A nice day yesterday full of work and organizing the summer camp office culminated in a pizza dinner in the home of Pastor Chris and Vickie. Their youngest daughter Lydia made 3 delicious pepperoni, cheese, and my personal favorite: pineapple pizzas for us. We stayed and laughed and talked far longer than we had planned, truly enjoying the opportunity to get to know them and their vision for Pinnacle more intimately.
The cabin we have is now in great shape. Mowed grass and carted away garbage have done wonders for the outside, while all the scrubbing has made the inside quite pleasant. A sleeper sofa was delivered today for the girls, who had been taking turns sleeping on the floor or older sofa that was originally in the cabin. All that to say, we are settling in well, after a slightly bumpy beginning. The girls and our dog Sam are enjoying a greater amount of liberty than is usually allotted to them since school is out and Mom and Dad are busy helping to get camp ready. The independence and activity has been good for them. Needless to say, we are all dropping off to sleep very quickly at bedtime!
Today we're off to purchase "camp clothes," that is to say: clothes from a second hand store that will likely be destroyed in the process of camping for a whole summer. Then we have an appointment with resident computer whiz, and "horse lady" (as my girls call her), Ellen Preckel. She has promised to give us an overview of the computer program "Camp Brain" so we can start working on scheduling. With so much to do, it's been too easy to let personal devotional time slide, but I'm determined to get that back on my schedule each morning. We're also excited to start attending the staff Bible study beginning tomorrow morning.
I'll add more as the summer progresses, but for now.... that's all, folks!
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Aging
Katie turns 11 on June 30 this year, and will be in the 6th grade. That means one thing in regards to my age: I am old. She is young, beautiful, and top notch, with her whole life ahead of her. I am more and more decrepit with every passing day.
Example 1: To borrow a phrase from my beloved high school biology teacher, I have "gastro-intestinal problems." To counter-act my diverticulosis, I must consume yogurt and granola each morning, and a half-glass of wine each afternoon. I'm not complaining. I like the taste of yogurt with granola, and a glass of wine after a hard day is certainly a welcome respite. But the indignities of age are creeping up on me, and I resent the fact that I must consume these things or suffer consequences. How much nicer it would be to be able to choose to have a glass of wine, or yogurt with granola!
Example 2: I have arthritis in my big toe. I am saddest about this particular diagnosis, because arthritis seems to be a clear indication of old age. My doctor has told me it was likely due to the repeated jumping and landing I do as a volleyball player and coach, and not necessarily a symbol of my aging. To me, however, it's quite simple: old people get arthritis. I have arthritis, ergo: I am old. Don't point out the logical fallacy here, because it will be duly noted and ignored.
Example 3: My dark brown hair is turning gray. I have plotted and schemed against this visual proof of aging to no avail. Hi-lights mask it for a month or two, covering the gray with dye works for a few weeks, but the gray continues to be fruitful and multiply. I was recently asked if I would ever just stop fighting it, but was unsure of how to answer. Certainly when I am a grandmother gray hair would be appropriate, but to be honest I cannot conceive of it ever being the color I desire. My first gray hair appeared at age 19, and I know there is no turning back, but I continue to battle it nonetheless.
4th and final example: I ache after physical activity. When I say, "ache" I am not referring to the sore muscles one experiences as a result of lactic acid settling in them. I mean that I feel the ache in my very core. It's as if my skeleton, or more precisely, my bone marrow is aching. It is a deep, penetrating, insistent ache, and all the advil, tylenol, and naprosin in my medicine cabinet cannot touch it. I hurt. My response to this physical revolt is more exercise, and a desire to subjugate my pain by pushing forward. Even so, I long for the good old days when exercise meant a certain amount of pleasure infused with the pain. Those days appear to be gone.
I'm thinking now of a quote from Monty Python's "The Holy Grail." The peasant, reacting to king Arthur, responds, "I'm 37! I'm not old!" This being my precise age, the quote has a particular, almost poignant meaning for me. I'm holding on to that sentiment, in denial of my body's revolt. As of February 2009, I'll need to find a new quote!
Example 1: To borrow a phrase from my beloved high school biology teacher, I have "gastro-intestinal problems." To counter-act my diverticulosis, I must consume yogurt and granola each morning, and a half-glass of wine each afternoon. I'm not complaining. I like the taste of yogurt with granola, and a glass of wine after a hard day is certainly a welcome respite. But the indignities of age are creeping up on me, and I resent the fact that I must consume these things or suffer consequences. How much nicer it would be to be able to choose to have a glass of wine, or yogurt with granola!
Example 2: I have arthritis in my big toe. I am saddest about this particular diagnosis, because arthritis seems to be a clear indication of old age. My doctor has told me it was likely due to the repeated jumping and landing I do as a volleyball player and coach, and not necessarily a symbol of my aging. To me, however, it's quite simple: old people get arthritis. I have arthritis, ergo: I am old. Don't point out the logical fallacy here, because it will be duly noted and ignored.
Example 3: My dark brown hair is turning gray. I have plotted and schemed against this visual proof of aging to no avail. Hi-lights mask it for a month or two, covering the gray with dye works for a few weeks, but the gray continues to be fruitful and multiply. I was recently asked if I would ever just stop fighting it, but was unsure of how to answer. Certainly when I am a grandmother gray hair would be appropriate, but to be honest I cannot conceive of it ever being the color I desire. My first gray hair appeared at age 19, and I know there is no turning back, but I continue to battle it nonetheless.
4th and final example: I ache after physical activity. When I say, "ache" I am not referring to the sore muscles one experiences as a result of lactic acid settling in them. I mean that I feel the ache in my very core. It's as if my skeleton, or more precisely, my bone marrow is aching. It is a deep, penetrating, insistent ache, and all the advil, tylenol, and naprosin in my medicine cabinet cannot touch it. I hurt. My response to this physical revolt is more exercise, and a desire to subjugate my pain by pushing forward. Even so, I long for the good old days when exercise meant a certain amount of pleasure infused with the pain. Those days appear to be gone.
I'm thinking now of a quote from Monty Python's "The Holy Grail." The peasant, reacting to king Arthur, responds, "I'm 37! I'm not old!" This being my precise age, the quote has a particular, almost poignant meaning for me. I'm holding on to that sentiment, in denial of my body's revolt. As of February 2009, I'll need to find a new quote!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
My first Blog/ About me
An old college buddy encouraged me to start this blog. Seeing her entries and online insights was the inspiration for what follows. All inaccuracies, inefficiencies, and inexplicable references are to be directly attributed to her overconfidence in a fellow procrastinator and professional slacker. Here goes.
The challenge of a blank page. Let's start off with the fact that I've never particularly felt I had anything valuable to say. When given completely open parameters, I stumble along blindly looking for some sort of guidelines. I am paralyzed by the sheer vastness of possibility. Which leads me to another inherent self-truth: I like structure. In its absence, what little creativity resides in my mind is stifled. Within a structure, my mind loves plotting and planning, sorting and organizing, and even surprising those who think they may know what I will say or do. Generally speaking, I believe I am much better at editing and revising others' original thoughts than I am at writing my own.
Beyond those aforementioned disclaimers, it is imperative that I mention I love coffee. Coffee doesn't always love me. In fact, it leaves me with blinding headaches if I allow myself to consume as much as my palate desires. Despite this risk, the wonderful, rich, brown, creamy, sweet liquid has such a pleasant effect on my overall sense of well-being. I feel loved when I have a cup of coffee in my hand. It is a strange sort of self-love. My husband cannot stand the taste or even the smell of coffee. For this reason, I usually drink my coffee in solitude, and in a house with two children, solitude is seldom over-rated.
I love my two daughters. Blond and sunny, smart and lively, ever-changing and developing before my eyes, they have my heart. They were once a part of me, are still like me, and yet grow more and more independent of me each day. It is a challenging and consuming passion to know and parent them well. Katie is trying on identities like fashions, eager, yet tentative about about what it means to be in middle school for the first time next year. She is lovely and sensitive, intelligent and athletic, artistic, silly and insecure. Beth is raging at the incomprehensible joke God has played by making her the younger sister. Adventurous, daring, competitive, and sparkling, she is pretty and insightful, quick to understand, and quicker to judge. What amazing people they are, and how fascinating to play a role in their lives.
Then there's my dog Sam, the border collie/spaniel with the heart of a chicken and the innate desire to round up anything and anyone near him. He has an uncanny ability to sense the exact place I am heading and cut me off, turning me toward some unseen destination only he knows. Perhaps in his muddled doggie mind, I am the proverbial black sheep that must be separated from the herd. Whatever his purpose, he is frighteningly good at achieving it. When the girls were younger, he would run circles around them, barking and nipping until they cooperated and remained in the middle of the yard. Just one heading for the edge would send him around the outside, playfully, yet earnestly urging her back to the "pen." Now that he's older, with white hairs creeping into the once all-black mask around his eyes, Sam mostly sleeps where I must trip over him. Although he rarely runs any more, when ambling or occasionally moseying, he still prefers to place himself in the direct path of an oncoming person and then nudge him to one side or the other. He is my maddening joy.
I was going to write about my marriage, but I think that's another blog all by itself. I was going to write about teaching and coaching, but I need more time to properly sort through those things too. Then there's the guilt which seems to be the underlying motivator for nearly everything I do. Clearly, for me, counselling is in order, but not necessarily another paragraph. No, today, I will end with the satisfying feeling of having more to say, but knowing that what has been said will suffice. For now.
The challenge of a blank page. Let's start off with the fact that I've never particularly felt I had anything valuable to say. When given completely open parameters, I stumble along blindly looking for some sort of guidelines. I am paralyzed by the sheer vastness of possibility. Which leads me to another inherent self-truth: I like structure. In its absence, what little creativity resides in my mind is stifled. Within a structure, my mind loves plotting and planning, sorting and organizing, and even surprising those who think they may know what I will say or do. Generally speaking, I believe I am much better at editing and revising others' original thoughts than I am at writing my own.
Beyond those aforementioned disclaimers, it is imperative that I mention I love coffee. Coffee doesn't always love me. In fact, it leaves me with blinding headaches if I allow myself to consume as much as my palate desires. Despite this risk, the wonderful, rich, brown, creamy, sweet liquid has such a pleasant effect on my overall sense of well-being. I feel loved when I have a cup of coffee in my hand. It is a strange sort of self-love. My husband cannot stand the taste or even the smell of coffee. For this reason, I usually drink my coffee in solitude, and in a house with two children, solitude is seldom over-rated.
I love my two daughters. Blond and sunny, smart and lively, ever-changing and developing before my eyes, they have my heart. They were once a part of me, are still like me, and yet grow more and more independent of me each day. It is a challenging and consuming passion to know and parent them well. Katie is trying on identities like fashions, eager, yet tentative about about what it means to be in middle school for the first time next year. She is lovely and sensitive, intelligent and athletic, artistic, silly and insecure. Beth is raging at the incomprehensible joke God has played by making her the younger sister. Adventurous, daring, competitive, and sparkling, she is pretty and insightful, quick to understand, and quicker to judge. What amazing people they are, and how fascinating to play a role in their lives.
Then there's my dog Sam, the border collie/spaniel with the heart of a chicken and the innate desire to round up anything and anyone near him. He has an uncanny ability to sense the exact place I am heading and cut me off, turning me toward some unseen destination only he knows. Perhaps in his muddled doggie mind, I am the proverbial black sheep that must be separated from the herd. Whatever his purpose, he is frighteningly good at achieving it. When the girls were younger, he would run circles around them, barking and nipping until they cooperated and remained in the middle of the yard. Just one heading for the edge would send him around the outside, playfully, yet earnestly urging her back to the "pen." Now that he's older, with white hairs creeping into the once all-black mask around his eyes, Sam mostly sleeps where I must trip over him. Although he rarely runs any more, when ambling or occasionally moseying, he still prefers to place himself in the direct path of an oncoming person and then nudge him to one side or the other. He is my maddening joy.
I was going to write about my marriage, but I think that's another blog all by itself. I was going to write about teaching and coaching, but I need more time to properly sort through those things too. Then there's the guilt which seems to be the underlying motivator for nearly everything I do. Clearly, for me, counselling is in order, but not necessarily another paragraph. No, today, I will end with the satisfying feeling of having more to say, but knowing that what has been said will suffice. For now.
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