Reformed Grits

(cough, cough)

I was telling this story to someone the other night and she mentioned it was blog-worthy... so here ya go, Penny!

I've mentioned that I was pretty sheltered and naive growing up.  I don't think that's a bad thing.  This world is a bad place, and it probably saved me from a lot of trouble to be shocked by sin.  I may have not been the coolest girl in school, but I really think it served me well in my Father's eyes. 

Anyhow, I was a cheerleader.  And this did NOT make me automatically cool, I assure you.  I was not on the inside, and I can assure you I never got invited to any parties because of my ability to do a back handspring.

But for whatever reason, I got along really well with the popular kids.  The "cool" cheerleaders, etc.  And we talked-- while we were at school mind you. 

And there were some kids who had REALLY nagging coughs!  I mean it.  I worried about them, and if their parents shouldn't take them to the doctor.  Because, not kidding, they were constantly downing cough syrup.  (This is back in the day when you could take it with you to school!)  Well, I say they had nagging coughs.  I never saw them cough; I just know they drank LOTS of cough syrup.  And I worried about them.  Because of their persistent coughs.  And all that cough syrup. 

I'd see them in their cars before school taking some.  And during class.  At lunch.  At practice. 

That's a lot of cough syrup. 

Don't you think maybe they should get those coughs checked? 

Yeah, like maybe check those coughs into REHAB!!!!!!!!! 

Did I mention I was naive? 

Good to be...

It's good to be home, and it's also good to get away.  We thoroughly enjoyed our time in the Crescent City... but can I say, I'm SO sheltered!  I'm not used to seeing homeless people, people asleep lying on sidewalks, people talking to themselves, broken-down strippers--I mean, dancers falling asleep on their feet in the daytime, porn posters in windows of buildings, women pulling out their "bosoms" just for the asking and to get a cheap strand of beads, and open-containers in every hand on the street.  I spent the first 24 hours or so getting used to NOT staring and finding our way around the streetcar system as well as learning the streets to avoid. 

We went with no real agenda other than eating well and relaxing.  We did both.  I don't feel at home in the bar-life.  I wasn't wired that way and although Mr. Grits was interested in hanging out and enjoying the nightlife-- well, I'm just not wired that way.  I feel VERY old now.  Even in college, before I got married, I didn't do the party stuff.  I was more of a stay home and watch a movie kinda girl.  I'm not sure why my beloved found that appealing but I'm glad he did. 

We ate at The Central Grocery Saturday upon arrival, wolfing down a whole muffaletta (which we learned the hard way is pronounced "moof a LOTTA."  My teacher's phonetic sensibilities were screaming at that.  Kind of like Brett Favre.  Why is his name pronounced "Farve" and not "FAV-re."  But I digress...)  This was a food-highlight for us and we were disappointed that it was closed both Sunday and Monday so we didn't get to enjoy it again.  That night, while nursing a headache, we ate at Deanie's which we might have enjoyed more if we hadn't pigged out at lunch.  I just wasn't ready for a huge dinner but I got one anyhow.  It was fried and heavy and, well, to be honest, I just would have been happy with something lighter. 

Sunday, we slept in and ate breakfast at the hotel.  After venturing out, we had a "picky lunch" at the renown Cafe Du Monde which is like the dirtiest place ever.  We each swallowed 3 beignets whole and sufficiently covered ourselves in powdered sugar.  It's crazy how much they put on there!  I'm not a coffee drinker, but I asked for a frozen cafe au lait and they were out.  Bummer.  

That afternoon, we milked our VisiTour pass by riding all the street cars just to give our poor legs a break.  We had walked some serious mileage.  It was fun to see the beautiful houses in the Garden District on St. Charles.  I was praying, "Dear Lord, could you let us get a church that has a house like this for a parsonage?  It'd be ever so cool!  Amen." 
Ahem. 
Along the way, we passed Zea's which has to be the favorite place we ate the whole time.  It was fabulous and they made REAL mojitos-- none of that fake stuff.  I'd really like one right now, please.  We determined it would be in our interest to plant some fresh mint in a pot upon our return home for this very reason.  Yum.  My beloved had Thai Ribs and grits which were YUM-O, and I had rotisserie beef, since I'm a major red meat eater, with grits and sweet potatoes.  Then I died and went to heaven.  (Hat tip to Karl and Mara for this restaurant recommendation!!!) 
We rode the stretcher streetcar back which stopped right in front of our hotel (woohoo!  Nice to not have to walk after THAT meal!)  Later, I really wanted some dessert and we searched everywhere, and would you believe no one serves ice cream there?  I couldn't find any, anyhow.  So we wound up topping it off with a jamoca shake from Arby's.  No, I'm not kidding.

Sunday, breakfast at the hotel again.  We packed up and then took off in search of more food.  For real, all we did was eat.  I gained like 5 pounds.  I think I only got a frap at Starbucks though.  While walking around, around 2 or so, we stopped at Gordon Biersch's (I think this is a chain) and were just going to enjoy the brewery but decided to get a salad.  Then more drinks.  Then we split a pizza.  And an order of asparagus.   We spent like 2 hours there I think but they weren't crowded in the middle of the day so we didn't mind holding the table.  And my honey is a good tipper, so it's all good. 

At that point, we decided, what the heck, and thought we'd scope out where our bus to the airport would stop.  Frankly, we were less than thrilled with the neighborhood and the bus-mates we'd be sharing, so we sprang for a taxi instead.  Our great driver showed us all the post-Katrina stuff and told us all about his experiences during that time.  He was great. 

We totally enjoyed ourselves.  We were lazy.  We laughed.  We put no pressure on ourselves to see and do everything.  It was really great.  I miss him already.  On the way home, I said, "Let's not go home!  Let's run away and go to the Caribbean and live on the beach."  He looked at me like I was crazy. 
Nah, he's right.  We were ready to go home and see our kids. 

Just say no...

It's hard to say no. 

Well, I mean, to some things. 

When I was in the Bahamas a few years ago at the straw market and was naively "ooing" and "ahhing" over the cute hand-carved pipes with funny faces, it wasn't hard to say "no" to the Bahamian fellow who noticed my pleasure and wanted to know if I would like some "good weed." 

But it's hard to say "no" to good things.  My dear friend Meg brought this to my attention not long ago and it has resonated within me that there are seasons in life where you have to say no to "good things."  This next week I have actually for the first time ever, had to say "no" to working in VBS.  Ever since the spring and summer became so challenging with work, I have habitually said "yes" to working VBS even though it's my busy season for work and it completely drains and overwhelms me and makes me want to sit in the back of my closet with my blankey, sucking my thumb.  VBS is a "good thing."  But Mr. Grits has assured me that I physically and emotionally can't do both.  He decided for me, laying down the law (which he NEVER does except in situations like this where I can't be relied upon to make a wise decision and I know it) that last year was my last time to work VBS as long as I'm doing this job.  He's right, but it's hard to say no to good things. 

Something that wouldn't surprise most folks but they may not know is that Mr. Grits is a gifted soccer coach.  He has great knowledge of the inner workings of the game, strategy, skills, and what it takes to be a great player.  Not just physically, but he knows when a player is a liability to their team with their attitude and temper and is able to coach this as well.  He coached Jojo's teams for years until Jojo got on a traveling competitive team and then we decided that it would be a "good thing" for him to learn what others had to teach.  Two years ago, it looked as if his team would need a coach so Mr. Grits stepped up and coached him again in the competitive "2nd" team.  By the end of the season, the team found itself playing the club's "first team" in a tournament.  With his leadership and having been under his coaching for 2 seasons, our team dominated the game and almost won-- a last minute corner kick score did us in.  It was a great experience... except for the fact that Mr. Grits is called to full-time ministry and seminary.  That year of coaching, a new baby, and seminary classes almost stressed us to breaking.   I wish we looked back on that year as "good times" but whenever we look back we groan and say, "We will NEVER do that again." 

This summer, Mr. Grits and I have been plotting strategy for him to finish school inside the next 2 years.  We've talked about getting "gazelle intense" with his schooling.  Meanwhile, it looks as though an opportunity would come about to coach again this next year.  This prospect, like the proverbial carrot hanging just out of grasp of the horse's mouth, tempts like a siren.  He's a good coach.  A GREAT coach.  He enjoys it.  He could make a difference.  This opportunity is a good thing.  But it's a good thing we have to say no to. 

I've tried to think about a Biblical basis for this.  Why should I say no to something that's good?  The thing I keep coming back to is how Paul often mentions he had to turn away from trips or opportunities to go visit those he loved to continue on with difficult and challenging ministry opportunities.  In 1 Corinthians 16 he says "...I do not want to see you now and make only a passing visit; I hope to spend some time with you, if the Lord permits.  But I will stay on at Ephesus until Pentecost, because a great door for effective work has opened to me, and there are many who oppose me."  He is delaying the gratification of the "seeing you now" in order to be obedient to what the Lord has actually called him to, with the hope as well that he'll have a longer visit later. 

So basically, it's about obedience.  Our primary call is to get through school and for me to do my job.  (Obviously secondary to The Primary Call of parenting our children and raising them in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.)  Coaching soccer, working VBS, volunteering in the kids' classrooms, working in the library, having the kids in music lessons or even playing soccer (yes, there I said it) truly are good things.  We just have to pick and choose which things help us in our call and which ones distract us from it.  Sometimes we don't know.  Sometimes we have to make bad decisions and learn from them.  And sometimes we just have to do the hard thing by saying "no" to "good things."

Nothing worth doing is easy. .

I (should) have issues

A friend of mine has a private blog where she was laughing about being a Polynesian child in a play when she was young... but she is fair skinned with very blonde hair.  Her mom dyed her hair black-- or tried to-- and it turned green. 
That led me to start a very lengthy comment that I decided would be better served by just becoming a post where we can all laugh at me and my issues and I can get a little tension breaker from my flat buttness.   
When I was in school-- I think like 7th grade-- I was to portray a slave in the play Man Without A Country.  Made for interesting make-up since I also am fair with light brown hair and blue eyes.  I had to speak a line in Portuguese which is hilarious because with my natural anal tendencies, I'm sure I more tried to pronounce those words than just throw out some gibberish to sound like it was another language.  As if I needed to speak to those Portuguese people in the audience that night-- they might need to understand, with my thick Southern accent, what I was saying... Something about "not seeing my family for 'seis meses!'" or something.   
Another bizarre portrayal-- somewhere we have pictures of me dressed up like an African native for Halloween after my grandparents, who were missionaries there, brought me the whole outfit/costume from there.  This is a picture you will never see on this blog as I think it's horribly insulting for all the people of other races and it's embarrassing from that standpoint.   Honestly, y'all, I'm not kidding when I say there was nothing ill meant about it other than my grandparents brought the costume right from Kenya and we just didn't think anyone would "get it" if I didn't shoe polish up my face.  And arms.  And feet.  At least I get it honest, folks.  Again, interesting make-up job, and why on earth did my parents think it would be a good idea for me to go trick-or-treating in downtown Birmingham in black-face?  I'm surprised I lived to tell the tale.  I think they were trying to get rid of me.  Someone should speak to my mom about this.  Really though, my dad used to tell me my real father was black-- the problem with this not being that it was bad to be black or course; just that he was denying my parentage.  I really think I should get some therapy. 
I'm going to go suck my thumb now. 

Purple velvet Knickers

I'm not sure where I came up with it, but when I was total geek bait probably in the 5th grade or so, I decided that I HAD to have purple velvet knickers.  You know, like the pants that came to your knees and were poofy.  What the heck?  Where did I see that and what was I thinking? 
I think my mom felt rescued from my obsession by the fact that surely something so ridiculous would never be found in a sensible store so she never had to say, "Don't be stupid.  Who wears idiotic things like purple velvet knickers?"  thereby scarring me for life.   So she'd say something nice and benign like, "Hm, we will have to see if they have any." 
One day, we were walking through, of all things Parisians,  when glowing in a glorious beam of heavenly light were the most nonsensical pair of purple baby-fine cord knickers you ever saw.  (I figured at this point, they were soft and that was "cool" enough.)  I'm sure my mom cringed and wanted to throw her purse under a rack and swear she left it at home but instead she coughed up money I KNOW she did not want to spend on the most obnoxious things you ever saw. 
I loved those things.  I thought they were the epitome of my fashionista musings and I'd strut my stuff at the basketball games letting the world know that I thought I was It.  Did I mention, I never really had anything to go with the knickers?  I mean, seriously?  Who can think that far ahead when you are trend-setting?  Seems like I pulled up some knee socks and wore some purple Nikes and oh yes, I think I wore my sister's argyle sweatshirt vest.  I'm sure everyone was looking alright. 
I guess, my point is...
Well, I'll get back to you.  Sometimes I just feel the need to laugh at myself and that was the first thing that came to mind. 

Why I chose the wrong major

When I was a junior in high school I was totally enthralled by an anatomy and physiology class.  I excelled in it.  I got it.  I loved it.  I wanted to DO that-- I wanted to be a nurse but work with babies.  Someone told me that that meant I wanted to be a neonatal nurse.  (Actually, what I wanted to do was be the newborn nurse in labor and delivery, but I was  mortified to think that people might think I was weird to want to be around women giving birth so I went with neonatal.)  So that's what I set my sites on for the next year.  I signed up for advanced, prep classes my senior year that would prepare me for nursing school including chemistry. 

Chemistry.  Which by the middle of the third quarter of my senior year threatened to mar my 4.08 cumulative GPA with, oh I dunno, an F, so I suddenly decided I wanted to teach little kids... and I'd be best served by spending the rest of my senior year using my chemistry period to be a teacher's aid in a 1st grade classroom.  So I dropped it, and decided that there was no way I could do chemistry in college if chemistry in high school was too hard.  So I gave up my dream, and spent the next 3 years making lesson plans about "plus one,"  folder games, models of interesting classrooms, and collecting poems and recipes for homemade play-dough.  It was easy and got me a sheepskin.  Big whoop. 

After college, we moved back to our hometown and I got in a major slump.  I was terrified of entering the public school system.  It overwhelmed me.  All I wanted to do with my 20 year old self was stay home and have babies.  But being the older and wiser one, Mr. Grits didn't feel so inclined at that point. 

So when someone I didn't know called me up needing a part-time nanny for 2 little girls on the reference of someone I knew and trusted, my maternal urge jumped all over that.    It was just 3 days a week and they were 2 and 4. 

Have you ever seen Rosemary's baby? 

Just wondering.  I babysat her.  The baby slept most of the time-- probably to get away from the demon child who was the 4 year old.  She spent most of the day running away from me and screaming like a devil child about to be sprinkled with holy water.  (As if...)  The one girl ruined it for me.  I couldn't even enjoy the other.  A few weeks later, I was over it (it was temporary) and relieved.  I took a temp job at an office and it was brainless. 

I should have stayed there. 

Shortly thereafter, I got a call one day at work from the principal of my high school alma mater.  They were looking for a second grade teacher for the fall and heard I had graduated and was back in town.  I was 21 years old and they wanted to give me a room full of 7 year olds.  Hm. 

I left my better-paying temp job (upon leaving, the company I'd been with the whole time offered me a full-time job for even MORE money which I foolishly declined with a noble, "This is what I've trained to do...!") and started teaching some very delightful children.  2 days later I got pregnant.  But that's another story for another day. 

I tell my children that when you teach or do anything of that nature, there's always one. The one who spoils it for everyone.  The one who makes it difficult.  The one who you find nearly impossible to love.  The one that, when they are absent, everyone rejoices and you have a good day.  The one you have to make exceptions and allowances for.  The one you have to make special plans for.  The one that, when you call roll you hold your breath with the hope...  (I also threatened their lives if they ever became the one...)

The ONE ruins it for me.   I had 16 children in my class.   And one of them was the one.  The one is a joy-sucker for me.  I just can't get over it.  They are why I dread going in the morning.  I never get that.  It's horrible, I know.  But the one is why I don't ever want to teach again.  NEVER.  I tried some leading or teaching little things, like a summer MDO class.  I had one.   I have taught VBS.  Yep, you bet.  Each class had one.    I'm just over it now.  I have NO DESIRE to teach children ever again.  EVER.  Maybe I just never learned how to handle the one.  Maybe it's because I lack compassion.  (Stop... no, really, I do... haha)  Maybe it's because I have no patience for that sort of thing as I just always did what I was supposed to in the classroom and don't "get" why you would act up or misbehave.  I don't know what to do with that. 

I often think back to the day that I decided to drop chemistry and "be a teacher."  I remember it vividly and specifically.  Even though I look back now and see how it was just the easy way out of a hard situation, I'm sure God's hand was on me that day.  I still don't get it, though.   I often think about how I would have enjoyed maternal/infant nursing, especially now that I have traveled that road of motherhood.  I think of how, even now I could work flexi and have some days in occasionally if I wanted to. 

I really don't have some great conclusion to all this.  I was just thinking about it today and thought I might depress you.  I guess if I have learned anything it's that I will know how to differently encourage my kids when they begin to choose a life's work.   My professors always said I was a "natural-born teacher" and I think I could have been good at it, had my heart been there.  I just wonder why my loves lay elsewhere. 

And yet he's still here

In talking with some friends the other night I remembered the day many years ago I thought my marriage might end.  It was all because of Cassie, the transgender bunny.   Mr. Grits and I were still newlyweds and one lazy Saturday, he had been outside playing a rousing game of basketball with the other old married farts young men at the married student apartments where we lived.  He came in and laid lay down (you are welcome, mom) on the floor in the living room and started to take a little snooze when I, in my 18 year old maturity, thought I'd play a little joke on him.   I grabbed our baby girl boy bunny by the scruff of the neck and held her him it over his face. 
"Mr. Griiiitttssss!!!"  I chimed.  He opened his eyes, and what happened next I can only describe as happening in slow motion.  I saw his face instantly go from being startled, to shocked, to pure horror. 
Again, in excruciatingly slow motion.... "NOOoooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!" 
I began to laugh the laugh of a silly girl who pulled a funny until I saw why he was so disturbed.  Cassie evidently had a "sensitive stomach" so when the little precious was startled, its little bunny colon unlocked-- unleashing a unhealthy, ahem, dump of its loose intestinal contents.   That is to say... Cassie had diarrhea all over Mr. Grits face... and within the orifice that was screaming in horror.   
It was on his face.  Up his nose.  In his mouth.  In his eyes.  In his hair.  All over his clothes.  All over the carpet. 
He jumped up in a fury.  (Slow-mo over at this point.  Think rage.)   
"SHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTT!!!"  But he didn't say "shoot." 
He fled for the shower, and I fled for cover.  I was sure he was going to hate me.  I don't know why.  I ran to a neighbor's house until he came to find me. I was sure he'd never forgive me for something so stupid that had had such horrific consequences, so I thought.  With time and perspective-- and a shower-- I realized that it wasn't something so unforgiveable.   He didn't laugh about it as quickly as everyone else did, and he never did quite take to Cassie again.
But he's still around letting me torture him with my stupid pranks and jokes. 

And I even share this story with his permission.   

Someone needs to answer for this...

The spots were NOT on my face, I'm just going to tell you that up front... that is because the picture is just old. 

But that, my friends, is the least of my worries.  Why at age 11 was my hair cut like a boy's?  Why am I wearing that heinous outfit with three necklaces?  (I'm sure the lowest one was an add-a-bead as well...)  Was I up all night drinking?  Why am I not smiling?  Is it because I'm about to go to practice my baritone?  Why don't the boys love me?  Why oh why?  The world may never know.  Maybe they thought I didn't like boys, judging from the haircut... I mean, I was business in the front; party in the back. 
"Dear Lord, flush the gene pool right out of my poor children.  Don't let them be like me. 

On second thought..." 

Wait, no, he's standing next to a trophy.  He's a winner.  Let's just flush my genes and get some better clothes...

I claim ignorance, part two

This episode of the "duh" files actually drags Mr. Grits into the picture too, and I'm very sorry honey, but this is a story that simply must be told. 

When we were first married, I was 18 and he was 20.  We were dirt poor and lived in the married student apartments of the university we attended.  Cinder block walls, and you had to walk through our closet to get to the bathroom.  But we loved it. 
Just before we married, I had gotten a dog for the first time in my life and I missed him.  Now, away from "home," I had desperately wanted a dog for us but they were not allowed in the apartments we lived in.  But we DID hear that caged animals were ok... so I convinced Mr. Grits to buy me a cute, tiny, fluffy white bunny with tan lop ears.  Before we made the purchase we were careful to have the animal "gendered" so we would be sure to get a nice docile female instead of the angry, territorial males.  We watched as the extremely skilled technician cashier checked, and confirmed that our precious bundle of fur was indeed a girl.  We named our precious firstborn bunny, Cassie. 

Oh was she precious!  Every time she hopped around the house (we gave her her freedom of course and caged her only at night) she left a simply charming trail of uncandied M&M's that were just darling.  But as Cassie grew, we noticed that she had an unusual ability to shoot her pee with some force and accuracy.  We thought that was simply amazing (and talented, I'm sure) and were sure we had a very special bunny on our hands.   As she got bigger we noticed that our precious, sweet bunny would... well, vibrate sometimes.   Funny little bunny.  We were sure it was just a rabbit's sensitive nervous system... but it was curious to us that when we would pick up Cassie to comfort her from these surely frightening times, that, well, how shall I put this delicately, well... Let's just say, we didn't know that girl bunnies had such interesting external plumbing that handily kept pee off the bottom of their fur.  It's amazing how God thought of everything when He made bunnies.   

Folks, I am not kidding.  We owned this bunny for almost 4 years.  And it wasn't until the last few years that it dawned on us... that Cassie was indeed a boy. 

I claim ignorance. 

I claim ignorance

You could probably say I have lived a very sheltered life. 

I grew up in a Christian family and went to church every Sunday.  We didn't have cable; we rarely went to movies; and I even went to a small Christian school when NO ONE went to Christian schools.  I was very VERY naive and I have the evidence to prove it:

Case One:  Once in 9th grade we had some kids at our school from a girls' home.  I befriended one and although I didn't REALLY like her, I felt like she needed a friend.  So I would listen to her as she told me her horrible life story.  One day, she "needed to talk" so I suggested we go to the dark room where I helped out developing film for the yearbook.  (This term is used loosely.  My other friend Gab and I mostly just sat there and listened to the radio while skipping class.  Sorry mom!)  So we were in there talking, and she was kinda fake crying and I couldn't figure out why she kept telling me she needed a hug... and to hold my hand.  It was all a little weird but hey, she needed a friend and it was my "Christian duty" to be there for her.   It all came together for me a few years later when I saw her picture in the paper on "Being a lesbian in the South."  Yikes.  It really came together then. 
I claim ignorance. 

Case Two:  In college, I was married and working in the university admissions office-- a job I really liked because of all the interaction with students my age I didn't get normally, living off campus and not having a "college experience."   Every day some would come in and we'd "talk scoop" about what was going on on campus.  Some of the older guys would regale me with tales of things that happened in the frat houses... specifically, I remember one telling me about the tricks they would do with the giant worms that lived in the drainage pipes in their kitchen floor.  They would hold "treats" up so that the worms would come up to eat them,  and they could catch them to go fishing with.  I had no idea you could do that.  (Yes, I know now he was yanking my chain.)
I claim ignorance. 

Case Three:   A number of years ago, Mr. Grits and I had the amazing opportunity to go on a cruise and we stopped in to the Bahamas.   As my grandparents had always gone there on preaching and teaching jaunts, they would tell me about The Straw Market so I just KNEW this was a place we had to go!   As we wandered the booths, I came across a very curious table of beautifully handcarved pipes.  They were so funny and had faces on them and I was transfixed.  As I stood in front of the table exclaiming over each of them, a man came up behind me saying, "OOO you liikke weed?  You wan' some gooood weeeed?"  I was perplexed?  Why would this man think such a thing?!  Mr. Grits whispered to me, "Um, Kim, those are bongs."  To which I replied, "What's a bong?"  Then it all came together...
I claim ignorance. 

My kids are currently growing up in a Christian home where we go to church every Sunday.   We do have cable... for the moment... and they will occasionally go to movies.  They are in a Christian school, and while they are more naive than most I think they are a little more "clued in" than I was.  I hope so.  Although, I really shouldn't complain because likely it all kept me out of trouble. 
But then, I could be wrong.  If I am, well, I'll just plead ignorance.