Pride

Election fever has erupted at the Johnson household. Jared came home from work with multiple maps of the country printed out, each state listed with its number of electoral votes, and a few states already colored in to reflect predicted Obama or McCain victories. I overhear questions to my husband from our four-year-old son concerning who we want to win. Jared, not wishing to prematurely bias his son, replies, "The better man." When questioned as to who the better man is, he deftly responds, "The people will vote and we will know." While presently performing his parental duty of bathing Russell and Elliot, the radio is broadcasting election results as the polls on the east coast close. Meanwhile, Thomas has acquired a red and blue crayon and under his father's careful tutelage is meticulously coloring in the states won by the respective candidates. I am a bit confused, however. I was not aware that there were orange and purple states.

A year ago when, much to my delight, I discovered two Jim Beam decanters at a thrift store, one of an elephant and one of a donkey respresenting our two primary political parties, I vowed we would host an election night party. (The two, powder blue Avon soaps of yesteryear, embossed with the visages of George and Martha Washington, likewise found at a thrift shop, ensured the likehood of such a party occurring.) But alas, my intentions did not materialize this year, perhaps because I was unwilling to risk the vehemence that arises between friends and family - or between myself and my husband - over political issues. So this evening, Jared, Thomas, and I have determined to party, not with our friend Mr. Beam, but with fluffy, gooey, marshmallows, roasted expertly by Jared, in our backyard fire pit. (There are no s'mores because I already consumed all the chocolate in Thomas' Halloween basket - bad mom.)

It was questionable whether I was going to exercise my right to vote in this election. Not nearly as interested in politics as my dear husband, I am easily disgusted by the gross amounts of money exhausted, as well as the acrimonious free speech that transpires during a presidential campaign. Moreover, I was tired of accepting the rationale that it was better to vote for "the lesser of two evils" than to not vote at all. Thus, I determined that I was going to sit this election out.

I am unsure what caused a conversion of my mind, but a few weeks ago, after reading from a work by the trappist monk Fr. Louis, known to the world as Thomas Merton, I began to seriously rethink whether withholding my vote was indeed a valid position for me. Honestly, my memory is hazy of Merton's exact words. It was clear to me, however, that every Christian must be responsible for confronting injustice wherever it manifested itself and that this war against injustice could indeed be waged within the political realm. Needless to say, early this morning, I placed a phone call to my mother and asked if she could help me with the children so I could cast my vote.

A little after noon, while Russell and Elliot sat under guard in the van with my mother, Thomas, who also wanted to vote, and who I must also mention was convinced that a Clone Trooper helmet was the most appropriate attire for voting, accompanied me into the polling place. I received my ballot, pulled out a receipt of my most recent farmer's market meat purchases to serve as Thomas' ballot, and we both sat down. When I completed my ballot and informed my young padawan that it was time to rescue Grandma, he announced that he needed a few more minutes to finish his voting. We left Trinity Lutheran Church, hand in hand, both wearing our "I voted" sticker. (I later found a tiny remnant of Thomas' in Russell's mouth.)

The five of us promptly drove to Starbucks and received our free cup of coffee since we had voted. Unfortunately, the experience was not nearly as pleasurable as I had hoped - Starbucks does not offer high chairs. There is nothing quite like attempting to enjoy a cup of hot coffee while simultaneously feeding oatmeal (yes, Starbucks now offers oatmeal) to two fidgety children who would rather be walking (yes, they are walking).

By the time this is posted, I am confident that the outcome of the 2008 presidential election will be decided (thank God). And though I will probably remain pretty detached from the political sphere and continue to be convinced that there is no government that can truly eradicate the sufferings of all people, my attitude of apathy is beginning to change as I consider the magnitude of this election. Historically speaking, the fact that I am likely witnessing the election of the first person of color to the highest office in the United States of America, and that an African-American woman from the southside of my former hometown could become our image of a first lady, I am speechless. And when I see the faces of men and women, who directly or indirectly suffered discrimination solely because of the color of their skin, so full of hope, I am a bit weepy and extremely proud to be witnessing this truly extraordinary event.

The children are bathed. Russell and Elliot are asleep. The fire is kindling and there is at least one marshmallow with my name on it. And oh yes, Jared has plugged in the radio outside. Time to party with the boys!

Beth
November 4, 2008

P.S. I couldn't resist adding some trick-or-treat pictures. Though having some minor difficulties standing up (picture the younger brother in A Christmas Story), Russell eventually was able to enjoy his dragon costume. Elliot was a monkey (of course). And Thomas, as you might have guessed, was indeed a Jedi knight - Anakin Skywalker, to be precise. Our night was even more memorable because my sister and brother-in-law, whom we had not seen since their move to Maine a year ago, were able to be with us.

Just A Look

Monday. And Russell had awakened at 4:30 a.m. whimpering and burning with a fever. Before the day had even begun, I knew Jared and I were going to be exhausted, weary, and short-tempered. Moreover, this evening was our church's monthly parish council meeting; a council on which Jared serves. It may seem insignificant for him to be gone once a month, since he assumes child duty for me more often than that, but what it meant to me was an evening where he dashed in, inhaled his dinner while simultaneously attempting to feed a disinterested, still weepy Russell, and dashed back out again, gone for hours, while I remained with the children. Admittedly, these are not my favorite evenings, and I certainly wish Iowa City was not an hour away. I just needed to get through the next few hours and then I would be free to blog, pick up the Jane Austen book I am currently reading, and savor a cup of decaf before crawling into bed.

All day I have been running over in my mind what to relate in this blog installment. After all, I just returned from a fabulous girl's get-away weekend in South Haven, MI, with four of my dearest friends. Leaving last Thursday evening, after much preparation for both myself and Jared (Thomas kept requesting that I add "watch television" to the schedule I was writing; isn't 1 1/2 hours a week enough?), I returned late Saturday night - the longest I have ever been away from any of the children - energized and deeply happy. After all, I ate out every meal (and absolutely never shared a meal) and even saw a movie. And so I considered writing on my need for others. That despite my frequent attempts to go it alone, I am in desperate need, not only of my friends specifically, but also of people in general. "No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main," the poet John Donne wrote.

But then I also wanted to write about how moved I was at church on Sunday, as sweet Thomas stood like a statue while our tiny community sang "Many Years" (an Orthodox "Happy Birthday" if you will, sung on occasions like birthdays, anniversarys, and name's days) in order to commemorate his name's day - the day his Patron Saint, Saint Thomas the Apostle, is remembered by the Church. Journeying through the dark years of infertity while watching and rejoicing with other families as they celebrated momentous occasions, causes events like these to be even more profound for me. I hoped to write about the life of St. Thomas, who through his honest expression of doubt provided us with a greater proof of the reality of the bodily ressurection of Christ. Who, according to Church Tradition, traveled to India following Pentecost in order to preach the Gospel. And who ultimately was run through with lances by five soldiers for baptizing the wife and the son of a local prince. And I thought I might conclude with how we celebrated Thomas' name's day last Monday evening by sharing a meal and a traditional name's day cake with family members and friends.

But in the midst of my evening, which I had prayed to "just get through," a beautiful moment presented itself. While rocking Russell (and yes, he was all swaddled up in the fleecy, Pooh Bear blanket) and singing what has become our family song, "If I Had Words" (If you are having trouble remembering the song, the tune is originally from the fourth movement of Saint-Saens' Symphony No. 3 and the words were developed in the movie Babe. It occurs when Farmer Hoggett sings and dances to cheer up the disillusioned pig; we cry every time - seriously.), I looked down at Russell, whose cupid mouth was trying to mimic mine, and then glanced over at Thomas and Elliot, who were playing together in Elliot's crib, a.k.a. The Millenium Falcon (Thomas was Luke and Elliot was "Han-when-he-was-a-baby") and saw Elliot looking at his big brother. Elliot's eyes shone, and he was laughing. In fact, they were both laughing. And maybe it was because I am somewhat sleep deprived, or because the night had been long and there were still dishes to be cleaned up from dinner, but I became a bit weepy, just seeing the way my youngest son looked at his eldest brother.

And now, as the smell of garlic from tonight's bulgogi dinner still lingers on my fingers, I must face the reality of the kitchen, throw some diapers in the dryer, and hopefully settle down with my book and coffee.

Precious Things

On Wednesday evening, while I was in the midst of corralling children and attempting to get dinner organized, Jared arrived home and casually announced that he had received a phone call from our friend in Mississippi. In this call our friend had related that he and his wife would be traveling to Michigan and were willing to make a "slight" detour to Iowa if we were interested. "When?" I questioned, mentally going over my schedule for the coming weeks. "Tomorrow or Friday," he replied. "Take a breath; you can do this, even though it is a concert weekend and Jared might not be around," I mentally coached myself. After all we had not seen our friends in over a year and the likelihood of us venturing down south anywhere in the immediate future seemed glim. "Tell them yes, but Friday would be better."

And so it was established: the Clarks would leave early Friday morning and arrive at our house at dinner time. I entered into frenzy mode and began to prepare our home for guests. After all, there were meals to be planned, groceries to be bought, sheets to be washed, and miscellaneous-items-which-never-find-a-place to be shoved into closets. And while Friday was a bit frantic and my eye began to develop an ever-so-slight twitch, when Brian and Kristin arrived, a bit later than expected, I was calm. And much to my amazement, I experienced the most relaxing weekend in months. Thoughts of what I needed to do, what I should be doing, and all other cares were laid aside; instead, I simply enjoyed being with a couple of my favorite people, sitting around our kitchen table talking and laughing, browsing a local used book shop, going out to dinner without my precious little ones, and attending a performace of Beethoven's 9th Symphony by the Quad City Symphony Orchestra, an ethereal experience of its own. (Buy tickets here.)

Another unexpected occurrence also happened this week in our developing relationships with Russell and Elliot. Initially when they arrived home, Jared and I attempted to rock the boys while feeding them their bottles, like we had Thomas. We quickly realized that twins really does mean two and accepted that we would probably not be able to bond with Russell and Elliot in this manner, especially since there is also a third child to consider. Moreover, Russell and Elliot never demonstrated any interest in rocking. Rather, they were fidgety, tried to crawl out of our arms, and screamed for freedom. I tried to convince myself that Russell's and Elliot's seeming disinterest in snuggling was due to their age upon arrivng home or their personalities. Still, I desperatley yearned to rock my two children like I had sweet Thomas, for I had so enjoyed it. And so in one last desperate attempt, I pulled out a large, fleecy, Pooh Bear blanket and announced to Russell and Elliot, who stared at me blankly, that it was time they experience swaddling. Russell's response was more positive; Elliot continued to scream. But now, several weeks later, wrapped as if in a papoose, the boys have ceased to resist being wrapped and rocked, and they actually appear to enjoy it. And to me, there is nothing more beautiful than looking into the face of a child I love and seeing them look back at me, smile, sigh, and snuggle into my arms.

And so today, as I hear the hum of the dryer, glance at laundry that needs to be folded and, dare I say it, put away, and bake a name's day cake (ah yes, back to responsibilites), I am thankful for the gifts of love with which we are offered every day that can transform us. There is an Akathist of Thanksgiving, composed by Protopresbyter Gregory Pettrov shortly before his death in a Soviet prison camp, that I treasure:

Glory to Thee, ceaselessly watching over me,
Glory to Thee for the encounters
Thou dost arrange for me,
Glory to Thee for the love of parents,
for the faithfulness of friends...
Glory to Thee for the unforgettable moments of life,
Glory to Thee for the heart's innocent joy,
Glory to Thee for the joy of living,
and moving, and being able to return Thy love,
Glory to Thee, O God, from age to age.

Life is Good

For months now, friends have questioned when our blog was going to be updated. And since so many of our loved ones are far away, and since I am notoriously terrible at keeping any formal record of my children's development via baby books, photo albums, or scrapbooks, I have decided that this is the best way to record the precious memories presented to me. And at the outset, I must issue this disclaimer. If you enjoyed our Korea blogs, you are sure to be disappointed. All of those blogs were the product of Jared. For the most part these will be mine, and unlike my dear husband, I tend to be wordy, use run-on sentences, words like "indeed" and "moreover," misspell, and am often (usually) not very clear. But since you all love me, and get to see pictures of "the boys," I am sure you will forgive me. It is my hope to update this weekly: I have added it to my "schedule."

So the question becomes what to write about in this initial venture. I have been pondering it for days. I could write about Thomas' and my slumber party Tuesday evening while Jared was away overnight on business. Though there are many words that could be used to describe me, "fun-loving," "impetuous," and "laid-back" are not at the top of the list. Determined not to let Jared have the upper hand in being voted "the most fun parent," i.e. showing Star Wars to Thomas whenever I am away, I ventured that Thomas and I would have a sleepover in Mommy and Daddy's bed, eat his favorite ice cream, and read books above and beyond his normal bedtime. So while I read my latest book club book, Thomas read Make Way for Ducklings, managing to spill his mint chocolate chip ice cream soup only three times-on Jared's side of the bed. Despite the fact I had a terrible night's sleep and woke up on more than one occasion with feet in my face, I proved to be "fun mom." I have the seven pictures that Thomas took of his feet to prove it.

I also considered writing in length about our annual trip to the Denhardt pumpkin patch where, besides picking a pumpkin from an actual patch, Thomas became quite smitten with the kittens playing in the barn. It was an adventure: primarily because our half hour trip over the Mississippi from Iowa to Illinois was elongated when my back seat driver casually related, "Mom, Russell's getting out of his seat." Peering into the rear view mirror, much to my horror, Russell was not merely "getting out of his seat," he was completely standing up in his car seat as we were cruising 70 mph down I-80. Needless to say, we stopped two additional times, even after I switched Elliot into Russell's seat-Elliot was not going to let the opportunity to crawl out pass him by-each time praying that a semi wouldn't blast into us. And yes, the problem with the car seat has been fixed.

There was the possibility of writing about our weekly trip to the Davenport Farmer's Market. Though the five of us have ventured out, this week it would be me and Thomas. Dressed in one of my favorite gray t-shirts (oh yes, dear college friends, you do know the one)$20 in hand, a son, armed with his sword tucked into his belt, "because you never know when you are going to run into bad guys," we were about ready to leave when Thomas received a phone call on his "cellphone" (a play phone that had, until the night before, been filled with tiny pieces of candy). The conversation went something like this. "Hello. Hi, good guy knight. We are heading to the Farmer's Market. Yes, we would love to come over for dinner. Good-bye. I love you." And when I tried to interrupt, the response? Ah yes, a pointer finger lifted and the words, "Just a minute." We had a beautiful time (or at least I did). I always feel so inspired being surrounded by people who are selling locally grown produce, hormone and antiobitic free meat, and products they have created themselves, all for a reasonable prices. (I love Iowa.) Thomas enjoyed playing at the park afterward and, fearing a fight when I knew it was time to leave, I simply announced that daddy had called and the house was surrounded with bad guys. That was all that was needed to spur Thomas on to the car, sword clenched in hand.

And now, well it is Sunday afternoon. We made it through church, which is no small feat, and even arrived before Liturgy began, which is a small miracle. The children are all in bed, though baby monitors are keeping me aware that no one is sleeping. I am armed with my coffee sweetened with flavored creamer and Splenda and am steaming and pureeing the cauliflower which will be slipped into the children's scrambled eggs in the morning. In less than an hour, Jared and I will be escaping the house and attending a performance of Bach's Vespers at Augustana's Ascension Chapel. And the Cubs, in case you didn't know, are in the play-offs. Truly, life is good. Have a beautiful week.