To My Family: Thank You for a Beautiful Childhood

Today I turn 20.

"Bittersweet" seems appropriate.

It's not really bidding farewell to my teenage life that bothers me. I'm fine with moving forward into my 20's. It's just weird. I had barely adjusted to saying "19" when someone asked me how old I was.

I can guarantee the little girl I babysit won't know the difference. As far as she is concerned, I'm not an adult until I'm married.

So now it's time to be reminiscent. I've been planning this post for two months, so I intend to make the most of it. This post is not going to be about me (not really). It's about my family. Because if there is anyone you should be congratulating today for surviving these past 20 years, it's them.

I was the trouble child. Ask anyone, even people who didn't know me as a child. Word gets around, and I am saddled with the reputation of being "the Terrible Twos" poster child. It used to bother me, but now I roll with it. "I was a horrible child. The good news is that I got all of that out of the way right off."

It's mostly true.

Mom still takes one look as a child who is screaming, being obstinate, pulling an attitude, or heading toward a spanking and says, “Yup. Must be a second child.” I’m her living proof of overcoming trials and tantrums, of persevering through moodiness and contrariness; proof that spankings work.

Admittedly, I had my rough spots. Still do, and I'm learning to accept that I always will. I've taken to praying that though bumps in the road don't cause any serious damage. So first off, congratulate my parents, because I don't know how they did it. People who know us have an endearing habit of making my parents out to be model parents. People who really know us know what a miracle Mom and Dad truly are. Yes, they are human, but I can say with absolute honesty that there was never one day in my entire life where I believed they did not love me and want the absolute best for me. Sure, some days I was convinced they hated me, but it was a superficial feeling brought on by a well-deserved punishment.

Every day Mom and Dad push us to be the best and to do the best we are capable of. They see the potential in us that even we ourselves ignore. They are our greatest cheerleaders. And they lead by example.

We were raised to be self-sufficient. When I was about 6, I asked Mom in all innocence to teach me to wash the dishes. She jumped at the opportunity, and it paid off, because never once have we owned a dishwasher which worked for longer than 6 months. We were raised with the understanding that being their children did not mean we were entitled to a free ride. We have always had chores, and any money we had we earned (though sometimes it was purely by virtue of turning a year older). It has always been very plain that we live in their house, we add to the dishes and the laundry and the mess, and so we are required to contribute to keeping it clean and in working order.

We know how to tell when something is wrong with our cars, we know how to work through problems to find resolutions, we all have a keen sense of how things work - and even an intuition for how people work.

I will always be thankful for how my parents trained me to be independent (though I sometimes hate it) and engrained in me a work ethic (though some days I prefer to ignore it).

As I said, we all had rough spots. One night they gave up trying to make us eat squash and declared that Heather was their favorite child because she was the only one who could swallow it. When one of us had pushed Mom to her limit, she would throw up her hands and tell us that Dad could deal with us when he got home - which worked in her favor, because that kind of threat was a punishment all its own. I remember the looks when I fainted from a breath-holding contest or a bout of hives; the looks when - twice in my life - I tripped over my own feet and skinned only the bridge of my nose; when I finally caught on to riding a bike at 8 years old but missed the bit about stopping and ended up launching myself onto the grass; when I lost control of my scooter going downhill and chipped my front teeth.

It was never about being our best friends; Mom and Dad are more than that. They are our confidantes, our counselors, our comforters, our coaches. I can always count on their experience to be a guide when I'm stuck.

So here's to my parents, my highest heroes by virtue of getting me this far by whatever means possible.

And then there are my siblings, and there are simply too many memories to put into one post. Wesley and I always had a hard time getting along. I can't pinpoint it. I'd like to say he was jealous of me as a kid. For a little while, my legs were longer than his, and I was the first to achieve three steps running up a tree on paper routes. I bucked up and ran both sides of routes on the winter morning when he was too cold. My vocabulary contained more large (albeit useless) words than his. I had a habit of nit-picking and correcting him, which drove him to insanity some days.

But I was also jealous of him. He could ride his bike with his eye closed and no hands while he ate a sandwich. He wasn't as scared of Death Alley as I was. He was quicker to jump to adventure, and he always got the cool pets (and he had two gerbils at one time!). 

But the more I see of life, the more grateful I am to have such a brother. We both misunderstood each other a lot growing up, and for a while we couldn't stand to be around each other, but somehow we worked past that. He understands me better than most people. He has a sly sense of humor and sarcasm that sometimes even my carefully honed skills can't detect. He has a head for machines and puzzles, for which I am exceedingly envious. And come on; not many girls can pull a popularity card like "my brother has a fake eye".

Then there's Heather, and right about here words fail me. You really would have to see it to believe just how crazy awesome she is. Her talents range from musical to comical. She's the first to pull out a TV, movie, or children's radio show quote and effortlessly incorporate it into the situation at hand. She isn't afraid to be spontaneous, and more than once we've caught her rocking out to a spatula over a grilled cheese sandwich or practicing her mental patient impersonation on the dogs. She can imitate a wide range of accents and characters, one of my favorites being the bat from Anastasia. Yes, she can sing very well, but she also has that special ability of purposefully singing very badly.

Allenna is the biggest dreamer I know. Nothing is impossible to her, and she inherited the family habit of quickly making a talent out of the hobbies she sets her mind to taking up. She has a special way of seeing the world when most people glance over it. Sometimes it's hard to keep up with her, because her mental track runs a different course than the rest of us. She's a creator, a builder, an artist, and she is never afraid to embrace who she is and disregard what the world decrees.

Jealous yet? That's ok; when people give us strange looks for our antics in the grocery store, I know that secretly they are, too. My family makes a point of being ourselves, in home and in public, though we do try to tone down the awesomeness around other people so we don't scare them off with the sheer wonder of it. My mom was the adult teens wanted on the activity. My friends learned not to confide stupid secrets in me or say things they didn't want repeated, because I always ended up passing it along to Dad for us to muse over and chuckle at (sorry, guys; he trained me well). Mom and I rarely have complete verbal conversations anymore because our minds are working too fast for our mouths to keep up, but we always know what the other means. Dad's sense of humor can be the greatest balm for a rough day, simply because we all understand it more than other people, and that alone is comforting.

Even through difficult years, I have always felt safe, secure, and loved. Mom and Dad daily live out that love toward each other and toward us. With them, I have learned that it's best to be honest and simple about myself, to accept myself, and the let the world see me exactly as I am. 

My memory is teeming with memories, both fond and cringe-worthy. We are all a little accident prone: Heather falls down stairs. I fall down stairs. Allenna was always losing one shoe. Heather was always tripping over nothing. Wesley got a lot of bumps on his head.

We have a bad history with animals. Ebony the cat stole the hot dog pieces out of my mac 'n' cheese and dragged a dead snake into the house. Calamity got stuck in the dryer while it was running. Duke the cockatiel loved to fly but was no good at it, running into the window and landing in a sink full of soapy water or crash landing into a table leg. Duchess couldn't fly, and the one time she tried she ended up in the laundry basket. One morning I found Duke sitting on the top of the fridge with Blare the cat inches away from him, both innocent as could be. Ivy the dog was an escape artist whose attitude put Sasha to shame. There was Bunny, the mean cat Mom thought could be sweetened by motherhood, and Ghost, the smelly undergrown cat with six toes on each foot. We had the goldfish, including Cyclops and Fin and the fat one who ate them; and the guppies Robin Hood, Marian, Little John, and Sarah.

The house went through a rodent stage where we had the hamsters, including Tom Thumb the dwarf albino and Bowser, and the one who drowned in a bucket of water; and then the guinea pigs Trixie, Claire, and Frankie; and finally Poka and Dot, the gerbils.
Now we have chickens and ducks.

Trying to put it all into one post makes my childhood seem colorful and full of adventure. Not to say it wasn't. Thing is, it's everyday for me, and I'm so used to it I don't stop to think anymore how blessed I am. And if you ever wondered why my family seems to strange, maybe now you can understand a little better. I haven't even got started on the rest of the relatives. For starters, my mom's sister married my dad's nephew....

Lightning Bugs and Lightning (and mosquitoes)

Summer nights around our house have been pretty amazing lately. I only wish I was better with a camera (and then had a camera...). Every night the lightning bugs have put on beautiful shows. Do you know how cool it is to drive down a road surrounded by corn fields and see the lightning bugs flashing like crazy? Not only that, but I love star gazing on summer nights (provided I have bug repellent). It's just another perk of moving to the country.

The animals aren't quite so captivated by the lightning bugs. The dogs and cat ignore them for the most part and the chickens only wonder how good they are to eat. The ducks, however, didn't know what to make of them one of the first nights they showed up. I was out settling the chickens for the night. As I was walking back toward the house to turn on the hose, I met the ducks. They were telling me off, as usual, screaming about something or other and following me back to the coop. All of a sudden, a lightning bug floated in front of their faces and lit up. The lead duck was so startled he stopped short and pulled back. And fell silent.

Until I laughed at him.

Last night was even more amazing than our average summer night this year. We've had a bit of a heat wave (like practically every other state in the country). Earlier we'd had a brief but powerful storm, mostly wind and rain. It had cleared up pretty quickly and the day remained muggy. However, Heather came running in from corralling her ducks and said to come quick because there was a storm building and involved lightning. Mom and I followed her out.

All along the north sky there were thick clouds full of lightning; both flashes that filled the clouds and streaks that forked through and even shot out like snake tongues. Pretty soon I was sent back in to get Mom's camera, and Heather followed for hers. This was too good of a show to pass up, because what photographer (casual, amateur, or professional) wouldn't like to get a picture of lightning?

I took mosquito decoy duty while Mom and Heather snapped away. When they paused to wait for cars to pass or to check and see if they got any good shots, we'd raise a chorus of "ooo"s and "ahhh"s. While they clicked away, I stood back in wonder at the display. To add to the spectacle we had a bright moon in clear skies behind us and the lightning bugs were all over. I ran back in to get the tripod and grabbed Mom's phone because Dad had texted. I ended up catching a picture of a lightning streak and, satisfied with my surprising success, retreated inside.

Of course, I took stock of my bug bites. I've been having worse-than-average reactions to mosquitoes lately, and they like to cluster on one spot whenever they attack. I had a good twenty bites on my legs and ankles, but only one on my arm. Naturally.

Years ago, our family took a hiking trip. I can't even remember where we went. We were near dunes, but were in a forest. It was either late spring or early autumn, and we kids were complaining of cold and begging to cut the hike short. Dad stopped and looked at us seriously. He told us to stop whining and enjoy ourselves, because it was a beautiful day and the view was amazing, and that's what we would remember if we'd pay attention. We'd forget about the cold and the wind in no time, and recall instead the breathtaking views of the dunes from a wooded hilltop, or the zig-zagging trail winding around tree roots, or just the joy of spending time with family doing what we loved.

It's his words that helped me remember that trip, and the sights associated with it. I don't know how it's stuck with me, but it came to mind when I was thinking about last night's spectacle. I'll remember that a lot longer than the bug bites. I remember the double rainbow I saw a few years ago better than I remember the terror of driving through tornado weather on a road trip. I remember the fun of a sledding trip and forget about the cold and the damp. I remember the fun of sitting around a campfire roasting marshmallows and singing songs and not the fatigue of a long week at camp.

But you have to choose to move beyond the discomfort, the unpleasant parts, and focus on the good and the thrill and the wonderful displays of God's handiwork. It requires a conscience effort, and perhaps a little time afterward for reflection (and some sort of ointment to soothe the bug bites).

Yes, I am kind of preaching to myself in light of our Peru trip. I'm trying to get it into my head that there will be so much to enjoy and learn and take away from this opportunity that I can't let myself be held back by my own silly psychological issues.
And I have to get going now to make some more progress on preparing for that trip. I'm mostly packed, and I only "need" to buy one or two more things. This time on Monday I'll be either in a plane or in an airport. I still can't process that....

In the Wake of VBS

So that plan didn't exactly work. To be fair, it's been a long week; and, for me, the week can't even begin to be wrapped up until today is over and done and I'm curled up in bed with my breathing and heart rate back to normal.

VBS was phenomenal! Even though myself and my amazing assistant teacher were tucked up in a hot corner room where half the time the food workers forgot about us and the other half of the time they were avoiding us for the sake of their well-being, I enjoyed my job. (Plus, I got to play dress-up as a cowgirl all week. No complaints there!) I've had plenty of practice teaching memory verses thanks to Mom and Dad, and despite the fact that the kids were far more interested in their food than in me, I think we accomplished something. And I had enough wonderful, angelic, attentive kids to almost outweigh the not-to-good ones. Almost.

I'm not sure if the fact that every night but one we had to call in the reserves for crowd control is a testament to my poor ability to handle children, or testament to poor judgement with placing kids on teams. I was ashamed.

There were deadly dog-piles and the handing out of "men" and children whose vocabularies were temporarily reduced to "no" and "why", but we survived with our sanity only slightly damaged and some fun memories. And I reminded myself that it doesn't matter if it feels stupid; sometimes I need to play along and laugh at myself, because the kids will love it.

Yellow Team won the overall points for the week. And that's historic at our church. Yellow has had a losing streak for longer than my family has been attending, I think. Some years they may have won third instead of fourth; once I think they got second. But I've never seen them whip everyone else like they did this year. Even though my own Green Team fell in third, I was happy. Even better was the amount we raised in the penny offering for some beloved missionaries of ours. I think we're finally getting the hang of the penny offering.

One of the youth workers, who's more like the "All Youth Activities Director, Supervisor, and Supreme Overseer" at church, is not only brilliant, but I think a little crafty. Our verse for last night was Colossians 3:23: "And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men." I explained to my kids what "heartily" meant: quickly, happily, and with excitement, the way your parents want you to do your chores. I also reminded them that the verse is saying it doesn't matter if man praises you; man's opinion doesn't matter. All that matters is doing right because it has to be done.

When the Supreme Overseer pointed to a vacuum parked in the middle of the sanctuary and said, "That's yours", that verse rang in my head, and then this sneaking suspicion developed: I bet she picked that specific verse for tonight as a reminder to the workers who get stuck cleaning in the aftermath. Halfway down one row of pews and three banged knuckles later (have you any idea how difficult it is to vacuum between church pews?) I was convinced. Smooth.

I like getting recognized for my work. Who doesn't? And I try to make sure I recognize others for their hard work and when they are honestly putting in an effort. Which is why I incorrectly used the box of candy given to me for prizes in class. The candy was intended for kids who could say all four of their verses. When the head Cowboy for the week came in and suggested a quiet seat prize, I jumped on it. I can do bribes, too. In my last class, I extended it, and all eight of the kids left with candy in their hands (except one who, for reasons I still can't quite figure out, gave his piece to another boy because "I know you worked really hard on your verses"). I had four problem kids in that class, and the last night they all worked harder than I could have hoped, and most said at least one verse. Victory!

Anyway. People did tell me "thank you, Miss Amber" (what is with this "Miss" stuff? Boggles my brain, I tell you) and I sang back over the whine of the vacuum "You're welcome!" But I kept telling myself that, though the praise felt good, I would have put in the same effort if everyone else had all gone off to bed or (because few people my age make a habit of going to bed by 10) out for ice cream. Right? Of course right.

In short (because I have to get going for the longest day thus far in my career), I learned a lot this week. And I'm convinced I'll need every lesson down the road, from child care to knowing the right balance of discipline and bribery to doing what needs to be done simply because it needs to be done and there's a vacuum standing in front of me, even though some silly person will probably come along in 10 minutes leaving behind a trail of dust and garbage. But it's okay.

If I'm still alive and sane, I shall see you...probably next week. Tomorrow is going to be a long one, too.

Bark, bark here and a cluck cluck there....

I'm back. That's all I have to say on that point.

Not much in the way of news around here. Except for this:

We're getting chickens.

Yes.

Chickens.

Chickens.

No, I don't have anything against chickens in general. I love the edible side of the picture. It's the fact that we will be raising the creatures themselves which puts me off.

I have a (in my opinion not all that irrational) strong dislike/borderline fear of chickens.

There. I said it.

Because what little creature with a sharp mouth, pointed toes, and beady eyes can really be trusted? (Although I loved our cockatiels.)

This hate/fear goes back to a visit to my grandma's years ago. I don't remember how old I was then. Maybe...11 or 12? Grandma had chickens - hens and roosters. I thought they were funny, ugly, rude little monsters. I loved throwing bits of moldy bread into their pen and watching them all scrabble to get a bite. Rather like seagulls, now that I think of it.

On this particular day, I was wandering along toward the backyard, where everyone else was hanging out, when I spotted Grandma's rooster stalking my way. I must have heard something about how mean this fellow could be or perhaps seen some demonstration previously, because I was instantly on guard.

And I learned that chickens, like most other creatures, can smell fear.

The rooster made a beeline in my direction, taking very deliberate, firm strutting steps and eying me maliciously. And silently. At first I tried to pretend it wasn't happening and continue on my merry way, telling the rooster to back off. But he kept coming, and I was overwhelmed by a sudden fear for my well-being.

I do believe I may have been crying or very nearly by that point. I was downright terrified as the rooster continued to advance. I was also struggling to keep an eye on the evil thing without making eye contact, knowing that animals feel threatened and are more likely to attack when you make eye contact with them. (And at that point I didn't care whether or not the rule applied to mean old roosters.)

All my efforts to will the rooster to leave me alone and let me pass were in vain. He charged.

I screamed. My first (and so far only) blood-curddling scream of the terrified and life-threatened.

I don't think any part of the rooster actually made contact with my body, but I was too busy trying to run on legs that had suddenly gone weak, shielding my eyes from wildly flapping wings.

And then Wes came racing around the corner of the house asking what was wrong. I was crying at that point, and I had trouble telling him what had happened.

Though I can't guarantee it because shock gave me a poor recollection, I'm sure Wesley laughed at me, and proceeded to tell Dad that Amber got attacked by a chicken and was now bawling like a baby.

So I think my distrust of chickens is at least well-founded, if a little...well, irrational? I stand by my instincts, though.

Then there's the part where I read a book about a girl in the 19...40's? whose family owned chickens, and the chickens abused her and pecked at her incessantly and were all around monstrous. That's pretty much the only part of that book which has stuck with me.

Mom's been researching all sorts of chickens. She's set on getting Buff Orpingtons. (And I only know that's what they're called because she said, "I want Buff Orps" and Dad said, "Oh, buff orcs?" and proceeded to display his biceps while saying, "Those are the orcs that are..." *flex flex*. I laughed, Dad chuckled, Mom glared.)

I've made my opinions very clear on the subject. Perhaps I've been rude or childish about it. Mom just shakes her head. She has assured me that she's only getting hens because she only wants the eggs, and Buff Orps are "docile and gorgeous".

As if a fat feathered fowl could be called "gorgeous". Granted, they have a nice russet coloring and aren't horribly built as far as chickens go....

And I'm totally going to demand we call one "Buffy". (Get it? "Buff Orpington?" Maybe we should give one a Lord of the Rings name in honor of Dad's quip. Galadriel? Merry? Or that evil female cousin of Bilbo's?)

Much to my confusion, I'm almost excited about the whole notion.

So that's the deal with chickens. And pretty much the only news in our household at the moment.

You know the drill. I was going to post this last week, when Mom declared, "We're getting our chickens next week!" but never got around to it. I have another post I'm planning based on Pastor's sermon last Sunday morning, but I haven't sorted it all out.

Next on the agenda of my uneventful life: my birthday!

Also the day I leave for a weekend single's retreat. Which I was convinced I'd never ever do.

I also said I would never abide chickens, and here I am picking out names.

While Mom plots out places to put the chicken set-up, I'm plotting my garden. So psyched! Beans, peas, squash, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, onions, corn.... Most of which I don't eat. And then there's the flower garden(s?) I'm planning. I wish we could have taken the rosebush from the old house with us. I loved that thing. I tried getting a cutting from it to get a new bush, but that failed. And like as not the new tenants will tear it up because they're allergic to or against roses or something.

So I'm hoping to get roses, lilies, irises (maybe), some little annuals....

And I'll spend my days weeding the vegetable garden and tossing overripe tomatoes to Buffy and Lobelia. (That's the name of the grasping relative. Yes, I just googled it.)