The Booger No Man-Burp Can Rival

Look at your pinkie nail.  Imagine something about 1/10 that size.  If you're a guy, maybe 1/12.  So small, right?  Inconsequential really.

But so is a grain of sand.  Tiny.  Until it gets stuck in your eye, and then you're a fair way to being totally debilitated.  And that makes it all the more frustrating.  I mean, really; nothing that small should have such control over a civilized human being.

Especially in the middle of the night.  And ESPECIALLY when it's a booger.  An infant booger the size of 1/10 of your pinkie nail.

My kids tend toward gassiness in their infancy.  The really painful, body-gyrating, spit-up inducing, wails of woe kind of gassiness.  So about a third of of my current feedings with Roxie on any given day are me trying to calm her at the beginning of the feeding when the rush of first milk makes her gulp, getting air, and arch her back in anger that she's hungry but in too much pain to keep going.  So we jostle and pat the back, jostle and pat the back.  But eventually, the air comes up and out.  Then she eats and we repeat the process when she's finished.

Barney from The Simpsons has
got nothin' on Rox.

And I defy any guy competing in some frat-house burp contest to produce a more manly, baritone resonance that lasts as long and with as much volume as that which Roxie's little body can produce.  It's almost...a work of art.  Plus she wins well deserved bragging rights, and we win the proud-parent status.  The burp = winning.

The glorious thing is that most of our middle-of-the-night feedings go burp-free, because Roxie is mostly asleep and so very relaxed.  But the episodes of jostle and pat the back do enter our nocturnal routine often enough.  Till the burp, then sweet relief and then rest.

But there's one thing that I never encountered with Levi or Adelaide, and it's way worse than the gas:  The Booger.  And I blame this very dusty farmhouse and this very dry winter air.  (No, a humidifier doesn't seem to help.)  Almost every morning, and almost on-cue as the clock hits about 5:00 am, I begin to hear the grunting and frustration, the sounds of snot and booger being sucked up and shot back down, up, down, up, down, up, down, rapidly, while Roxie tries to fight it, struggles to breathe, makes it worse, struggles some more, then gets mad and wakes up demanding reprieve. 

So I grab her quickly from the co-sleeper and grasp around for the bulb-syringe-nose-sucker-thingie that is awesome when successful.  I squeeze the bulb, stick it in the nostril I *hope* is the offending nostril, and release the bulb.  I pull it out, and as my sleepy-crazed self is not thinking straight enough to grab a tissue into which to squeeze out anything captured, I just shoot it randomly into the air, or onto my bed somewhere.  Nothing.  Nothing but shrieking wails from my imposed-upon child.  I stick the bulb back in and realize that it's personal with this booger.  I'm tired.  Roxie is loud enough to possibly awaken my other children, and it's close enough to normal waking hours that they might not go back to sleep if awakened.  The peace of our home is at stake.  The sucker goes back in, and there might be a little more aggressive suctioning than is quite recommended for a person of her size.  The sucker comes out, and I'm wildly firing it into the air or down toward my comforter, hoping to see a string of snot and a booger.  Unlike the burps that almost always work themselves up and out, these boogers are elusive.  There are times when I can tilt her wailing head back and peer deep down the nostril and spot the offender.  "I seeeee you, you blasted booger."  There it is, only about a quarter inch from my grasp, if that, stuck.  One booger.  Not even one quarter inch.  5 am.  Yes.



About half the time, I emerge victorious as the booger emerges DEFEATED, shot onto my comforter where I gloat and glare at it and realize my daughter is beside herself in a frenzy and needs some maternal affectations after such a battle.  And about half the time, all the intrusion, poking, sucking, wailing, and forceful infant breathing jostle the booger out of place up in the nostril and open the canal so that it no longer bothers her.  By then, we're all so very awake and startled that sleep seems the last logical conclusion, but we get there.

Saline drops would help if I could remember to buy them.  And one would think that I would, too, given the dramatic episodes, but I somehow manage forgetfulness.

So you see, when presented with the obvious choice of man-burp or tiny, tiny, itty-bitty infant booger, I'll take the man-burp every time.  Because the man-burp makes us winners. 

But The Booger...is Evil.

I'm a Great Mom

Let's just address this "Mommy Guilt" thing once and for all.

We're inundated in our popular culture and media with the same debates: stay-at-home mom versus working mom, rigid schedules versus relaxed, nursing versus formula, yada yada yada.  They're constantly coming to the same conclusions:

1.  Studies show that this is best (followed next week by why that has its merits, too)
2.  You're just fine if you do either one.  We promise.  Love yourself.

But the fact that they keep saying, "You're just fine!  It's OK!" leaves this lingering uspoken thought that maybe it's not just fine.  So we have to be assured, in different ways, from different angles, with each new magazine issue or news program.  From whence does this unspoken thought come?  From popular media who place it in our corporate imagination by CONSTANTLY addressing it! 

(And am I just adding to it by writing about it here?  Meh.)

Does it have to be this...

...or this?

NO!

Here's a trick I use with  my kids.  Most of us do, I'm sure.  If they're about to encounter a new hurdle or concept, I plant in their minds the attitude I'd like them to have about it.  It's new to them and most of the time, they don't know how everyone else perceives it.  When Levi was about to turn 5 and therefore graduate out of the nursery at church, he was going to have to start sitting quietly with us through the preaching.  We knew it would be an adjustment at the very least to simply make a change in his routine, much less take him out of an environment where he could make some noise and play with his friends into an environment where he'd have to stay relatively still and play in almost total silence. 

But rather than focus on how hard it would be, we didn't even address that part.  We built up lots of excitement starting a few months beforehand and talked about what a big boy he was and that he was graduating and was going to get to stay in the big church with us and some of his older friends.  We bought him activity books for his birthday, but he couldn't use them until his first day of church, nursery-free.  We gave him perspective, something to look forward to.  And we managed to avoid any major traumatic meltdowns that I know would've arisen if we'd walked around on eggshells with him and said, "Son, we're sorry you won't get to play in nursery anymore, but it'll be OK!  You'll be fine, even though it'll be hard, we promise!"

But that's the way our media treats us.  They hone in on possible insecurities and feed them while telling us, "But it's OK!"  Some of them are probably well intentioned, and others are no doubt calculated, because as long as they can keep the problem afloat, they can sell their product by talking about it.  But WHEN did THEY become the experts on MY family?

So you know what?  I'm over it!  I have caught myself in this merry-go-round thought pattern of wondering if I'm doing major permanent harm to my kids, to becoming defensive with myself about it, to thinking everything's going pretty well, to wondering how horrible it would be if I got some kind of job or put Levi in public school for kindergarten, to apologizing profusely to friends for the meal of PBJs and Doritos I was feeding my kids, and so on.  It was all very insidious, because I barely knew how pervasive it was in my day!  I'm actually a really confident person.  And yet, there was all this garbage floating around my mind, and I suddenly thought one day, "STOP!"

I hit the brakes on these thoughts that I realized were not my own.  No, I am not a perfect mom. 

But you better believe I'm a pretty great mom.  With all my humanity and imperfections, the very fact that I care so much about the details should prove to myself that my kids are in good hands.  I don't care if I end up working away from home one day.  Or if my kids are home-schooled.  Or aren't homeschooled.  I don't care if I feed them a vegan diet.  Or if they occasionally eat junk food or fast food.  I know that every decision I make, that Jed and I make, is always with the intent of preserving their best interests.  And our kids are loved.  Like, so stinkin' LOVED.

Will everything turn out perfectly?  Not a chance.  And that's life.  I'm a great mom, because I realize that and will no longer allow it to define me as lacking.

Will we look like that other family down the street that really excels where I do not?  We never will.  And that's life.  We're the Finley family, and by the way, no other family that lacks where we excel will ever look like us.  They'll look like them.  I'm a great mom, because I'm happy to do my best for my kids.

Will I apply this revelation and suddenly be great at everything?  Yeah, right.  I'm a great mom, because I will not take my flaws personally but will address them as best I can for the benefit of everyone. 

Unless you're a reprobate child abuser, I challenge you to buck the status quo, look in the mirror, and tell yourself, "I'm a great mom!" 

Because great as I am (and did I mention I'm pretty great?), I know I'm not the only one. 

Roxie: Delivery Highlights as Told in Random Quotes

*Longest Post Ever Alert*

Roxie is two months old today, and that means I haven't posted to this blog in (checking my watch), oh yes, two months.

I spent the first month easing myself off of chairs and using my best Uncle Rico voice to declare that I "broke my coccyx."  Then I got this zany, sleep-deprived idea to tell the story of Roxie's arrival using various applicable (sort of) quotes.  Now, I'm not sure it's all that great of an idea, but it's been ruminating so long that I'll feel I've left something undone if I do not follow through.  So here's how it all went down.

"I swear, you need a passport to come [up] here."

I delivered Roxie about 5 miles from the Canadian border, and it so happens that my OB is French Canadian and has a delightful French accent that I've come to understand.  As she was not on call, the doctor who delivered Roxie was also French Canadian (and also now one of my favorite people), and his accent was less familiar to me.  So when things came to a screeching halt in my labor, he was talking about an epidural, but all I heard was "eh-puh-dyuhr-AAAHL," and before I realized what he was talking about, it made an already exciting time that much more exciting as I played "Decipher the MD code in a foreign tongue" between contractions.

"I-I-I-I love technology-y-y.  Noooot as much as you, you see.  But I sti-i-i-ill love technology-y-y, always and forever-r-r." 

With phones and Kindle Fire in hands, Jed and I were notifying certain folks whenever any major progress was made, including when I was about to push.  Now, we did have a slightly good excuse for the TMI because a very small glitch about halfway through had us contacting the prayer brigade who was then very interested in updates.  Even at 1 in the morning.  So, as a laboring woman with all the hormones and emotions that go into it, when I would look over at Jed on his chair with phone in hand, totally absorbed, I knew that right there was a sign of the times.  (Before you get the wrong idea, I'll be sure to clarify that Jed is the best labor coach on the planet, hands down.)

"She's running to stand - still." 

I kind of hoped Roxie would come a day before her due date, which was January 11.  The 10th was my granddaddy's birthday, and her middle name is my grandmother's, and I just thought it would be neat.  I labored all day on the 10th, and by around 5pm, we realized it was the real deal, and it suddenly started to go into overdrive.  We headed to the hospital, and as soon as we got settled, the engines really revved, and everything moved along quickly...like, maybe another two hours and we'll have a new kid.  I like the idea of medication-free deliveries but have yet to follow through on that little dream.  The intensity was enough for me to announce that an epidural, ten minutes ago please, would be just fine.  I got the epidural from the weirdest anesthesiologist who had zero social skills, always slammed the door, and due to his job, had a plastic bag on his head.  Not long after that, everything slowed down just a touch, so my MD ordered pitocin to give the engine a little kick-start.  Then everything slowed down even more, and she seemed stuck in a weird angle that wouldn't budge (this is presumed to be from the ferocious nature of my water breaking, but why on earth would I actually say that and make you think about it?).  She was still much higher up in my belly than she really ought to have been by then.  They turned me on my side, her heart rate dropped drastically, they turned me back, the MD that I love began throwing out the possibility of a C-section, Jed and I had thumbs moving wildly on our phones to update the prayer brigade, then we asked medical personnel to leave the room please.  Fast, slow, fast, slow...it was pretty strange.  I figure she wanted to arrive right on time, so she just took a breather till after midnight.

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and supplication and with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God."

After the room cleared, we put our hands on my belly and thanked Yahweh for our sweet little daughter, and we blessed the delivery to resume smoothly and safely come what may, but we also prophesied that any impediment be removed.  A few minutes later, the doctor came in and decided he'd try taking me off the pitocin to see if Roxie's heart rate would normalize and maybe she would descend.  To him, it didn't seem likely.  And then the engine revved again!  Contractions picked back up in intensity and duration, and I could feel her descending like nothing had ever happened.  In not time, Jed and I were in the room alone again, and I knew it sounded crazy.  It was just too soon!  But I knew she was ready.  I was about to call the doctor in to check when he walked in of his own accord.  I said, "I know you're not going to believe me, but I think it's time to push.  Could you check?"  He sort of chuckled, then checked, then raised his eyebrows and laughed again, giving directions to the nurse: "OK, let's have this baby!" 

"Every baby is the sweetest and the best." 

I pushed for about 3 seconds (OK, it was through two contractions, so maybe 7 minutes, but it seemed really fast!) and there she was, Roxie Evelyn, the sweetest and the best!

"The fair is a veritable smorgasbord." 

The size of my cavernous appetite is no secret to most folks.  At a camping trip after high school, some friends labeled me the Human Tapeworm (lovely, yes?) because I didn't stop eating and they didn't know where it all went.  (Now I could show them where it went, but that's beside the point.  Ahem.)  Anyway, we went to the hospital around dinnertime, just before dinnertime that is, which is just poor form.  One must eat for the marathon that is labor.  I asked the nurse repeatedly for food, even though I knew the answer was a packet of crackers every so often.  But all I really remember after the delivery was asking for, and eating, 30 pieces of toast, followed by 30 more pieces, followed by morning, finally!, when I could order a proper meal.  I also remember my dear friends coming to visit the next night right as my dinner came, and impolite as it was, I didn't wait for them to leave before I stuffed my face.  In fact, I'm not even sure I actually looked up at them.  Delivering children really builds up the appetite.  Not just mine, OK? 

"Broke her coccyx." 

After I stuffed my belly with breakfast (Roxie was born around 1 in the morning; it's hilarious that I actually don't remember the time.  It might've been right after 2 am, but moving on.), I decided to get out of bed.  The eh-puh-dyuhr-AAAHL had worn off, and all I knew was that something had gone awry with my tailbone.  Seriously.  All the regular culprits were not part of my labor experience, so none of us knows why that was the case.  I just know that I've enjoyed quoting Uncle Rico for some time now, and I'm cracking up that it's the inspiration for this post that is just waaaaaaaaay longer than it should be! 

"More cowbell." 

Dear slightly-off, middle-of-the-night nurse with the loose, squeaky wheel on your rolling cart:  FIX YOUR CART!  Exhausted parents of newborns don't want you clanking into the room in the middle of the night for a routine check like we're all college students, wide awake, with nothing to do but be noisy and annoying.  Kind as you are, you get no brownie points for anything but utter silence.  (All those raging hormones make new moms a little wild-eyed, ya know.)

"Hey, Ace."
"Yeah, Dan?"
"You got any more of that gum?"

"That's none of your...business, and I'll thank you to stay out of my personal affairs." 

Listen, one thing they never warn you about is just how many random people from random departments come into your hospital room after you give birth in order to give you information, take your information, make suggestions, ask if you have any suggestions, give you forms, take your forms, and so on.  Our little family hospital was not sooo bad, but when I delivered Adelaide at the giant teaching/research institutional hospital in the city, it was all whack-a-doo.  Jed said he kept waiting for the CostCo rep to come in to renew our membership.  You feel a little like the world has been given license to get all up in your business.  It was during one such visit that we made the Game Day switch on Roxie's name.  The Social Security Administration worker ("Sure!  Come on in!  Come one, come all!) came in for the official name form, and Jed and I had been discussing making Roxie the first name instead of the intended middle name.  My mom and dad both go by their middle names, and one of the only things my mom has ever been adamant about in life is what a pain it is on forms and explaining first-day roll calls.  So she went from Evelyn Roxie to Roxie Evelyn.  All while some stranger stood by and observed.

"Be careful, little ears, what you hear." 

One of the visitors we didn't mind was my OB coming in to check how the delivery went.  She is, as I said, French Canadian with very sharp facial features, particularly her cheekbones and jaw.  She is also one of the tiniest people I've ever seen in real life.  After she left, Jed said something I forever wish I could erase from my mind's eye:  "She looks like Willem Dafoe." 

That's right.  Please ignore my total
incompetence at cutting/pasting.

Sooooo, that makes all my checkups pretty interesting. 

"It's beginning to look a lot like...weather." 

(I do not condone the watching of this movie, by the way!)

We were pretty set to leave the hospital on Day 2, but I was waiting for my lunch.  THEN we could leave.  AFTER lunch.  But the snowstorm the weather guys were discussing and that we were taking lightly started to blow in with great gusto.  By the time we left, with our newborn in the car, the roads were absolutely nasty.  And one of a parent's worst fears happened.  We started to spin out with traffic behind us and a box truck coming toward us.  We spun into the other lane with on-coming traffic headed our way, straight for the ditch on the other side.  But Jed, who is masterful in such conditions, and the grace of Yahweh, steadied us on the road, and Jed pulled the car back around so that it faced the right direction, and was in the right lane, and we drove .0023 miles an hour the rest of the way home.

Driving your newborn home is nerve-wracking anyway.  They're just so very fragile.  But we finally made it up the driveway and brought her in the front door to her excited siblings, and our lives are forever changed!

Carpe Nutellem

I bet most of you have read the "Don't Carpe Diem" article written by Glennon Melton for the Huffington Post.  For all you moms, parents for that matter, who can't quite measure up to the pressure to feel constantly elated about the duties of parenthood (please tell me that's all of us!), it's a funny read.  It's touched a nerve, because it's been circulated about a million times within my circle of friends.  I've realized in my current newborn-toddler-pre-K-er situation that there are a few key things I hope to carpe in any given week, let alone every diem.  This newborn season is short but intense, so we take what we can get, and the list is as old as humanity: there's nothing new under the sun (except maybe green lights...and Nutella).

CARPE NUTELLEM

No explanation needed.  Thank you, Italy.  I don't know how many croissants we've gone through, but I've found the time needed to glop this onto one is negligible, even with a newborn in one arm.

CARPE WINKEM

Sleep.  Wherever you can get it.  Do it.

CARPE DE-FILTHEM

Even with my mom here, oh-so-graciously, in the fray to help us, this is a sight still slightly more elusive to me than I'd like to yet admit.  If the water's still hot after all those loads of newborn-poo-that-doesn't-come-off laundry, all the better!

CARPE CUP-O'-JOE-EM

One might think it contradictory to CARPE WINKEM, but that is false.  The end.

CARPE OPEN-ROADEM

There might be a pattern here from other posts.  I like driving.  I like being alone.  But especially right now, the two or so times I've had to make an appointment, ALL BY MYSELF!, let's just say I carpe-ed the mess out of it. 

CARPE GREEN-LIGHTEM

Anyone who's driven through town with a screaming newborn who dozes when the car's in motion then erupts when the car stops knows what this is all about.  Red lights are the enemy.

CARPE SILENCIUM

Loud, knocking toys; toddler protests; baby wails; silly songs for kids: it's just everyday life, but apparently it can lead to overload.  Because then there's walking down the stairs, kids are down for the night, and all there is for a brief moment is the slight roar of the fire.  If the TV's on, I turn it off.  Silence. Is. Golden.  Ahhhhh.

(But mostly, CARPE NUTELLEM)

Top Ten Reasons Roxie Ought to Come Today

Even though I absolutely have my wits about me and am totally calm and the actual due date isn't even until tomorrow and that means she could not come for another week and a half, here are the top ten reasons I think Roxie ought to make her debut, well, right now.

10.  I've been having various bouts of contractions since New Year's Eve.  That was 10 days ago...

(Ten. Days.)

9.  We finally purchased the larger vehicle needed to fit all three children at the same time.  I felt certain that she was just waiting for us to get that affair in order, but that was finalized last Friday, soooooo....

8.  I am ready.  (Thank you, Captain Obvious, I know.  As if this post alone hadn't made it pretty clear.)

7.  I completed my random nesting-lady to-do list, including waxing my mustache. What else could she be waiting on?

6.  I encouraged Jed through completion of his Honey-Do list, including mounting the paper towel holder on the wall.  Again, what else could she be waiting on?

5.  There is a newborn-sized person inside my body.  Currently.  Isn't that enough?

4.  January 10th is the day I've been gunning for since the beginning, because it was my Granddaddy's birthday.  It has a nostalgic connection, aaaaand it'd be convenient to remember for that side of the family.

3.  Last night was a full moon.  Isn't that supposed to pull her out like it pulls the tides?

2.  I finally packed my hospital bag.  (Hopefully she's not just procrastinating like her mom.)

1.  Tomorrow's the official due date, and I've been saying I think she'll come early.  That leaves us with today, little girl!

Therefore, it really ought to start happening, just, any moment now.  Just any moment.  Aaaaany time...

In the meantime, I'll be in the living room, jumping around with Levi.

(And reminding myself that she is so very portable and well-fed where she is...no need to rush it.  No need to rush it.  No need to rush...)


   

He's Captured My Heart, and Today, He's FIVE!

I can't pinpoint the day I fell madly in love with Levi. 

It wasn't the day of his birth, though I loved him with a mama-bear passion.  Twenty-two hours of grueling, induced, take-these-contractions-with-no-rest-in-between-and-like-it labor left me stunned in a hospital gown.  (OK, the last hour was a rainbow-y dance in the sunshine, as the epidural I [finally] agreed to took effect.)  But I was stunned nevertheless.  And with a baby.  A baby!  Our first.  Levi.

These past five years, he has proven to be thoughtfully inquisitive, thirsty for understanding, hilariously goofy, and a fine dancer.  Keeping up with the pace of his memory and questions leaves me daily challenged, and remembering to nurture his soft-hearted love and sensitivity so that he will continue to turn that tenderness, and entrust it, to Yahweh is a pleasure I do not take for granted.

I listen to his creative jokes, watch him play his funny pretend games with his funny pretend workers (imaginary friends we've all grown to love:  Binkin, Paunch, Kimper, Chimp, and Shama-Lama-Lingus, who all live currently on Pluto), try to give him honest answers to his constant questions, and watch him absorb wide-eyed any story we read or make up, and I think my heart will burst.

He is a strong little boy, full of life and willfulness, and while all kids are awesome, I have the distinct motherly privilege of being completely and uselessly biased into thinking he is the greatest little boy on the planet.  (Just like every other mother's little boy; it's our special right). 



I only now realized that I wrote
"Birthay."  Nice one, Mom!




So sweet, sweet Mr. Levi (aka Schmevi, aka Bubba) Eliot Finley, happiest of birthdays to you today as you turn FIVE!  Here's to your loose teeth and the one that's gone nearly horizontal today as you continued to mess with it, declaring, "I need the money."  (What?)  Here's to your practically politician-cultivated diplomacy and charm on the phone as you fielded your birthday calls all day, expressing great gratitude and grace with every caller.  Here's to your cake-decorating skills, your magic tricks, your declarations about mouse poop, and your investigations on your new microscope.  Your huge brown eyes and precious smile are a joy to me, and your lively nature give me incredible, new perspective on life and our heavenly Father.  May you always know and love Him, walk according to His purpose for you, know peace, laugh at fear and inhibitions, inspire and bless others, and change the world. 

I love you, sweet Bear!  We are so proud of you!

Kids' Bliss Trains the Parents: Wait, What?

Follow your bliss.  Just follow it.  Follow what?  Your bliss.  What is your bliss?  I have no idea.  The thing that brings you bliss?  So bliss is the ultimate goal?  No, your bliss is the ultimate goal.  Nice.  Follow that.

I heard of an interview in which Brad Pitt says he really just encourages his kids to follow their bliss.  I may've vomited a little bit in my mouth.  Little kids' bliss runs the gamut.  Putting plastic chunks in their noses.  Eating only cake for three days.  Practicing kung fu on their friends' faces.  Maybe, just maybe, they could use a little direction.   

There's this proverb you probably already know:  "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it" (Prov. 22:6).  It sneaked into my thoughts a month or so ago, and then it started knocking around and making some noise that I couldn't ignore, and now it's pretty much stuck in my craw.  I started picking out the tiniest morsels for rumination:  What does it mean by "train," by "way," by "should," and by the conclusion that he'll not depart from it?  Yeah, I know.  If you find that intense, welcome to my world. 

I figured there were three things crucial to deciphering all this.  First, ask Yahweh.  Duh.  He's the one stirring it up; I'd be obtuse to not ask Him why.  Second, investigate the original language for clues.  And third, consider apple trees. 

From Yahweh, I've been getting the idea of equipping children for successful adulthood in the most practical ways.  I mean, even as specific as praying about His calling for their lives, for their careers, and beginning to develop those talents and capacities.  I think a lot of parents do that.  I see many families in which the kids follow in the path made available by their parents.  You know, boys learning their dad's trade to continue the family business, or those families where the dad's a doctor, and all the kids are, too, or the dad's a minister, and all his sons are, too.  But they are the exception, not the rule.  It just happened that when I'd see the words of this proverb in my mind, the word "way" was being highlighted, as if the Father was saying, "This is more than just becoming a believer.  I know the plans I have for your kid.  Learn my heart, and buy up their childhood to help them in that path."  Right now, Jed and I think it'd be cool to raise Levi to become a dentist, because they are respectable and make decent money, and they only work, like, Mon - Thurs from 9:00-3:30.  Then in the summer, you call them up, and they defer you to their colleague dentist friends, because they're out of the office for a month.  The only thing better would be practicing dentistry in Europe where they value the afternoon nap and possibly don't care much about their teeth. 

I was raised to believe I could achieve anything and that the world was my oyster, and it was truly encouraging, but I realized as I stepped over the threshold into adulthood that maybe being prepared for the whole world was a little overwhelming and perhaps a little more specific direction would've been useful, too.

OK, so then there's the original language of the proverb.  Clarke's Commentary on the Bible says, "The Hebrew of this clause is curious: חנך לנער על פי דרכו chanoch lannaar al pi darco, 'Initiate the child at the opening (the mouth) of his path.'"  And, well, OK, if we're going to do this, then I'll revisit "initiate:"  "to introduce into the knowledge of some art or subject" or "to set going" (dictionary.com).  Interesting.  Interesting that it would say the mouth of "his" path, eh?  So we're onto something. 
 
Barnes' Notes on the Bible say something similar about it:
"Train - Initiate, and so, educate.
The way he should go - Or, according to the tenor of his way, i. e., the path especially belonging to, especially fitted for, the individual's character. The proverb enjoins the closest possible study of each child's temperament and the adaptation of 'his way of life' to that."  Again with the direction having to do very much with the individual purpose placed in that child.

I think as parents we so want to develop our children's characters, decision-making faculties, and faith so that they can be adults who plan and choose wisely.  But then this whole can of worms opens up, and I realize, hey, why not?  It would be a huge success as a parent to take that role of wisdom and covering and prayerful consideration and begin to shape our children in the most practical ways for the most successful life, according to the Father's plan for them.  It's totally doable. 

I'm avoiding too many details here, because I don't feel inclined to start arranging marriages between infants or discounting the preferences of my kids as they get older and start considering such things on their own.  But there's something to all this. 

Then there's the apple tree, and this is just an aside, more about the training part of it all.  Left untended, an apple tree just grows up and out in all directions, stretching its limbs, being free to grow and be and do just what it wants.  It also produces few apples and tiny apples.  As far as contribution goes, it's pretty worthless.

A well-tended apple tree, on the other hand, has been trained.  It's been literally trimmed and tied to posts and forced to grow into the most productive, gnarly shape ever, one that's loaded with big, delicious apples come harvest time.  Training an apple tree into productivity requires attention, knowledge, foresight, and work.  And so it goes with our kids. 

Recently, in the news, have been stories about parents who are overly obsessed with gender and not "forcing" gender on their kids.  (A little late for that since the dude's sperm determined it and literally created the kid with a gender.  Can't be helped.)  Anyone who knows me halfway knows that I think these people are flat-out idiots, and that's probably why I'm cramming the concept into this post.

But here's why.  I advocate for parental authority in kids' lives.  I am happy that so many families do so many things differently, and that's part of the flavor of each family.  But kids should not be making serious life decisions for themselves when they're seven.  They are not the ones in charge of grown-up thought at that time.  They are playing pretend, learning, begging for someone to make sense of it all for them.  Consider the following from the author of My Princess Boy:  “When he said, ‘I am a princess,’ I said, ‘Boys aren’t princesses,’” Kilodavis recalled. “He said, ‘I’m a boy princess.’ He’s driving the agenda for who he is.”  (Emphasis mine.)

I read this and figure that here is the case of a confused person letting their little kid follow his bliss.  WHY....is he driving the agenda?  Did I mention the kid was four?  4.  FOUR.  He's playing dress up.  What on earth would cause a lucid brain to set a kid loose on any sort of identity path like that, treating it as an age-appropriate course for him to seriously explore based on his own agenda?  That poor kid needs some help.  Or just someone to laugh off all his silly incarnations as he goes through all the costumes in the house.  Come on, parents, stop letting the current societal trends lull you into sacrificing your child's sanity.  I'm not even getting into the whole gay/transgender argument here; I'm just saying that kids need direction and help making sense of who they are, not for you to take them seriously every time they say they want to be a frog-dinosaur.  Most kids would be schizophrenic if we told them to just be all the things that creep into their imaginations.  When they're FOUR.

This kid was two (yep) when his parents started letting him call the shots:

Poor little boy with a whim to pretend to be
a girl has a mom who therefore immediately grows out
his hair and buys him dresses... Methinks that might be
the recipe for creating, rather than abating,
confusion.

So yeah.  Fluffy as it sounds for an adult to just follow your bliss, it becomes comical when it's the rule for children.  We parents ought to be training away rather than letting our two-year-olds train us like a bunch of circus animals!  How does it so easily get flipped around?