The World According to…the World?

I’m a Christian.  This means Christ follower.  This means different.  Cuz let’s face it, Jesus was different.  The Son of God, washing people’s feet and hanging out with prostitutes and drunks;   not normal.  So I wonder why some of us do all the stuff that the world says is normal when our example was so very not?

I remember when my daughter was 8 and someone asked her if she had a boyfriend.  Cuz apparently that’s the most normaI thing you ask a little girl.  I have never experienced so many emotions at once.  Are you…kidding? Nuts? Sick?  Has she ever noticed that a boy was cute? Sure.  She may have been little, but she was, after all, human.  She saw handsome boys and sweet boys and funny boys on a regular basis and thought, hmmm…I might wanna marry him someday.  And that’s ok.  But full-on relationship? At 8? Really?

Now that both my girls are teenagers, these types of questions abound and pile up by the day.  Today, even. From a complete stranger. Because it’s normal, right?  Teenagers date, right?  That’s just what they do.  We did it.  Our parents did it.  Culturally normal.  I mean we don’t want ‘em to have sex until they’re married, but let’s let ‘em date the opposite sex from age 11 to whenever, hold hands & kiss and have their pulse race to heights of ecstacy  they can barely manage, but manage they must, we say,  because we want them to be "pure”.  Then maybe some day they’re in a situation they can’t manage anymore.  Or maybe they can, right up until the day they walk the aisle, but by then they’ve come in and out of so many relationships that their hearts were no longer whole before their feet even finished growing. And there's a few broken hearts in their wake, too.  And Mister Right down there by the preacher on going to the chapel day gets what’s left.  Sounds like a nice, normal plan to me.

Or, we could do something crazy like go against the grain of the world and tell our kids something like this.  “You know what? You’re going to have feelings for the opposite sex.  It’s ok.  It’s not sinful or wrong.  But how you act on those feelings is where I, your Christ-following parent, come in.  (Remember Him? Mr. I don’t do it the way it’s always been done?) And I don’t want you to be consumed by these feelings and end up hurt, so here’s what we’re gonna do.  You’re not gonna date until I say you’re spiritually and emotionally mature enough to do so.  And there’s no magical, across-the-board age when that happens, k?  Your BFF’s have nothing to do with it.  They don’t live here. And that boy?  You can’t text him or private message him, because that will only enhance and encourage those feelings, whether they're yours or his.  And you know what else? Some guys - not all, but some - will say just about anything to you in writing.  They might even tell you they love you at the ripe old age of 12.  And just seeing those words – not even hearing them but just seeing them in front of you will make your heart go pitter patter.  And boom.  You’ve given this kid a piece of your heart, via text of all things.  And next month when he decides he’s in 'love' with somebody else? Then what? You see where I’m going here? So if I let you pursue and act on every feeling and crush you have for the next 10 years, this process could repeat itself 20 times, and what kind of parent sets their child up to have her heart broken 20 times? Not happening.  So we’re not gonna look like the rest of the world on this guy/girl thing.  And people will tell you and I both that we’re crazy and ridiculous and over the top and too conservative.  And I’m OK with that and happy to defend you when you can’t remember why we came to these decisions and your little teenage mouth wants to turn to me and say, ‘Why are we so different?!’  So just be ready.  Because we’re not doing life in the world according to the world.  If you have a problem with that, find me the scripture that says I’m in direct disobedience to the One who entrusted you to me and we’ll talk.” 

That sounds beautifully abnormal to me.  

Nefarious: (adj.) extremely wicked or villainous

I don't watch the news. I can tell you very little, if anything, about the current events in our city.  Because in between every celebrity-split-from-significant-other spot and some correspondent's opinion of the political climate, there's a story about a woman.  Or a little girl.

I don't take these very well.

I don't take them well even when they're fictional. I can't tell you how many times I've come unglued at a friend who said, "You've got to see this movie!" So I did, only to find there was a violent scene involving a woman or a little girl and I had to say, "If you want to remain my friend, don't ever recommend a 'good movie' to me again."

But about three weeks ago, I went on a tour of an area of Houston, Texas that changed my life, as well as my disposition on violence against women and children.  (Or so I thought).  Those of us on the tour learned a new word.  Compissionate.  It means compassionate and pissed.  And it's a really good word.  While I heard some pretty gruesome and heartbreaking stories, I stayed remarkably detached and more fighting mad than anything else.  Actually, I thought a lot about how great it might feel to kill somebody.  Or even a lot of somebodies.  Traffickers be ware.

With this new-found fervor and compissionism, I didn't think much about sitting down to watch Nefarious, a look behind the veil of the sex industry.  In fact, as it started, I actually said to my husband, "I just need a bullet proof vest and a gun.  I want these people."

And then it happened.  About halfway through, I was undone. Little girls....in Cambodia....and their traffickers...are their parents. Their fathers lay around outside their huts all day and drink beer while their 7 year old daughters are...

...and there were pictures.

That's it.  I'm out, God.  I don't know who You thought You were talking to about all this but that fearlessness and boldness is gone and I am OUT. I cannot handle this.

I fell apart.  My husband pulled me over to him. But we continued to watch.

And then something else happened.  Throughout the movie there had been interviews with women, girls, former Johns, pimps and traffickers.  Their words were hardly comprehendible.  Their lives were hardly imaginable.

"When we first embarked on our journey," said the director, "we envisioned rescuing girls trapped in cages, but the issue of human trafficking was far more complex than we originally anticipated.  We started to see that even among the girls we had rescued, it wasn't enough for us to tell them they had value and help them get jobs and restart their lives. What we began to realize was that the even greater challenge than rescuing the girls was restoring them."

And as is crucial in any pivotal movie moment, the music started.  "He is jealous for me...."

At this point it was incredibly moving to hear the women and the young, young girls say they had met Jesus and He had healed them. But I wasn't prepared for the next words.  The words of the man.  The former trafficker.

"I'm ashamed I used to be a person like that.  I don't even call myself a person. But God is bigger than that. I was captive of one thing, and she was captive of another.  But God. Wants to set the captives free."

"...if His grace is an ocean we're all sinking..."

Fervor restored.  Faith renewed.  I'm in, Jesus.  I am so in.

If to be feeling alive to the sufferings of my fellow creatures is to be a fanatic, then I am one of the most incurable fanatics ever permitted to be at large.
-William Wilberforce

The crisis of modern-day sex slavery does not need interested observers.  It needs incurable fanatics.
-Benjamin Nolot
Writer, Producer, Director
Nefarious

My Mommy Told Me So

We hear a lot about skin cancer these days, and that most of the damage actually occurs when we're young.  Melanoma runs in my family.  Although my daughters are old enough to know how important sunscreen is and the ramifications of not using it, my 14 year old is, well, 14.  She’s my social butterfly and if she’s having a good time, which is pretty much always, she tends to forget things.  This weekend was one such occasion.

Knowing she was going to be swimming at a friend’s Saturday, I texted her Friday night, little sunshine emoticons and all, and reminded her to wear sunscreen.  She sent back, in all caps, “OKAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY.” 

She came home yesterday with burns on her shoulders and face.  Mama was not happy, and I told her so.

“I texted you! You said ‘OKAAAAAAY’!”

“I know, I just didn’t think we were gonna be out there that long!”

This is not our first rodeo with the sun. It happens every year at camp. And did I mention melanoma runs in my family? I repeat, mama ain’t happy.

Later that night I told her I was very concerned about her going to camp in less than 10 days and not taking care of herself. 

“Mom, I know.  I just prayed and asked God for wisdom so I will remember never to let this happen again.”

Did my teenager just say she prayed for wisdom?  Not just rescue from the pain and discomfort of her circumstances. But wisdom.  I’m a proud parent every day.  But every once in a while, God gives me a little bonus oomph. And my fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants free spirit girl telling me she didn’t just pray, “Oh God please don’t let me get skin cancer!” but that she asked Him for wisdom to learn from this and make better choices in the future was quite an oomph.

 Why would she do that?

Because I told her to. 

Statistics will tell us that our years of influence with our children are short.  They may live in our houses for 17 or 18 years, but they only hang on our every word for a little over half of that time.  That means when my kids were 5, I could tell them the sky was purple and they would’ve believed me, even if everyone else around them was saying it was blue.  But when they hit 11 or 12, they decide that mom and dad might not know everything.  And not only that, but won’t it be fun to tell them so.

I've been teaching my babies to talk to God since before they could talk to me. Yesterday I saw the years of my spiritual influence at work.  Apparently they believed me when I said God loves you, He listens to you, and He has every solution you're ever going to need. 

I realized in that moment that this child has been living with an amazing confidence in prayer for quite a while, and I’m embarrassed to say I just missed it.  I remembered all the mornings that she has come to me and told me she went to bed with a bad headache or stomach ache. When I asked, “Honey why didn’t you come get me?” Her response was, “I prayed and it went away.”

And all I was gonna do was give her a Tums or some Advil. I guess she told me.  

There's No Crying in Softball!

The year is 1994. It's summer, and I'm a newlywed. I'm also a size 4. That last part has no bearing on the story whatsoever. I just want it duly noted.

This was back in the day of good ole' Sunday night services, followed by something social. In this case, softball.  This was usually a guys-only thing. Until one night, a friend of mine had this great idea. "Let's get up a girls' game next week!"

The next week we stood on the field and waited to be chosen. It was 6th grade kick-ball all over again.

On the car ride over, my new hubby thought it prudent to share his thoughts on the matter. "This is not a good idea. You don't need to do this. Somebody is gonna get hurt." I was perplexed. What am I, 5? It's softball. Granted I'd never played and was not athletically inclined, but the youthfulness of my 26 year old brain was wondering what in the world could possibly go wrong in a silly game. So not a big deal.

I'm not sure in what order I was chosen, but I know it had to be close to last, if not dead last. The captain, or whatever her title was, said it was because I didn't have a glove. "Sorry, guys, if you don't have a glove, I'm not gonna pick you!" Awesome. Off to a good start.

My time at bat had come, and lo and behold, I actually hit the ball. I was ecstatic. I took off for first base with glee and confidence. I could see my best friend Cristi in that space out ahead of me - right field? Anyway, I knew I hadn't hit it that far and somebody was bound to be throwing the ball at any second. So I sped up. The breeze in my hair is feeling great. This is actually fun! I am an athlete! It was somewhere around this onset of euphoria that I realized I had a problem. Something in my lower extremities is not right. I think.....am I?....yep...Houston, we have a problem. My legs were moving too fast. Much faster than I knew was possible, and seemingly faster than the rest of me. And I can't catch up to them. I just knew I looked like one of those cartoon characters with a head, a body, and nothing but a swirling cloud of air below. It had to be Mach 2. And while this felt great at first, things had started to get out of hand.  This would need to come to an end, and for the life of me I could not figure out how to make that happen. Maybe I should tell somebody. Can they not see I'm in trouble here? I'm so fast it can't be normal. Maybe I should just scream out that I can't stop. I mean, they're girls. We talk about stuff. Maybe they can help. It was around 3 nanoseconds later that God must've thought it would be funny to solve this problem of excessive speed with a little swiftness of His own. I'm still not sure exactly what happened. I just know it was over in a flash. Bam. Everything hit the deck at once. I was on the ground, spread eagle, face firmly planted in red dust. I looked up as people started to rush over. I spotted Cristi, doubled over in her spot. The laughing pose. (More like the I'm actually crying and about to pee my pants pose). Amid the murmers I hear the voice of my hair stylist. "Wh...??...was she....was she diving? To first base?" For half a second I think I might have a brilliant cover story, and once I spit this dirt out of my mouth, I'll tell them that's exactly what I was doing. But the brutal reality was revealed to me as I looked dead ahead. I'm like 30 feet away from the base. I have no idea how this is possible because I was booking.  We're talking warp speed. My legs were on fire. There has to be smoke. And yet, here I am, barely half way. Maybe not even half way. I start wondering how in the world I'm going to explain this.

Trying to ignore the sting of pain, I stand up with some assistance (although not from the captain, who apparently saw this coming, me being without the proper equipment and all). I start to dust myself off, which seems pointless since I don't carry a ShopVac, but what're you gonna do. As I reach to brush off my legs - and this is difficult because there's dirt in my eyelashes and in case you ever have this problem incessant speed blinking will not help - I notice a whole 'nother kinda red. Not really gushing blood, but still a lot. Everywhere. On every limb. Big, huge strawberries on every joint. My pristine white shirt is toast. And still, Cristi is unable to stand from her hysteria.

Once I'm upright, somebody thinks it'll be a good idea to get me to my husband. I guess so they don't have to deal with me and can get back to their game. Somehow it had completely escaped my attention that my friends were seriously competitive and I might need a glove if I want to keep hanging out with them.

I'm escorted to the field he's playing on. He turns around just as we approach.

"I told you somebody was gonna get hurt."

That was helpful.

I kind of mill around, dazed, for a few minutes and our pastor actually helps me get cleaned up. He was a man who'd been married for more than 3 minutes and had the good sense to leave what he was doing and come to my aid. That's all I'm sayin'.

As I'm stiffly making my way back to the bleachers to watch the girls' smack down, I run into my sister, who, up to this point, has been chasing her 18 month old daughter around the park. I'm still thinking to myself, "How am I going to explain this?  How do you say you were operating at such an impressive rate of motion that you couldn't stop and God just smote you down?"

She looks at me, and with all the grace and wisdom only a sister can possess, says....wait for it....
"Were your feet just moving way too fast?"

A-ha! So it's a family trait, this speed of light thing?! Can you imagine if both of us had been playing?

My husband did eventually come to my aid that night. When we got home he ran a warm bath for me and applied giant band-aids to my elbows and knees, all the while still saying, "I told you so." OK I'm still not five, and I don't get what me being so fast has to do with your weird predictions, but, whatever. There was most definitely crying in softball that summer. (And for about 3 days after, but only every time I had to move.) And Cristi still cries at the mention of the words "feet" and "fast."

Things I Think Should Be Allowed Part 1

It's a crazy world. With all  kinds a crazy folk. Sometimes I think I might lose my ever loving mind. Sometimes it seems like everybody else all ready has and I've missed the bus. But I'm thinking if I could just do certain things, you know, have some sort of outlet, then dealing with the crazy would be easier. So here's my list of things I think we ought to be able to do. I'll share one a day. Maybe one a week. Or maybe nobody will read this and I won't share any more at all. I'll just do them. I wonder if they give out laptops in city jails...

Thing Number One:

Yell.  I think we should be able to yell in public places. Because people are doin' it, in case you haven't noticed, and nobody's telling them they can't. Including their mother. So why can't we sane, self aware ones have a crack at it? Why can't I walk up to the woman in Target whose voice is clanging out over everyone else's in the store, tap her on the shoulder and say, "Hi! You know what?? There's boat loads of people in here trying to have a pleasant shopping experience. Some even have cranky toddlers and screaming babies. And yet, miraculously, YOU are the only one I can hear! And guess what else? THAT'S NOT OK! And if this is your inside voice, then you need to live outside and never, ever, ever enter an establishment with four walls again, K?" And then, on our way to clobber the guy monitoring the security cameras and steal the tape, do the Ross thing with our hands to show them how to bring it down. 

How is this not OK?

Miss Personality

My friends and I have been taking these personality tests lately. I love these things. In fact I’m kind of a test junkie when it comes to the human psyche. I love to know what makes people tick.  If I was held at gunpoint and forced to go back to school (which is the ONLY way I’d go back to school), I’d study psychology.  But only because back-up singer for anybody cool isn’t a real degree.  Unfortunately, my tick-makers aren’t very fun as far as descriptive words go. For example, Introvert. Yea. Not really at the top of the party invite list, that one. And then there’s Beaver.  Um, dear Mr. Smalley: WHY??  You also have Phlegmatic, which sounds like it might require some sort of medication, and lastly there’s Melancholy. I actually kind of like this one. Miss Melancholy. Melancholy Baby. Yep. I’m cool like that. But again, as far as words go, it doesn’t get people fired up like that Sanguine thing. If you look it up in a thesaurus, you’ll see sad, depressed, downhearted, miserable and gloomy, just to name a few. Who in the world gets pumped about hangin’ with the downhearteds?

PERSONALITY TEST! WHO ARE YOU? 

So all these recent tests have got me thinking. We Beavers tend to do that. Quite analytically, in fact, just in case you were curious.  And it seems the Introverts & Beavers have gotten a bad rap. One of the tests I took even used the word “introvert” in its list of weaknesses.  I don’t know about you, but to have my very nature called weak is all together not cool. I may not throw caution to the wind by default. I might like to write things down in my planner with a different colored Sharpie for each family member. I might even need everything on my coffee table to be placed at 90 degree angles. But still.  Weaknesses? I gotta go with no.

If you buy into the whole created in God’s image thing like I do, then it’s easy to see where the Lions and Extroverts fit in. God, definitely Lion. And you’d have to be an Extrovert to split an ocean in half so people could walk through it. But where does that leave the quiet in new social situations gals like me? Where do we who recharge best by being alone come from? And what is our fascination with lists?? 

I say the answer lies in the same place from which our fun-loving, loudest in the room counterparts get their identity. And, in my humble opinion, the fact that our character traits need to be a little further investigated to be understood makes them all the more intriguing. Especially if you’re a girl. And I am. Which brings me to point number one.

To be understood, you have to be known. And to be known, you have to be pursued. Boom.

God is a jealous God. He says so right there in Exodus. You know, that book where He shares that special Top Ten List? He doesn’t want you chasing after other gods. He knows we’re all pursuing something, and what He wants you to pursue is Him. If you don’t pursue Him, you won’t know Him. Get it? You can’t be known and loved for who you are unless people are willing to chase after you. And neither can God. Insert happy dance here. Because like I said, I’m all girl. And the only thing girls want more than to be pursued is to be known. Just like God. It’s an image thing, ladies. Score one for the Introverts.

Point number two. God is a God of order. It’s just the way the universe works. Seasons. The food chain. The Sun goes down and stars come out at just the right time stuff. 

So if you like the paper clips and rubber bands in different little cubbies in your desk tray, you come by it honestly. Keep rolling those socks and hanging those clothes according to sleeve length, material and color, my fellow Beavers. You’re in excellent company.

So what does that leave us with? Ah, yes, the alone thing. Being an Introvert isn’t really about how shy or quiet you are. It’s about how you derive energy. Are you energized by being with people or by downtime alone? We can look to the one and only God incarnate Person of Jesus Christ on this one. No doubt Jesus loved hanging with His boys. But what did He do to recharge? He sent the crowd away. 

Matthew 14:23

After he had sent them away, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone. 

Matthew 15:29

Jesus left there. He walked along the Sea of Galilee. Then he went up on a mountainside and sat down. Large crowds came to him. 

I especially like that second one. The introverted move was that, after being with people all day, He was trying to be alone, but popular guy that He was, the crowd followed Him. But once they were there, it was on. He saw that they were hungry and fed all 5,000+ of them. Now if that’s not a life of the party move, I don’t know what is. Not to mention all girl hostess with the mostest stuff.  Which goes to show that we Introverts are a must at parties. We can even be loud. My friends will attest to this! But when it’s over, we’re gonna need a little down time on our personal mountainside. That’s where we’ll refuel, because as much as we love you Sanguines, you, quite frankly, make us a little tired! But truly in a good way. Like the mother of 5 toddlers who is wiped out at the end of her day but wouldn’t change a moment for anything. It’s a good tired. And we’ll most definitely want to do it again. We’ll just need some time to get ready. Maybe make a list or two, organize a drawer.

So Extroverts and Otters of the world, take note. You might even want put us Introverts and Beavers on speed dial. Because you can’t feed all those people without skills like ours. And when we say we've got to go, don’t be offended. It just means we’ve spent all our energy on you because we love you. And if we’re going to do it again, we’ve got to get to our mountainside to regroup. That way, when you call in the middle of our well-planned, scheduled-to-the-minute day for some spontaneous shopping & Starbucks, we’ll be ready.

Why?

Author and speaker Beth Moore says her husband gives her more material than anyone else. I can relate. My man holds more entertainment value than I can document. Although I guess “entertainment” might be misleading.  Have you ever wanted to cause bodily harm to someone who was entertaining?

This past weekend I threw him a surprise birthday party. He’s quite a guy and I wanted to bless his socks off. I think I succeeded. There is no one who holds my heart like this man. I love him with the intensity of a thousand suns. And it’s with that same intensity that I sometimes want to take him out and tell God I have no idea how it happened. I just came home and there was this mound of dirt in the back yard. Marked by a tombstone.

This emotion came over me most recently when he asked, “Why?”

At a most inconceivable moment.

I am prone to severe motion sickness. Cars, planes, trains, buses. A strong wind.  My husband knows this. And still, he’ll back out of the driveway at warp speed just to see what happens. And then laugh when I look at him with that 'wife' look that every husband recognizes to mean, “If the Bible said a woman can leave her husband for insensitivity and finding it funny, I’d be outta here.”

Not long ago we were on our way to get groceries and that awful, unmistakable feeling came over me. Sometimes it happens if I haven’t eaten. Sometimes it happens if I have. But it always happens in stop & go traffic, and while the driver is trying to do 34 things at once, as my beloved husband often does. So I assume the position (right elbow on the car door, hand over my forehead) and inform him that this particular trip to Target is not going well for me.  

“Ick. Carsick.”

He continues in his tasks, driving being maybe 3^rd on the list. He finally notices my posture and responds.

“Why?”

Um..surely I misunderstood. He must be on the phone and I didn’t know it. I peek out from under my hand with one eye. “What?”

I can see he isn’t on the phone. And yet, he says it again. To me. “Why?”

I have so many thoughts racing through my head, it starts to spin. And in my current state, a spinning head is not good. See, I have these amazing friends, and at some point during these flashes of thought, I remember how good they are to me. So precious and sympathetic. Whenever we’re all piling in someone’s SUV, they all holler, “Tamara’s in front!” because they know the front seat is much easier on me. And even if I’ve anticipated this SUV outing, taken my Dramamine and declare that I’m fine, fully medicated and ready for the back seat, they still check on me throughout our drive. And if I’m not doing well, they slow down and see what they can do. Someone reaches over and pats my leg with a wonderful motherly touch. Good friends. Sweet people. Understanding. They know me so well.

And then there’s this man who has promised to honor me until the end of time, in sickness and health. He knows me, too. But rather than sympathize, he thinks it’ll be fun to use this knowledge in such a way as to drive me mad. 

Now stay with me here. It wasn’t just what he said. It was the way he said it. Alabama/Texas drawl and all, mixed in with a tone which only he can create. One that implies I have just spoken the most ridiculous words in the English language and should never be allowed to declare anything, ever again.  As my mind is reeling, I literally see giant question marks swirling in front of me. What did he just say?! Wh….it….it doesn’t even make sense! I cannot fathom what has just happened.  Are you new here? It’s me, your wife of 18 years. We've done this a thousand times. Did I mention the friends who take such sweet care of me? Did I mention my children who love me so much that my youngest daughter starts to cry when I even intimate that I might possibly throw up in the near future for any reason? Who are you?

Then my thoughts begin to clear.

Well all right. Let’s illuminate.

Why WHAT?! Why am I telling you? You mean other than the fact that, at this present moment, you and you alone are in full control of whether or not I can keep my lunch down?! Or other than the fact that, I don’t know, you’re HERE?!? Or are you asking why I’m sick? You want a diagram explaining the digestive system? A note from my doctor? A Google search? What? What exactly do you need?! A reason? Cause here’s my reason. I DON’T HAVE A REASON!! What I have is the knowledge that I’m about to hurl, and since you are the sole individual who is likely to keep this from happening, it seems to me that it would not just be beneficial to you, but to everybody else within a 4 foot radius if you would simply stop what you’re doing and focus on the road, and I’ll even try to ignore the overwhelming sense that your question, while infuriating and absurd, is also, say it with me, completely CLUELESS!!

He must have seen the writing on the wall. Or, in this case, in the smoke coming from my nostrils.  We made it to Target without incident. But still, the question looms. Why, oh why, would you ask a woman why at a time like that?

I can only glean that he felt the need to pose this query because of his complete lack of ability to deal with nausea and all its ramifications. (This is much easier to accept than the idea that he honestly didn't know the answer). The first time our son threw up, he fled. I’m not kidding. We were giving him that pink medicine, he started to puke, and the father of my children ran away. So maybe this was some sort of deflection. An “I have no idea how to help you right now so I’m just gonna ask a really stupid question and buy myself some time” type thing. Maybe he’s thinking he can speed to Target before this goes down. “If I can just get to the parking lot, I can escape.” He is many, many wonderful things. But knight in shining armor when someone’s stomach contents are coming forth, he’s not. Here’s how he handles sickness that requires hanging over any sort of receptacle.

“You okay?”

These words must travel all the way from the farthest corner of the house, where he is holed up until it’s over, to me. If I hear him and can muster the strength to answer, great. If not, all the better for him.  Then he can say he checked on me and I never answered, so his obligation to do anything is gone. And now that we have children old enough to walk, even better. He can send them in and not inconvenience himself or hinder his intestinal fortitude in the slightest. “Go check on Mommy.”

“Mommy, are you OK? Daddy wants to know.”

Really?? “No. No I’m not.”

As footsteps fade, I hear them reporting back. “She says she’s not OK, Daddy.” They might even throw in some additional information, like “She’s shaking, and her face is really white.”  My blessed offspring. So concerned. And here it comes.

“Well…what does she want me to do?”

This is the moment. The moment when I remove my head from the place it has been buried, turn toward his voice, and leer. And then a plan begins to form.

I will need the girls to dial 911 at precisely the right moment for this to work. If they’re too early I won’t be able to act. If they’re too late, I’ll be hanging over a tin can in a jail cell. It has to be timed perfectly, so that when the police arrive, the paramedics will only be able to say, “We don’t know what happened. His body was implanted in the sheet rock when we got here.”

I mean, we use the phrase “violently throwing up” all the time, right? Well there ya go. “Maybe he was holding her hair back and as she was thrashing about…” (See, he’ll even end up looking like a hero) “It was some sort of horrible stomach virus homicide. It happens.”

 Or, maybe he just asked her “why?”