It's So Not About You

Thanks to Lisa Samson, over-achiever extraordinaire, I did a little somethin' different this Saturday night: I stood out in the rain and took pictures.

Saturday morning i read that back in Lexington, Kentucky the Samson family was packing up to spend the night out in the open for a good cause--to raise awareness for the desperate situation of the children in Uganda. Lisa's blog directed us to Invisible Children's site, the organization promoting the event. Curious, I checked it out. And I discovered that, amazingly, Tulsa was hosting its own all night event.

Cool.

The Tulsa plan was for a meet-up at the famous (or infamous, depending on your perspective) Praying Hands statue at ORU, and walk the 5.5 miles down a major street to Mardel's, the mondo-big-box Christian retailer here in town.

Now this wasn't going to happen in the Philipson household for two reasons:
1. No way, no how would Tesla tolerate even one mile in a stroller, walking, on Randy's shoulders or whatever...and
2. It rained...all day. And I'm made of sugar.

Actually, for those of you who don't live in Oklahoma, this fact (that it rained, not that I'm made of suger--which most of you know is NOT true) probably qualifies as a Class B miracle. We've been under a burn ban for about six months--we're talkin' serious drought conditions. If you talk to any rancher, farmer, back-yard gardener, or little old lady who grows catnip outside her kitchen window for Princess Paws, you'll hear the strain of deep worry in their words. Drought. Dry winter. One hundred degree heat all summer ahead and plenty to burn....

And yet...for the last 48 hours we've had nuthin' but wet stuff. Hal-le-lu-jah.

So I pulled my car out into the rainy, chilly early evening, and tooled on down to the reception site, with plans to stop at the Starbucks on my way. (See how much I'm suffering for the cause?) Along the way I drove past this pack of cheerful supporters and tooted my horn for them in solidarity.













The folks at the Starbucks drive-through looked positively relieved to know the truth of the matter. "Yeah, we keep seeing all these people--hey! those guys are from my fraternity!" (waves)

Welcome to the party.

The curiousity down at Mardels was more amusing in a just plain sad kind of way. Big sedans would slow down as they left the store parking lot, and from inside the cars well manicured ladies with lots of jewelry would politely ask, "What's this about?" We'd tell them. They'd blink. "Oh." And, having no context at all for our answer, would glance back again at the kids behind us with a look of vague discomfort, and then turn, roll up the window and motor on. Not "good luck" or "God bless" or even "stay dry." Just "onward, Harold, I got a roast in the oven."

This, folks, is the common face of middle-class American Christianity: well manicured, well accessorized, and ever so vaguely discomforted. Uganda? Never heard of it.

Haven't you read your Rick Warren? The first chapter is "It's Not About You." The book's more common than a Gideon Bible and still we haven't learned its first lesson. Haven't moved past our Sunday school coffee klatch and the comfort zones of our reassuring cultural boundaries.

Ahem. So we were wet. I did have my cappuccino in hand, but I was wet along with everyone else. And it was appropriate. If this night was meant as a expression of solidarity with Uganda's children, then why not sleep out in the cold rain?


I signed in and went to roam around.

I found Patrick Fincannon (guy dressed appropriately for wet camping). Total surprise. Patrick serves in a worthy ministry called Chrysalis, which basically exists as an apprenticeship program in loving others. I served in Chrysalis for about seven years, and Patrick is a mighty positive memory of my time with the organization.

I also met this sweet girl, representin' Oklahoma Wesleyan University.

We played 'I've seen you before somewhere' until we discovered she was a freshman at the school the year I taught as an adjunct.

Then I headed off to the art table to do my bit. They were having a rough time of it with a drooping tarp, but we artistes had a ball. Fun! The girls at the front desk had taken a terrible polaroid of me and encouraged me to use it in my art. Oh dear, but no. My chicken neck was in full form and I looked washed out...

but...it wasn't about me, was it?

And so I created this.














The last bit was to write my letter, look around for any other familiar faces (John Ray was, in typical fashion, very late and so I missed him) and scoot back home to the family.

I wished I could have stayed. My heart hurt to see so few "grown-ups" at the event. (Are only youth groups and college students interested in this sort of injustice?) And I hope that if this becomes an annual event (God forbid that it would have to!), we'd see more adult people show up. Still, seeing the younger people reminded me how much I love them. How I love their enthusiasm, their idyllic dreams, their knucked-headed impulsiveness. Yes, they think the world revolves around their emotions--except when they don't. And when they step outside themselves, they are some of the most beautiful creatures I know.














Please pray for the safety of the children of Uganda, and for all the world's invisible children wherever they may be.

Book Fair!

Oh, how I love the book fair!

When I was in second grade I won an art contest for the book fair and got to pick out one book, free, as a prize. Man, I thought that was just the bestest. Of course I chose a Little House book, the one that wasn't in that heavy cardboard series box. I don't think I ever read that book, but man was I happy to have won the contest. Finally I was good at something I felt was cool.

Tesla and I visted the book fair this week. She was less interested in it than the opportunity to crawl all over a tri-level carpeted club house creation in the middle of the library. Hey, she's four. What four year old wouldn't?

We brought home this cool catch:



I recommend it. Haven't gotten to the KateWinslet/Wierd Al Yankovic collaboration because we keep going back to Blues Traveler's "Dog Train," but we'll get there eventually. The Steve Lawrence/Edie Gourmet song "Boring" is a treat, too. If you don't know who these folks are, maybe ask your folks...or your folks' folks.

The other popular book title is currently The Little Pea. We read this about four times a day. Maybe more.


Little Pea has to eat candy for dinner every day of the week, and he HATES it! But for being a good boy and eating five pieces, he gets his favorite dessert: SPINACH! "Yum. Yum. Extra Yum!" Great illustrations and very fun. Tesla loves to act out Little Pea.

What four year old wouldn't?

shhh! it's a secret!

I think I've found my inspiration for Randy's Father's Day gift.

Mark Bertrand links an Andy Crouch article on the virtues of wet shaving. I highly recommend it for some thought on the subject of the man's toilette and the Razor Blad Scam. (Ladies, take note: this applies to you, too.) And, (in the name of Peak Oil) we've also been making some changes around our home, so frankly, this article fits in with our Luddite leanings as well.

If it's not for you, then it's not for you. But I ask you, woman to woman:

Wouldn't you rather your man smell like almond, sandalwood, or summer sage rather than that antiseptic odor, masked by chemical fragrances, left by his canned shaving cream?

Wouldn't you rather wake to see beautiful tools that will last a lifetime and know that you weren't dumping useless, expensive plastics and unrecyclable cans into a landfill?

Wouldn't you hide the Mach3 and the silly, electric buzzing machine and the cans o' chemicals so you'd never have to return to the days of the quick and dirty shave--of half-stubble and red, ingrown hairs?

Wouldn't it be lovely to get that timeless photo of your man carefully pulling his razor over his softened and well-lathered, good-smelling face, while your little one gazes on in rapt fascination at this rite of adulthood?

Heck. Forget the kid. You'd sit on the sink yourself and watch, just to glory in the manliness of it all.

Wouldn't you?

I thought you'd agree.

Time waster #001

You Are an Espresso

At your best, you are: straight shooting, ambitious, and energetic At your worst, you are: anxious and high strung You drink coffee when: anytime you're not sleeping Your caffeine addiction level: high

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

For those of you who are just joining us...

For those of you who are just joining us...

Here's the latest on the girlie, aka 'squirrely-girl' 'monkey girl' 'goofball' and sometimes just plain 'Tesla':

Girlie is now 4.3 years old. We're seeing an immunologist next week to go over some blood tests we took not long ago and hopefully we'll get some insight to T's recurrent low-grade fevers. We know there's still a problem, but we don't know what it is.

The real problem we often face with doctors who see her is disbelief. They shake their heads, or shrug their shoulders when we say that at 19 months she was clearly 'autistic'. "Well," they say, "maybe some kids just out-grow that sort of thing."

This, from a highly trained, well-paid professional. I could get that kind of assessment, FREE, from family members, thanks.

Kids don't outgrow autistic behaviors. Their bodies may heal, their immune systems may strengthen, they may be naturally bright and respond well to their remediative therapies--but they don't "outgrow" their illness.

To insist on that conclusion also denies the efforts parents put into researching and implementing those therapies, which may be anything from simple speech therapy twice a week to a complete lifestyle rennovation that transforms every aspect of family life--from the food we put on the table (and where it comes from!) to how we shop, when/where we go to church, mow the lawn, wash the clothes...

So back to now.

T is now considered by most who see her as having PDD-NOS. This is short-hand for Pediatrician Didn't Decide-Neurologically Odd (S)Daughter. I call it 'the Noddies'. This means she doesn't qualify for the most obvious signs of autism--the lack of reciprocity in any form of communication, or lack of eye-contact, repetitive behaviors, etc. She's just obviously delayed in language and social skills, prefers interactions with adults to her peers, and has problems with sensory processing. PDD-NOS is really just a diagnostic dumping ground for kids who aren't really autistic or ADHD, just odd.

And that's odd in itself. That science, which loves precision, would have such an imprecise description of my girl.

It's frustrating, let me tell you. We love to name things, contain them with our words, but some things and most people can't be controlled like that. I can say that T is PDD-NOS, but that doesn't really describe her. I can say that she's a year and half delayed in every aspect of her development except that she's good sized and can read and count like a kid half-way through kindergarten, and she's yet to officially start preschool--but that still wouldn't describe her. But to get the help we need, we must name and describe and quantify the girl.

Last week I spoke to the supervisor of the before/after-care class at g's elementary school where she is now enrolled through a state program. I wanted T to have some extra time about three days a week, to play at school with other kids. As an extroverted kid (yes, one of my newest discoveries), and an only child, she craves attention and loves school, so I thought this'd be a great idea. And she's doing soooo well in her preschool class with all the other 'regular' kids.
But no. This is not to be. The supervisor said T would need a full-time aid, and they just didn't have one. Sorry. But she'll tell me if they get one...But there might be too many kids in the class, anyway...

I can read body language; I can read unspoken messages. This woman does not want to deal with T.

I went home a bit sad, and more than a bit frustrated. But I didn't cry like I did last spring when the play gym called and politely explained that T could not continue in the class without an aid. I was so hopeful and excited for her; we had come so far...but no.

Will we be in this place, this "I don't see what your problem is" but "I can't handle your child" place for long?

I look back over the last 2.5 years and see a lifetime of differences. We began in anger and fear, dispairing for our future with a child who could not understand language in any form and who shrieked at night and wouldn't look at us--only at videos. And yet here we are now--laughing and joking with T, watching her true personality emerge as she feels better and better, reveling in the joy of her love of learning.

We have come so far. Too far to be believed, and yet but not far enough for some.

A Hoppy Easter

So I had these three wee bunnies basically done and ready for their big day last Friday. Then Saturday I called the friend who was hosting our evening Easter 'do' and discovered another couple would be along with their two kids, a girl and a boy (ages 4 and 8, respectively).

Yipes! Time for more bunnies!!!

So this wool felt project got bagged and titled, "Next Year's Peeps."



And Saturday and Sunday I whipped up a couple of more bunnies in between the general Easter prep. They became Bashful Bunny and Robo Bunny. No idea if they kids would like 'em, but Randy and I amused ourselves particularly with the creation of RoboBunny. Here's a couple of shots of the guy with all his electronic bits:

What a tail!

The 'Bender' profile shot.

Five happy bunnies in all.

Five happy kiddies in all!

Randy and I were most impressed that even JJ, the jaded eight year old, loved his bunny. Said it was the coolest. Eyes lit up and the whole shebang.

The adults enjoyed fine grilled ribs and chicken, yummy salad, 'The King's Bread', and a mountain of strawberries.

The kidlets had a twilight egg hunt, and Tesla wanted only the sparkly eggs.

It was a hoppy good Easter.

R.I.P 1982-2006

It's had a long, virtuous, dedicated, but simple life, this crock pot. And now I bid it a fond farewell.

Actually, I'm the one who did it in. Got in a hurry and tried a short-cut that busted the thing.
(note to self: do not place crockpot inserts directly on a stove heating element--they will crack.)

Would have loved to post a pic of the broken vessel, but it was leaking tomato-y, viscous goo so it had to go straight away into the trash. The empty heating pan looks bleak enough though, don't you think?

I'm off to look for a new pot. Can't live without the crock.

A Wee Easter

It's a Wee Bunny Easter here in the Philipson household. (Thanks Hillary at weewonderfuls.)

Here are two going out to my friend's little girls. They're not quite done, but they wanted a quick pose in the garden before they get their ribbons and tails on. (Aren't they just preeeecious?)

I realise this whole bunny thing is miles from the nails, the blood...the setting the captives free...but, come on--these girls are wee. Bunnies are for wee people; blood is for us big folk.

For those of you insist on the shedding of blood for the propitiation of our sins...maybe next year we'll have a demonstration on how to skin a real rabbit.

Just kidding, folks.

So, having decided this will be an homemade holiday, I'm off this evening to continue my Easter creations. I think I'll work on some little yellow fuzzy things.

chick ya later!