Suggestions, Mr. President?

Obama's inaugural speech was magnificent. Perhaps he will not usher in an era of socialism resplendent with the trappings of additional debt, perpetual and purposeful unemployment, and burgeoning social services. He asked us, instead, to get up, take personal responsibility, and work. What a concept. Is this the path to fulfill his promise of hope? If America will rise up and follow, there is hope. If the American government models fiscal responsibility, there is hope. If Americans take personal responsibility, there is hope.

What is this hope? A desire to be debt free, economically stable, militarily secure, with liberty and justice for all... of course. What a relief our new president has crowned his presidential debut with the enforcement of the freedom of information act, thereby opening his actions to scrutiny. Responsibility is easier to avoid in a culture of secrecy. Looks like he plans to walk the talk. But how will he get the rest of us to go along?

My kids haven't signed on. During their "rest time" today (Annie refuses to close her eyes to sleep and Jack is too old to nap if we expect to go to bed before the cock crows in the early morning), a car flew from the bunk bed they share out the door and into the hallway, where it struck the wall, exposing the white beneath the yellowish brown paint. I stomped in. I suppose that's not the stance to take if I expect to hear the truth, but stomp I did, complete with a scowl, "Who threw that?"

"Annie threw it," my quick talking son cuts in.

I glared at Annie.

She defended herself with the traditional, "Jack did it."

"You better not be lying to me, Jack," I glared at him.

"No, no! I'm NOT LYING. Annie did it."

Both regarded me with angelic innocence. Not a crack of the facade to reveal the true perpetrator. "Well, don't do it again or I'll take away your toys... and spank you," The first threat was truth. I added the second for the fear factor. You know, like God said, "Don't eat the fruit or I'll toss you out of the garden... and you'll die." Only, they really did die.

I never did figure out whose hand threw that car, but it didn't happen again. Not sure which threat was the obedience motivating factor.

So, how do I teach personal responsibility to my two angels? The comment section is open, Mr. President. Feel free to let me know. I'm sure whatever method you use for the country will work for my kids.

It's All My Fault

Responsibility has fled the country. In this culture of self-absorption and blame, the typical American, across gender and racial lines, sings a song of "Gi'me, gi'me, gi'me. It's not my fault. I have a right to have it all for free." The black blames the white, the woman blames the man, the worker blames the boss, the manager blames the staff, "It's not my fault! Somebody take care of me. Somebody make it right." And now we've hired the right socialist democrat to get us there. Higher taxes promised for those who work to provide services for those who won't. "Down with capitilism," is the general cry. Give us food and medicine, but don't make us work. Bail out the bankrupt, recycle the irrisponsible managers, print more money to pay the debt.

Can you imagine a country in which every person took responsibility for his or her fast food bag rather than throwing it out the window while driving down the freeway? We'd probably save billions of tax dollars in cleanup. Or what if the man who didn't want to support a child prevented the undesirable by wearing a condom. Maybe if our country can't afford some necessary social services without destroying the value of the dollar by printing more money, the government should cut back on some aid going to other countries who have displayed their own lack of responsibility. Rather than promoting accountability, this country careens down the path of destruction, placing the mirage of fiscal bandages on gaping wounds to stop the hemorrhage.

Can we expect anything else? In order to be elected, politicians don the gown of blamelessness. Anything undesirable in their past is buried and if not, attributed to another. When have we seen a politician, without an arm painfully twisted, accepting responsibility for his or her mistakes? Without the strength and wisdom to be forthright about their own humanity, how can they govern the rest of us?

Perhaps it is a plague of human nature in which we all run madly after Adam and Eve droning the same mantra. You know, Sin. I hear it from my kids, starting almost as soon as they can speak, "he did it," "she did it." The other night my husband blamed Annie when he, himself, broke a light bulb. Even I, with my self-righteous ramblings, succumb to the blaming game.

The incredible thing is, responsibility is empowering. The more blunders I can accept accountability for, the more power I have to change not only my own behavior but also situations in which I place myself. Discovering mistakes in my past allows me to improve my future. Thus, programs such as affirmative action dis empower the individual because they encourage blame rather then responsibility.

So, here we are, skidding down the slope into the greatest depression the United States has ever had, by all accounts. In the spirit of the moment, let me take the opportunity to let you know, it's all my fault.

Time

Five weeks ago we delivered a healthy son. He is already much bigger, more alert, and displaying the foundational aspects of his personality. Jack is five. Five years have passed since the day he breathed his first breath. Annie will soon turn three. I watch the years thunder by like a high speed train - clickity clack, clickity clack, clickity clack - and my heart aches. Another year is all but gone, its bundle of life tossed over our shoulders into the vaguely remembered past.

Time is a prostitute, she lends herself to everyone, but gives herself to no one. Have I taken full advantage of her this year? Have I Breathed in her fullness? Have I surrendered myself to experiencing each curve of her body and strand of her hair? Each soft place and hard place? Perhaps the fear of missing something keeps me from fully entangling myself in each moment.

But since there are so few moments, there is no point but to treat myself with nothing but compassionate understanding, allowing myself to passionately flail, and sometimes fail, through life. And to face the world - my children, my family, friends, and strangers - with the same gracious gift, as everyone else struggles to experience what moments they have.

So live in compassion. That is, I suppose, where God lives, too.

The Third of July

For our local town, Independence Day is celebrated on the third of July. Why? I don't know, but it is. Crowds packed the small park at the center of town and lined up on the grass along main street for at least a mile. The local high school bussed even more visitors in from the school's parking lot, swelling the population from under 1000 to at least twice that. Carnival vendors in tents sold food. Others, meandering between lawn chairs and blankets, hawked glowing plastic jewelry.

We were lucky to find a single open parking spat at a bank about a quarter mile from the park and, as a quartet of old warplanes circled overhead in various formations, walked to the grassy bank on the near side of the park's little creek. It was already nine o'clock, so we expected the show to start soon. Patriotic music interspersed with garbled announcements accompanied the dance between the fireflies and the children trying to catch them.

"I'm tired. I want to go to bed." My kids started complaining within seconds of spreading our blanket and sitting down. We assured them it would only be a few minutes before the fireworks started. But, although a profusion of fiery blossoms burst from the surrounding residential areas and a mass of grumbling mountainous clouds edged into the dark skies between the park and the stars, the city's ceremony dragged on.

My children's grumbling escalated as the thunder clouds crept into place. By quarter to ten, it appeared mother nature would start her own spectacular light show first. We didn't share the apparent general belief that, in the spirit of Independence Day and its celebration, God would prevent any severe lightning over the crowd. So we took up our blanket and trekked back to the car. Once there, the kids insisted on being buckled in, but still we didn't leave.

At five minutes to ten, just as the storm drew overhead, the fireworks finally started. White flashes of lightning frisked with the red, blue, green and gold bursts, painting the low clouds in a gyrating rainbow of light. We stayed for another ten minutes before succumbing to the demands of our children by climbing into the front seats, putting on our seat-belts, and going on our way. We weren't the only ones leaving early. Ominous sky to ground lightning lit up the skies to the south. 

The fourth, a clear and balmy night, we stayed home. The kids went to bed on time and we watched the big city fireworks through our back windows as the bloomed along the horizon. 

A Primer on Female Persuasion

She was wrapped around her daddy's leg screeching and giggling, "I catched you!"

Now you owe me a hug and a kiss," Daddy said. "When you catch me, you have to give me a hug and a kiss."

"No," she giggled, climbing onto his belly.

"Okay, then here come the tickle birds!"

Annie twisted and turned, laughing and screaming. After a few minutes, Daddy took a break from tickling her to grab two sticks of Lincoln Logs beside him. He began tapping them together.

"Give them to me," she demanded, reaching for the sticks.

"No, I'm playing with them," he answered, blocking her.

Several more blocked attempts, and my two year old daughter paused, sat up, tilted her head, and blinked her lash-fringed blue eyes at her daddy. "Hug and kiss?"

His crooked smile told me he wasn't fooled, but he answered, "Yes, hug and kiss."

She leaned forward and, wrapping her small arms about his neck, planted a soft kiss on his lips. Sitting up with a smile, she asked, "Have those?"

Daddy gave them to her.

Slipping to the floor next to him, she struck the sticks together, "making music."

Daddy picked up a small colored ball and tossed it from hand to hand.

Annie dropped the sticks and held out a hand, "Have that?"

"No, I'm playing with it," Daddy replied.

She reached for the ball, he blocked her attempt. The physical battle was much shorter. "Hug and kiss?" she suggested.

"Yes, hug and kiss," Daddy agreed. She climbed onto his chest, wrapped her small arms about his neck, and planted another soft kiss on his lips. Sitting up with a triumphant smile, she asked, "Have that?"

Daddy held the ball out of her reach, preparing his lecture. "Now Annie, just because you give someone a hug and a kiss doesn't mean you'll always get what you want, especially with boys. Understand?"

"Yes," she grinned, then watched the ball drop into her hand.

Is there Strength in the Neck?

"The man is the head," dramatic pause, "but the woman is the neck." Although everyone had heard the phrase before, they guffawed gaily and glanced around suggestively. This launched a merry discussion among my family and friends, very intelligent married women included, on how a woman might manipulate a man into doing as she wished by wearing lingerie and clouding his thinking with passion. My uncle, a man of outspoken opinion, suggested the sooner a woman learned to remove her outer garments, the better off a couple would be.

I admit, I sat in silent shock, failing to defend the strength of a woman's mind, the persuasiveness of her speech, and the undeniably insightful feminine wisdom. These were my peers. Well educated women raised in a culture of gender equality casting off their sharp intellects, logical arguments, and verbal acumen to rely on the powers of the body. Thereby taking advantage of the man in his weakened, sex-heightened state. Was no one offended?

The conversation passed into another. Time slipped away, as it always does, and faimiles drove off to their own homes. Mark and I went up to prepare for bed. "Can you believe what they were saying?" my wonderful husband huffed. "That's just what I was talking about. As long as women use their bodies to control men, they'll be treated like objects." We'd had this discussion before. Often, I supported the occasional use of feminine graces to gain an advantage, just as a man might sometimes use his superior speed, or strength. But this time, we were in accord. "That's why I love you," he finished, "because of your mind." I smiled.

Several nights later, well past the time I'm usually open to lovemaking, I ventured from the bedroom to the kitchen, where my husband, Mark, sat surfing the internet. I suggested, with a coy smile, he come to bed. Hearing my tone of voice, his eyes jumped from the screen, his brows raised, and he mouthed, "Can we?" casting a surreptitious glance at the oven clock.

I grinned, "Yeah. I have something I need you to do for me."

"Oh. What?" he said.

I laughed. Wow, that was easy, maybe it's not such a bad idea after all...

Learning to be Beautiful

Pink is Jack's favorite color right now. He complained bitterly when Annie got to wear the tights she proclaimed "beautiful" to church last Sabbath and he had to wear a button down shirt and shorts. So, midweek, he found a pair of Annie's too-large pink tights, stripped to his undies, and pulled them on. Digging a pair of pretty pink gloves out of the same drawer, he donned them and pranced out of the room to dance through the house, thrilled with bathing in the beauty of pink. That outfit became his standard attire for the remainder of the week. He skid across the floor behind a tricycle, he pushed around his cars and trains, he even slipped outside and dug in the mud, all in pink tights and gloves. I took some pictures and videos. Eyebrows were raised (a pair of them mine), smirks exchanged (yup, me too), and teasing ensued questioning what unmanly genes my husband may have passed down to our son.

Annie loves cars, planes, helicopters, and trains. She steals Jack's Lightening McQueen sandals, fights over his matchbox cars to stuff into the back of her "happy bear" plush backpack, plays "race cars" pushing a stroller around at breakneck speeds, and her favorite shirt is a hand-me-down with Thomas the Train's happy face on the front. She wants to climb, play hockey, and dig in the mud. No eyebrows are raised, no smirks exchanged... no one questions the unwomanly genes I may have passed down to our daughter. Oh no, a tom boy with long blond hair and beautiful blue eyes is always adored.

Offensive: My son learns appreciation of beauty from the sister he adores and is ridiculed. My daughter learns appreciation for mechanical things from the brother she adores and is praised.

Delightful: My daughter's strengths are expanding my son's perspectives.

Delightful: My son's strengths are expanding my daughter's perspectives.

Fortunately Jack and Annie aren't socially sophisticated enough to understand the scorn of a smirk. But the time will come when the devastation of condescension invades their emotional security. I'd better not be the one to introduce the concept to them.