Lois Lyda

I have officially made it my goal to unsubscribe to all bulk emails. John McCain’s Country First, Farouk Shami for Governor, Mom’s groups, Kid’s organic toy companies that, even with “mega sales” of a whopping 20% off, I will never afford to buy.

This unsubscribing equivocates part of my prelenten efforts to steer clear of “wanting”. The need to accumulate and buy at times attacks my psyche and, while our budget hardly budges, convinces me to buy.

Yesterday, for example, I clicked on an add for some reduced price diaper bag, and ended up purchasing four pairs of lace-free kiddie shoes (75% off MRSP, noless). While two pairs may have been legitimate, the $6.95 flat shipping rate convinced me that I’d get a better deal the more shoes I bought, which was almost the same cost as one pair of shoes.

One hour later, still deciding between the periwinkle blue gators and the orange fuzzy kitty’s, I fizzled away my evening wondering which footy friend would delight my children the most. In the end, I settled on the lightning bugs, and spent $38. All because of one failure to unsubscribe!

These emails take not just my money but my time. The irony is that while I seem to end up with time to open the email, and loose myself in online shopping, I never “have time” enough to press on the unsubscribe button at the bottom of the email. But this year, I’ve had enough of being prosletized and marketed to on email.

To date, I have 5425 emails in my inbox. At least half of these from bulk marketing.  From time to time I’ll go through and determine to delete , but I never make it below 5000. I have a mind to just “select all” and wipe out every trace of the past 5 years-worth of email communication, but the google search feature makes it too easy to keep things in my ever growing cyber landfill.  Imagine if those 5000 emails were paper. I wonder how much room they’d take up. One file cabinet? One garbage can? The entire garage? Who knows.  But 5000 seems excessive.

Unsubscribing to email is just one way I am trying to take control of my lack of self control, by eliminating the stimuli that convince me I need to buy things I never before thought I needed to buy.

So far so good. I haven’t bought anything since. . . well, okay, just one ltle thing . . .but it was an icon to help prepare me for the self-denial of lent!

What else in my life can I “unsubscribe” from?

My “outgoing mail” of excessive talking and my “junk mail” of overeating is next!

 When did parenting become reduced to the bare-bones task of keeping them alive?

When I first started full-time mothering, I was convinced it was “the highest calling.” I envisioned soul-profiting days of Bible memory and life skills. I was even under the illusion that I’d be implementing praying the hours with my kids at our icon corner, in between bouts of meaningful tasks in our media-free society.

My perfect parenthood world came crashing down around me on Friday (shortly after opting out of morning prayers in lieu of Blue’s Clues). I was tidying up the kids bathroom with a little Windex wipe-down, and the kids were happily playing together about five feet away in the neighboring room. Their squawks and squeels made me smile as I scrubbed the watermelon toothpaste from the counter, peeking in every few minutes to watch them scale the side of the newly assembled bunk bed with great determination and delight. “Be careful” I cautioned, and then went back to my cleaning, while happiness was still on my side.

But then I heard an unusually strained squawk & squeel. One that, had I not been mere feet away, I would have never heard. I jutted into the room, “Everything okay . . ?”

To my horror, Eden was hanging from the side of the bunk, suspended by a rope that noosed her neck. She was an inch from the ground, but dangling, caught in her descent by a four-year-old’s determined grasp. “I’m pulling you up, Eden, come on!” he was shouting excitedly, completely oblivious to her struggle for breath.

Expeditiously, I scooped her up, pulled the knot loose, and drew her to me. Coughing and sputtering, and still grasping at her raw red neck, she could barely utter a word. “Lord have mercy” I whispered, holding my daughter silently, frightfully, too tightly until I began to cry the words as the thought of near-death struck me deeper still. In the blink of an eye I could have lost my daughter. I was unnerved.

I didn’t have the stamina to spank my son, who had started bawling from the top bunk. I couldn’t let go of my daughter, who’s little body was still taut, her heart pounding, her eyes filled with fear. I studied meticulously the pink ribbon of tender skin around her neck.

Gradually, tears watered our frightened embrace with unimaginable relief.

Thanks be to God, she was alive, and how precious this fragile little life was to me.

I have always taken it for granted that my home is a safe-haven. A place protected from harm. While I am certain my “baby proofing” could be more thorough, I have never thought of my home as a danger-zone, let alone potential crime-scene. I have never thought of myself as a negligent parent, either. Fluctuating between attentive and distracted perhaps, but never negligent.

All this has now changed for me. If I ever put myself on a parenting pedestal, I’ve been completely knocked off. My so-called “agenda” has been completely stripped. To be single-minded in my effort not to multi-task is one thing. Choosing to make important what is really important, another. But if I can just keep my kids alive while they’re in my care, it will be a most blessed accomplishment. One that, in and of itself, is a very high calling!

Coffee hour duty is spiritual warfare for me. 

Those Sundays, I am like an inactive soldier reporting for boot camp.  When that one weekend a month arrives, I am in for a serious kick in the pants.

For me, cooking for 50+ people is not a delectable desire, it is a duty that usually ends with a culinary death, and leads to spiritual suicide.  Truly, coffee hour duty has been one disaster after another.  Whenever that Sunday approaches I moan, I stress, I panic.  I start cooking, boiling, steaming. . . hormonally speaking.  The night before, the verbal battery begins when I spout off all the reasons my coffee hour offering will be doomed.  For example, last time I made beans, in my dimented state of mind, the congregants had already complained about them being bland and crunchy before they’d even made it in the crock pot.  Another time, I was so fired up about getting my fruit salad to the church on time, I put the china dish on top of the roof  and drove off full speed. 

  So this time, I prayed a special “coffee hour duty” prayer as I boiled the eggs the night before.  Piece of cake, I thought, as I climbed into bed.  Just peel, scoop, and mash in the morning.

 At 8am the peeling process wasn’t as easy as I had imagined.  The whites were gluey and stuck to the shell, making my so-called hard boiled’s look like mutilated poached eggs. 

“They don’t look cooked all the way” said my observing husband, 15 minutes before our scheduled departure, as I’m standing at the sink with my robe still on estimating my losses, and wondering how a seemingly simple task  has come to this.  So I frantically reboil them, as my hormones also begin boiling.  It doesn’t take but a few minutes, and I see that eggs have started to crack and ooze.  Subsequently,  my emotions also begin cracking and oozing.  Soon, my spirit is completely scrambled. 

For 30 minutes, I cry,  &  declare I can’t possibly go to church in this forlorn state with such forlorn looking eggs.  Then I drink a coke for consolation as I nurse my emotional battle wounds on the couch. 

But  then it occurs to me how important it is that I not let my temperamental emotions and temperamental eggs spoil my day and  my meager offering to God’s people.  So I peel myself off the couch and pull myself together.  Later than usual, we make it to church along with 50% of the eggs, paprika and all.

Silly as it may sound, as I reflect on the morning’s mahem, I am convinced that this was a war waged by the Evil One.  The battlefield,  my mind (and the kitchen);  the assailant,  my thoughts (and the devil’s eggs).  He used the culinary comotion to ruin my spiritual appetite.  In the end, did I devil the eggs, or did they bedevil me?

A while ago,  I visited a TV-free home -  my friend, a homeschooling mother of four - and left feeling a surprising, yet real sense of peace.  I didn’t immediately notice the absence of a TV.  The usual  places for a TV were occupied by a piano, a fireplace lined with pictures, a book shelf, a window.  I took note as the 8-year-old contentedly sat on the couch reading Ann of Green Gables.  The other three took charge of their own imaginations playing contentedly with a small selection of  simple toys.  I was amazed.  How does she do it without the TV?  Why would she do it?  Seeing how well she managed, how well her kids managed for that matter, I was lead inevitably to question my own reliance on TV as parenting “help”. 

When the FCC came out with cautioning remarks about the negative influence of TV on young children, mothers cried out against this measure, saying, “How will I cook dinner or clean house without the TV?” With this reaction, it’s a wonder  our culture survived before 1958 when TV became a standard household companion.  Nowadays the TV has become not only commonplace, but a necessity for most families.  It is not that we can’t live without it, it’s just that we don’t know how.   We have adapted to restless images and accustomed ourselves to background noise and call it “multitasking.” 

 Of course this “multitasking” training begins so early that we unknowingly teach our children how not to concentrate.  Children interupt their own imaginative play to stare at frenzied images on a two-dimentional screen.  It’s been dubbed the parent’s most convenient babysitter; it’s always available, and it’s cheap.  But is it quality time well spent? 

When our family grew from one child to two, I was overwhelmed.  The couch was overflowing with laundry that needed sorting and putting away.  The sink was fermenting with dirty dishes.  I felt as though my only chance at keeping afloat, was to get another couch (for more laundry seating), throw the laundry away, or turn on the TV and let my son “zone out” while I “got things done.”   I really and truly wanted to educate and enjoy my children, but the stress of managing a home wore on me and won.   I felt that Emmanuel could at least retreat to the happy place in TV-land.  Deep down, this bothered me.  After a while I realized that much of the stress I was feeling was guilt.  But it wasn’t laundry guilt (although the smell of the wild underpants rotting in the basket made me feel a little below housewife par).   

When he watched TV, his  animated, energetic, smiling demeanor changed.  All the color from his face seemed to drain into the TV the longer he sat motionless and mesmorized.  Even standing on my head and juggling could not break his trance.  His eyes lost their luster, their life, and it seemed he had been zapped or drugged by the TV.   He didn’t seem himself.  Furthermore, when the TV went off, my son would spiral into a rage.  He became arbitrarily agressive and angry.  My belief in the so-called “happy place” began to change. 

 It has taken me several months first to warm up to the idea then to muster the courage to unplug.  I will continue to share my journey towards TV-free living as I go.

Considering our yard is a truncated 10 x 10 space not much bigger than our livingroom, I’m amazed at the creation capacity it has:  Snap peas, squash and spinach, raspberries and two blackberry bushes, a fruit cocktail tree, a patriotic rose of sharron, a flowering pair tree, roses, climbing jasmin, and wild flowers splashing color in unexpected places.  Gardening has always attracted me as a natural teacher to children of how life cycles work, and how things grow.  It never occured to me that our planting would attract other teachers as well. 

 A few days ago, our raspberries ready for the picking, we went out to gather our first harvest, only to discover that “someone” had beaten us to it; they were gone.  It wasn’t long before Emmanuel discovered a rabbit hopping around the wildflower jungle that is our yard. He chased after the rabbit with great excitement and curiosity; this small brown bunny was impossible to catch and excellent at hiding.  The next day, we went out to pick some spinach, only to find that this rabbit had exceptional timing.  Our garden may have been somewhat of a failure, but in many ways, provided an excellent oportunity to let nature teach us. 

 We took our son to Barnes & Noble the next day, and picked out the original authorized version of Beatrice Potter’s classic little book, “The Tale of Peter Rabbit.”  Encountering a wild “naughty” rabbit close to home, our son was instantly drawn to Peter.  The drawings are masterfully real, and the charaters are personified in such a way as to remain true to nature (well, besides the fact that they are partly clothed and can talk!).  We were able to sympathize with the antagonist gardener Mr. McGreggor chasing after Peter, and understand the importance of obedience;  Old Mrs. Rabbit told her bunnies to stay away for their protection, not for their punishment.    

Peter still visits our garden frequently, though he’s not too fond of the sprinklers.  We really should get a fence to protect our produce, or our blackberries will be next.  Until then, we will observe our Peter Rabbit as he interacts with our garden during the day, and read stories about him at night.

  One of the things that bothers me about Sunday worship is the break down of the family. And it’s not just parents from their children; siblings are quarantined off by narrow age margins of as little as six months.  And while the adults can enjoy the service without shushing or pointing a disciplinary finger, what are their children doing?  Certainly, they are being bred for worship.  But are they learning to be true worshipers, or are they learning to be the center of their own worship? 

Let me explain.  In most churchest I have visited, there is a multi-colored “kid zone” that alarmingly resembles a McDonalds playland. Equiped with slides, toys galore, maybe even french fries and a coke. . . does the children’s church resemble “church” in anyway? The children have fun, for sure, but do they learn anything about how to worship?  At best my son might scribble over the words “Jesus loves me” with a crayon (an activity that might take him a total of 10 seconds), but since he can’t read, did he learn anything about what worship looks like?  Instead, for two hours, with all his needs catered to, wildest fun guaranteed, he is taught how to be a consumer of stuff, a lover of pleasure, a worshiper of self. 

When our first-born was a few weeks old, we ventured out to a large church down the road.  I wasn’t about to place my newborn into the hands of a stranger in a room already teeming with helpless babes, so I brought him into the sanctuary with me.   I felt like I was sneaking him in;  we sat in the back to “hide him”, as if I was breaking the rules by wanting to worship with my new baby rather than without.  Within minutes my feelings were validated, as an announcement was made: “There is excellent child care for a reason  -  please use it.”  A thousand preying eyes pounced on me.  Embarrassed, I relocated to the nursing mom’s room, and watched the rest of the service on the TV monitor, separated from my husband and the worshipping community.  It was a very isolating experience, church sponsored motherhood aparthied.

When we first came to the Orthodox church, one of the things that attracted me was the sound of a crying baby, the shushing of a mother to her child, the sound of childrens voices mixed with mature ones. It was refreshing to see kids and parents worship together, approach the challice for communion as a family, raise  united voices in love for God.  It was heavenly. 

Even now after two years, I keep expecting kids to be discharged, but they never are.  A two hour liturgy doesn’t deter them from zealously attending church school after the service while the adults fellowship and break the fast together.  It is a suppliment, not a replacement for the worship service.  During this time, bible stories are taught, the liturgy explained, hymns practiced, bible verses memorized.  And this is why they call it “church school”; preparing, training, educating, growing children to be worshippers. 

Now that I have two toddlers, I faintly lament the loss of “dropping the kids off” in the morning.  It certainly would be much easier.  But I do not think it would be better, for them or for me.  It is my primary job (not the church’s) to raise my children to be worshippers of the living God; to be reverent; to be prayerful; to stand in awe of Him; to bow with humility before His throne; to be attentive to the Word of God.  As the saying goes, children “Do as I do, not as I say.”  It still remains that the best way for my children to learn how to worship is to watch me. 

What will become of our children if we let our churches spoon feed our children when they need solid food for spiritual growth?  If they spend the first seventeen years of their church life being catered to, playing games and having fun, they will never transition into “adult” worship.  Instead, they will become a generation who is disenchanted with the Church because it doesn’t meet their needs.  A generation who thinks the world revolves around them.  A generation with no respect for authority and no self-discipline.  I don’t want to see my son drinking out of a spiritual sippy cup at seventeen, do you?

A revolving conversation in our household is how we want to raise our children. One of the topics frequently discussed is schooling. While Ben and I both had positive public school experiences, after teaching in the same system of which we are products, we began to have parental doubts (I’ll save the “why’s” for another day). A few years ago, we stumbled upon a classical Christian school through a family acquaintance. We began reading up on classical Christian education, and then we attended the open house. (yes, our son is only 3, but if the next two years fly by as fast as the first three did, we thought we better get a move on in figuring out his academic future!)

 At the open house we expected to be informed; instead, we were moved to tears. This came as a surprise to both of us, since neither of us (according to Myers-Briggs) make decisions based upon emotions. Ben scribbled on the information package, “I want this (underline underline underline) for our children.” “Me too!” I tearfully mouthed back, as the 3rd grade choir sang the hymn “This is my Father’s World” from memory (all five verses, no less), and I could picture my own dad sitting proudly in the audience on grandparent’s day watching Emmanuel singing about the beauty of God’s creation. And that’s just it. That God is the author of life should be the beginning point for all learning. This is a key missing ingredient in public school.

Another option we considered is Home Schooling. Many mothers at my church do it, and I hold them in high esteem, but to be honest, I don’t think I have it in me. Most of them look frazzled, worn out, exhausted, beaten down. No doubt, it is the most demanding job in the world. But I don’t think I’m homeschooling mom potential. My sister points out that, with our teaching background and “skill set”, we’d have “an excellent home school.” I’m just not totally convinced. I already feel frazzled & worn out, and all I have to do is be here.  Perhaps, I just don’t have the desire. Or perhaps it is that Ben and I have already made our decision to invest in a classical Christian education for our children.

We hung out with our neighbors tonight.  One of them was showing off his new tatoo written in large bold print,”Fuck all ya’ll.”   With the smell of cigarette smoke and beer in the air, heavy metal music played loudly from the improv garage band.   I couldn’t help feeling somewhat “otherworldly.”  A sense that I don’t belong here with all this tension and hatred.  Meanwhile, as the lyrics to the songs raged, our son scooted playfully down the sidewalk on his tricycle, and our daughter innocently danced to the music.  I felt sad about our meager attempts to be good neighbors and good parents, and frustrated that the two goals seemed to be clashing unexpectedly.  To keep my children pure, to keep their eyes and ears from the evil in this world is more difficult than I originally thought. 

I crossed the street, and put Eden to bed, comforted this night to pray, knowing that this is the ‘one thing needed’ of parenthood.  The only parenting strategy that actually might “work.”

And so I pray:

Raise my children to be pure in heart, that they may see God.  

Raise my children to stand firmly against God-hating teaching. 

Raise my children to run from the world and the delusion of the world. 

Raise my children to turn away from evil and do good.     

Public school cannot teach my children to be pure, or to be good.  And on my own strength, neither can I.  Still, more than anything, this is my desire for them.  Purity and Goodness.  Grant this, O Lord.

 While birthdays have always been a bit of a let down, this one tops the cake in my recent memory (although due to getting “older”, this is not so good, anyway). Admittedly, it began under a false  premise that you get what you ask for. I’m 29, I should know better.

 So, about a week before my birthday, my husband asked me, “What do you want for your birthday?”
“To leave the house. . . and a clean house,” was my immediate and sincere reply. Meaning me leave the house without the kids, since I’d been housebound for a week with the car in the shop, and someone other than me cleaning. 

 My birthday came, and just before my husband left for work he handed me a card with $100. Of course I love receiving cash gifts.  However, in the not too distant past, we had decided to gift ourselves each with $100 of petty cash to budget miscellaneous needs or wants for the month.  Awkwardly, I asked if this was “over and above” my monthy allowance.  Awkwardly, Ben said “no”. 

“Thanks for the card,” I said.

Thus began my birthday.
 Ben had to work late, but he assured me there would be “something tomorrow”.

When the kids are happy, I’m happy, so I decided to take them to the lake. My son couldn’t be happier to pack up his giant dollar store shovel that was almost as tall as himself. It turned out to be a beautiful sunny April day.  The kids played non-stop with the best inter-personal skills I’ve ever seen for a three- and one- year old.  I blew up a big yellow pre-historic giraffe that Emmanuel named “Beer”, and the two of them floated around content as clams.  They really enjoyed my birthday!

We returned home for very late afternoon naps to a very messy house.  While they were sleeping, I decided to clean up, so that I could be my own fairy God-mother and grant my own birthday wish.  I was pleased with the outcome, minus the fact that it was my handiwork.  When Eden awoke from her nap, she was very sick.  Perhaps she’d swallowed some lake water. 

The next day, Emmanuel followed suit.  The two of them shivered on the couch watching movies, moaning and vomiting occasionally.  As anticipated, in the late afternoon, the doorbell rang.  Was it my mother-in-law arriving to clean my house, or look after my kids so I could go out? After all, she had told me she was really excited about her gift for me. No, just the UPS man.  I was surprised to read “PajamaGram” on the outside of the box.  Maybe some sexy lingerie?  Wrong again. Inside a hat box was a pair of sky blue pajamas speckled with white and pink feathers.  They weren’t lined or made with organic sateen,  or programed to massage me in the night.  Just plain cotton pjs . . . in size M.  I scowled.  I’m not size M.  I checked the bank account with great shock to find a $75 dollar charge.  I was convinced I could find the same pajamas at Walmart for under $5.  

Another package awaited me in the mail box.  It was from my brother - pink pajamas.  These, I liked very much, though I was starting to wonder what kind of vibe I’m giving off.

I had suggested to Ben that I’d like to have a game night on my birthday weekend. Sunday arrived, and Ben announced that his parents would be coming over for lunch.  Not exactly my ideal birthday game night, but it was a nice gesture.  Excitedly, my mother-in-law handed me her gift.  Pajamas, no less!  Oh, and some scented drawer lining paper  - the same gift I received from her last year.  I’m not sure why exactly I would need drawer lining paper on my birthday, in light of the fact that all my drawers are to my knowledge lined.  I have no burning desire to stick my head in Ben’s sock drawer and take a whiff of strawberry shortcake.  

I’ve been thinking about this pajama phenomenon a lot since then.  I realize that I have been tired; worn out from long days wrestling and wrangling two toddlers, and lethargic from lack of exercise.  No wonder I received three pairs of pj’s (the drawer liner is still a mystery)! 

My sister-in-law emailed, “I hope your day is full of birthday surprises”.  Well, it definately was filled with the surprise of not getting what I wanted.  And this is a good lesson for any person, no matter how old.   Sadly, or maybe just naturally, I don’t view birthdays magically anymore.  I don’t wait up all night before, or anticipate my wildest dreams coming true because I’m one year older.  I consider myself to be a woman of simple needs. For me, a “birthday surprise”  would have been something out of the ordinary like a few hours by myself at a coffee shop.  Because a few hours at a coffee shop would be just enough to rejuvinate me, to magically transport me to another “world” for just a moment. Compared to this, pajamas are surprisingly ordinary.

I turned 29 and turned the pages of modernity from private  journaling to public blogging.  After blogging a few entries on our family website, it just seemed more fitting to have my own cyber “pages” to type thoughts that are purely mine, not necessarily a reflection of our family as a whole.  So, i tried to come up with some fancy name for my personal blog; “mummylyda” or “sophiadawning” (my christian name) or “chronicles of motherhood”.  In the course of picking a title, I decided that i didn’t necessarily want to limit my blog to motherhood.  while this is the most consuming aspect of my life at present, it may not always be the most central theme of my blogging.  Perhaps I may write more about other topics, marriage, writing, orthodoxy, or perhaps the blog will assume a purpose beyond my current imaginings.  As of now, I simply want an avenue to write where the art of writing itself doesn’ t have to be such an introverted and lonely pursuit.  It is my hope that in the course of googling, someone might stumble upon my blog who shares a similar experience with me.  While I am new at this, it is my intention to be as honest and real as possible, even at the risk of embarassment and blushing.  Wish me well in my new venture!  More to come soon . . .