Welcome to the Funny Farm (12 page)

“Kacie! What's wrong?”

She blinked. “Tito bit me.”

All our friends at church know about Tito. One man in particular enjoys teasing Kacie about Tito. Practically every time he sees Kacie, Herschel asks, “How's Tito?”

Sometimes Kacie tells him. Increasingly, however, Kacie merely crosses her arms and purses her lips as if to say, “Oh puh-lease, not again.”

One day another friend overheard Herschel teasing Kacie. His curiosity piqued, Condall just had to ask, “Who in the world is Tito?”

Herschel told him.

Condall thought the whole thing was great and figured he'd get in on the fun. Squatting eye-level with Kacie, he grinned and said, “Hey Kacie, how's Tito?”

Kacie never even blinked. She eyeballed him back and said levelly, “Tito's dead.”

So Herschel and Condall killed Tito. Tito stayed dead for several months until Marie managed to bring him back to life. Kacie explained that Marie did this with some sort of magic stones. I figured Kacie and Marie assumed this was safe to do because Herschel and Condall had finally stopped asking about Tito.

Tito may have a mean streak, but he seems to appreciate his privacy.

When Kacie's not playing with invisible friends, the other critters she loves are garden critters. She's always begging me to help her find pill bugs, June bugs, crickets, even snakes.

She really loves the snakes. Little baby garden snakes. She gets this death grip around their little bodies and hangs on tight.

I always watch her closely when she's playing with snakes. I'm not worried about her physical safety as much as her psychological health. I don't think it's healthy for a child to have to live with the fact that she inadvertently squeezed the life out of a baby snake with her bare hands.

Besides, Kacie's probably already going to need therapy, what with having to kill Tito off like that.

In any case, the other day Kacie and I were wrapping up a day spent in the garden. Kacie had just spent the afternoon with many of her favorite critters. She had collected rollie pollies, chased crickets, prodded worms, studied ants, and befriended several moths.

It had been a well-populated afternoon, although if I remember right, Tito was nowhere to be seen (which, come to think of it, is probably to be expected for an invisible dog).

On our way inside for dinner, Kacie needled me with several dozen questions about worms and crickets and pill bugs and ants. I found myself explaining how all these critters and many others form a sort of community. I told her that the worms aerate the soil, and the bees pollinate the flowers, and the crickets . . . well, I don't really know what crickets do, but I'm sure I made something up and managed to sound fairly credible in the process.

I told her that each critter was important, and that our garden just wouldn't be the same without them all.

And I've been thinking about that conversation ever since.

I'm part of a community, too. I won't say if I'm more like the hardworking ant or the social butterfly (nectar, anyone?), but my point is that I am part of a community of critters, and every one of us has a unique role to fill. There are the quiet laborers, the encouragers, the movers and the shakers, the problem solvers and the huggers. In my community (as in yours, no doubt) there are even a few well-meaning pests.

What a privilege it is to have these folks in my life.

You know, the Bible encourages us not to forsake fellowship with other believers. I think it's because we really do need each other. Not a one of us can thrive isolated and on our own.

Not even Tito.

He might be a little shy around Herschel and Condall, but I hear he's sticking close to Kacie and Marie these days.

They knew right where to find those magic stones, after all.

26

Motherhood's Unsolved Mysteries

B
EFORE
I
WAS A PARENT,
I
HAD NO CHILDREN,
but I had lots of theories about parenting.

Now I have two children and no theories.

Actually, the person in my home who believes she knows the most about parenting is my fourteen-year-old daughter. Of course, she thinks she knows the most about everything under the sun. She will, no doubt, get smarter and smarter until the day she gives birth to her first child. At that point, it is virtually guaranteed that she will experience a massive knowledge deficit.

Some experts believe that this “brain drain” is, in some mysterious fashion, related to the detachment of the placenta during childbirth. Others believe it is actually triggered in the months and years following childbirth, probably as a result of a prolonged exposure to seven-foot birds and purple herbivores.

Whatever the reason, the bottom line is this:

Even though you and I grew up believing that Father (and Mother) really did know best, once we became parents ourselves we suddenly discovered the Big Secret: Moms and dads don't have a clue. We just make that stuff up about being omniscient to keep knowledgeable kids in check until they, too, become parents and experience a two-thirds drop in their IQ. Then they can be in charge.

The truth is, I've been a parent long enough to know that every morning brings with it some new challenge for which I am nominally prepared. Why can't kids come with instructions? Both of my babies came home from the hospital with one of those nasal suction devices they tried to adopt as pacifiers. Why don't doctors send babies home with something their parents can really use . . . like a how-to manual?

I am constantly amazed by the number of times my kids have left me scratching my head in confusion or wonder (and I'm not even referring to the time they put dish detergent in the shampoo bottle. That's another head-scratching story altogether).

Do I know best? Sometimes I think I don't know squat.

A few of the many topics about which I don't have a clue include the following:

How serious is it when a two-year-old has a toe fetish? When Kacie was two, several times a day she demanded to have her shoes and socks removed so she could examine her feet. Is she destined to spend her adult life wearing sandals for easy access? When she's in seventh grade and has to write an essay on “Someone I Admire,” will she choose Imelda Marcos? And is podiatry a good career choice for someone with a foot fetish, or does that border on the unethical?

And that's not the only mystery.

What in the world does it mean when you are setting the table for company and find a hard glob of chewed gum under the rim of your best china? Whose gum is it? Your teenage son's? When did he last eat on the good china anyway? And if it wasn't him, could one of your previous guests have done it? Shouldn't the dishwasher have melted the gum and whisked it away when the plate was washed? And if chewed gum is indeed impervious to scalding soapy water, then how long has it been there? Was it there when you served Christmas dinner to your in-laws or when you entertained your husband's boss last month?

Where do all the missing socks go?

Why is meat loaf served at a friend's house more enticing to your kids than pizza served at home?

What do teenage girls do in the bathroom for three hours?

And what exactly does it mean when your ten-year-old loses a tooth at school, brings it home in a tiny plastic box, and then leaves it sitting for two months in a corner of your kitchen counter? When Kaitlyn was ten, my countertop was adorned with an abandoned baby molar for two months. I had to ask myself, did Kaitlyn forget it was there? Had she lost sleep at night wondering where she left her tooth and longing for her dollar from the tooth fairy? If so, why hadn't she mentioned it to me? What if she didn't think her tooth was lost? What if she knew exactly where it was? What if a visit from the tooth fairy was the last thing on her mind? What if . . . what if my baby's growing up?

From potty training dilemmas to disciplinary decisions to debates about dating, driving, and the decorative piercing of body parts, motherhood offers a smorgasbord of challenging questions that promise to stump even the wisest of moms and dads.

Maybe Robert Young had all the answers when he was raising Princess, Kitten, and Bud.

But for the rest of us, parenting is a leap of faith . . . an unending series of mysteries . . . an adventure that takes us daily to our wits' end and beyond.

Do fathers know best? Do mothers?

No way.

But there is one Father who does.

It's an amazing thing, but when we enter into a relationship with God's own Son, Jesus, we find ourselves adopted into the family of God. What we used to think of as some nebulous cosmic power suddenly becomes real to us in a way we never could have imagined. The Force becomes family. That higher power turns out to be a heavenly Father. We discover that the distant deity is more along the lines of . . . well, actually, a dad.

I may be a mom, but I don't come close to having all the answers I need in my life. I need a heavenly Father to help me make sense of it all . . . to help me meet the challenge of raising my family . . . to help me achieve my potential as a parent, spouse, and human being.

You need that kind of a Dad, too.

He's got all the answers, after all. And whatever answers he doesn't give us here on earth, I'm sure he'll be willing to provide once we get to heaven.

Just remind me, when we get there, in case it's a long time from now and I forget to ask.

I'd still love to know about that gum under my china.

27

It's the Heart That Counts

I'
VE BEEN OUT OF TOWN.

I spent Mother's Day weekend speaking at the Terre Haute First Assembly of God, enjoying myself and falling in love with the wonderful folks at that church. I returned home Monday morning, pulling into my driveway at 2:00
A.M.

Four hours later, I was awakened by Kacie calling my name from her bedroom. Thinking she was having a bad dream, I hurried to her side.

She was still half asleep—in fact, her eyes were still closed—as she heard my voice and blurted, “Have you been to the kitchen table yet?”

I said no.

She tumbled out of bed with excitement. “Your presents are there! Let's go!”

“Kacie, it's six in the morning! Can't we sleep a while longer?”

She flashed me a look of sheer horror. “No! Your Mother's Day presents are there! We have to go right now!”

And so we did.

That's how I ended up, at 6:15 Monday morning, ooohing and aaahhhing over refrigerator magnets, a potted ink pen with a flower glued to the top, a handmade card, a new curling iron, and an iridescent purple blow-dryer. Larry's gift to me was a Mr. Coffee Iced Tea Maker.

I loved every gift.

I told Kaitlyn the curling iron was a brilliant idea, since my travels have made sharing the same curling iron a challenge (I never mentioned the fact that I bought my own curling iron in Terre Haute this weekend).

I told Larry the iced tea maker was great (I didn't mention that this is the THIRD iced tea pot he's bought for me, and that the other two are on a shelf in the laundry room because, in order to make tea, these machines require a pitcher full of ice, and I don't have an icemaker).

It was my turn, then, to give a few gifts. While on my trip, I picked up some sand-art kits for the girls and some candy.

Kacie was particularly excited about the candy. She gripped it tightly in her hand and beamed. “I had this kind of candy once before!” she said happily. “But it was too much sugar and it made me throw up!” She paused then, her smile frozen on her face and one eyebrow raised, as the implication of her statement sank in: Maybe candy that resulted in getting intimate with a commode wasn't such a great gift after all!

Thinking back on the morning, I had to laugh. So many good intentions! But even the best intentions didn't keep us from missing the target by a few inches on several of the gifts.

Did that diminish the experience for me?

Nah, somehow it just made the morning more precious.