On heat and Slip N’ Slides
The girls wanted to play with the Slip N’ Slide today. I tried to talk them out of it but found that my argument essentially boiled down to “I would rather sit on the couch in the cocoon of my darkened house than frolic outside in the fresh air and have some summer fun,” so I decided to just go with it.
I do not have fond memories of the Slip N’ Slide. As a child, I recall feeling rather certain that whoever invented this device lived in a land far, far away from mine. The theory is that you lay a long yellow tarp down across the grass, wet it, and when kids run and jump on it they’ll glide along in a splashtastic spray of water. In those northern places (you know, the ones that have those things called “seasons”) like Oregon, Washington, perhaps Vermont and Maine, I’m sure that this works out very well. I can just picture throwing yourself down onto the tarp only to be cushioned by lush, springy grass that helps you glide along as if on a cloud.
Here in Texas, that’s not how it works.
When we threw ourselves on Slip N’ Slides, we were met with a bone-crushingly hard ground that was sparsely covered by grass that had the consistency of old hay. As we slid down the yellow tarp for our three seconds of fun, we’d invariably experience the familiar explosion of pain from previously undiscovered rocks or sticks jabbing deep into our internal organs. Then we’d slide off the end into some fire ants.
The girls, however, did not seem to share my perception of this activity as abject misery, and set up the Slip N’ Slide in my front yard with unbridled enthusiasm. I tried to join in this all-American ritual of doing things outdoors in the heat and enjoying it, but I’ve been out of practice for, oh, 20 years. I stood stiffly near the yellow tarp and occasionally forced a supportive comment about the sliding prowess of the young ladies. Within about two minutes my skin began to get blotchy and I thought I had the beginning symptoms of heat stroke, so I shuffled over to a tree to get in the shade. I made a mental note to find a book I could read that offers a detailed exposition of how one could go about carefree summertime frolicking. Compared to the laughing, running kids around me, a passerby might have mistaken me for a statue of a sullen albino.
“Miss Jennifer! Miss Jennifer! Do you want to slide with us? It’s so much fun!” they called out to me.
“At what point, pray tell, will the fun begin?” I wanted to ask. “When I hoist myself awkwardly down onto the tarp, when the ice cold water sends my overheated system into shock, or when I engage in some sort of motion that begins a forward trajectory over the various hard objects in our yard?” Instead I just shook my head and adjusted my oversized black sunglasses.
I had gone through the Herculean effort of wrestling my children into bathing suits so that they could join in this so-called fun. I saw that my two-year-old redheaded daughter, the only one of my children unfortunate enough to get all the Irish genes, was increasingly looking like a lobster despite being caked in SPF 45 sunscreen. People with our skin tone don’t need SPF; we need burkhas.
As all the children smiled in glee at the wonder of the Slip N’ Slide*, I did feel thankful that at least we are safely removed from the rich neighborhoods where kids these days have inflatable water wondercastles that the bring the thrill and joy of a water theme park right to your front yard. Around here, we can still get away with throwing some plastic on the ground, hosing it down and calling it a day.
I realize this whole post is apropos of nothing, but why have a blog if you can’t occasionally take a post to complain about the heat? I guess all I’m trying to say is: IT’S HOT OUT THERE, Y’ALL.
* All of them except the redhead, that is. Our day of fun was abruptly cut short when some water droplets touched her and she screamed about it for twenty minutes, leading me to realize that she is not a fun in the sun person either.
Photo by Paco CT
Notes and updates
- For those of you who are following the story, things suddenly got better with Riley. I’ll write about it more later, but she and the other girls are back to spending 4 – 8 hours a day over here. Since many people commented and emailed after this post I just thought I’d offer that update.
- I’m excited to hear about the new Faith and Family blog for Catholic moms. From their About page: “As we help each other along the way, we hope that our magazine and blog will affirm something that is already written on every mother’s heart: That motherhood is a privilege. That family life is a joy. And that though being a wife and mother is likely to be the single most challenging thing any of us ever do, it is also likely to be the single most important thing any of us ever do as well. We invite you to pray, laugh, cry, and share the good and the bad right along with us.” What a great mission statement.
- The folks at Mary’s Aggies strongly recommend checking out this upcoming EWTN series called Being Human.
- Behold Your Mother will be hosting a Mary Moments Carnival. The theme for August is “Great Marian Books.” If you’d like to submit a post the form is here, and the deadline is August 10.
- Abbot Joseph, who always has incredibly thought-provoking posts at his blog Word Incarnate, sent me a touching email about his devotion to praying for those who are dying. He asked that I encourage others to do this, which is a great idea. Here’s his post about the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, and you can also get more info my requesting a flyer from his monestary at Abbot Joseph / Mt Tabor Monastery / P.O. Box 217 / Redwood Valley, CA 95470.
- Jeffrey Mark Ostrowski has created a site dedicated to sacred music. I felt like an ignoramus browsing through it because I kept thinking, “All this Latin is confusing me!” I am evidently not the target audience for this site.
- One of my favorite bloggers, Amy Milburn (Historical Christian), is asking for feedback as she develops a podcast of core Catholic beliefs.
- Since clearing out my inbox continues to be a Sysiphean endeavor, I’ve updated my email policy.
The story of a friendship
Remember the kids who were ringing my doorbell and running? They kept doing it.
I talked to them about it again, as kindly and calmly as possible, and yet they kept at it, usually waking up my children and shattering my free time in the process. I’d been trying not to bring it up with their parents/guardians since I know that some of them have complicated situations at home, and I didn’t want to add any stress there. But a few weeks ago I’d exhausted all ability to be charitable, and I was just mad. In an example of how even a little bit of sin can open the floodgates for a lot more sin, I allowed myself to indulge in some self-pitying thoughts one afternoon; a few days later, I had a grand conspiracy theory all worked out in my head, had firmly labeled myself “VICTIM,” and was delighted by thoughts of revenge. I no longer wanted to talk to their parents to simply put an end to the pranks, but to get back at them.
One Wednesday afternoon I found myself staring out the window, watching them run away after yet another incident. As I heard a couple of my children beginning to fuss upstairs, I was consumed with rage. In a last-ditch effort to control my temper before I did a reverse-address lookup to get their home phone numbers and start leaving nasty messages on their parents’ answering machines, I prayed. Through clenched teeth, my feeble attempt at prayer went something like this:
Lord, I am about to be on seriously bad terms with some of my neighbors. I don’t want it to be that way, but I am beyond my ability to be charitable here. I need help. NOW.
In a highly unusual moment, I actually sensed an immediate, very clear answer to my prayer: I suddenly knew that it would all work out somehow, and my angry urge to go yell on their parents’ voicemail dissipated. But I also got a clear feeling that God was putting these children in my path for a reason, and would continue to send them to my doorstep, so to speak, until I welcomed them.
So I disconnected the doorbell.
I know, that sounds ridiculous: I prayed, received an answer, and then went ahead and did my own thing anyway since the answer wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I all but thought, “That’ll teach the Holy Spirit to boss me around!” as I unwrapped the last wire from the doorbell box.
I was smugly proud of myself for my great idea to get rid of the annoyance these kids had caused. And yet, that feeling wouldn’t go away. The strong sense that I was meant to have some kind of contact with them continued. And then, two days after I said the prayer, I found an injured bird on my driveway. I was so frustrated because it was hard to tend to this bird with a three-year-old, a 21-month-old and a nine-month-old in tow. I was overwhelmed. I was upset. I needed help. I looked up in desperation to flag down the first person I saw…and the four doorbell-ringers were standing just a few feet away, shuffling around in the neighbor’s driveway.
I had planned for my next interaction with them to be one filled with threats and lectures. Instead, I found myself asking, “Can you help me?”
To make a long story short, the girls eagerly helped me tend to the little bird, and in the process we struck up a conversation. We ended up chatting in my driveway for more than an hour. After getting to know them a bit, I felt terrible for my previous feelings of anger towards them: for one thing, they’re a lot younger than I thought they were, their ages ranging from eight to ten. I also got the sense that they were just terribly bored; some of their moms don’t get home until around 7:30, so they have hours of free time to fill after school each day.
We said our goodbyes at the end of the evening. The next day, just as I was settling in to enjoy some precious down time, they knocked on my door again. Only this time, they didn’t run. They’d ostensibly come to see about the bird’s progress, yet after I gave them an update, they didn’t leave. I hinted a few times to wrap up our conversation, but they didn’t take the bait.
Finally, one of them said softly, “You seem like a nice person, and I could really use someone to talk to. Do you think we could come in?”
“Sorry,” I replied. “You kids really need to get out of here so that I can go write a blog post about trying to be more selfless.”
Kidding.
Wondering how on earth I would avoid mental collapse without any time to myself, I silently said a little prayer for strength, and replied, “Sure. I’d love for you to join me.” Inspired by Meredith‘s example of hospitality, I got out my wedding china in honor of my special guests, brewed some sweet orange tea, dumped a big bag of pretzels into a bowl, and found some extra chairs to make room for us all around my kitchen table.
In that moment, a friendship was born.
For some people, this would be a pretty normal scene, sitting around your table with a group of elementary school children from the neighborhood. There are people out there who are naturally good with kids, perhaps who have experience babysitting or volunteering with youth groups, who have a knack for rapping with young people on their level. I am not one of those people.
As far as these kids were concerned, I was perfectly content to be the mysterious crank nextdoor, a shadowy figure whose existence was suspected only from an occasional chink in the blinds, behind which you could a voice grumble, “You kids!” To have a kitchen full of eight- and ten-year-olds is about as unlikely a situation as it gets for me. I would only be slightly more surprised if a UFO crashed in my back yard and I ended up sipping tea with green aliens with antennae coming out of their heads. I could not be more out of my element.
And yet, the fingerprints of God are all over this situation. The peace of the Holy Spirit is palpable.
This is what I mean by the Christian life being an exciting life. Had it not been for that feeling I got through prayer and the belief that God gives us the strength we need to do his will, I would have never put myself in this situation. I’m spread so thin as it is, I would have never thought I could survive if I gave one more minute of my time to anyone else. But when I see the girls excitedly waving their hands, so eager to share that they actually jump out of their chairs and exclaim, “Miss Jennifer, pick me! Pick me!” as they try not to talk over one another, I know that God is guiding this situation, and that he will give me the help I need.
Yesterday, as the girls passed out gooey fresh-from-the-oven cookies they’d baked in my kitchen, I was marveling once again at the incredible unlikeliness of this scene. I have no idea where God is going with this, why he sent them my way, or where it’s going from here. I can’t imagine how it could possibly work to spend so much time with them for the long term. But when one of the girls looked around with wide eyes and exclaimed, “Miss Jennifer, I just love it that we’re all best friends!” I knew one thing for sure: this is exactly where I need to be.
UPDATE: A follow-up to this post is here, and click here to see all the posts about my friendship with my little neighbor friends.