there are big file folders somewhere with the "right now" prayers and the "have some time" kind of prayers. And yes, even the "not in your wildest dreams" prayers.
I think the bulk of prayers probably go into the "have some time" folder. Or maybe it's labeled "when it's the right time" folder. Who knows. I just am really grateful that my little prayer to get home to my husband and kids got in the "right now" folder, and have a feeling that it--and the one my son said tonight giving thanks for us getting back to our little home safely--was gently and lovingly added to the folder marked "gladly answered."
I suddenly realized, as I skated (in my car) down the streets of Billings audibly praying that I would make it home without becoming intimately involved with any one of the large pickups navigating next to me, that my prayers vary widely based on situation. Generally, my "help me" prayers focus largely on things like making sure I can prepare for my kids' college education and protect them from every little thing that might hurt--or risk hurting--them, or helping DB in locating the perfect job in his field or giving me magic creative powers that will make David Ogilvy and his ilk look like raving mad men (no pun intended).
But I sometimes think that it's my little prayers that are probably heard first. The "help" prayers that get me home to my family when the roads are slick and the temperatures are below freezing, or the ones that somehow keep my babies safe from the moment they leave my sight to the moment I again hold them close, or those that make my budget seem to magically expand to make it through the month.
It makes me wonder if there is some sort of prayer hierarchy. One that, like my prayers headed up, are answered based on situation. You know, like there are big file folders somewhere with the "right now" prayers and the "have some time" kind of prayers. And yes, even the "not in your wildest dreams" prayers.
I think the bulk of prayers probably go into the "have some time" folder. Or maybe it's labeled "when it's the right time" folder. Who knows. I just am really grateful that my little prayer to get home to my husband and kids got in the "right now" folder, and have a feeling that it--and the one my son said tonight giving thanks for us getting back to our little home safely--was gently and lovingly added to the folder marked "gladly answered."
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