An American-Christian’s Christmas. It’s a tricky one. I don’t have to rehearse the litany of Christmas-as-related-to-materialism issues for you. You are living with them, too. You make your peace with them as you see fit.
The problem is that Bryan and I didn’t feel a lot of peace with these issues. We had this ideal of celebrating Christmas as the birth of the Savior of the world, the day God came down to pitch His tent among us. But in practice, we were training up our kids to look forward to the presents. We could say, “Think about Jesus, Think about Jesus, Happy Birthday Jesus!” all we wanted. But, come on, when they know that Christmas is The Day they open Presents, are these children really supposed to care that much about Jesus?
In practice, we were teaching them to say, “I love Jesus’ birthday because I get lots of presents!”
As for my part: so much energy spent trying and hoping for a gift that would please and delight them and make “this year’s” Christmas one they would “never forget.” Maybe Bryan didn’t feel that way about it, but something about the mother inside me felt that way. And so built into the celebration was also the expectation that our delight would be or could be in the presents.
We’ve had only 3 Christmases, really, where we had children old enough to understand the whole “wake up and open presents” thing. The first two, there was a sense of let down in each one. Not in the moment, of course. In the moment, it was fun. But before even just one day was over, the happiness from those gifts had worn out. Well, duh, Amy. Stuff doesn’t fulfill you and it won’t fulfill your kids, either.
The third Christmas, I only remember being glad to have a day off from radiation.
I entered this Christmas season with a deep sense of foreboding. Gemma just turned 7. Time was running out to set a new course for our family. Enter a new Christmas.
The new Christmas isn’t about not getting any presents. Presents are fun. I like getting them. I really like giving them. But Bryan and I also had to take a hard look at our kids’ lives as compared to how we grew up.
When we were children, we got gifts on our birthdays and on Christmas. And. . .that was kind of it.
Gemma and Joshua? Sheesh! They get stuff all the time! They get goodie bags from birthday parties. They get stuff from AWANA throughout the year. They get souvenirs when we travel, which is a great deal more than Bryan and I traveled at their age. They get souvenirs when Bryan or I travel. They get gifts when people visit us. And when grandparents come. And they get things when we find it for pennies on the dollar at garage sales and auctions.
And this is all just extra stuff! When it comes to supplying their physical needs, we give them everything right when they need it.
Believe me: there is no shortage of toys and craft materials and, and, and. . . We are flush with stuff. There is more stuff in their future, throughout the whole year. It really is OK that Christmas is not going to be another day on which they open presents for themselves.
And a new Christmas doesn’t even mean no gifts at all. There are other people in our kids’ lives who wanted to give them gifts. Bryan and I didn’t tell the kids, “You won’t get gifts from us, but don’t worry, because so and so will send you something.”
But others did send them or give them something. Gemma and Joshua opened these gifts early, throughout the season of advent, and it seemed to me as though they enjoyed the presents even more because they were surprised by them, and because they were spaced out.
All the while, Christmas was still coming. Would this be the year our Christmas would really be a celebration of Jesus’ birthday? Because, as Bryan and I see it, if Christmas really is about Jesus, then it’s pretty clear whom the gifts should be for.
I was hesitant about suggesting a new Christmas to the kids. Mostly, I did not want to create any resentment in them towards Jesus. As in, “My parents are Jesus freaks, so we don’t get to have any fun.”
But the Holy Spirit suggested to me, “Don’t underestimate their compassion.”
So one day, a few weeks before Thanksgiving, I sat down with Gemma and Joshua and the Samaritan’s Purse “gift catalog.” This is an outstanding organization. They work in the poorest parts of the world, caring for people in the name of Jesus. The gift catalog gives a description of the things we can give a poor family simply by giving American dollars to Samaritan’s Purse: a water filtration unit that lasts for a lifetime ($100), a flock of chickens ($14), education to rescue a woman from exploitation by giving her a trade (a mere $70...)
After perusing this catalog, I said to the children, “Mommy and Daddy spend a certain amount of money on Christmas presents each year. What if we used that money to buy things for the families like we see in this catalog?”
Do you know what Joshua’s reaction was? He shrugged. He’s only 4. There’s nothing in a 4 year old that looks forward to Christmas morning as an old school Christmas morning.
Do you know what Gemma’s reaction was? Her eyes got big and she smiled a huge smile and said, “Can we give them chickens?!?”
So that was our plan as Christmas approached. We weren’t sure what they would think when the day actually arrived.
Then it came. We woke up. Had breakfast. And I am telling you the truth: There was not one scintilla of “She looked around, saw there were no gifts, then remembered, and her shoulders slumped a little but at least she didn’t complain.”
No mention of opening presents at all!
The four of us sat on the couch with a dollar amount written on some paper. Then we shopped for Christmas gifts and subtracted the amount as we went. Water filtration units. (My choice) Two dairy goats. (An idea we all liked.) A fruit tree. (In honor of Papa Pedro.) A stocked fishing pond. (Bryan’s choice.) Chickens. (Gemma, of course.) Honey bees. (Joshua’s idea.) Clothing and shoes. Soccer balls and other sporting equipment. (The children both insisted.) And several mosquito nets to protect babies and small children from malaria.
Then we sang “Happy Birthday” to Jesus and blew out candles for him. (Technically, this was an electric candelabra Grandma Gayl had up, and Josh unplugged it at the right moment.)
And so a New Christmas was born. It’s beautiful. I’m already looking forward to it next year.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Gingerbread
What is it about gingerbread houses that I like so much?
Long time readers know that each year, we host a house decorating party. Bryan bakes all the pieces. I whip up the icing and assemble the structures. Last year, in a fit of madness, we made trains--an engine for each family and a box car for each child. In the recovery period after chemotherapy and before radiation, it somehow felt like the normal thing to do. In fact, we did it twice: one party for our home school co-op families, and one party for our cul-de-sac.
This year, we made a house for each child and a country chapel for each mother. Why do I enjoy the whole thing so much? I think I've put my finger on it: It's a party, yes, I know about that part. Assembling mass quantities of houses is a problem-solving excursion. I like figuring out how to get not just 1, but 15 roofs to dry right without having to hold them in place.
But most of all, gingerbread houses combine a practical challenge with the ultimate whimsical goal. On the practical side: How can I make my house look nice, with a design that somehow makes sense while on the other side, I know I am constructing something that makes no sense whatsoever.
A gingerbread house?
What would a prospective home buyer have to say? "It's nice. Good neighborhood. Good square footage. I just kind of wish they had downgraded from peanut m-n-m shingles to regular and then used the cost savings to install indoor plumbing."
Or: "I love how the landscaping looks. But I don't think the Oreo step-stones could withstand a hard winter freeze and I'm afraid the candy canes would attract deer."
The kids have their own view of it. The first year we did a neighborhood party, Gemma had just turned 4 and Josh was about 18 months. We decorated one house together and proudly put it on our kitchen island for display and nibbling.
Gemma, Bryan and I were in the family room when we heard an explosive, disastrous smash in the kitchen. We ran there to find that Josh had climbed up, tried to pry a piece loose and brought the whole thing tumbling down to the tile floor where he now sat, eating part of the wreckage, not noticing that we'd all rushed over to him.
Gemma wailed at the sight. Her house! Her beautiful house!
Then she looked down at Joshua and despite her anguish, did the math. She, too, joined him in gathering the carnage and eating it, though she was crying the whole time.
Bryan and I were laughing and laughing. And taking pictures. I just finished putting that page into the scrapbook. (Do you hear that, Sister #2? I am a full 3 years behind!!)
Our current houses and chapel will sit undisturbed for a while starting Wednesday, when we leave for Florida to spend Christmas with Bryan's parents. This will very likely be their last Christmas in their island home. For several reasons, it is time for them to transition into a planned retirement community that is just across the bridge, on the mainland. They are both in excellent health, so at least the move is not shaded with a twilight of decline. And the place they plan to move to is beautiful. A robust social life awaits them. But it's a change, and probably not one that is part of their ideal world.
Isn't that something, though, to have lived for 14 years on an island, just a block from the ocean? Their house is so pretty, a two bedroom, open floor plan, jewel box of a home, with a great big deck Gemma likes to sit on in the mornings when she's there, eating Papa Pedro's exotic fruit and tossing the pits and seeds over the railing. And that fruit! Their entire lot is covered with either short ground cover, or a plant that produces something edible, including many kinds of mangoes, abajacava, bananas and a bunch of fruits I'd never heard of before Pedro planted them.
It is a short walk from there to the ice cream store, a short bike ride from there to the light house, a short drive anywhere around an island that is about 12 miles long. Bryan and I think of it as the place where we fell in love, during the visit when I was first meeting his parents. (He called it "checkpoint zulu" because it was the last point of approval to get before the engagement.)
We live in a place of beautiful skies that rise and set against mountains. But they don't compare to a Florida sky, rising and setting in extremes upon a Gulf. Their home, and the place where it sits, seems like its own little fantasy that we step into (during winter months, and not being there in the summer is an important part of the fantasy). Really, with just a couple pieces of licorice thrown onto the roof and some Gummie Bears iced around the doorway, it would be a whimsical dream come true.
Long time readers know that each year, we host a house decorating party. Bryan bakes all the pieces. I whip up the icing and assemble the structures. Last year, in a fit of madness, we made trains--an engine for each family and a box car for each child. In the recovery period after chemotherapy and before radiation, it somehow felt like the normal thing to do. In fact, we did it twice: one party for our home school co-op families, and one party for our cul-de-sac.
This year, we made a house for each child and a country chapel for each mother. Why do I enjoy the whole thing so much? I think I've put my finger on it: It's a party, yes, I know about that part. Assembling mass quantities of houses is a problem-solving excursion. I like figuring out how to get not just 1, but 15 roofs to dry right without having to hold them in place.
But most of all, gingerbread houses combine a practical challenge with the ultimate whimsical goal. On the practical side: How can I make my house look nice, with a design that somehow makes sense while on the other side, I know I am constructing something that makes no sense whatsoever.
A gingerbread house?
What would a prospective home buyer have to say? "It's nice. Good neighborhood. Good square footage. I just kind of wish they had downgraded from peanut m-n-m shingles to regular and then used the cost savings to install indoor plumbing."
Or: "I love how the landscaping looks. But I don't think the Oreo step-stones could withstand a hard winter freeze and I'm afraid the candy canes would attract deer."
The kids have their own view of it. The first year we did a neighborhood party, Gemma had just turned 4 and Josh was about 18 months. We decorated one house together and proudly put it on our kitchen island for display and nibbling.
Gemma, Bryan and I were in the family room when we heard an explosive, disastrous smash in the kitchen. We ran there to find that Josh had climbed up, tried to pry a piece loose and brought the whole thing tumbling down to the tile floor where he now sat, eating part of the wreckage, not noticing that we'd all rushed over to him.
Gemma wailed at the sight. Her house! Her beautiful house!
Then she looked down at Joshua and despite her anguish, did the math. She, too, joined him in gathering the carnage and eating it, though she was crying the whole time.
Bryan and I were laughing and laughing. And taking pictures. I just finished putting that page into the scrapbook. (Do you hear that, Sister #2? I am a full 3 years behind!!)
Our current houses and chapel will sit undisturbed for a while starting Wednesday, when we leave for Florida to spend Christmas with Bryan's parents. This will very likely be their last Christmas in their island home. For several reasons, it is time for them to transition into a planned retirement community that is just across the bridge, on the mainland. They are both in excellent health, so at least the move is not shaded with a twilight of decline. And the place they plan to move to is beautiful. A robust social life awaits them. But it's a change, and probably not one that is part of their ideal world.
Isn't that something, though, to have lived for 14 years on an island, just a block from the ocean? Their house is so pretty, a two bedroom, open floor plan, jewel box of a home, with a great big deck Gemma likes to sit on in the mornings when she's there, eating Papa Pedro's exotic fruit and tossing the pits and seeds over the railing. And that fruit! Their entire lot is covered with either short ground cover, or a plant that produces something edible, including many kinds of mangoes, abajacava, bananas and a bunch of fruits I'd never heard of before Pedro planted them.
It is a short walk from there to the ice cream store, a short bike ride from there to the light house, a short drive anywhere around an island that is about 12 miles long. Bryan and I think of it as the place where we fell in love, during the visit when I was first meeting his parents. (He called it "checkpoint zulu" because it was the last point of approval to get before the engagement.)
We live in a place of beautiful skies that rise and set against mountains. But they don't compare to a Florida sky, rising and setting in extremes upon a Gulf. Their home, and the place where it sits, seems like its own little fantasy that we step into (during winter months, and not being there in the summer is an important part of the fantasy). Really, with just a couple pieces of licorice thrown onto the roof and some Gummie Bears iced around the doorway, it would be a whimsical dream come true.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
B, G and J Day: Toppers
B:
The island in our kitchen is undersized. There are at least 9 square feet on the side of it that need to be filled to keep the space from seeming awkward. Right now, those feet are filled with a child-sized table, which has been of some use to us.
But now the kids are bigger, and they do their crafts and art work on the big kitchen table, and with increasing frequency, the kids have some kind of project going on the kitchen table when dinner approaches.
Ah, wouldn't it be nice to have a bigger island with a breakfast bar and tall stools so that we would have an additional place to eat meals if and when projects are launched on our table?
So began a few months of trying to trouble shoot and problem solve. At one point, the idea got as big as replacing the entire island, which meant replacing all the flooring on our main level and also replacing all our counter tops. We didn't want to go that big, but when it comes to home improvements, sometimes a chain reaction triggers.
The problem with simply replacing the top of our existing island with a bigger top than is already there is that it would be stupidly expensive to match the Formica of our other counters, a piece of granite would look ridiculous and a big ole slab of butcher's block came with an insane price tag.
What. To. Do. . .
We were the auction house on Friday to preview a set of shelves for our basement when I saw a huge desk with a beautiful oak top. I mentioned to Bryan, "How about this for the top of our island?"
He didn't scoff at me, per se. But he shot me a certain look. A certain purist, this-is-a-desk-and-who-takes-apart-a-perfectly-good-desk-except-those-who-do-not-properly-respect-furniture? look.
Well, then.
Not two hours later, we were at a furniture store, looking for a counter-height table that might work. If we could find one the same width as the island, we could make the two abut, right?
No such table at that store. Nor anywhere on-line.
But I got to talking with the salesman about having a top custom made for the island from one of their furniture manufacturers. Bryan caught the end of this discussion, knew that the salesman would look into it for me, and said, once we got to the car, "Well if you're serious about that idea, I think that desk at the auction would work."
Willing to take a desk apart, are you?
"Well. . . it's not an antique."
He got the desk top (and the desk that is attached to it) for $20. I'm fairly certain this is cheaper than the custom-ordered table top quote will be.
G:
The kids and I went to a community production of Robin Hood the other day. It was put on by the Academy of Children's Theater. The production was excellent. The script was a disaster, which means the play itself could not be great. But still: Good direction, quality performances. It was impressive.
Gemma has seen other plays, you know. And has never said much about them. This time, with such a boring, talk-heavy, plot-less story unfolding on stage--one that was hard for me to understand, let alone Gemma--I thought I might have actually damaged any enthusiasm she might have one day for performance.
Instead, she said on the ride home, "That lady mentioned there are acting classes for children 6-9 and I am 7, so can I do that class?"
Huh!
She brought it up again later, on her own, so I asked her why she would be interested in trying it. She said, "I could learn new things and find out what acting is all about and make new friends."
Huh!
So I signed her up. Knowing how to speak in front of an audience, knowing how to take direction, knowing how to work with a cast to create a finished project--these are all really good Life Skills I'm glad to encourage. Being in plays and musicals was one of the highest highlights of my adolescent years. If Gemma tries it and likes it, I will drive her to as many rehearsals as she needs to attend.
She starts in January.
J:
Speaking of performances, our co-op had "Presentation Day" at which each child prepared and delivered an oral presentation on a bunch of different topics related to Colorado history. It was amazing. All these kids did a really, really super job.
In the middle of them, Joshua curled up on a bean bag chair to watch. This was fine, except that he kept squishing his feet in and out, making the beans in the bag crunch. The noise was distracting. And rude.
I asked him to stop and he didn't. It could have been that he didn't realize the noise he was making. Or it could have been that he was just being a twit. In any case, I made him leave the bean bag and come sit next to me on the couch. This ticked him off. I had to bring him upstairs so the show could go on without us.
He eventually collected himself. He eventually rejoined us. The rest of the time with our friends was just fine.
Later that night, I was hugging him and I said, "We had kind of a hard day today earlier, didn't we?"
Josh said, "Yes."
"Do you remember why it was hard?"
He said, "Yes, you made me cry when you wouldn't let me sit on that bean bag."
Hmm. . .
"I didn't 'make you cry,' Josh. I just told you that you couldn't sit there because you were making a distracting noise."
Hug continues. Nothing is said.
But my point was not yet made. "Josh," I began, gently, "Maybe today would have been easier if you had just obeyed Mommy right away."
Now, I'm about to punctuate his answer in just the way necessary to communicate his exact tone:
He backed up from the hug, looked right at me and said, "Maybe it would have been 'easier' if you had just let me sit on the bean bag chair."
I got to tell you: I so admire his mental acuity for language. Only 4 1/2!!!! And yet, his powers cannot be used for good unless we also train him up to be virtuous and to walk in fear of the Lord. So I laughed. Bryan heard all this and laughed. And then the discussion continued. . .
Another related story:
One morning this week, Josh had been pushing the envelope with me. You know how kids do that. I called him on it, told him that just one more little thing would get a spank. Now, please get dressed, both of you.
They were upstairs in the bathroom when I heard Gemma shriek. A minute passed. Another shriek.
"What is going on?" I called.
Gemma reported, "Josh held the toothpaste cap up to the water and it sprayed water all over!"
Several minutes of drama and discussion ensued, in which we determined that he did it twice, that the first time was an accident, but that he chose to do it the second time on purpose. And I spanked him.
After a spank, my children need to tell me (or Daddy) that they are sorry, and we tell them that we forgive them, that God forgives them, that we love them so much, and we hug and the whole issue is completed.
But Josh wouldn't say he was sorry. He kept clinging to this defense that "it was an accident," though I had already shown him that if he did it twice, it could not have been "an accident."
I sent him to his room to have some time to calm down and collect himself.
A few minutes later, he was out: calm and collected.
"Hey, Josh," I said, and patted the couch next to me. He sat there. I said, "Are you sorry you sprayed the water the second time?"
And he said, "The water didn't get into the bathtub."
What?
"Gemma said the water went 'all over' but it didn't go into the bathtub. So it didn't go 'all over.'"
I laughed and laughed and laughed. Was I not supposed to? I couldn't help it. . .
Finally, I explained what the phrase "all over" means.
To which he said, "But the tub is in the bathroom, so the water didn't go all over."
Heh heh. Here's the difference between Joshua as a child and Amy as a child: When I marshalled a defense like this--and I did it often--the people responding to me were only ever irritated that I was "splitting hairs" (Mom liked that phrase) or "bickering," or something else of equal annoyance. ("Oh, Amy! You always have to have the last word!") (No, you could have had the last word, so long as it had been "I see your point," or, even better, "You're right.")
When Joshua says these things to me, he is saying them to someone who loves a good argument! Who loves to parse words! Who is not the least bit bothered to have to present an argument of my own for why his does not work. I can't wait to see this blossom in him. I can't wait to help him develop and hone his skills in rhetoric and logic
And poor, Joshua. He doesn't know that as these arguments arise, he's never going to win with me anytime soon. He is so out-gunned.
Bring it on, little boy! I am delighted with you. I am delighted to know that you spent your time in your room thinking of an argument to respond with. (Of course, in terms of character, it's not great that he didn't want to take responsibility for his mistake, but we dealt with that.) I am delighted that you sense the power of words and what they can be used for.
And one day, when you do win an argument with me, I am going to tell everyone all about it.
The island in our kitchen is undersized. There are at least 9 square feet on the side of it that need to be filled to keep the space from seeming awkward. Right now, those feet are filled with a child-sized table, which has been of some use to us.
But now the kids are bigger, and they do their crafts and art work on the big kitchen table, and with increasing frequency, the kids have some kind of project going on the kitchen table when dinner approaches.
Ah, wouldn't it be nice to have a bigger island with a breakfast bar and tall stools so that we would have an additional place to eat meals if and when projects are launched on our table?
So began a few months of trying to trouble shoot and problem solve. At one point, the idea got as big as replacing the entire island, which meant replacing all the flooring on our main level and also replacing all our counter tops. We didn't want to go that big, but when it comes to home improvements, sometimes a chain reaction triggers.
The problem with simply replacing the top of our existing island with a bigger top than is already there is that it would be stupidly expensive to match the Formica of our other counters, a piece of granite would look ridiculous and a big ole slab of butcher's block came with an insane price tag.
What. To. Do. . .
We were the auction house on Friday to preview a set of shelves for our basement when I saw a huge desk with a beautiful oak top. I mentioned to Bryan, "How about this for the top of our island?"
He didn't scoff at me, per se. But he shot me a certain look. A certain purist, this-is-a-desk-and-who-takes-apart-a-perfectly-good-desk-except-those-who-do-not-properly-respect-furniture? look.
Well, then.
Not two hours later, we were at a furniture store, looking for a counter-height table that might work. If we could find one the same width as the island, we could make the two abut, right?
No such table at that store. Nor anywhere on-line.
But I got to talking with the salesman about having a top custom made for the island from one of their furniture manufacturers. Bryan caught the end of this discussion, knew that the salesman would look into it for me, and said, once we got to the car, "Well if you're serious about that idea, I think that desk at the auction would work."
Willing to take a desk apart, are you?
"Well. . . it's not an antique."
He got the desk top (and the desk that is attached to it) for $20. I'm fairly certain this is cheaper than the custom-ordered table top quote will be.
G:
The kids and I went to a community production of Robin Hood the other day. It was put on by the Academy of Children's Theater. The production was excellent. The script was a disaster, which means the play itself could not be great. But still: Good direction, quality performances. It was impressive.
Gemma has seen other plays, you know. And has never said much about them. This time, with such a boring, talk-heavy, plot-less story unfolding on stage--one that was hard for me to understand, let alone Gemma--I thought I might have actually damaged any enthusiasm she might have one day for performance.
Instead, she said on the ride home, "That lady mentioned there are acting classes for children 6-9 and I am 7, so can I do that class?"
Huh!
She brought it up again later, on her own, so I asked her why she would be interested in trying it. She said, "I could learn new things and find out what acting is all about and make new friends."
Huh!
So I signed her up. Knowing how to speak in front of an audience, knowing how to take direction, knowing how to work with a cast to create a finished project--these are all really good Life Skills I'm glad to encourage. Being in plays and musicals was one of the highest highlights of my adolescent years. If Gemma tries it and likes it, I will drive her to as many rehearsals as she needs to attend.
She starts in January.
J:
Speaking of performances, our co-op had "Presentation Day" at which each child prepared and delivered an oral presentation on a bunch of different topics related to Colorado history. It was amazing. All these kids did a really, really super job.
In the middle of them, Joshua curled up on a bean bag chair to watch. This was fine, except that he kept squishing his feet in and out, making the beans in the bag crunch. The noise was distracting. And rude.
I asked him to stop and he didn't. It could have been that he didn't realize the noise he was making. Or it could have been that he was just being a twit. In any case, I made him leave the bean bag and come sit next to me on the couch. This ticked him off. I had to bring him upstairs so the show could go on without us.
He eventually collected himself. He eventually rejoined us. The rest of the time with our friends was just fine.
Later that night, I was hugging him and I said, "We had kind of a hard day today earlier, didn't we?"
Josh said, "Yes."
"Do you remember why it was hard?"
He said, "Yes, you made me cry when you wouldn't let me sit on that bean bag."
Hmm. . .
"I didn't 'make you cry,' Josh. I just told you that you couldn't sit there because you were making a distracting noise."
Hug continues. Nothing is said.
But my point was not yet made. "Josh," I began, gently, "Maybe today would have been easier if you had just obeyed Mommy right away."
Now, I'm about to punctuate his answer in just the way necessary to communicate his exact tone:
He backed up from the hug, looked right at me and said, "Maybe it would have been 'easier' if you had just let me sit on the bean bag chair."
I got to tell you: I so admire his mental acuity for language. Only 4 1/2!!!! And yet, his powers cannot be used for good unless we also train him up to be virtuous and to walk in fear of the Lord. So I laughed. Bryan heard all this and laughed. And then the discussion continued. . .
Another related story:
One morning this week, Josh had been pushing the envelope with me. You know how kids do that. I called him on it, told him that just one more little thing would get a spank. Now, please get dressed, both of you.
They were upstairs in the bathroom when I heard Gemma shriek. A minute passed. Another shriek.
"What is going on?" I called.
Gemma reported, "Josh held the toothpaste cap up to the water and it sprayed water all over!"
Several minutes of drama and discussion ensued, in which we determined that he did it twice, that the first time was an accident, but that he chose to do it the second time on purpose. And I spanked him.
After a spank, my children need to tell me (or Daddy) that they are sorry, and we tell them that we forgive them, that God forgives them, that we love them so much, and we hug and the whole issue is completed.
But Josh wouldn't say he was sorry. He kept clinging to this defense that "it was an accident," though I had already shown him that if he did it twice, it could not have been "an accident."
I sent him to his room to have some time to calm down and collect himself.
A few minutes later, he was out: calm and collected.
"Hey, Josh," I said, and patted the couch next to me. He sat there. I said, "Are you sorry you sprayed the water the second time?"
And he said, "The water didn't get into the bathtub."
What?
"Gemma said the water went 'all over' but it didn't go into the bathtub. So it didn't go 'all over.'"
I laughed and laughed and laughed. Was I not supposed to? I couldn't help it. . .
Finally, I explained what the phrase "all over" means.
To which he said, "But the tub is in the bathroom, so the water didn't go all over."
Heh heh. Here's the difference between Joshua as a child and Amy as a child: When I marshalled a defense like this--and I did it often--the people responding to me were only ever irritated that I was "splitting hairs" (Mom liked that phrase) or "bickering," or something else of equal annoyance. ("Oh, Amy! You always have to have the last word!") (No, you could have had the last word, so long as it had been "I see your point," or, even better, "You're right.")
When Joshua says these things to me, he is saying them to someone who loves a good argument! Who loves to parse words! Who is not the least bit bothered to have to present an argument of my own for why his does not work. I can't wait to see this blossom in him. I can't wait to help him develop and hone his skills in rhetoric and logic
And poor, Joshua. He doesn't know that as these arguments arise, he's never going to win with me anytime soon. He is so out-gunned.
Bring it on, little boy! I am delighted with you. I am delighted to know that you spent your time in your room thinking of an argument to respond with. (Of course, in terms of character, it's not great that he didn't want to take responsibility for his mistake, but we dealt with that.) I am delighted that you sense the power of words and what they can be used for.
And one day, when you do win an argument with me, I am going to tell everyone all about it.
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