Angel On Your Shoulder

Last night things returned to their usual clusterfuck: Ezra woke up at 2:30, and less than an hour later Noah appeared at my bedside in near tears over a dream about plane, Grandma and Ceiba -- something so vivid, apparently, that he still runs to my side for a reassuring hug every time a plane flies overhead. We attempted to return the boys to their respective beds around 4:30, which lasted for about an hour for Noah ("My tummy hurrrrrts. And the plane! The plaaaane!") and about five minutes for Ezra.

I grumpily and blindly reswaddled Ezra's arms in total darkness and tried to put him in his swing (look, the 30-Day Shred is making my muscles sore enough -- I am now officially cherishing every inch of my personal space at night), but that didn't work either. Defeated, I brought him back to bed, carefully flipped down the loose sheets and blankets, curled around him protectively with my back to Jason and Noah, and fell sound asleep.

At some point I felt a hand on my shoulder. It squeezed and shook me a little, the way Jason does when he's trying to wake me up or make sure that I know it's time to wake up, wordlessly, lest I roll over and slug him. (I'm...not nice, first thing.) My eyes opened and I slowly realized it was still pitch black out -- what the FUCK was he waking me up for? After the night we had? Seriously, DUUUUUDE.

I groggily glanced down at the baby...

...who was completely still, his face covered by the swaddling blanket.

I frantically yanked the layers off. I'd wrapped him too loosely and sloppily, and exactly like Ashley mentioned in the comments yesterday, he'd raised his arms and pulled everything over his head.

He was fine. Warm and breathing. I sat there staring at him, panting in the wake of those 15 seconds or so of panic.

I turned around, already wondering how Jason could have known to wake me up...but he was sound asleep, his arms fully engaged around Noah, who was curled into a sleeping little ball with his hands under his chin. I put my own hand on my shoulder, where I swear I could still feel the sensation of that life-saving squeeze.

I know most parents have had those moments -- those terrible what-if moments that leave you totally shaken long after you know everything is fine, that you still replay over and over to chastise yourself for that moment of carelessness, stupidity, of oh my god you know better! what were you thinking?  And then you gulp and whisper thanks to Someone and mark one down in the Never Doing That Again column, but still. All day you're sort of unsettled, like a toddler trying to sort through a dream about his dog, his Grandma and a plane falling from the sky.

I keep telling him that it's okay, that it wasn't real.  

The baby is okay, although the danger was pretty real. The hand on my shoulder, though. That. I don't know. I just don't know.

Biblethumping

So first of all, this is the second time I've written this entry, since I somehow managed to close my browser AS I SCROLLED THE MOUSE UP TO THE PUBLISH BUTTON, so please attribute any anger to that, and not the subject matter. The first version contained a shocking amount of non-bitterness, and really demonstrated my growth as a person, and while we're at it, let's just say it was the greatest thing ever written in the history of the English language, and this version is going to suck because GAR BLAM ANGRY.

Second of all: thank you. Thank you to everybody who commented on my last entry. Your responses were all so reasoned and diverse and thoughtful, and while it did get a little overwhelming at times, overall they made for excellent reading yesterday while I LAID AROUND IN BED WITH A GROSSLY SWOLLEN MOUTH FROM HAVING MULTIPLE CAVITIES DRILLED AND ALSO THEY SOOTHED THE PAIN IN MY HEART FROM THE DENTAL BILL I PAID. A DENTAL BILL THAT INCLUDED A COMMA.

Oy. But that's a different entry o' bitching. Today's entry is about y'all, and how much I appreciate the time you took to write about something so deeply personal...and so deeplier unhip. Also for mostly keeping the fire and brimstone out of the conversation. REPENT, YE BLOGGER, LEST THE DEVIL HIMSELF RISE FROM HELL TO HEAP DECAY AND DESTRUCTION UPON THOU TEETH AND GUMS.

I was also encouraged to see that most of you actually get my real point (which, given my incredibly imprecise and poorly punctuated writing, is easy to miss): the faith/religion/whatever of my childhood was very much an all-or-nothing concept. It didn't leave a lot of room for questioning (unless you were okay with the answer always being: FAITH, my child. You simply must have FAITH.) Either you believed every word of the Bible literally, including the 24-hour days of the creation story, and went to church every week and voted Republican and didn't smoke or drink or curse or engage in heavy petting...or you were simply not good enough.

Which is why it's still a real struggle for me to accept that I can ditch 99% of that and be anything other than a godless heathen. Which is exactly what I've secretly thought of myself for the better part of a decade now. Since...well, that's exactly what we always called the Unitarians and the wishy-washy "God is everywhere" people and OMG THEY ARE PROBABLY PART OF A NEW AGE CULT LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU IT'S SATAN! AAAHHH!

(And really and truly and honestly? I AM afraid of dying and going to hell. Rhett! Save me!)

And I know. I know! For it is by grace that you have been saved, through faith -- and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God -- not by works, so that no one can boast. Dude, I memorized that verse for Sunday school about a million times. I think there was even a praise chorus for it. So I don't know where I got all tangled up in the crazy legalism. Maybe it was my own perfectionism, maybe it was some passive-aggressive ministering, maybe it was because I was so damned IMMERSED in it all the damned time, what with going to church five times a week and the Christian school and whatnot. Somewhere along the way I got caught up in a never-good-enough mindset where I would stress because I could never keep up with my morning devotions and began to have doubts about two of every animal REALLY fitting on a single boat and also? Dinosaurs?

And of course, let's not forget all the church splits and acrimony and just downright embarrassingly awful behavior I witnessed that was all done in the name of Christ.

Christ. My teeth still hurt.

Last night I had a dream that I was passed over from some awesome imaginary blogging-type job because "they" wanted someone who was more than "just a mommyblogger." And so they refused to even read the sample entries I provided, including the one from Tuesday. And I got all mad and stomped around because it was about GOD, MOTHERFUCKERS, and it was DEEP and only TANGENTIALLY mentioned my kid, so STOP PUTTING ME IN A CORNER, I WILL CUT YOU.

(Yes, I really told them I would cut them. Perhaps the dream actually symbolized that I need to brush up on my interview skills?)

(Also, I only included this story so I could transition from talking about God, motherfuckers, and get back to talking about my kid. Yes.)

Yesterday Noah and I were hanging out in the backyard. He was chasing after Ceiba and shrieking at the top of his lungs and no, I don't know why my neighbor sends her six-year-old out to talk to me on purpose now, while I sat out with my laptop sending whiny emails to people about my teeth. Every once in awhile I'd squirt him with the hose.

At some point I glanced at the clock and realized that it was seven o'clock. Seven! Noah eats dinner at six! Oh shit! But then I shrugged and forgave myself for the omg worst mother evah hyperbole o' guilt, because Noah was obviously having fun and would have let me know if he was really that hungry.

That's when I noticed that Noah was desperately attempting to suck up hose water from the planks of the deck.

So. Question. The whole grace-not-deeds thing. That totally applies to parenting too, right?

I will not forget this, Mother. And one day I shall blame all of my existential gardening woes on you. Probably on my blog.

Crisis of Faith & Salsa

We went to Chipotle for lunch on Sunday. Jason stood in line while I snagged an empty table. As I tried to navigate Noah and a high chair across the crowded restaurant, hoping to not whack anybody in the ankles, I felt the weight of the high chair vanish. A young man wordlessly took it from me and carried it to my table, while I thanked him repeatedly, surprised at the unexpected help -- and also at how surprised I was about the unexpected help.

He sat down at his own table, bowed his head and prayed silently over his burrito.

I remember how my family used to pray over meals in restaurants. I remember not caring for a lot of years, and then I remember caring so very much. I remember my face flushing with embarassment as my parents prayed aloud over burgers and fries at Friendly's, while our waitress hovered nearby, unsure whether placing the ketchup bottle on the table would disturb our communion with the Lord Father in Heaven.

A few minutes later a family asked the man if they could join  him at his oversized table since there weren't any other seats. They were obviously eating out post-Church, dressed in their Sunday best, like my family had done almost every Sunday for my entire life. We attended a casual church but dressed up anyway -- it was disrespectful otherwise, although at some point in time I think my mother consented to letting my wear nice pants instead of a dress.

Soon the entire table was engaged in an easy, friendly sort of conversation. I wondered if the family had seen the young man say grace a few minutes earlier, or if they saw his shorts and t-shirt and assumed he needed to be saved. I wondered if they'd try to save his soul right there, like the time I made that little boy ask Jesus into his heart on the playground at McDonald's.

I wondered what they thought of my family, just one table away, all wearing shorts and flip-flops. I wondered if they felt sorry for Noah, like I used to feel sorry for the children at the booth next to us on Sundays, the day it was easiest to tell who went to church and who was a Godless lazy heathen.

I remember stressing about the fate of our fellow restaurant patrons to the point that I was unable to eat -- what if that baby over there never heard about God? Would it be my fault for not talking to her parents today? Would she go to hell because I was too busy enjoying my clown sundae with the M&Ms at the bottom to plant the seed of faith in their hearts and would Jesus look at me sadly one day in heaven because I'd been the crucial part in his plan for that little girl? Would he show me the jewels I could have had in my crown that I'd forfeited because I'd been too embarassed to close my eyes during grace that day, when that's all it would have taken to be a witness for Christ?

The family asked the young man about where he worked and lived and how long he'd been here in America. They asked him whether the burritos were authentic or not, and whether he liked the hot salsa.

"They're different, but good." he answered with a smile. "And I like the medium."

I thought about how I ended up with a child named for a Bible story but who has never been to church. Who has never been baptized. I thought about the children's Bibles and religious books our families have given us and wondered whether they worry that we'll never tell him about Jesus. Or whether the salvation of his soul is their burden alone. I wondered what in the world I'm supposed to tell him about his Fisher-Price Noah's Ark playset.

I wondered what happened to my faith and my fervor and my absolute belief in the Bible and the existence of God and heaven. I wondered when everything got so messed up for me, and why I have such ambivalence to the idea of putting on some nice pants and going to church on Sunday.

The church family's little boy spilled some rice, and the young man handed them his extra napkins.

I wonder if he'll ever know how much his actions spoke to me this Sunday.