Or that’s how it seems.

There’s something odd about it. She’s in time-out because she screamed for an entire 10 minutes in the car (because I couldn’t reach the sippy cup she dropped on the floor). Her response to time out for screaming: testing various frequencies of pitch and volume to see if she can break all the windows in the house with a high-pitched screech.

I’d rather be outside.  This time it really does hurt me more than it hurts her.

One of the reasons we joined our church was that the nursery was awesome. As in, we’d been ‘church hopping’ (church shopping?) for 8 months, and every week Bean cried her eyes out. When we found our church, Bean didn’t want to come back home after the service.  And because of that, we totally recognize the importance of that ministry in the life of the church.

Last year the church asked parents to offer to serve one service one Sunday a month. Not so bad, but we got stuck in the new walkers room (do you realize that babies develop separation anxiety roughly around the time they start walking?) - the new walkers room is not fun. And within about 2 weeks of the start of the commitment, everyone else who was supposed to serve on our Sunday skipped out. So I became the default Team Leader. Not my thing.

Well this year the minimum commitment of service is month on / month off. And they’re guilting me into it. This after telling me that until Little Man has his EEG I have to stay with him in the nursery (he’s in the new walkers room).

The dilemma? Do I allow them to guilt me into it (with Christian guilt nonetheless - apparently this is how I gain treasures in Heaven, and those who truly love God will be led to serve)? Or do I tell them that, in fact, my hesitancy to serve in the nursery comes from being abandoned in the new walkers room  because my ‘team mates’ signed up to serve and then left me hangin’  (every single time)? Is it okay for me to tell them that I need a break because they done wore me out? And no, it has nothing to do with me being spiritually corrupt (but maybe I am?)

It makes no sense for me to serve, seeing as how I’d do it in total, complete bitterness. And then of course, I’d be feeding the bitterness month on / month off, and that’s not healthy for anyone, especially not those cute little kids I’d be taking care of.  Am I so bothered by this because I’m a people pleaser who doesn’t want to say no?  Or am I shrugging off the church’s needs in favor of satisfying my own selfish desires? This would be so much easier if I’d just agree to serve and get over it…

Note: I still love my church and submit to their authority. I still believe that the nursery is awesome. And it’ll be even better this year with the new service commitment translating into greater continuity for the kids. I just hope I can find a way out of being a part of that continuity…

You may notice some theme-y chaos over here. I’m playing with my theme in an effort to leave less of a carbon footprint. This is after the debut of Blackle - I’m trying out a darker screen too. Is it worth it? I don’t know - there really aren’t enough people spending enough time on my blog to put an end to global warming… But one small step, right?

I’m not settled on it… There may be some more changes a-comin’, but I promise - I will eventually pick one and stick with it. Eventually. If only wordpress had more black themes… (I really liked the chaotic soul theme - but it cut my baby in half in the header. No one gets away with that.)

Cleaning up my room the other day I found a picture on the floor that Bean had drawn. Looking closely, I discerned that there were 4 people standing next to something that vaguely resembled a tree.

Wow, Bean, what a pretty picture! I see 4 people next to a tree! Is that our family?

No, silly mama! I just made a line!

Silly me indeed.

The random number generator did its magic, and the pink purse will go to…

Cal, whose IP address seems to be in Amsterdam. Congratulations to our (Dutch?) friend!

My apologies to everyone who was unable to see the picture. I didn’t get around to fixing it - I’ve been fighting a cold this week and starting my business too. But at least I’m saving you from the disappointment of not winning this spectacular purse!

And let me just say, there are some people out there who are absolutely purse-happy and tickled pink about pink! I’m amazed, people! (Are you aware that a pink purse won’t make all your dreams in life come true? Some, maybe, but certainly not all.) I now feel compelled to steal pink purses from the rich and give them to the poor in some Robin Hood-ian quest to ensure equal opportunity pink purse distribution! … but then my darn morals get in the way and tell me that stealing is bad, even when done for the sake of mental health for all mankind womankind…

Oh. my. word. Do you know? Have you heard? The gym is the most fantastically awesomest place on the planet! I printed off a coupon for 3 free days, fully expecting to hate it.

See, my friends have been waxing lyrical about the wonders of the gym, but I blew it off. The last time I was at a gym I was in high school. It was the place that the buff and buffer hung out. If you didn’t do free weights and feel at home in spandex, you didn’t belong. So I was in no rush to get in there.

But upon the advice of my neighbor I decided to give it a shot. And do you know what? They have complimentary child care. And showers. And individual cable TV screens on all the treadmills and stationary bikes. And a cafe with wireless internet. And Friday night date nights! Do you know what this means?

I can drop the kids into childcare, do the treadmill (or some wild ski machine) while watching the news (or anything else I want - or read a book or a magazine - the possibilities are endless), then do some weight machines, take a shower (in peace and quiet, nonetheless), and then go over to the cafe and have a smoothie or some tea while I blog work oh so tenatiously (and uninterrupted)!

I was there for 2 full hours today. And when I picked up the kids, they were happy. We came home and had a peaceful, copacetic lunch together, then they took naps, and now I’m having some quiet time of my own! What a day!!!!

I’ve been participating in the Dog Days of Summer giveaway (hosted by Shannon at Rocks in My Dryer) through my business blog, Broom Huggers. And I’ve been so busy keeping up with the comments that I’ve hardly had time to enter anyone else’s giveaway. But the whole thing has been so much fun, I’ve decided to participate here too!

So, we’re giving away a pink purse (it’s just too cute!) that I picked up at a little boutique’s going out of business sale. It seems to me that it’s genuine leather, but it doesn’t actually say so. It is brand new, and I’m willing to ship overseas (I just don’t think it’s right to leave out our international friends!).

Here are my rules, picture of the oh so cute purse are at the bottom of the post.

• Leave me a comment to enter. I’ll use the email address from where you enter your name and such to contact you, so make sure it’s right! If this is your first comment at Mudlark Tales it’ll need to be moderated. But be patient! I promise to approve it!
• A winner will be chosen by random number generator on Friday at 10 PM EST. A post will announce the winner shortly thereafter and I’ll send an email to the winner. You’ll have until Tuesday to reply, or I’ll choose another winner.

So here’s the purse. I got it at a little boutique’s going out of business sale. I think it’s genuine leather, but there’s nothing on it to confirm that. It’s the perfect size - not to big, but holds all your stuff for the day, complete with a zippered pocket inside and 2 other pockets. It has a magnetic snap closure and is fully lined. Really, it’s gorgeous!

So go ahead, enter below. And then head over to Rocks in My Dryer to see who else is giving and getting!

Note: Some people can see the picture, some can’t. I’ll try to work out the kinks this evening. Sorry - don’t know what the problem is yet.

In all the time I’ve been blogging, I haven’t written a single post about Moldova, the country where I spent 3 years as an English teacher, missionary, friend, church member, and wife. I met my husband there. I learned more about life and who I am in those 3 years than I did in 5 years of college and grad school. I started my professional career there. I made some of my closest friends. My in-laws are still there. Cousins, friends, and oodles of people I care deeply about.

A post over at Untangling Tales brought me out of the closet. In her Tuesday Tales she wrote a Belorussian folk tale about a prince’s love for a common girl. After writing it she was talking about it with someone who insisted on calling it “Russian,” and then said that Amy was being pedantic for insisting on it being Belorussian. (My thought: the person using the word pedantic is much more pedantic than the person insisting that a country independent for 15+ years is, in fact, distinct from its former colonial oppressor.)

With the connections I have to Moldova, and with a husband who was born and raised there, it’s infuriating when people refuse to acknowledge that Moldova is different from Russia. Let’s see. The national language is Romanian (de fapt este “limba noastra”, dar cu parere de rau asta este prea complicata pentru americanii care de obicei citesc blog-ul acesta), which is a romance language (like Spanish, Italian, French) - not Slavic. Moldova does not border Russia. Formerly it was a part of Romania. Romania is not slavic, nor is it Russian. So just because Moldova was a part of the Soviet Union (and not by choice either), people insist on calling it Russia?

Let’s get a few things straight. The Soviet Union was not Russian. The Soviet Union was a collection of 15 republics (formerly independent nations), one of which being Russia, consolidated under a single constitution and governing body. Those 15 republics (all of which are now independent nations - again) were: Belarus, Ukraine (which should not be called”The Ukraine”), Russia, Moldova, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan. The Soviet Union imposed both Communism and the Russian language on the countries (republics) it controlled, and did everything it could to mix up and confuse the very distinct nationalities, cultures, and heritages - all the while creating legislation and policies that pretended to protect those very same entities.

With that straightened out, let’s get to the source of my frustration. Here’s how a typical conversation goes these days: “So, is your family still in Russia?” “No. They never were. They’re in Moldova - it doesn’t even border Russia. Different country.” “Oh, and do you ever go back to Russia to visit them?” “Well, we go to Moldova to visit them, since we wouldn’t see them in Russia - it’s a different country.” “Oh. So is it a long flight to Russia?” “Well I suppose it would be. But we don’t fly there. We fly to Moldova.” “Oh, and Moldovia is, what, like a state in Russia?” You get it. Right? You’re smart enough to see what’s happening. You can see why it’s infuriating. Add to the frustration that Russia was the fear-inspiring oppressor (really the Soviet Union was, but the power of the Soviet Union was within the Russian Republic and the Russian ethnicity was staunchly protected), and since independence Russia has not ceased its meddling in Moldovan affairs.

Also let me note that we have many, many friends who are Russians. From Russia. Who speak Russian. They are dear friends and wonderful people. We hold nothing against them, seeing as how they were not the ones causing problems in Moldova. They were subject to the same oppressive regime Moldovans or Belorussians or Tajiks were. They just happened to be born in the most powerful of the republics. We won’t hold it against them.

I believe that the stubborn insistence on calling everything east of the Iron Curtain “Russia” comes from two things: stereotypes and lack of interest. There’s a stereotype that anything east of, say, Germany (or any part of Europe that’s not a major tourist destination) is communist. They’re the enemy and they probably have missiles pointed at us. They despise freedom, drink vodka, and don’t have heat in the winter. (In case you’re wondering, that isn’t any more true than the uninformed stereotype that everyone in Africa is a cannibal.) It’s that typical “them” and “us” distinction that gets us into trouble, especially when combine with the next problem.

The second issue is a lack of interest. Surprisingly though, even people we consider to be friends (or sometimes even family) have a shocking lack of interest. Every day we (we meaning all of us, as part of the human race) make a conscious choice about what information we’ll internalize. We prioritize informational input and choose what’s important enough to keep, and what’s superfluous. Unfortunately, the independence of our former cold-war enemy often falls under the category of superfluous information. And therefore, no matter how often we correct someone that Moldova (or Belarus or Georgia, or any other independent nation, including Bosnia, Slovakia, etc.) is independent, working for democracy (nu vreau sa le spun ca moldovenii au ales un partid comunist in alegeri democratice). It’s easier for people to stick with their uninformed stereotypes (and, in fact, the geopolitical information they learned in grade school) than it is to keep up with current events in a region they believe to have no direct impact on them. There’s a reluctance to accept change, and that translates over time to stubbornness and ignorance about the rest of the world.

The fact is that as time goes on the world is becoming a smaller and smaller place because of technology and the very same people who put information about the rest of the world in “superfluous information” category will be the same people who are left behind as the world moves forward. So why should I be concerned? They’re the ones who will be made ’superfluous’ in their careers, they’re the ones who will be forced to catch up or get out of the race. And I won’t let them bother me. But I will continue - daily - to correct their misassumptions and biases.

So here’s my challenge to you. When you get dressed tomorrow morning, look on the tag of your clothes and see where they were made. It might say China, or it might name some country you’ve never heard of. Whatever it is, google it. Find it on a map. And learn at least 3 things about that country. Keep up with where the world is going. When you flip through your newspaper, don’t chunk the “world” section because it has nothing to do with you (the “world” section consisting of no more than Afghanistan and Iraq is the topic of another rant, another day).

Thanks for bringing this up Amy. Maybe one day soon I’ll come even further out of the closet and share some of my experiences from Moldova, and introduce you all (all 4 of you) to a country you might otherwise know very little about.

It was nothing special, or so it seemed to me. Just another brick house at the bottom of a hill. Later I learned that my parents built it themselves. They designed everything, from the nearly acre lot to the hide-away doors creating the perfect hide and seek spots. I remember wanting to move to a neighborhood down the street. It’s where my friends lived. I didn’t know then that those houses didn’t have the nice upgrades mine did. They had smaller lots, and they didn’t hold their value as well. I didn’t appreciate things like that. In fact, I didn’t appreciate much. But now I remember all the things that made it home.

When it rained hard, which it did a lot in Florida, the street gutters would flood with water and catfish would swim up from the nearby pond. When it rained even more we’d catch the catfish in big garbage cans - that’s the closest I ever came to fishing.

I remember a lot about the rain. We had a back deck that was screened in and faced south west. That’s where all the storms came from. Behind us was a field where they once kept calves. We’d come home from school and take carrots and celery to feed the calves (because that’s what they eat, right?). In the evening as the storms rolled in we’d sit on the back porch lit by a hurricane lantern sipping water with lemon and watch the clouds and lightning get closer and closer. We’d count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder to judge how close it was. When the downpour finally came, complete with gale-force winds, we’d meander inside and wonder if tonight would be another night to lose power. We’d sit and listen because that’s all you can do when the rain is pouring down in buckets and you have non-insulated sky-lights that sound like a never-ending drum circle. We couldn’t hear our own thoughts, much less any sort of conversation. It was an annoyance then, but in fact the beat of the rain would lull us all to sleep and in the morning we’d wake to find the birds singing and the lizards calling. Sometimes if it was quiet enough we’d see families of sandhill cranes roaming the yard. Once there was an otter. And often times we were home to hawks.

The best rain was summer shower rain. When there’s not a single cloud in the blue sky and you can’t make sense out of where the rain is coming from. But it’s soaking. And it’s a nice break from the hot humid air. And it goes away as quickly as it came, leaving behind its sweet smell and the refreshing predictability of knowing you’ll need to mow again soon.

Nothing special, right? It was the place I called home for 15 years. When we moved there I was 4. My earliest memory is wanting to peel off my skin because it was just that hot. We played in the sprinkler in the back yard. And years later we lost our ’soccer field’ to a pool. It wasn’t much of a loss though. The pool became my primary dwelling place. Forget showers or baths. I’d get up in the morning, swim a few laps. Go to school. Come home. Jump in the pool. Do homework. Swim some more. Eat dinner. Wait the obligatory 30 minutes. Swim some more. My favorite time to swim was during night-time showers. There’s something special about a pool lit by the glow of an underwater light, with a gentle, warm rain making ever soft ripples.

I’ll probably never live in Florida again. What would be the point, without my sky lights, screened-in porch, and sandhill-crane sanctuary of a yard? I’ve become a bit transient. Moving every few years. Always looking toward changes that the future may bring. But perhaps the very reason I can long for those changes is because of the stability of my childhood home.

Thanks to Mary over at Owlhaven for this meme - thanks for bringing me to remember all the wonderful things about my childhood home. The trip down memory lane has been a pleasant one.

I gave in today. We’ve been pondering how on earth we’d ever wean Little Man from his obsession with binkies. He sleeps with 3 - one in his mouth and one in each hand. If he wakes up and can’t find one of the 3, he cries. Until someone comes and rescues the lost binky. We used to keep the binkies in the crib at all times, meaning that he could only have them at night or nap time. But then he became proficient with the stairs and we took down the baby gates - now he gets them all on his very own, and is quite proud of that.

But today. He woke up early from his nap and cried the “I’ve lost my binky” cry (I know it by heart now). And I. decided. to. let. him. cry. it. out.  The first few minutes were easy. But then I started finding reasons to ‘wander’ outside - for just a moment. The mail came. I saw a weed out the window (and of course, had to immediately go pull it). Is that smoke coming from the neighbor’s house (oh, no… just a cloud). Then I wised up and turned off the monitor.  And he did fall back asleep. After putting up a huge fight. That kid sure is persistent!

I don’t know what we’ll do tonight. Or what I’ll do when he wakes up from his nap and realizes that he gave in and fell asleep binky-less. (Oh, the horror!)

I had all these lofty thoughts about how we’d strategically wean him - take him to the toy store and let him “buy” something with the binkies, give them ‘as a gift’ (wink*) to a newborn, get rid of all but one and then take that one away too (is it just me, or does all of this sound rather cruel?), transfer him to a big boy bed and indoctrinate tell him that “big boys don’t use binkies - they’re only for babies.” So much for all of that.

Please, moms and dads, tell me your binky-less stories. I’ve taken the first step (that of refusing to ‘rescue’ the thrown binky). What next???