A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.
Somewhere along the line one of the boys must have taken an interest in toads, and probably learned a thing or two about what they eat, what they look like and what they're named.
The only trouble is that the information doesn't always pass correctly down the brotherly line.
Boy #3 loves toads. Whenever he finds one in the garden, in the flower bed or in the sandbox, he wants to keep it as a pet. I've caught him burying a poor toad in the sand because he thinks it will be cooler there. I've found a desperate toad treading for its life in a five-gallon bucket of water - the theory of a four-year-old being that the toad might get thirsty. This child will pick up any toad any where, or chase it around the yard calling, "Here toady, toady."
Apparently one of his older brothers told him what kind of toads are around here - only he mixed it up slightly. This morning in the garden I overheard him tell his little brother that his new friend was a "horny toad."
If it was a male the description would be accurate, even if the name wasn't quite.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
finally, success!
Yay! Something good has finally sunk in!
I sent Boy #1 to summer school today armed with a dollar bill to buy some sort of snack from the cafeteria during brunch time. (Mainly because he was complaining he felt awkward when all the other kids were buying snacks and all he had was a water bottle and a box of organic raisins. And yes, awkward was the word he used. Not making that part up.)
Boo hoo is what I felt like telling him, but I sucked it back in. "When I was your age..." almost came out too, but I for once caught myself before turning into that cliché.
I kind of figured I was being a pretty good mom even managing to have water bottles and something remotely resembling a snack on hand for him to even bring along. Usually all we're able to scrounge up is stale crackers and an overripe banana. Much better than what I had when I was his age...
I'm sure he's plenty hungry after an hour of swimming lessons and an hour of tennis. (Summer school's a bit different than you were initially thinking, isn't it?) And he probably needs some sustenance before heading to guitar lessons because that will burn off so many calories.
At any rate, I gave him a dollar and told him to spend it wisely, knowing full well that the offerings would be things like fruit snacks, doritos, juice boxes and plenty of other sugar-laden, prepackaged, processed crap with nary a fresh fruit in sight. I didn't tell him that though. I told him he could get whatever he wanted and to be sure to drink his water.
After picking the boys up, he asked if we could hurry home. Okay, a bit of an odd request, so I bit.
"What's the rush?"
"Mom, I'm just starving. I want to get home to eat lunch."
"Didn't you have a snack?"
"No. All it was was a bunch of junk, so I didn't buy anything."
Hallelujah. Thank you Jesus - my kid has finally learned something more useful than perimeters, cursive handwriting and how to use a dictionary. He recognizes what junk food is - AND HE CAN RESIST!!!!
It was a shining moment for motherhood. I'm still beaming with pride.
I sent Boy #1 to summer school today armed with a dollar bill to buy some sort of snack from the cafeteria during brunch time. (Mainly because he was complaining he felt awkward when all the other kids were buying snacks and all he had was a water bottle and a box of organic raisins. And yes, awkward was the word he used. Not making that part up.)
Boo hoo is what I felt like telling him, but I sucked it back in. "When I was your age..." almost came out too, but I for once caught myself before turning into that cliché.
I kind of figured I was being a pretty good mom even managing to have water bottles and something remotely resembling a snack on hand for him to even bring along. Usually all we're able to scrounge up is stale crackers and an overripe banana. Much better than what I had when I was his age...
I'm sure he's plenty hungry after an hour of swimming lessons and an hour of tennis. (Summer school's a bit different than you were initially thinking, isn't it?) And he probably needs some sustenance before heading to guitar lessons because that will burn off so many calories.
At any rate, I gave him a dollar and told him to spend it wisely, knowing full well that the offerings would be things like fruit snacks, doritos, juice boxes and plenty of other sugar-laden, prepackaged, processed crap with nary a fresh fruit in sight. I didn't tell him that though. I told him he could get whatever he wanted and to be sure to drink his water.
After picking the boys up, he asked if we could hurry home. Okay, a bit of an odd request, so I bit.
"What's the rush?"
"Mom, I'm just starving. I want to get home to eat lunch."
"Didn't you have a snack?"
"No. All it was was a bunch of junk, so I didn't buy anything."
Hallelujah. Thank you Jesus - my kid has finally learned something more useful than perimeters, cursive handwriting and how to use a dictionary. He recognizes what junk food is - AND HE CAN RESIST!!!!
It was a shining moment for motherhood. I'm still beaming with pride.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
dressing room drama
Today I braved the fitting room to find a new swimsuit.
In a the extra-large family-sized stall within earshot of the male attendant (age 50), I had a captive audience of two small boys, age 2 and 4.
The four-year-old was busy making faces at himself in the mirror. The two-year-old...he decided to become a play-by-play announcer, as if this swimsuit trying on business was now an athletic event.
While I tried to get the first top on, he announced to the entire world, "Mom, you got boobies!"
I tried to shush him, knowing full well the middle-aged man who was sitting within ten feet heard every word. Why didn't I bring some candy along to distract him? "Mom, I see you boobies!" Not working so well to shush him.
After putting my hands over his mouth, I managed to try on a couple more tops. I had a one-piece suit left to try on, and should have just left it on the hanger (since it didn't fit anyway). I removed my jeans and future Bob Costas declared, "Mom, you naked!"
At least he didn't mention the size of my derriere.
I didn't buy a single suit.
Did the man hear my loud-mouthed son? Well, he gave both boys a sticker when we dropped off our little number tag. You tell me.
In a the extra-large family-sized stall within earshot of the male attendant (age 50), I had a captive audience of two small boys, age 2 and 4.
The four-year-old was busy making faces at himself in the mirror. The two-year-old...he decided to become a play-by-play announcer, as if this swimsuit trying on business was now an athletic event.
While I tried to get the first top on, he announced to the entire world, "Mom, you got boobies!"
I tried to shush him, knowing full well the middle-aged man who was sitting within ten feet heard every word. Why didn't I bring some candy along to distract him? "Mom, I see you boobies!" Not working so well to shush him.
After putting my hands over his mouth, I managed to try on a couple more tops. I had a one-piece suit left to try on, and should have just left it on the hanger (since it didn't fit anyway). I removed my jeans and future Bob Costas declared, "Mom, you naked!"
At least he didn't mention the size of my derriere.
I didn't buy a single suit.
Did the man hear my loud-mouthed son? Well, he gave both boys a sticker when we dropped off our little number tag. You tell me.
Monday, June 16, 2008
tastes like chicken
We're officially a farm. (Does that make us farmers?)
Just finished up butchering the last of the chickens today. And we sold 10 of them. We had a regular assembly line going. Hubby chopped heads, wings and feet off and removed the rather disgusting innards. The boys rinsed the birds off and took turns bringing them to the house, where I cleaned them further, weighed them, butchered them and bagged them.
Not an entirely pleasant process - I'll spare you the really gross details, but will say that I think eating the meat might be a bit harder than I thought - at least harder than some random chicken I bought at Cub Foods.
Once you've had to cut apart wings, legs, thighs and the hardest part (the breast), it's a bit difficult to look at the meat the same way. To be clear, this isn't because I feel some remorse over killing an animal for food, nor is it that I considered these clucks pets.
But rather, it's more just the grossness of it all. Blood, guts, fat and having to cut into the meat to separate the pieces just isn't so appetizing. I'm not in the mood for chicken, let's just say.
Strangely, none of this seemed to affect hubby. He was ready to get the grill fired up and make a meal of it. Maybe after all the images in my head are replaced by paint colors or yarn samples, then I'll be able to pull one out of the freezer for supper - in about a month. Or better yet, I'll have hubby cook it instead. Hopefully it'll taste like...chicken.
Just finished up butchering the last of the chickens today. And we sold 10 of them. We had a regular assembly line going. Hubby chopped heads, wings and feet off and removed the rather disgusting innards. The boys rinsed the birds off and took turns bringing them to the house, where I cleaned them further, weighed them, butchered them and bagged them.
Not an entirely pleasant process - I'll spare you the really gross details, but will say that I think eating the meat might be a bit harder than I thought - at least harder than some random chicken I bought at Cub Foods.
Once you've had to cut apart wings, legs, thighs and the hardest part (the breast), it's a bit difficult to look at the meat the same way. To be clear, this isn't because I feel some remorse over killing an animal for food, nor is it that I considered these clucks pets.
But rather, it's more just the grossness of it all. Blood, guts, fat and having to cut into the meat to separate the pieces just isn't so appetizing. I'm not in the mood for chicken, let's just say.
Strangely, none of this seemed to affect hubby. He was ready to get the grill fired up and make a meal of it. Maybe after all the images in my head are replaced by paint colors or yarn samples, then I'll be able to pull one out of the freezer for supper - in about a month. Or better yet, I'll have hubby cook it instead. Hopefully it'll taste like...chicken.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
number 88
If you do not know the significance behind this number, consider yourself lucky.
I am officially the mother of rednecks. I don't even know how it started. Here's my theory:
It happened one Sunday after church. It must have been raining. We must have told the boys they could watch a movie so we could take our "Sunday nap." Somehow they turned on the TV and found their way to NASCAR. Boy #1 got immediately addicted. I believe there is something within his male DNA that attracts him to a competition involving cars, speed, bright colors and funny accents from most of the participants. Okay, let's call them drawls, not funny accents, just to be nice. Out went the fascination with Corvettes and suddenly, he's rattling off statistics, car numbers and drivers and even the names of motor speedways.
It's unnerving. This child can remember just about anything he's read or heard about this sport. He has checked out at least 40 books on various NASCAR-related topics. He did his project fair project on his favorite driver - in car number 88 - Dale Earnhardt , Jr. and built "Larson Speedway" so he could show off his NASCAR cars. He has miniatures of both of Junior's 88 cars - the Amp Energy car and the National Guard car - and constantly pesters us with, "Which car do you like better?" I try my best to ignore him. Hubby purposely changes his mind every time he asks. Or keeps telling him he likes Kyle Busch better, just to upset the poor boy.
It has become an obsession. So much so, that cousins and uncles now play along, teasing him that Jr hasn't won a race or that so-and-so is a better driver or has a faster car or a cooler sponsor. All he wants to do is check stats online, listen to or watch a race, talk about the race or all the drivers and who made the pole, who spun out, who crashed and who got how many points. He has even tried to get his Dad to "play" NASCAR on the way to church Sunday mornings, especially if we happen to see someone we know traveling the two-lane highway at the same time.
"Dad, don't let them pass you! Come on, catch their draft!"
So, this is how I instantly know what the number 88 means, who drives it and the fact that today he finally won a race after something like 76 races since his last win. I can still hear the whoops and woo-hoos from the living room. It is also how I know that Kyle Busch drives a Toyota, Kurt Busch is his brother and his favorite meal is chicken wings and beer, Denny Hamlin is teammates with Kyle Busch and Tony Stewart (whose sponsor is Home Depot), Junior's teammates are Jeff Gordon (#24), Jimmie Johnson (#28) and Casey Mears (#5), Jimmie Johnson is sponsored by Lowes, Mark Martin retired this past year, Matt Kenseth drives the #17 Dewalt Tools car (which is a Ford), Carl Edwards drives #99 and is sponsored by Aflac and how I now know that Lowe's Motor Speedway is in North Carolina and only an hour from my brother's (so now all I'm hearing is begging to take a vacation there in October when the next race will be held).
This is all so sad.
Thank heavens we don't have cable - I can't imagine the NASCAR stats I'd be able to spout off then.
I am officially the mother of rednecks. I don't even know how it started. Here's my theory:
It happened one Sunday after church. It must have been raining. We must have told the boys they could watch a movie so we could take our "Sunday nap." Somehow they turned on the TV and found their way to NASCAR. Boy #1 got immediately addicted. I believe there is something within his male DNA that attracts him to a competition involving cars, speed, bright colors and funny accents from most of the participants. Okay, let's call them drawls, not funny accents, just to be nice. Out went the fascination with Corvettes and suddenly, he's rattling off statistics, car numbers and drivers and even the names of motor speedways.
It's unnerving. This child can remember just about anything he's read or heard about this sport. He has checked out at least 40 books on various NASCAR-related topics. He did his project fair project on his favorite driver - in car number 88 - Dale Earnhardt , Jr. and built "Larson Speedway" so he could show off his NASCAR cars. He has miniatures of both of Junior's 88 cars - the Amp Energy car and the National Guard car - and constantly pesters us with, "Which car do you like better?" I try my best to ignore him. Hubby purposely changes his mind every time he asks. Or keeps telling him he likes Kyle Busch better, just to upset the poor boy.
It has become an obsession. So much so, that cousins and uncles now play along, teasing him that Jr hasn't won a race or that so-and-so is a better driver or has a faster car or a cooler sponsor. All he wants to do is check stats online, listen to or watch a race, talk about the race or all the drivers and who made the pole, who spun out, who crashed and who got how many points. He has even tried to get his Dad to "play" NASCAR on the way to church Sunday mornings, especially if we happen to see someone we know traveling the two-lane highway at the same time.
"Dad, don't let them pass you! Come on, catch their draft!"
So, this is how I instantly know what the number 88 means, who drives it and the fact that today he finally won a race after something like 76 races since his last win. I can still hear the whoops and woo-hoos from the living room. It is also how I know that Kyle Busch drives a Toyota, Kurt Busch is his brother and his favorite meal is chicken wings and beer, Denny Hamlin is teammates with Kyle Busch and Tony Stewart (whose sponsor is Home Depot), Junior's teammates are Jeff Gordon (#24), Jimmie Johnson (#28) and Casey Mears (#5), Jimmie Johnson is sponsored by Lowes, Mark Martin retired this past year, Matt Kenseth drives the #17 Dewalt Tools car (which is a Ford), Carl Edwards drives #99 and is sponsored by Aflac and how I now know that Lowe's Motor Speedway is in North Carolina and only an hour from my brother's (so now all I'm hearing is begging to take a vacation there in October when the next race will be held).
This is all so sad.
Thank heavens we don't have cable - I can't imagine the NASCAR stats I'd be able to spout off then.
Friday, June 13, 2008
adventures in potty training
We're sort of trying to do the whole potty training thing around here.
I say sort of, because the baby has decided that he is ready to go pee on the potty, but the mommy around here just isn't quite up for it yet. Diapers are simply too convenient when you'd rather nap than pull pants down or off and lift a two-year-old onto the toilet to do his business and then dress him back up again.
Today, Number Four decided it was time to go and did half of my job for me. He was already upstairs with his pants off when he yelled down, "Mom, I go pee!"
Knowing older brother (age 7) was already upstairs (in the wrong place at the right time) I yelled back, "Have your brother put you on the toilet!"
There was a brief pause and then he replied, "No! He too young!"
The intelligence he gets from me. The wit is from his father.
And believe me, I recognize that I'm doomed with this one. I will win no arguments once he adds "whatever" to his vocabulary. Hopefully he'll be potty trained by then.
I say sort of, because the baby has decided that he is ready to go pee on the potty, but the mommy around here just isn't quite up for it yet. Diapers are simply too convenient when you'd rather nap than pull pants down or off and lift a two-year-old onto the toilet to do his business and then dress him back up again.
Today, Number Four decided it was time to go and did half of my job for me. He was already upstairs with his pants off when he yelled down, "Mom, I go pee!"
Knowing older brother (age 7) was already upstairs (in the wrong place at the right time) I yelled back, "Have your brother put you on the toilet!"
There was a brief pause and then he replied, "No! He too young!"
The intelligence he gets from me. The wit is from his father.
And believe me, I recognize that I'm doomed with this one. I will win no arguments once he adds "whatever" to his vocabulary. Hopefully he'll be potty trained by then.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
laughing out loud
There's at least one person with a sense of humor out there.
Yesterday I got a little gift bag from a friend. She wouldn't say what it was, but when I opened it later in the van, I almost peed my pants.
The tag said:
"Kara - a gift for you to help avoid a repeat of "embarrassing moment #37." (See earlier blog by that title.)
Inside were two pillowcases with these instructions: Simply place your freshly laundered unmentionables within the "sack" and hang on clothesline without fear of anyone finding out what color stripes are on your underwear.
Hubby didn't quite get my hysterical laughter, but that's okay. I enjoyed the moment tremendously.
She later explained that she had just finished reading a book called "Little Heathens." (The title intrigues me greatly.) In the book, the author says that pillowcases were a solution used by Iowa housewives in the 30's.
Apparently someone else must have had a most embarrassing moment.
Yesterday I got a little gift bag from a friend. She wouldn't say what it was, but when I opened it later in the van, I almost peed my pants.
The tag said:
"Kara - a gift for you to help avoid a repeat of "embarrassing moment #37." (See earlier blog by that title.)
Inside were two pillowcases with these instructions: Simply place your freshly laundered unmentionables within the "sack" and hang on clothesline without fear of anyone finding out what color stripes are on your underwear.
Hubby didn't quite get my hysterical laughter, but that's okay. I enjoyed the moment tremendously.
She later explained that she had just finished reading a book called "Little Heathens." (The title intrigues me greatly.) In the book, the author says that pillowcases were a solution used by Iowa housewives in the 30's.
Apparently someone else must have had a most embarrassing moment.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
ugly chicks
Not sure if I'm quite ready to lick my chops yet - especially considering how ugly these chicks get after a few weeks.
Not only are they ugly, but they're also dumb. The other day they had completely run out of food, so I filled the feeder and they're getting too big to all fit around it at the same time. I thought I would be nice and fill the smaller feeder so some of them could eat there, instead of watching them peck each other to get to the feed or water. (They're like some boys I know.)
Anyway, I could pick the half-grown chick up, put it next to the smaller feeder, try to put its head to the feed and it would have nothing to do with it. Instead, it would take off like a bandit for the other feeder, dive in, ruffle a few feathers and kick some other dumb cluck off the feeding line.
I tried several times to get them to eat from the second feeder. Who's the dumb one now? It only worked with one bird - apparently there is a hungry genius in the bunch. The rest, well I'm assuming they got a few bites in. The feeder was empty the next day.
Monday, June 2, 2008
most embarrassing moment #14
In a house we previously lived in, the bedrooms were all upstairs, but the only working shower was on the main floor. One day I took a shower and walked back upstairs to get dressed, leaving the wet towel in the laundry next to the bathroom. (In other words, I was walking to my room in the buff.)
The only trouble was, in order to get upstairs, I had to walk right by the front door. At the exact time I got to the door, a man with a clipboard was standing on the other side of the glass just about to knock. I yelped, jumped back and ran to grab my towel. By the time I got back, he had disappeared.
Great way to get rid of door-to-door salesman. I never saw him again.
The only trouble was, in order to get upstairs, I had to walk right by the front door. At the exact time I got to the door, a man with a clipboard was standing on the other side of the glass just about to knock. I yelped, jumped back and ran to grab my towel. By the time I got back, he had disappeared.
Great way to get rid of door-to-door salesman. I never saw him again.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
paying attention
There is a serious lack of observation around here. Well, that’s not entirely accurate - we are paying attention to things, just not the right things.
For example, I’ve recently been doing some elementary research on the gift-giving habits of men and have come to the overwhelming conclusion that most men need to pay more attention to their spouses when it comes to ideas for gifts (mainly because women tend to drop lots of hints). Whatever their attention is focused on, that isn’t it.
That being said, women (myself included) probably need to pay attention to all the other things men do for them instead of what they don’t. Either way - attention is the problem.
I don’t notice when the dishwasher gets emptied, but I will immediately notice if the toilet seat was left up. I don’t pay attention to my own crabby tone of voice, but will get riled up if hubby does the same toward me.
My boys have attention issues as well. They aren’t grateful to have brothers - instead they can only complain and get distracted that one’s making faces and the other just swiped a Goldfish cracker.
One could care less that his t-shirt is on backwards and his socks are doubled over inside his sneakers, but he will notice immediately if he gets one more chore assigned to him than his brothers do.
Another one can’t see the 45 toys of his on the living room floor, but will instantly whine if the youngest brother grabs his fake redneck teeth to play with.
Another thinks any discipline directed toward him means he’s being picked on, but he feels very free to get after his brothers for even the slightest infraction.
The littlest one has perfected the act of pretending not to pay attention, then repeating back word-for-word what you just said because you thought he either couldn’t understand or wasn’t paying attention. He also has some highly developed radar system that alerts him to wake up from nap time because his brothers are getting snacks and he’s not, and 10 minutes later will have no qualms about sneaking into the pantry to scarf down whatever he can before someone bigger finally pays attention to where he is.
Hubby can somehow ignore his pile of clothes on the bedroom floor, but the mess in the living room will drive him up the wall.
So we are all paying attention, but only to the things that irritate us. We fail to notice (or acknowledge) when someone picks up their socks without being asked, cooks supper without whining, does a simple chore without bellyaching or has a conversation without being glued to the TV.
When did paying attention become such a problem?
We (and I’m guessing this is a problem for more than just me) fail to pay attention to those hurting around us, even though we’ve been on the receiving end of the blessing of other’s concerns. We fail to pay attention to those needing physical assistance because we’re too busy. We fail to pay attention to the shy kid because we don’t know what to say or we might not even notice her.
Instead we pay attention to our pet peeves and we give them primary focus. We pay attention to whatever may offend us in something someone said or wrote, sometimes completely missing the point. We pay attention to our own biases instead of realizing that with many things, biblical things included, there isn’t always a black-and-white answer. We pay attention to “the rules” of our religion, but only in the instances when someone else is breaking them. We pay attention to the local gossip, sometimes even spreading it further. We even pay more attention to our own selves instead of putting our focus where it ought to be.
Perhaps the bigger problem - paying attention to one’s own wants and needs too much is really an issue of self-absorption. We tread a slippery slope then to becoming greedy, having a pity party for ourselves, missing the needs of others or not putting our attention on God.
I tend to pay attention more to what my children are doing wrong than what they are doing right. I pay more attention to what I want than what God wants for me. I pay more attention to my needs than the needs of others that I could easily meet.
So, I’m not paying good attention either.
I find it interesting that the definition of pay attention means to “give or bestow” our attention to someone or something. It is essentially a gift. It is giving our focus – and hopefully undivided. I could give my undivided attention to the laundry, the dishes, the garden or anything else, but at some point it will get interrupted by the next brotherly squabble. I think perhaps I would be wiser to focus my attention on trying to teach these boys how to get along. Or how to fight fair (without pinching or biting).
That’s what tae kwon do is for. Which makes me wonder how they can pay attention to the instructor for 90 minutes without stopping to tell him they’re bored or hungry or so-and-so invaded their personal space.
There’s a secret there somewhere. Guess I’ll have to pay attention to find out.
For example, I’ve recently been doing some elementary research on the gift-giving habits of men and have come to the overwhelming conclusion that most men need to pay more attention to their spouses when it comes to ideas for gifts (mainly because women tend to drop lots of hints). Whatever their attention is focused on, that isn’t it.
That being said, women (myself included) probably need to pay attention to all the other things men do for them instead of what they don’t. Either way - attention is the problem.
I don’t notice when the dishwasher gets emptied, but I will immediately notice if the toilet seat was left up. I don’t pay attention to my own crabby tone of voice, but will get riled up if hubby does the same toward me.
My boys have attention issues as well. They aren’t grateful to have brothers - instead they can only complain and get distracted that one’s making faces and the other just swiped a Goldfish cracker.
One could care less that his t-shirt is on backwards and his socks are doubled over inside his sneakers, but he will notice immediately if he gets one more chore assigned to him than his brothers do.
Another one can’t see the 45 toys of his on the living room floor, but will instantly whine if the youngest brother grabs his fake redneck teeth to play with.
Another thinks any discipline directed toward him means he’s being picked on, but he feels very free to get after his brothers for even the slightest infraction.
The littlest one has perfected the act of pretending not to pay attention, then repeating back word-for-word what you just said because you thought he either couldn’t understand or wasn’t paying attention. He also has some highly developed radar system that alerts him to wake up from nap time because his brothers are getting snacks and he’s not, and 10 minutes later will have no qualms about sneaking into the pantry to scarf down whatever he can before someone bigger finally pays attention to where he is.
Hubby can somehow ignore his pile of clothes on the bedroom floor, but the mess in the living room will drive him up the wall.
So we are all paying attention, but only to the things that irritate us. We fail to notice (or acknowledge) when someone picks up their socks without being asked, cooks supper without whining, does a simple chore without bellyaching or has a conversation without being glued to the TV.
When did paying attention become such a problem?
We (and I’m guessing this is a problem for more than just me) fail to pay attention to those hurting around us, even though we’ve been on the receiving end of the blessing of other’s concerns. We fail to pay attention to those needing physical assistance because we’re too busy. We fail to pay attention to the shy kid because we don’t know what to say or we might not even notice her.
Instead we pay attention to our pet peeves and we give them primary focus. We pay attention to whatever may offend us in something someone said or wrote, sometimes completely missing the point. We pay attention to our own biases instead of realizing that with many things, biblical things included, there isn’t always a black-and-white answer. We pay attention to “the rules” of our religion, but only in the instances when someone else is breaking them. We pay attention to the local gossip, sometimes even spreading it further. We even pay more attention to our own selves instead of putting our focus where it ought to be.
Perhaps the bigger problem - paying attention to one’s own wants and needs too much is really an issue of self-absorption. We tread a slippery slope then to becoming greedy, having a pity party for ourselves, missing the needs of others or not putting our attention on God.
I tend to pay attention more to what my children are doing wrong than what they are doing right. I pay more attention to what I want than what God wants for me. I pay more attention to my needs than the needs of others that I could easily meet.
So, I’m not paying good attention either.
I find it interesting that the definition of pay attention means to “give or bestow” our attention to someone or something. It is essentially a gift. It is giving our focus – and hopefully undivided. I could give my undivided attention to the laundry, the dishes, the garden or anything else, but at some point it will get interrupted by the next brotherly squabble. I think perhaps I would be wiser to focus my attention on trying to teach these boys how to get along. Or how to fight fair (without pinching or biting).
That’s what tae kwon do is for. Which makes me wonder how they can pay attention to the instructor for 90 minutes without stopping to tell him they’re bored or hungry or so-and-so invaded their personal space.
There’s a secret there somewhere. Guess I’ll have to pay attention to find out.
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