“Those without a sense of entitlement shall inherit the earth.”

“Those without a sense of entitlement shall inherit the earth.” That’s what he said. Well, that wasn’t his only interpretation, but it was there, amongst a variety of illustrations on the nature of meekness.

That brought me up short. Meekness – yes. Meekness is good. But to consciously deny my own rights? My rights! That was something else.

But here he was, saying that it wasn’t something else at all. That meekness involved forgetting one’s own rights. That my “sense of entitlement,” as a wife, as a woman, as a member of society – that had to go.

He did qualify it. “I’m not saying that there can be no communication and talking over of things.” But at its root, he assured us, meekness meant understanding how worthless we are, in ourselves, apart from God.

I don’t know about you, but in my head, I think that I have a right to say that about him, to slice and dice that nasty person with my words. Don’t you see what s/he did? I have a right to expect my husband to do certain things for me, and I certainly have a right to make like a popsicle if he ignores my needs, the insensitive clod. I have a right to get angry at people who toss McDonald’s wrappers in the ditch on *my* property. To feel bitterness towards them as I trudge along with my garbage bag, cleaning up someone else’s stinking mess.

I have a right to that first kiss, when Kevin comes home.

To be thanked, for my time and energy spent in making that meal.

To receive courteous service at the bank and grocery store.

It’s only fair.

Let’s think about fairness for a moment. When Jesus Christ died because I sinned against God, was that fair?

When I consider that, my perspective changes. How can I insist on getting my ‘rights,’ when Jesus put everything He was rightfully entitled to aside, choosing mercy and love instead?

And how can I do just the opposite, insisting on my rights at the expense of mercy and love? Now *that* wouldn’t be fair.

Inheriting the earth aside, the sense of entitlement needs to go!

And what a nice bonus that is; inheriting the earth. It’s very encouraging, as I carry on in meekness, even when those McD wrappers pile up and the first kiss goes to the baby.

More Baby Signs

My sister told me that her baby only did one sign at a time. For instance, if he learned "more," he would stop doing the sign for "milk." And so I was not surprised when Katherine learned "please" and dropped "change." I still faithfully modeled the signs for her, but she stuck with "please."
(I had a suspicion that she thought it meant "pick me up, Mommy," but that was okay.)
And then, quite suddenly, yesterday, I realized that she did only one sign, because that's what worked. I had been changing her, picking her up, finding her soother, and other things, when she would say "please."
Then, while waiting in a long line at Green Village, she needed a change. So she said "please." I picked her up and snuggled her a bit, then put her back down. Change was impossible right then.
She tried again. I smiled at her, and told her she was a good girl, to be saying please so nicely. One more try. Then, finally, in desperation, she said "change" (which she hasn't said for at least a month), followed quickly by "please."
So I changed her.

In my opinion, babies only say one sign at a time because that's all they need to say!

Does watching TV cause ADHD?

"Does watching TV cause ADHD?

Emote

Here in Lewis Mountain, we have water so hard it would disown its mother. It also layers itself on the sink and taps, making cleaning them virtually impossible.
Impossible, that is, without magic eraser. I recently discovered the Eraser's shining powers, and went to town on my sink, that very day.
When Kevin came home, I told him about it.
"...and look how nice and shiny the sink is! Isn't it nice?" I asked him.
"Mhmm." said Kevin from behind the paper. "Very nice."
I glanced at him and saw his complete lack of interest. "You don't care!" I cried, turning back to the sink, doing my best to appear to be stricken with grief.
Alarmed, he put the paper down and nearly jumped out of his chair, overcome with remorse, probably. Then he noticed that I was faking.
He looked at me disapprovingly.
"Someone who's on the emotional roller-coaster that you're on shouldn't make jokes like that!"

I just laughed.

Baby Sign Language

Katherine has learned to say "change!"
Her hand sign isn't exactly the same as mine, but it's close enough that we both know what she means. I am enormously excited about this success, and suddenly want to teach her everything: Please. Thank you. More. Milk. Mommy. Daddy. Apple Crisp. And all those other signs you hear about.
The tricky part is, of course, that anything I teach her I must first master myself.
It's the story of my life.

Life has a Score

Last Saturday, Kevin recruited some strong men to move a piano into our house.
And then suddenly, he's living in a documentary.
The classical music begins.
Kevin waits for his cue. Around bar 14, he begins.
"...and here, on your left, you will see the ruins of an ancient castle, once occupied by Sir Walter Carmange, of Shropshire.
...Moving on, now, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to draw your attention to this fine example of Romanesque architecture, built in the late 1400's by one of the Queen's closest advisers, Sir James Aylward..."

And so I discover that, in Kevin's experience, classical music has been (mostly) restricted to the soundtrack for documentaries about the United Kingdom.
Now, quite suddenly, Little House on Lewis Mountain - on all day, every day - has a score of its own.

Now nothing makes a mom more defensive than...

Parental Labeling.

You've probably heard of it. In fact, you've probably done it, subconsciously. Or maybe even consciously.
"She's too easygoing." "He's too strict." "They're too organized." "They're all over the place." "She's too proud of him." "She's a mom, but acts as if she was still single." "She's so scared of germs, she washes the baby's hands after a diaper change." "Her kid will get more than his peck of dirt." "They're too suburban." "They're too redneck."

Everyone does it. And who does it better than one's family? They have known you longer than everyone else. They have a vested interest in your children as grandparents, uncles, and aunts. They watch you more closely than they would watch a friend, knowing where you come from and expecting certain things of you.

Families are expert labelers.

I became aware of my family's label for me shortly after my baby reached 2 months. I wasn't surprised to be labeled; I knew *I* did it. What did surprise me, though, was the label itself. "Dinah," they said, "is a worrywart."
A worrywart! Dinah the calm, Dinah the sensible, Dinah the rational - Dinah the worrywart??
Was I?
I knew where it had started. My baby has allergies. Before I figured out what exactly she was reacting to, she spent about 60% of the time feeling sick. Rash, itchyness, congestion, fussiness, and general blah-ness were common.
I told mom about it one day.
"She's sick at least 60% of the time." I said. "It's awful. I'm not drinking milk for a while, to see if that causes it, too. I know nuts are bad already."
The next day, Katherine was doing fine (a 40% day, obviously), and I went to mom's to do laundry.
Says mom: "She looks the picture of health." (Katherine smiles and coos at her.) "I don't know what you're worried about.
I never thought you would be like that, Dinah, worrying about your baby all the time."

I smiled wryly. "Neither did I."

I considered my worries legitimate in the face of that unknown allergy that was making my baby unhealthy and unhappy. But mom, and others in the family, as I soon discovered, thought that babies are just sensitive little people and I should get used to it.

They had a point. They had experience with babies. They *knew.*

But then again, she is my baby. I have experience with this particular baby. I *knew.* I reached up, peeled the label off my forehead, and stuffed it into the garbage can.

If I've labeled you, I take it back. I didn't know.


The moral of this story: You'll never be able to label with complete accuracy. Bring the labeler back to Staples and get your money back. Buy chocolate instead. Relax and enjoy.