“Hello. I’m calling to report a student absence.”

“Teacher’s name?”

“Wood.”

“Student’s name?”

“John Smith*.” (*not actual name)

“Reason for absence? Is your student ill?”

“Uh . . . . uh . . . . uh . . . ”

“It’s all right if he’s not ill. I’ll just write parent permission.”

Thus, I was saved from lying before 8:00 in the morning. Today, our older boys had a school-at-home end-of-the-year picnic and the local waterpark had a homeschool day (tickets only $11 compared to the normal $35 price) and so we pulled our younger son out of school, took the day off work and frolicked all day.

However, so did about a kajillion other families, so the waterpark was really crowded. And the pool meant for the younger set was as cold as the ocean water off the coast of Washington, no exaggeration. My 4-year old did cavort in the chilly water and slide down the crowded slide and even dip her face into the water–just because she can–but she had more fun riding rides (an ancient carousel and an assortment of old carnival rides). We slid down one of those giant slides on black carpet–she on my lap–but at the tippy-top, she decided that she didn’t want to do it, but I said, “Oh, too late, we’re sliding,” and we did and when we reached the bottom, she immediately turned to me for a hug with a crumpled chin and an accusatory look. “That scared me!” she said.

We set our 14-year old twin boys free with instructions to meet us at 3:30 p.m. and they eventually found some friends they knew from homeschool P.E. class. I still have no idea if they went on a single waterslide or if they merely savored their freedom by wandering around, bumping into people.

My husband spent the afternoon with our 9-year old, standing in long lines to ride 3-minute waterslides. They also rode a rollercoaster twice. Oh, and my 9-year old went into the wave pool . . . my husband reported that he immediately lost sight of him in the chaos of the crowded waves. My son swam to the very far end of the wave-pool where the waves are of Perfect Storm dimension and, as he reports, “I almost drowned.” He realized he couldn’t tread the rough water for long and wisely swam to safety. My husband relayed this story to me with some shame, as he is the reigning Mr. Safety.
And, as if all that adventure weren’t enough, I spent an hour and a half at our own pool when we returned to town so my daughter could swim even longer. She is practicing underwater somersaults, but she calls them “underdogs.” That child has enough energy to power a small city.

The original point of this dissertation was to explain my dismay this morning when I realized that a domestic bomb of some sort had exploded, leaving mounds of laundry and stacks of dirty dishes everywhere. I was puzzled until I remember yesterday:

School, followed by work on VBS (Vacation Bible School), followed by a lengthy visit with a friend (whom I’ve been begging to come over . . . she came to pick up some VBS materials, but also to chat which was awesome). She left and I took the kids to the pool . . . came home in time for dinner (thank God for Crock-Pots) . . . then my mother stopped by, then I left for a meeting (VBS!) at church at 8:00 p.m., returning home by 10:00 p.m. I don’t think I washed a single load of laundry yesterday and so today, the molehills have turned into mountains.

But, happy day, Paris Hilton went back to jail and I can’t help but feel opposing emotions: pity for her because she is so clearly distraught, but pleasure because justice is served. If only Paris had been forced to have temper tantrums when she was three and didn’t get her way, she might not be having temper tantrums at age 26 when she doesn’t get her way. I hope that she is in jail thinking about how she messed up and not wondering why this bad thing is happening to her. I suspect she feels like a victim and not like a criminal, though.
You might find it odd that I have an opinion about Paris Hilton, but, of course, I have an opinion about everything. Or almost everything.

Mary Winkler was found guilty of voluntary manslaughter. She’s the pastor’s wife who shot her husband in the back while he slept, then claimed to have no memory of pulling the trigger. I saw a little of her testimony yesterday on a news channel and saw her explain that the gun went off accidentally and that she ran with her children because she knew no one would believe her.

As a pastor’s wife, I understand how isolated she must have felt. But as a human being, I cannot begin to understand how she thought a gun might solve her problems anymore than I can understand how the Virginia Tech killer thought a gun would solve his problems.

I pity her children. I pity her. But I must admit that I’m amazed that she will serve less than six years for the murder voluntary manslaughter of her husband. (I know her defense was that she was a “battered” wife, but I still don’t understand why she shot him rather than left him.)

Updated to add: I am acquainted with a former Bible College professor who was convicted of attempted murder. She hit the man on the head with a crowbar, doing little damage to him. She is now serving eight years. I find it odd that Mary Winkler–whose victim is dead–will serve less time than my acquaintance, who barely (allegedly) injured her victim.  (She maintains she is innocent, but used the Alford plea.)

Everywhere I turned yesterday, I heard this: “The planet has a fever,” Gore said. “If your baby has a fever, you go to the doctor. If the doctor says you need to intervene here, you don’t say, ‘Well, I read a science fiction novel that told me it’s not a problem.’ If the crib’s on fire, you don’t speculate that the baby is flame retardant. You take action.”

Each time, I rolled my eyes and said (sometimes out loud), “No, you don’t. If your baby has a fever, you know that his or her little body is fighting off infection on its own. All you have to do is watch and wait.”

I’m guessing Al Gore never actually tended a baby with a fever.

The problem with using metaphors is that all too soon, the metaphor breaks down. In this case, the metaphor crumbled from the very start.

Then I heard that Al Gore consumes more energy than most of us (”last August alone, Gore burned through 22,619 kWh—guzzling more than twice the electricity in one month than an average American family uses in an entire year. As a result of his energy consumption, Gore’s average monthly electric bill topped $1,359“) in addition to his frequent flying on private jets (I had to laugh when I heard on the news that he’s “jetting” around, spreading his message). I wonder if he actually believes his message of imminent catastrophe . . . and does he hang his own laundry on clotheslines to dry?

(I haven’t seen “An Inconvenient Truth.” The last time I saw a movie with an obvious political bias I was not persuaded by the movie’s bias . . . I was just annoyed and wondered how it could be that so many people believed the propaganda.)

* * *

Speaking of topics in the news, did you all hear about the new study done that expunges the guilt of millions of American mothers by telling us that modern mothers actually spend more time with their kids than mothers in the past did?

In 1965, mothers spent 10.2 hours a week tending primarily to their children — feeding them, reading with them or playing games, for example — according to the study’s analysis of detailed time diaries kept by thousands of Americans. That number dipped in the 1970s and 1980s, rose in the 1990s and now is higher than ever, at nearly 14.1 hours a week.

A quote I found interesting was this:

There is primary time, when a child is the focus of a parent’s attention. There is secondary time — helping with homework, for example, while cooking dinner. Then there is a third category: just being with children.

Perhaps because I accessible to my children all day, most every day, I do not feel guilty over not spending enough time giving my children my sole focus. I wonder if our society is not too child-focused while at the same time, not taking into account a child’s true needs for security and protection. I, personally, would describe my parenting philosophy as “benign neglect.” I think I once saw Madeleine L’Engle use that phrase, but I have never been able to find it again. I like to believe that we share the same mothering philosophy.

* * *

Well, this post started last night . . . and in the interval, I have been through five lessons of history with my children (I wonder if I would have supported Franklin Delano Roosevelt when he was in office?), slept, washed, dried and folded a bunch of laundry, exercised twice, watched “Oprah” while taking care of a 6-month old baby, read the newspaper, and gone to a sort of company dinner with my husband. I think I had a point when I started, but now, it’s just a jumble of observations, which has its own particular point, I suppose.

A few hours ago, I heard a news story on the television which reminded me that I wanted to write about it. Then, I got all distracted by trying to find a link to the local story. I failed and then my attention was diverted by:

A) Fixing lunch.

B) Moving laundry from washer to dryer, dryer to basket, and then folding that load from this morning.

C) Looking in vain for my daughter’s new Gameboy game which comes in one delightful size (”Easy to Lose”).

D) Pulling out Hide-A-Bed and scooting a pound of trash, crumbs and unpopped popcorn kernels from under the couch.

E) All of the above.

So, anyway. You’ll have to take my word for it when I tell you that in this region, a baby was found abandoned yesterday morning on the steps of a church. The baby was said to be less than twenty-four hours old and a desperate search is on for the mother who abandoned this baby.

People appeared on camera to declare how wrong it was for this mother to abandon her baby on the steps of a church (sometime after 9:30 a.m. where the infant was found quite quickly when mass ended). The news reporters emphasized that police searched door to door, looking for someone who might have seen something. Where could the mother be?

I say, “Who cares where the mother is?” The baby has been abandoned. I know exactly what the Department of Health and Human Services will do next. They will try to reunite the mother and the baby. They always do. Even when a mother has repeatedly abused her children or abused drugs or neglected her children, the biological rights always come before what is best for the child.

In this case, what is best for the child is to be placed in an adoptive home. I am quite certain that the abandoned infant could be living with a new, permanent, adoptive family before nightfall, if only the insane governmental agencies didn’t give so many chances to biological parents.

If I were Queen of the World, parents would lose their parental rights forever in these cases:

1) Abandonment of baby immediately following birth.

2) Abuse or neglect of children or living with an unrelated person (”boyfriend”, etc.) who hurts the children.

3) Drug use, despite one chance at rehabilitation.

Parents should not have unlimited chances to ruin their children’s lives. And when a baby is abandoned, we should take that as a sign that the mother intended to relinquish her rights. Do not search for her. In this case, she left the baby where he would be found quickly. Good for her. I wish her well.

And I hope that baby is adopted immediately so he can begin to bond with his forever family.

Seriously.  Whoever started the stupid trend of equating colors (red and blue) with political parties (Democrat and Republican) ought to be slapped silly.  Everyone who follows this lazy style of describing people, STOP IT!  I asked once nicely. 

So knock it off!  Use a little effort and if you must label me, use a term that makes sense, not a nonsensical color.  Please, I suggest this term:  Irritable Queen of Common Sense and Sock-Folding.

I still don’t remember if my pointless vote for the Republican candidates makes me red or blue . . . (don’t say it) . . . or (I mean it, don’t say it) . . . just (stop thinking that!) (do not fill in this blank ________.)

Frankly, I an a cynic about organized government.  Clearly, it’s not working.  I say ban organized government altogether, because anyone with eyes can see that it does more harm than good.  Don’t you think?  Let’s just go for complete anarchy and chaos because that makes so much more sense than being organized.  Organization = bad.

On a related note, I just want to ask Elton John if he thinks unorganized religion makes more sense.  See, he said this:

“From my point of view, I would ban religion completely. Organized religion doesn’t seem to work. It turns people into really hateful lemmings and it’s not really compassionate.”

From my point of view, I would ban government completely.  Organized government doesn’t seem to work.  It turns people into really hateful lemmings and it’s not really compassionate.

Ha.  Elton John should just shut up and sing.  What does he know about organized religion anyway?  He makes as much sense talking about organized religion as I make talking about organized government.  (As if there is such a thing.)

Now, stop with the red states and blue states already.  Learn some appropriate adjectives and descriptors.  I mean it.

Do people really lay awake and look at the ceiling at night?  I have never done that.  I might be awake, but I always close my eyes at night, whether or not I’m asleep.

Here’s yet another New York Times article about mothers in which I am not quoted.  It’s just another example of what happens when you don’t drink to cope with your children, I guess.  (Not only are you unpopular among the cool mothers and assumed to be judgmental, but when you use donuts to self-medicate instead of booze, you get fat.  Where is the article about mothers who use brownies to get them through another dreary afternoon?) 

For instance:

Happy-hour play dates are here. Between runs to soccer and ballet classes, fund-raisers and homework projects, some stay-at-home mothers are gobbling brownies at afternoon spa parties, nibbling homemade chocolate chip cookies at play groups and toting pints of Ben & Jerry’s premium ice cream and can of Pringles to parks and friends’ decks while their children frolic nearby.

(See?  So not cool to overeat if you’re a mom.  Much better to get tipsy.) 

I was able to sleep in today (until 7:41 a.m., which is kind of funny considering “sleeping in” used to mean something entirely different).  We had a cabin-fever kind of day, stuck inside because of the rain and wind and circumstances.  A child I babysat arrived at 10:30 a.m. and I assumed he’d be with me all day–he left a couple of hours later.  Another set of kids was due to arrive at 1:00 p.m., but they never did . . . to my daughter’s great dismay.  (She didn’t take the news of the cancellation very well.  “When are they coming?” she kept asking, even though I told her they weren’t.)

The afternoon was full of boys.  Four neighborhood boys were in and out, leaving a trail of Douglas fir needles and damp footprints.  One of my boys left at about 4:00 p.m. for a birthday party . . . but still, I had six boys here playing video games and computer games and making so much noise I kept yelling, “CLOSE THE DOOR!  CLOSE THE DOOR!” 

Not that my day was void of accomplishment.  Oh no, not at all.  I cleaned out my laundry room (so that’s where those Judo pants were!) and also the boys’ bathroom.  I know you are impressed . . . and if you’d seen the bathroom before I held my breath and scrubbed, you’d be even more impressed.  (And I have a cold.  Be impressed.  Be very impressed.)

Tomorrow, I’m taking the children out of the house.  The boys don’t know it yet, but we’re going to a big rummage sale.  I may regret this adventure, but at least I will not go insane a la Jack Torrance.

Oh, and I have to ask if anyone else’s kids are ready for Christmas.  My four-year old daughter has a plan.  She intends to give Santa Claus a present (dollies and stuffed animals already stuffed in a festive gift bag), and then ask him if she can go to the North Pole.  “He’ll say yes, Mom.” 

This amuses me because I make a point of never bringing up Santa Claus, never taking my children for pictures with Santa Claus, never leaving any presents under the tree from Santa Claus and never including Santa Claus in any of our celebrations. 

And yet, my daughter follows in the footsteps of her siblings who were all fervent believers in the jolly white-bearded guy.

Finally, this is the stupidest investigation of all time.  Vanessa Minnillo dons a “fat suit”–which transforms her into a *gasp* size 12–and catapults her into the hell of being “Ugly Vanessa” (aka normal life for a great majority of women.)  The fact that they need to do some “investigation” to learn about how people are treated who are not television-beautiful makes me want to slap some producer somewhere who came up with this nonsense.  

And Vanessa certainly didn’t look “ugly” even with the “fat suit” (SIZE 12!  Reality check in aisle seven, please!).  It took her six hours to look like a normal person instead of a thin beauty. 

Get a grip, television-producer people.  Aren’t there some celebrity divorces to cover or something?  Can’t we just hear more about Danny Bonaduce? 

Britney is divorcing Kevin.  Big surprise, huh?  Suddenly, I’m a pop-culture blog, determined to be the first to mention it to you.  Ha.

p.s.  Britney, next time around, you might consider not sleeping with a married man who already has a pregnant wife and a child and perhaps even not sleeping with someone unless you are already married to him.  Having sex outside of marriage tends to cloud one’s judgment, if you ask me.  Not that you did ask me, but you should have.  Next time you’re thinking of tying the knot, email me.

So, let’s see.  I mentioned that I wanted to talk about the intolerance of people toward Christians.  This post linking to another post written by a woman who was dismayed (horrified?  discomfited?) to be attending a barbecue with a bunch of Christians (who had the nerve not to serve alcohol) sparked my reaction.  That, and the Joan Rivers “Before Melissa Pulls the Plug” comedy special I paused on while channel-surfing the other night.  (Then again, Joan Rivers says outrageous things about everyone, so how can anyone be offended by that?) 

I understand about being uncomfortable around people who are different than you, so the woman who spent her afternoon at the barbecue feeling out of place gets my sympathy.  After all, I live in one of the states where more people do not attend church than do. 

“The idea that Seattle or this part of the country is a bastion of liberalism and tolerance and open-mindedness is baloney,” Gallant says. “It is just self-absorbed and trendy. These people are, in fact, very intolerant to anyone who doesn’t agree with them. They want people of faith out here to be silent about their beliefs.”

The Rev. Bill Keeton, 48, pastor of the tiny, yellow-frame Chapel of Grace in Olympia, dubs secular Washington “downright anti-religious.”

“Charting the Unchurched in America,” (USA Today) says:

The majority of Americans, 81% according to ARIS, still do claim a religion. They represent a counterargument to the theory that the more developed a country — in education, occupations, science and technology — the more its people move away from religion, says Ronald Inglehart, who heads the Institute for Social Research at the University of Michigan.

Americans break the mold. Inglehart says, “Even if you look at the easiest measure of religiosity — church attendance — the USA has 30% to 32% per week depending on which poll you look at, but comparably wealthy countries in Northern Europe have 5% to 15%.”

So, eighty-some percent claim a religion (all religions, not just Christianity), but only thirty-some percent go to church.  (Far less than that in my region.)  I’m one of them.

I am accustomed to being mocked on television, on the internet, in print media.  Christians are accused of intolerance (and downright stupidity) by those who refuse to tolerate Christian belief systems.  It’s kind of funny, really, that those who claim to be tolerant of lifestyles and differing beliefs cannot tolerate Christians because of their perceived intolerance.

At least I find it funny.  And offensive on occasion.

However, I try not to take offense at the illogical meanderings of people who don’t realize how intolerant they are.  I assume those people have no idea what they are talking about, since most people are frighteningly ignorant of the overall message of the Bible and what a Christian is really like.  Joan Rivers wouldn’t know a beatitude if it hit her upside the head, after all, so we can overlook her insensitivity to Christians.  (Blessed are the meek.)

I really do believe actions speak louder than words, so I figure I don’t need to defend myself or other Christians.  But every once in awhile, my eyes roll so far back in my head that I have to say something lest my eyeballs get stuck in that position.  That explains this post.  My eyeballs were lodged way up under my eyelids.  This ought to shake them loose.

Some of you mentioned in comments that Christians are also very intolerant of other Christians.  That’s true, I suppose, though I think there’s probably a better word than “intolerance” to describe the differences between various Christian denominations and factions.  Sure, there are vast disagreements between Christian groups, but disagreeing with something doesn’t imply intolerance (“unwillingness to recognize and respect differences in opinions or beliefs”.) 

(Yes, I quibble about semantics quite often.  So?)  

I have been in Christian circles my whole life–my maternal grandfather was a preacher, my uncles are ministers, my mother met my father at Bible college–I attended church three times a week until adulthood . . . and seven times a week in college (mandatory chapel every weekday and mandatory attendance at church on weekends).  So, I have church-cred. 

And I’m telling you that the view from here, from the life of a pastor’s wife–who never, ever mentions that fact to strangers lest they suddenly begin to censor themselves and apologize for their language and start to look for an emergency exit–from here, it sure looks like those who champion tolerance can barely tolerate me.

Which, you have to admit, is irony at its finest.

You can accuse me of a lot things–setting back the feminist movement, for instance, by ironing my husband’s pants–but please don’t accuse me of intolerance or assume that because I’m a Christian I’m a party-pooper.  (I’m a party-pooper because I’m an introvert, which has nothing to do with my religion.) 

The tolerant among us should have no problem with my assertion that I am right because doesn’t tolerance demand that you tolerate me, even if you disagree with me?  Otherwise, that makes you intolerant, huh? 

I could go in circles forever, pointing out that people who cry “intolerant!” and point an accusing finger are intolerant of the intolerant . . . but it’s boring me.  So it must be boring you. 

The end.

Last night, I watched the Barbara Walters interview with Terri Irwin, the widow of Steve Irwin, the “Crocodile Hunter.”  I cried.  Then I cried again.  Then I cried some more.  I went to bed at 11 p.m. with red-rimmed eyes and a stuffy nose.

When I watched 8-year old Bindi speak at her 44-year old father’s memorial service, I wept.  At least I had my father for 24 years.  To have your father–especially that particular larger-than-life father–for only 8 years is so wrong.

My husband is 45-years old.  I cannot imagine losing him.  I cannot imagine my children losing him.  I know that happens–my own father left me fatherless–but it’s still unimaginable to me.

All of this–the interview, the anniversary of my own father’s death, the child’s voice speaking about her father–perhaps even the sliver of moon in the sky and the impending change of seasons–has left me undone with a tight place in my throat that will not unclench.

This world is so breathtaking, so heart-wrenching, so beautiful and with such potential for loss and pain.  When I glimpse the sunset pink on Mt. Rainier, I wonder if I might ever see that sight again.  Will I see the moon grow full and round?  Someday, will I watch my daughter become a mother herself?

This feeling will wash away in the tide of mundane life.  I know it will, but for the moment, I’m sad. 

 I am participating in the 2,996 Project, for which 2,996 bloggers volunteered to write a memorial for one person who perished in the attacks on 9/11.

Today, on the fifth anniversary of the terrorist attack on the United States, I remember Thomas Kuveikis.

Thomas Kuveikis was known to his family and friends as Tommy.  He grew up in Brooklyn, attending Blessed Sacrament Elementary School.  He later graduated from Wheatley High School in 1971 after his family moved to East Williston.

Tommy studied architecture at both SUNY Farmingdale and the Pratt Institute, but her never completed a degree.  He dabbled in carpentry, a skill learned from his father.  He joined the New York Fire Department (FDNY) in August of 1977 when he was twenty-four years old. 

Within a year, Tommy made a name for himself as an aggressive, brave and tough firefighter.  His younger brother, Tim,  once said, “If I could be half the fireman he was, I’ll have a really good career.”  (Newsday.com)   He loved the action of firefighting in Bushwick, a Brooklyn neighborhood.  (His father was a legendary firefighter who died in November 2001.) 

But Tommy wasn’t just a tough guy.  He came up with an idea to help a poor family at Christmas.  Starting in 1987, members of his squad visited a priest at St. Barbara’s Roman Catholic Church and ask for the name of the poorest family in the parish.  Then they would contact the family, set up a Christmas tree and provide presents. 

Tommy was married twice and was about to be engaged to Jennifer Auerhahn, who described him as “sweet, funny, kind gentle and unselfish.”  His brother Jimmy wrote about him on September11victims.com website saying,

“It was really tough to lose Tommy as he became such a king, considerate guy over time.  He was not always this way, especially in his twenties, but ‘life’s difficulties’ made him become a great human being.  He was a vegetarian, he gave money and time to Putnam County Land Trust to preserve ’special’ land . . . he loved animals, kids and good people.  Tommy was already a tremendous fireman, working in a poor area of Brooklyn, where he could experience many more fires than the average fireman, just like his father did.”

Kathy Gelman said her brother, Tommy, was “honorable, honest, humorous, humble, humane, and hero.”

In his spare time, Tommy worked as a carpenter.  In fact, he built a steam room in Squad 252’s firehouse.  He had a reputation for not charging enough for his carpentry work.  One day a year, he would donate a day of carpentry to the Putnam County Land Trust.

Tommy had one daughter, Kristen.  He had five siblings, sisters Christine, Karen and Kathleen and brothers, James and Timothy. 

Tommy had been a firefighter for twenty-four years and a member of Squad 252 (”In Squad We Trust” was their motto) for five years when his squad answered the fifth alarm at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, at 9:00 a.m.  He was forty-eight years old that day.  CNN footage shows his squad pulling up to the east side of the Trade Center around 9:28 a.m.  The six members of the squad entered the north tower, rescued a man from an elevator.

Two of the firefighters’ bodies were found in the C stairwell 18 days later.  The other four men of Squad 252, including Tommy, were never found. 

Today, I remember Thomas Kuveikis.  Thomas Kuveikis is one of the 343 FDNY firefighters who died on September 11, 2001.  He is a hero.  We will never forget.