Socks

I love doing laundry.  It is one of my favorite chores.  I mean how can you NOT love turning something soiled and dirty into something fresh and nice smelling?  And on top of that it's all soft and warm.  Laundry makes me want to just bury my face in it (not that I ever do that) and give it a big warm hug.  And then you get to fold it, and make it nice and orderly (stop laughing people who know me) and on top of all that- you get to make SOMEONE ELSE put it away!!!!  What's not to love?

Yep, laundry is pretty sweet... except for socks... I don't much care for matching socks.  This might be partly because my socks never seem match... even when I'm wearing them.  This could be attributed to the fact that the gremlins are constantly stealing one sock from every load of laundry... but always the left one?  Maybe they are right brain?  Or I might hate matching socks because they get everywhere... and I do mean everywhere.  Or it might be because every load of socks is an exercise in futility because I live with five children who are incapable of putting their socks in their dirty clothes baskets... or even wearing their socks for a full day.  And then if by some miracle a pair manages to get into the laundry basket and into the SAME LOAD of laundry one of them is SURELY going to get stuck in the crevice of the washer or the dryer (where I find no small amount of legos, froggy toys, and loose change) and will never be found until three days later no matter HOW MANY TIMES I check it.  I can't even keep the socks straight in my sock drawer!!!! Therefore it might be understandable that I don't like socks.  If I didn't need them so much I would burn them all!!!!!!!!!!!!  Well, not really, but you know what I mean.

Anyways, from the beginning of living in Texas I have made it perfectly clear to small people that washing and drying and folding socks is an act of patience, diligence, servitude, a small case of martyrdom, but most importantly it is an act of love.  This is so much an act of love that I have taught my smalls the following phrase-

Ahem, repeat after me.
Thank you, Gabbie.
Thank you, Gabbie.
I love you, Gabbie.
I love you, Gabbie.
You are awesome, Gabbie.
You are awesome, Gabbie.
I will wash your socks, Gabbie.
Nooooooo!!!!!!!


No matter what you think, they are always listening... and even they won't match socks for me.

My very perfect goddaughter

I am very proud of the fact that I do not have all of my parents phobias.  High on the list is my Mother's fear of spiders, mosquitoes, cockroaches, snakes, frogs, lizards, skinks, rats, mice, guinea pigs, or anything else that is small, crawls, climbs, slithers, or scurries.  I would even hazard to say that most of these "creepy crawlies" I rather enjoy.  Consequently I have little fear of them- the balance being that I tend to scream when anything, varying from a spider climbing out of my basil to Grisha dropping an ice pack onto my foot, usually causes me to hit a high G three octaves above middle C.  On the flip side of things I am usually the first one to pick up a crawling bug or lizard that has wandered into the house.  Mosquitoes, wasps, bees, and cockroaches are the exception.  They get lambasted on sight and vacuumed up to quell any fears small people (or big people) who are afraid of them.  My very perfect goddaughter has acquired much of these same characteristics.  She can catch the swift footed anollis that live in our backyard, squash the quickest spider that gets carried in on the basil, and is usually the first to spot any baby birds that have appeared in our Swallow's nest.  She does not scream.  She does not panic.  She is very, very perfect.

A few weeks ago we went to the Houston museum and we very happily visited the butterfly exhibit.  Within those doors we saw everything from the cicadas that we hear so frequently to the butterflies that we are currently raising.  We even saw a tank full of hissing cockroaches (Tia carefully skirted the opposite side of the room in order to avoid them.)  In one tank there was a tarantula, happily perched in the top corner, lying in wait for whoever dared to enter, and shielded from view unless looking directly into the top of the tank.  I admit, I was not expecting to see her, perched so daintily, surveying the world from her webbed throne, and I did manage a gasp that sent Tio snickering.  I regained some of my dignity when I showed Eight, Seven, Four, and my goddaughter, Five, to the lofty widow who surveyed them modestly.  They had much the same reaction as me (though I didn't cry like poor Four did.)  Too late we discovered that Four does not like spiders of any variety and seeing one so close to her face that was larger than both her hands was more than we could expect her to take.

Four regained her composure a few minutes later when we sat and watched the butterfly cocoons and the birth of many, many butterflies of varying colors and shapes, size and style.  She was entranced.  A few minutes later we took all of the children out into the butterfly garden where it is hard to get more than a few inches from the elegant creatures and where frequently they daintily land upon the visitors to their world.  A rather pretty purple one was resting by a flower and Tio went to take a picture of her with Four.  I suppose up until that point she thought the butterflies were not real, like at Disneyland.  Then one dared to fly inches from her face and she screamed and broke into sobs that could not be stopped until Papa had her in his arms, protecting her from the dangerous predator, the evil, the sinister, the malicious butterfly.  Five did not entertain any signs of fear.  She walked right up to them, put her finger out, tried to poke a few into flight, and warned everyone that to poke them too much would mean that they would die.  She was most entertaining.

On our way out of the butterfly garden I walked with Five, considering how lovely she is, and how I could not ask for a more perfect goddaughter.  She's not afraid of anything, I considered as she stepped quickly, from stair step to stair step, not giving any attention to spiderwebs or ants or even the people who filled the garden.  She was lost in her own little world... and then a butterfly flew in front of her.

At the time she had been singing and without missing a beat she raised the paper butterfly guide she had in her hand and took a whack at that beautiful butterfly.  Fortunately the butterfly was not as stupid as he looks and managed to drop and dodge her well aimed hit but I was left floored.  My godbaby- my sweet innocent goddaughter- tried to knock a butterfly out of the sky.  Well, I always wanted her to be like me...  now I might have to work on that tender, loving, care thing...

Hellfire

Eight years ago this fall, California was plagued with a series of wildfires that engulfed an expanse of the state from San Bernardino to San Diego.  Under the guidance of the famous Santa Ana winds, the wildfires grew and killed many people.  15 fires began in under a week, which is now known as the fire siege of 2003.  A number of the fires began on my birthday- it was my Quinceanera.

My Mother, my sister, my dog, and four of my closest friends were in the San Bernadino mountains when the fires began.  We were ordered to evacuate and as we drove down our mountain was engulfed in smoke.  I remember very clearly the smell of smoke in the air- the silent fear that had replaced our laughter- looking down at my feet to see my golden retriever curled up with his head in my lap, his tail between his legs- gazing out the window to see darkness, though it was still day, and the only light not coming from the fleeing vehicles came from the fire that was racing over the next hill.  The sun did not set that day- it was eliminated.

My mind raced to J.R.R. Tolkien's The Two Towers and a line by Legolas.

"A red sun rises- blood has been shed this night."

Later an arsonist was charged with starting them and many people died.  One, a young girl, was a close friend of one of the girls who was with me at my party.  Every time my birthday passes I think of her.

Fast forward to present day.   Austin and the surrounding area is being plagued with wildfires.  Texas has been suffering through a drought all summer and a sudden change in weather brought cooler weather but also heavy winds, which have only fueled the fire.  No less than five wildfires have swept the landscape since Saturday and thousands of people have been evacuated- hundreds have lost their homes- and much of the Bastrop State Park has been consumed.  The Boys Scouts of America, Catholic women's groups, and countless Churches have banded together to bring aid to those fighting the fire, provide shelters for those running from it, and give what they can to those who have lost their homes.  At least two people have died and this morning they suspect arson.

I am far from a good person- in fact I am quite certain I am a terrible person- but this is largely because of my anger.  Every morning that the fires continue, and we can smell the smoke and see the dark clouds in the distance, I have to reassure five small children that everything will be okay- that we won't be evacuated- that the fire will not come close- and I have to lie.  I find it very difficult to tell the children not to be frightened because I'm scared too.  Rationally I know there is very little likelihood that it will come- that we will have plenty of warning- that everyone will be okay.  I remember back in California, the years following the Siege of Fire.  The mountains were black for years- and then I moved away so I don't know if they still look the same.  I cannot think of California without remembering that horrible month where ash rained instead of water.

Two days ago the Bastrop fire- the worst one thus far- jumped the Colorado River- our greatest defense- and hasn't stopped, therefore I find myself asking for prayers.  Prayers for those lives that have been lost.  Prayers for those that have lost everything.  Prayers for Texas and the wild land that won't be the same for many years.  And prayers... for those that started this- I ask you to pray for them... and pray for me that I might be able to pray for them too.

Being a Good Example: Part Three- The Eighth Commandment

A current country song on the radio exudes the unfortunate plight of a young man in love who’s girlfriend has left him.  He asks her to talk to the friends he left behind and tell them lots and lots of lies to hide the fact that he is not over her- in fact he begs her “tell them anything you want to just don’t tell them the truth.” 

In Lois Lowry's book, The Giver the first instructions the Giver gives to Jonas is that he may lie to protect the truth of what they were doing.  

The first sin ever committed was disobedience in the Garden of Eden.  Immediately following that Adam and Eve made their sin worse by lying about their disobedience.  

It seems to me that lying is being more and more accepted, but I think that I may lose my mind if I don't speak out.

I recently found out that I was lied to by someone I care very deeply for.  I won’t tell you the details or the situation but let me explain that I am having… difficulty moving past that falsehood.  I suppose it shouldn’t matter and I’m sure that in a year I will have forgotten about what happened did, except if I reread this post, but for now I'm just angry.  Angry enough that I am having trouble being around her.  Angry enough that I don't want to be nice to her.  Angry enough that it might have changed our relationship.  

Avoiding the truth is a voluntary act of disrespect to someone.  Speaking the truth, even when it is hard and possibly embarrassing, is a greater sign of respect.  I may be annoyed with you for making a mistake or for correcting me, but I reserve anger for big things, i.e. outright lying. 

We have been blessed with the gift of language.  It is what makes us human.  From this gift we have created the talent of lying.  This seems to me akin to receiving a beautiful piece of art and then mangling it beyond comprehension and burning it.  You get something beautiful and you ruin it.  I realize that not everyone grew up where I did and so the truth is not nearly so dear to others, but still, it is important. 

What I really, really want out of people- my friends, my family, and anyone I interact with- is I want you to tell me the truth- even if it hurts- especially if it hurts.