Why I Just Ate 1/2 of a Sheet Cake

Yesterday was sweet Andrew's 3rd birthday.

You may be thinking how fast that went.

For you.

For me, it has been both lightning fast and excruciatingly slow as I've re-learned the ropes of parenting a baby, toddler, and now preschooler. Being a geriatric mom has been miraculous, difficult, and unusual while also seeming like the most natural thing in the world.

Our day didn't have the best beginning because Andrew was so excited he woke up well before 6 ready to party. Problem was, the casual gathering I'd thrown together for a couple of our neighbor kids wasn't scheduled until 5 pm. Explaining to a newly minted three-nager that he'd have to wait 11 hours to eat his dump truck cake went over about as well as you can imagine. He was wailing by the time I wrestled him out the door to preschool, at which point I accidentally bonked his head against the car.

But what I thought would be a rough day for him, was more so for me.

My sister texted me an album of photos she'd taken the day of his birth. I scrolled through frame after frame of unflattering photos. I'm not saying that birth photography can't be beautiful. Black and whites, filters, and professional equipment yield artistic gold and capture the beauty and intensity of the moment.

My sister's i-phone 6, clicking second after second during Andrew's birth yielded a bunch of grainy, poorly lit photos of interest only to those of us who were there. They showcased my many chins, strained blood vessels in my eyes, and stages of undress that you care not one whit about mid-labor, when you're convinced you are about to poop on the bed, but that probably don't belong floating around on the cloud after that. Even baby Andrew didn't look so hot. He looked distraught and very, very sticky. As I browsed, I couldn't remember the proper terminology for all the gunk that covered him, but the words "womb cheese"popped into my head and stuck. I decided that if I somehow became miraculously pregnant at 50-something, I'd hire a professional photographer.

I quickly decided to post the one photo that passed muster: Tim holding newborn Andrew, cozy, clean and swaddled-- cheese-free and pinkish.

After a few hours of blissful alone time (i.e. a deep, deep dental cleaning in which my lack of flossing was evident) I headed into preschool to drop off birthday cookies. Ding. My sister texted, asking if I knew that one of the photos I'd posted showed boob.

Photos?

Photos?

BOOB?

Dear Lord, I'd somehow posted the entire album, boobs, triple chins, womb cheese, umbilical cords and all.

Nervous texts flew back and forth as I frantically deleted, and she checked and re-checked my wall.

Still there.

Still there.

Still there.

Gone.

Thank God.

"Don't worry," she said, lying, "no one clicks through those albums."

By the time the neighbors came over with their little ones for pizza and a moon bounce, I was still feeling like a doofus.

First to arrive was my friend Kelsey. We all know how amazing it is to have a friend right across the street with whom you click, and whose kid is the perfect age for yours. Visions of child-swaps, carpooling, short-hand conversations and girls' nights out pop into your head before the moving van has even turned the corner. I've spent the 6 months since she and her young family moved in getting to know Kelsey and trying not to come across as "too anything": too old, too eager, too weird. I'm cognizant of not trying to scare her or my other wonderful neighbors off. But each time I think I won't tell her another long-winded story about what's going on in our lives, I do anyway, because she's just that easy to talk to.

So I plunge in, needing to unburden myself about my screw-up with the album.

She said,"Oh, I saw it and clicked through. I saw the boob picture and was like, 'Go, Anna!'"

Can you tell why I adore her?

"Don't push it, Anna. Don't try to be funny,"  I told my relieved self, yet seconds later these words popped out of my mouth, "Ok, but you didn't see any VAG did you?"

That, my friends, is why I have 1/2 of Andrew's sheet cake to keep my fork and my emotional eating company tonight.

I'll report back soon on whether I have any friends left.

And don't worry that I took too much of Andrew's beloved cake. After wailing about it for 11 hours, he decided one bite would suffice.

Community Calling!

I’ve been thinking about friendship (again!) and wondering why I feel lonely and out of sync. I am a people person with a lot of friends. Lately, however, I feel more in tune with my car, where I spend so much time shuttling people around, than I do with most people.

Add to that our Facebook culture, with in-your-face reminders that everyone else on the planet is going to a costume party, or a wine tasting, or taking Zumba together, and it’s enough to leave this gray-streaked girl feeling a little blue.

For New Year’s 2010, as in 11 months ago, I decided to be more purposeful in finding and maintaining community. I realized I was relying on my online community so much that I wasn’t putting much effort into other relationships.

As we approach the end of the year what’s the verdict on my New Year’s resolution?

Meh.

My small group Bible study disbanded, which was painful and left a void. Eight years and two hours a week with women I loved, and then…. it was over.

My declaration that our family would reach out and entertain more hasn’t happened either. Sports and work responsibilities, exhaustion, trips out of town, and the siren song of the DVR meant that weekend after weekend went by and we didn’t initiate social events.

First of all, Tom and I had different ideas of whom to invite. The question of whom we wanted to get to know better took on too great a significance and started to feel like PRESSURE.

We talked about whether our kids liked their kids. Whether their kids liked our kids. Whether our house was too small for a larger group. Whether we’d be leaving anyone out, which is my greatest fear. In the end, it all just seemed so exhausting and it was easier to say, “Let’s just forget it and watch Burn Notice.”

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I’ve written before about how when the kids were babies, what could have been a lonely time for me was actually rich with friendship and personal growth. There were many opportunities to bond with other women through play-dates and moms’ groups and just sitting around breastfeeding. Having babies and toddlers was TOUGH, so we relied on each other for support.

Now, a lot of those moms have moved out of my immediate vicinity. Schools and sports teams have created mini communities which take time and attention. Women have gone back to work. Couples are splitting up. People are busy. My friendship style has become more "drive-by" than deep.

Forming relationships means moving beyond chance encounters, but for me, going that extra step rarely happens.

I've had better luck keeping in touch with some high school and college friends, and I believe that's because there is usually an instigator who makes things happen (you know who you are Lisa G. and E.G.)

But in day-to-day friendships, I'm kind of suck-ish. I know I need to become an instigator rather than wait for someone else to do it.

It's just that there seems to be a finite number of people you can be in close relationship with, and I’ve realized if I’m not even putting in the time with my husband, my sister and my brother, I’m probably not going to be able to do it very well with friends, either.

So I’m wondering, how do YOU build community when you know and truly like a lot of people, but you feel overwhelmed with the concept of reaching out and making it happen?

How do you make sure the people you do spend time with are the people you want to spend time with?

What works for you?

Friendship Friday

Every once in a while I'll write a post, usually that I'll find very funny, but then I'll take it down.

Why?

These posts are usually about another person. The rush I get trying to put into words someone's ridiculous or rude or clueless behavior lasts a few minutes, but the regret lasts longer.

You may think this is totally weird, so for a psychotic-Anna point of reference I'll tell you I still feel bad that I turned down the chance to dance with Jeff Travis in 9th grade at a "Sock Hop." He was a friend from elementary school whom everyone called, "gay." I chose my burgeoning social life at our new school over loyalty to an old friend. 27 years ago. It haunts me. You get the picture. Speaking of pictures, that's me in 9th grade at the top of this post. Eeek.

I even removed a rather innocuous post that referred to a man I saw wearing a cape. A CAPE! It was, I thought, hilarious, but the uncomfortable feeling I had after I wrote it lingered until I took it down.

Now if we look at the issue of a grown man wearing a cape (not of the super hero variety-- more Sherlock Holmes-ish) you may have sided with me in thinking that his fashion choice was outmoded at best, bizarre at worst. I would have been "right." Hello? A cape? But was it kind?

I know that's a silly example, but I've been thinking about kindness a lot lately.

Recently I saw my son struggle to play a kick ball game with a group of kids of varying ages. He got all wrapped around the axle when some of the kids weren't playing "by the rules." As a mature 40 year old, I could see that when kids aged 4-11 are playing a game together, it's not really about playing the game correctly. It's about finding common ground in which all can have a good time. And truthfully, only one person wasn't having fun, and that was my 11 year old son, the oldest in the group. He was intent on being right, but he didn't care about being kind in that situation.

I have friends who are in conflict right now. To an extent, both sides are "right," but damage is being done. I feel for everyone involved. And I wonder, do you think it's easier being right or being kind?

Friday Confession

I am a fast-talking person whose mouth sometimes gets me into trouble. Sticky situations happen more than I’d like to admit. Fortunately, sometimes I see God work through the humiliating messes I make and teach me something important.

If you know me personally, this Friday Confession won’t be new to you; if you are a blog friend, I know this post is long, but I hope you’ll have a chance to read it anyway:

My family moved about 5 years ago. I loved my old neighborhood, and I was nervous about making new friends in my new home. As I settled in, I waited hopefully for a family to move into a vacant house a few doors down. I prayed that they would have young children and that we would be friends.

One day, as I pulled into my driveway, I saw people in the kitchen window of the vacant house. It was a family! Instead of calmly driving up to my house and coming back later, I pulled over and jumped out of my car. I had always tried to be super-friendly in my old neighborhood, and I wasn’t going to let two cranky toddlers and a full bladder stop me from rolling out the welcome mat!

As I crossed the lawn, a cute mom came out of the house holding a baby and leading a four year old by the hand. Jackpot! As I introduced myself, the wheels started turning. This woman had potential… best friend potential! I pictured us swapping babysitting, planning Halloween parties, the works.

My kids yelled and screamed, wanting to get out of the car, but I was on a roll. Within two minutes, the woman knew ½ my life story, where I attended church, and where the best parks were.

When I pointed out my house, I launched into an amusing tale that I had told pretty much the whole neighborhood since moving in. Yes, we liked our house, but we knew we had overpaid for it. Why? Well, we got into a massive bidding war with some random couple that jacked the price up 11,000 dollars. The hilarious things was that by looking at the signatures on the documents I figured out I had dated the husband in college. Ha! Ha! She and I laughed together.

A few moments later the woman said something that hit me like a freight train. It became obvious to me, but somehow not to her, that I had been talking about her and her husband. They were the ones who had lost the bid on our house. They were the ones I was gossiping about. Crap. Crappity-Crap. Crap.

I felt sick and ashamed; I wanted to move. My whole life I had been so proud of making people feel good about themselves, and for being loving. Yet here I was, talking about someone, insensitively, right to her face.

At this point I could have fled, but I knew I had to address the situation immediately. Full of misery, I confessed my mistake and asked her to forgive me. Do you know what she said with a warm smile on her face? “That’s okay. We extroverts do that sometimes!” I wanted to kiss her.

This woman, a total stranger, helped illustrate to me, in a very real way, what GRACE means. I did not deserve her favor, her forgiveness, but she gave it to me anyway. I felt low, terrible, and ashamed of myself, but she made it right.

At that point I had a choice to make. I could wallow in my mistake, bringing it up again and again, even though it no longer bothered her. I could try to AVOID her, because seeing her would remind me of my own faults, OR I could accept what she offered and move forward.

This is the way it is with God. He offers us forgiveness and grace even though we can’t earn it and don’t deserve it. If we accept it, there is no need to look at the past anymore. Instead, we can move forward in a relationship.

Since that time, my neighbor and I have become super-close. We are freakishly alike and we know we can be real with each other. When she and her husband had their third child, Tom and I were blessed to be asked to be the godparents. This rich relationship wouldn’t have been possible without her offer of grace, and my acceptance of it.