Welcome to the Funny Farm (18 page)

If I made a list of the very best things I've discovered by having kids, this would definitely be on the list.

The nasal suction device would not.

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Tandem Belching, Anyone?

A
MAZING THINGS HAPPEN WHEN KIDS GET REALLY BORED.

We were driving from Colorado Springs to Dallas last week. That means twelve hours in the car with no TV, telephone, or e-mail. My kids went catatonic for awhile from shock and grief, then they entertained themselves for awhile by bickering, and then they got creative.

I knew they had entered the creative stage when my five-year-old said, “Look, Mom, I can burp!”

Kacie has always wanted to burp-on-demand just like her fourteen-year-old sister, Kaitlyn. (I'm hoping as she matures she'll get some new goals in life, but for now, I guess this one's as good as any!) Intrigued, I turned around in my seat and asked for a demonstration.

Kacie opened her mouth.

Kaitlyn, hiding behind a book, let one rip.

I started to laugh. “Interesting,” I said. “Ventriliburping.”

Suddenly I had an idea. There's something my five-year-old can do that her big sister can't. Kacie can whistle. Kaitlyn cannot. I told the girls my idea. They loved it!

In a few moments, Kaitlyn appeared to be whistling up a storm. It was Kacie, of course, providing the sound, but that didn't seem to stem the gleam in their eyes.

They were thrilled with their new skills. I was thrilled with something else they had discovered, whether they realized it or not.

I said, “See, girls? You need each other. Together, you can do things you weren't able to do on your own.”

It's a lesson I hope they remember, because it'll come in handy time and time again.

The fact is, some things just go smoother when you have company. Zipping up that last two inches of a dinner dress falls into that category. So does shopping for a bathing suit. Holding a garage sale is something else that begs for collaboration with a friend.

And what about whining? Whining is definitely a two-party event. I've tried whining to my dog, Walter, but it's just not the same. He really doesn't know how to comfort me. The best he knows to do is get me a biscuit, which is what he wants when he whines, but it's just never worked for me.

So whining requires human partnership.

Laughing is the same way. Sure, it's possible to laugh alone, but the most healing hee-haws come in tandem. When I'm hurting, it feels good to laugh. This is because, when life gets tough, we have two choices: We can cry about it, or we can laugh, and laughing is easier on the mascara. Crying makes me look like a raccoon.

So I laugh when I can. And when I can't, I go ahead and embrace the masked mammal motif and have myself a four-hankie bawl. Crying is one of those activities that can go either way: Sometimes I cry by myself. Other times it's healing to cry with someone who loves me.

Depression is another experience that begs for help from others. Oh sure, I'll admit that my first reaction when I feel overwhelmed, stressed, or depressed is to isolate myself. Withdraw. Disengage. But I've done it enough times now to know that it doesn't help. In fact, it only makes things worse. For one thing, there's no one around to listen to me whine. For another thing, those doggie biscuits are starting to taste like sawdust.

The Bible recognizes our need for human companionship. Best yet, it gives lots of examples of intimate relationships. Some were based on romance. For example, God made Eve because it wasn't good for Adam to be alone. Solomon wrote passionately about his lover. Even the animals got to bring dates on a romantic forty-day cruise.

And yet intimate companionship isn't found in romantic relationships alone. Naomi had Ruth. David loved Jonathan. The disciples traveled in pairs, reaping encouragement and strength from hanging with others who loved the Lord.

I used to think all my needs for intimacy and companionship were supposed to be met by a husband. Now I know that God brings all sorts of people into my life to help me do and be what I could never accomplish or become on my own. This is because there are so very many things I just can't do on my own.

Luckily for everyone involved, burping isn't one of them.

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Holiday Traditions Worth Remembering

M
Y HUSBAND TELLS THE STORY
of the time his mom made rice pudding. No one could figure out why the pudding had seeds until Mom realized she was supposed to have cooked the rice.

Then there was the time Larry's grandmother made a pumpkin pie, which was an impressive endeavor considering that advancing years had relieved her of most of her eyesight. Two days later, she had the chance to serve a slice to her son and daughter-in-law. Jan took one bite and said, “Mom, you left the wax paper on the pie crust.” Grandma said, “That explains a lot. That was the toughest crust I've ever eaten.”

And she should know. She'd already gnawed her way through half the pie.

The thing that makes holiday recipes so special is the fact that we only make them once or twice a year.

That's also what makes them so scary.

I have a hard time remembering things I do every day, like picking up my kids from school or taking my Prozac. Remembering how to do something I only attempt once or twice a year is out of the question. Every time I have to renew my car registration, defrost a turkey, or dust off a beloved holiday recipe, I feel like I'm having to feel my way through the process for the very first time.

This is why my favorite holiday recipe goes like this: “Go to the freezer section. Open the door. Select the box with the best-looking photograph. Return home and slide the frozen pie into your own pie dish. Bake. Serve. Hide the box.”

Homemade rice pudding with seeds? My family should be so lucky. The last time I made homemade rice pudding, I was dishing it up when my spoon hit something bigger than a seed but smaller than a breadbox.

At least I'd found the pot holder.

What I'm saying is that, at least for me, executing once-a-year recipes is a challenge. The other challenge I face is trying to find the festive items I only need during the holidays. This year, my list of AWOL holiday props includes turkey-shaped Jell-O molds, the box of Christmas decorations, and the animated reindeer head that sings, “I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know . . .”

Sometimes I think there should be a dry run. Maybe in August or September. Then we could practice all our Thanksgiving recipes and hire Magnum P.I. to locate all the Christmas decorations. That way we'd be practiced up when the real holidays came around.

In fact, maybe we could send practice Christmas cards during summer vacation, just to make sure our mailing list was up to date. And we could serve July 4th barbecue on our very best china just so our dishes wouldn't feel too unfamiliar come Thanksgiving. And that cornucopia centerpiece? Wouldn't it look great holding Easter eggs or a nest of chocolate bunnies?

And when it comes to holiday attitudes like gratitude or worship, what would happen if we dusted those off as well and used them during the other ten months of the year? What if, at the end of this month, gratitude didn't get packed away with the pilgrim-shaped salt shakers or the pinecone turkeys your kids crafted at school? What if worship of God and goodwill toward men didn't get stored in the attic with the nativity set and the reindeer lawn art?

The bottom line is that some things are just meant to be enjoyed year 'round.

My husband says pudding with seeds probably isn't one of them.

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How to Survive Cold and Flu Season

I
HAB A CODE.

I took some cold medicine, but it's taking a while to kick in, and until it does I'm sounding a little like Elmer Fudd on Xanax.

Of course, even then, my medicine will only help my symptoms. It won't really cure me. This is because they say there's no cure for the common cold.

My friend Beth discovered this the hard way. For the past year, Beth has been saving pennies for a cruise. A big deal, this cruise—everyone in her family was going, including grandparents, cousins, and kids. Two weeks before she was supposed to sail into the best vacation of her life, Beth showed up on my doorstep waving two bags from the pharmacy down the street.

Seems she had visited her family doctor and obtained prescriptions for every ailment known to womankind. She had pills for bladder infections. Patches for motion sickness. Birth control pills to postpone her period. These were mostly preventative measures. Beth wanted to board the boat prepared for every conceivable malady. She was adamant that nothing—no virus, bug, or menses—would interfere with this vacation of a lifetime.

Two days before her trip, Beth came down with the grandmother of all colds. Her postnasal drip was so bad, she didn't need an antihistamine, she needed a plumber. If you didn't get any presents delivered to your house this Christmas, it's because Rudolph took one look at Beth's nose and filed for unemployment.

Nothing in Beth's bag of pharmaceutical tricks could help. Rest and time proved the only remedy. Beth went on her cruise anyway. It didn't help that when the ship sailed into some fog, the captain said the horn was on the blink and asked Beth to blow her nose instead.

This was a month ago. Now Beth is sick with something else. I think the doctor said whooping cough. The funny thing is that Beth's a nurse. I told her she needs to quit bringing her work home with her.

I also showed up at her home with a little something to make her feel better.

If I were Martha Stewart, it would have been homemade chicken noodle soup or a casserole. But I'm not, and so the thing I brought was a half-gallon tub of ice cream. Cold hands, warm sentiments. Beth understood.

Colds are equal opportunity ailments. They don't discriminate. Everybody falls prey, even the folks who are supposed to take care of the rest of us when we get sick. I know it's disconcerting when it happens—I mean, I get a little worried when the doctors and nurses around me are sicker than I am—but there's only one thing to do when it happens.

Don't gawk or point a finger. Instead, pitch in with some caregiving of your own.

The truth is, whether we're talking germ warfare, emotional valleys, or spiritual struggles, folks who minister aren't immune. Sometimes they fall under attack. Sometimes they need an encouraging word, some wise instruction, a healing touch, and time to recoup just like the rest of us.

Know someone under attack? Someone you thought was invincible? Don't gawk. Instead, pray. Send an encouraging card or e-mail. Make a phone call. Lend an ear. Provide a shoulder. Offer a hand. Provide a Kleenex. Give a hug. Bake a casserole. Babysit her kids. Show up with a gift that shows you understand and that you care.

A carton of Rocky Road and two spoons is a nice place to start.

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