I want to be ready when it arrives.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Gift of Punishment
My In-Laws gave me the best gift that I could have ever asked for. Ever.
(Besides birthing, loving, nurturing, and raising their son into the man that he is today.)
Punishing their son.
All parents have their own method of punishing their children. Their hopes are generally that their methods are beneficial while being effective. Take for instance the punishment of removing television from a young child's routine. It's beneficial for the parents because instead, the kid picks up a book. Effective, because you know there's no way in heck that child will never disobey again.
I hope for my husband's parents' sake that their efforts were effective. But were they beneficial? Absolutely.
As a child, my husband was punished by being put into an apron (at least this is how I like to imagine it), put into the kitchen, and told to cook.
Ah, what a genius idea! If I had even had the slightest glimpse into my future as a child, I would not have spent all those sleepless nights lying awake wondering: "How will I succeed at being a wife someday? It takes me nearly 3 hours to cook breakfast now? Will feeding my future husband ramon noodles merit heaven when I die? Will I spend the rest of my days in jail for failing to feed my groom?"
It didn't matter. And if I had known that, I would have slept better those 15+ years. 1,675 miles away from my sleepless self was my husband, as a child, being scolded for that practical "joke" he had played on his sister. And because of it, was cooking a feast. And more than just preparing food, he was being molded into the man who would become my husband. (And sparing me from murdering through malnutrition.) I tell you, God sure knows what He's doing when He inspires parents on how to punish His children.
And I am so grateful that my husband was a bad child.
Wouldn't you be?
(Besides birthing, loving, nurturing, and raising their son into the man that he is today.)
Punishing their son.
All parents have their own method of punishing their children. Their hopes are generally that their methods are beneficial while being effective. Take for instance the punishment of removing television from a young child's routine. It's beneficial for the parents because instead, the kid picks up a book. Effective, because you know there's no way in heck that child will never disobey again.
I hope for my husband's parents' sake that their efforts were effective. But were they beneficial? Absolutely.
As a child, my husband was punished by being put into an apron (at least this is how I like to imagine it), put into the kitchen, and told to cook.
Ah, what a genius idea! If I had even had the slightest glimpse into my future as a child, I would not have spent all those sleepless nights lying awake wondering: "How will I succeed at being a wife someday? It takes me nearly 3 hours to cook breakfast now? Will feeding my future husband ramon noodles merit heaven when I die? Will I spend the rest of my days in jail for failing to feed my groom?"
It didn't matter. And if I had known that, I would have slept better those 15+ years. 1,675 miles away from my sleepless self was my husband, as a child, being scolded for that practical "joke" he had played on his sister. And because of it, was cooking a feast. And more than just preparing food, he was being molded into the man who would become my husband. (And sparing me from murdering through malnutrition.) I tell you, God sure knows what He's doing when He inspires parents on how to punish His children.
And I am so grateful that my husband was a bad child.
Wouldn't you be?
Saturday, February 6, 2010
11 Things to Do on a Snowed-In Day
1. Wake up, shovel the driveway.
2. Enjoy a hearty-breakfast.
3. Take an after-breakfast nap.
4. See if it's worth going outside to relieve yourself.
5. Take in the scenery.
6. Make sure your picture is coming in clear!
7. Don't worry about the mail- it's not coming.
8. Relax, you're not going anywhere for a while.
9. Shovel for the 11th time.
10. Make a hearty dinner.
11. Enjoy that hearty dinner.
2. Enjoy a hearty-breakfast.
3. Take an after-breakfast nap.
4. See if it's worth going outside to relieve yourself.
5. Take in the scenery.
6. Make sure your picture is coming in clear!
7. Don't worry about the mail- it's not coming.
8. Relax, you're not going anywhere for a while.
9. Shovel for the 11th time.
10. Make a hearty dinner.
11. Enjoy that hearty dinner.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Our Old Town vs. Our New Town
Speaking of PickleBob's (see previous post), let's start there.
Old town: PickleBob's
New town: Sonic (within a 20-minute drive of course.)
Old town: Mountain View Highschool
New town: Mountain Views.
Old town: 15 miles to Buffalo Wild Wings.
New town: 15 seconds to Buffalo Wild Wings.
Old town: Residents argued against Disney.
New town: Patrick Henry argued religious freedom at town courthouse.
Old town: Jiffy Lube Live!
New town: Real Jiffy Lube
Old town: Cupake Heaven
New town: Knakal's Bakery
Old town: Ponds
New town: Lake Pelham
Old town: Regal Cinemas
New town: Cute Cinemas!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Curse (and the Blessing) of the George-Hair.
My dog sheds. A lot.
I'd always known that he sheds an abnormal amount of hair, but I never knew how it added up on a floor within a matter of hours. That is, until I was gifted with 2 stories of wall-to-wall of Brazilian Redwood floors. My, how that brown fur clashes against the red.
We've been in our new home for about 3 weeks now. It's been an adventure; a wonderful, pinch-me-I-am-dreaming adventure. But then there's the occasional con that creeps along. One internet provider to choose from. Not being able to pick up on the "Southern" lingo as fast as we thought we could. No Pickle-Bob's. The way George's perpetually shedding fur ends up on the hardwood floors, moments after they have been vacuumed and polished.
Since George is the closest thing that I have to a child at this moment, I've "happily" and "patiently" accepted his messes. I've focused all maternal instinct on keeping his trail as nonexistant as possible. If this means concentrating on cleaning only the floor 3 times a week, then that's what it means. But when the last amount of floor polish has finally dried, and I see him making his way into the living room only to scratch and shake- I can't help but scream. Yes, I have decided, that the equivalent of one quart of dog hair that I vacuum up each week is a curse in my life; one that I cannot escape from.
-----
I got a call from my brother Robert a few days ago. His calls are special as he is a soldier stationed in Germany, and a newly wed adjusting to married life. He had called to tell me about the blessing of the George hair.
Let me back up. Since Robert left for the Army in March of '09, the discovery of a George hair on any personal item had been cause for celebration. Robert was very close to George, and we sometimes wonder if he misses his family or the dog more. Since Robert was actually slightly offended that we did not fly our dog out to California so that he could participate in his wedding ceremony, I offered the next best thing. As he was straightening his tie and lacing up his shoes that morning, I looked down on my own dress and saw it: a George hair. I handed it over to Robert. After wiping the tears away from his eyes, he quickly explained to me the significance of the colors of the fancy military pins on his chest, and that the further towards the heart they went, the more important they were. That's when he placed the hair right there, right above his heart.
So 3 weeks later, Robert had news of a blessing.
Before Robert was married, he was living with a roommate. As they were packing up their things to move, an argument ensued over the ownership of an X-Box Live headset. Clearly, according to Robert, they were his, as they were a gift from Jim and I for his birthday. The roommate argued otherwise, eventually winning them into his own possession. Always wanting justice to reign in every situation, Robert could do nothing but hope for a sign.
A few weeks went by, and Robert was babysitting for this now ex-roommate. He stumbled across the headset and began examining it for any sign that it was his: a nic, a mark, anything. That's when he found it, the sign he'd be waiting for: There, in the mouthpiece, clear as day, was the ever-distinguishable, George-hair! That was all the justice that he needed.
I will most likely head home tonight and vacuum. It has been two days afterall. But instead of cursing each and every hair that I find in my path, I'm going to laugh. What is considered a burden for me, is grown out of my favorite animal in the world, and is considered a blessing to a man serving his country overseas.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)