Puppy Update

It's been quite a week. At the risk of sounding like a boring first time parent who strings out every detail, I have to say something about what we've been going through with these little guys. Sam and I are trying to accommodate the needs of these puppies and it's pretty overwhelming to be fully responsible for two bored, whining, yipping, crying babies with unreliable bladders. Baxter and Charlie are now nine weeks old and it seems that they've grown this week already. I will try to post some pictures in the next couple days. That will require time and concentration, neither of which their demands have allowed.

We've fallen into a daily pattern: whining at 5:00 a.m. means that they need to get outside right away to "do their business." After running through the backyard sampling every piece of chipped bark they can pick up from the flowerbeds, they frenziedly lick dried earthworms off the sidewalk, find bird droppings in the grass to roll in, then go on a romp under the trees. Of course, I stand on the porch and cheer them on so they'll pee before they come inside. As they squat in the grass, they turn to look at me and get my approval. Baxter has big soulful cocker spaniel eyes, and to see him peering back over his shoulder as he does his business, always makes me laugh. Three cheers for going outside and not inside on the carpet!
We then go inside for their breakfast, which they eat in between trying to tear each other's ears off. That comes with barking, whining, and all sorts of growling noises. Just as they sound as though they will kill one another, they suddenly head for their bowl and have a few more mouthfuls of kibble. Then it's off to the races once again.

We have a variety of toys: little fuzzy squeaky (annoying) toys that they love to play with and fight over. And I do mean fight. There are clear rubbery bones that they chew on, and a canvas octopus with squeaky parts in every tentacle and the main body. That is quite a noisy invention but they love it. Funnily enough, their favorite toy is an empty Arrowhead water bottle. It crunches and cracks as they both try to bite on it with their tiny razor teeth.

They play with their toys for awhile before edging over to the tassle on my persian rug. This is where they've learned the word "No!" as they chew and then look over at me to see if I notice what they're doing. They tear in and out of their doggy playpen, roiling across their blanket and chewing everything they come in contact with. Even while you hold them and look at them, they're trying to chew the air, your nose, their own foot or tail. They're typical babies: everything goes into the mouth. I'm continually pulling landscaping bark out of their mouths, and lilly fronds from them. What the fascination is with these things, I do not know.

After about 20 minutes of being occupied by their toys, they get bored and start throwing themselves at the wall of their playpen, trying to get out. They either clamor over the barrier, or squeeze past the ottoman, and tear off into the living room. This is precisely the time they should go back outside, I've learned, as I've cleaned up little suprises that they've left under the table, in the corner, or even in the middle of the living room floor. (glad they're not Great Danes!) They check out the place where Otis' food dish used to be, sniff around Stepdaughter's bedroom door and whine a little bit, before wildly chasing each other through the living room, around the couch as fast as they can go.

At some point they come back to their little enclosure and flop down on the floor where they fall onto their backs or lie halfway under the couch, dead to the world. For awhile they lie on the tile floor, but then they gravitate together and lie curled up together. They really love each other and it is evident. Other than hiccups or flailing legs in their puppy dreams, the house is quiet for about an hour. thank goodness--I can get something done and even leave the room while they're asleep.
If you multiply this series of activities by 20 times, this is what life is like for these dogs every day. We are utterly worn out.

Little Baxter is stocky--a real butter ball. He has shorter legs than Charlie, and is really a beautiful puppy with those soulful eyes of his. He has a very sensitive temperament and if you scold him, he looks like he might curl up and die. Yesterday I swatted him with a piece of paper--one piece of paper! --to penalize him for chewing off the tassel on the area rug. I thought he might collapse. He dashed around behind his puppy carrier and cowered, looking at me through his eyebrows with the most dejected and pained expression. I was absolutely stricken.
Charlie, on the other hand, is a natural guard dog but has the build of a poodle. He stood, stiff legged at the edge of our lawn when my 300 lb. neighbor stopped in his driveway yesterday to say hello. "Oh, such vicious attack dogs!" he said of my 5-lb. ferocious dustmops. Funny, cockapoo guard dogs, I know. But they bark at Otis, at anyone who comes to the door, and at the neighborhood dogs that he hears. They even bark at our reflection in the sliding glass window at night. Charlie is full of spunk. Baxter, our little fat boy, just sits and ponders--I think he has a therapist personality. (We should get along just fine!)
If I go upstairs to get a shower, the place turns into the house of howling, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. You would think someone is killing them. and of course, if one howls, the other chimes right in.
Last week we had a woman with a 16-month old son stop in. The dogs were terrified of the little boy, probably because he squealed in excitement and his arm and leg movements were pretty unpredictable. As we went out into the back yard, the boy squealed, Charlie let out a blood curdling scream, peed himself and lay like he was dead under the lawn chair. Across the lawn, Baxter began screaming right along with him before he could even see what was going on. I wonder what the neighbors thought. Poor little enmeshed things!


They have the most ear rending little barks you ever heard. Otis thinks so, too. He hardly comes downstairs during the day when the boys are out because they see him and bark at him. He's coming ever closer, as I think he realizes they are just babies. But when they bark, he lets fly with a string of feline expletives and shoots over the back of the couch and back up the stairs. I think we're going to need to do some intentional damage control so he doesn't become a recluse who lives on the guestroom bed upstairs.

To be honest, I wonder what in the world we have done. This morning at 3:30 all I could think of was getting them back to the breeder as soon as we can. They are such noisy, inconvenient little things that I love more than I wish I did. It almost breaks my heart to hold them at night and see their little eyes looking up at me and feel their cheeks against mine. Maybe I don't want to love anything this much (this is the therapist speaking...) or maybe this is normal for parents of little puppies. I just wonder how on earth I'm going to do this when I go back to work in the fall. Maybe I can take them to class with me--until the Dean finds out.
In the meantime, we need to put our off-white sectional upstairs in the sitting area of our bedroom, along with the leather ottoman. They will shred these things. We'll get a couple rocking chairs and a cheap sofa, a cheap rug, and install a gate across the entry way into the kitchen/den area. Then they can have space to run around and if they have an accident it won't ruin the rug. Maybe the time will come when they can be trusted to go into the livingroom without leaving little piles under the end table or behind the couch, and without chewing everything in sight.

They are darling and they will be wonderful companions for many, many years (they live up to 20 years). But getting to adulthood is almost a dream that we don't think will ever come true right now. They are so cute and we love them so much. We are also very tired. Otis' nose is out of joint and he's on his last nerve. New little lives take a lot of energy and patience.

Dying

I had a long conversation with a friend tonight and I won't be able to sleep now. She told me that last week her doctor told her that she will die within a year due to a number of chronic illnesses that she has had for over 50 years.
I am stunned.
Veronica is one of the cheeriest women I know and she has endured more in life than almost any woman I can think of. Born to a woman who was married nine times, she was pressed into the job of taking care of her hypochondriac semi-prostituting mother from the time she turned 13. Leaving that home, she married an abusive man who verbally and emotionally abused her for 20 years. Three sons later, she left him, only to have her church ask her to give up her church office. "Too many people misunderstand what has happened." So she gave up her office and watched as her husband was hired on by another local church to do what she wanted to do so badly. She watched as he received accolades for what she could do much better but was not allowed to, for no good reason. At the same church, she was finally hired to be involved in part time ministry, but was elbowed out by a family with money and influence whose child wanted to take over her responsibilities. Veronica asked if she could continue on without pay, just to be able to contribute to the church. She has been allowed to up until the end of this month. It will be her last opportunity to serve the church in this way.
Meanwhile, Veronica was diagnosed with Hepatitis C. She picked it up in a transfusion she was given at birth, after which she almost died. No one knew what was wrong with her, but she narrowly survived and was severely jaundiced at the time. Veronica grew out of it, she thought. In fact, it was growing insidiously inside of her until last year she was told that she had severe cirrhosis of the liver. And then the bleeding started: severe nosebleeds that took forever to staunch. Her ankles and thighs swelled up to twice their size and she became very tired. While this was happening, she lost two of her part time jobs and now she is $700 short every month. How does she manage? In a word, God. People have given her money, put cash inside of her purse--all of this without a word from her, but there are many prayers ascending from her every day about how she will manage. It has been this way--hand to mouth--since her divorce. Her credit had been ruined by her ex-husband, and the alimony and child support ran out way too soon.
Veronica's doctor has put her on the liver transplant list. She is not excited. "If the transplant doesn't kill me, paying for it will!" She does not know how she will manage financially if she can't work, can't pay for her car, has no one to care for her through the medical crisis, etc. She wonders why she should consider a liver transplant if she can only plan on five good years to follow. It's really hard on one's body and she is uncertain about it. But now the doctor tells her that she has a cirrhotic heart. I had no idea there was such a condition, but it is like cardiac stenosis (hardening and narrowing of the vessels). Veronica needs to give someone medical power of attorney, but her boys don't want to talk to her about it. They feel sick at heart that she is ill and can't bear the thought that she will most likely die soon. So they completely avoid talking about her illness. She has tried to tell them that they can sell her one and only antique furniture piece in order to bury her--up on the hill where next to her stillborn baby girl lies. They simply can't talk with her about dying.
This is why I talked with her so long tonight. "I hate to even ask this question, Veronica, but do you feel that you are ready with God?"
"Yes. But more than that, I wonder why I've lived through all these things just to have this happen."
She tells me that two weeks before she was diagnosed with Hepatitis she had a vivid dream of a man who was speaking to her. He told her that she had lupus and that it was very serious. "Well, I'm going to fight it," she told him. Although she couldn't see his face, she had the distinct impression that he sincerely approved of her plan. "Maybe I'm in denial," she told me today. "But I talk about dying on purpose. And when I do, there is nothing in me that answers to that. I just don't think it's going to happen to me because I remember that dream." She is a new grandmother and has done so much reading on her illness and medications that she is now suggesting medication regimes to her physicians. By following her plan, she has lost much of the extra fluid in her legs and her chest pain has diminished somewhat. She wants to avoid the transplant if possible. Veronica is having a cardiac angiogram next week to see how cirrhotic her heart is and if needed, to place a stent in her arteries to decrease the chance of heart attack. And yet even with all of this happening, she continues to take care of her mother and also another elderly woman who has mobility problems. She is usually cheerful and eager to be involved with people. I really love her and it is hard to think of her goodhearted soul having to suffer the way she has--and quite possibly, the way she will before she dies.

If there is anyone who reads this blog, please put Veronica on your prayer list. She needs your prayers more than you can imagine. Prayer is the best thing, she tells me, and she adds tentatively, it is the only thing that has helped her survive. I pray not for a miracle--althought that would thrill my soul--but that she will have peace and if/when she does die, she will slip away quickly and painlessly. She has had enough pain in this life.
So tonight, with a very heavy heart I'm thinking of Veronica. I feel challenged to make every day of my life count--my life that has so much good in it. May God bless my friend with a cheerful heart, peace that passes all understanding, and a real sense of how much God loves her as she declines.

Happy Family

Our boys are finally home!
Today we drove to the breeder's home and picked up Charlie and Baxter. They cuddled right into us when we were introduced, and seemed not the least concerned that we were new to them. Baxter was not too keen on getting into the car, and as soon as I was seated with them in the dog bed on my lap they crawled up onto my neck and stayed there for about 30 minutes. I now smell like puppy breath--so precious!
No urps or poops in the car for the 3 hour drive home. We stopped once at a rest area and put them down on the grass to "potty." They did their business and off we went once again.
Once we got home, it was another potty stop in the front yard and then introductions to Otis took place. It went over like a rubber crutch, hissing and yowling prevailing. He is livid that these little rodent type animals are in his house. There was some yapping at Otis and he fled to the upstairs bedroom. Even now, he is lurking in the hall after a few horrified sniffs of the puppy's enclosure and food. So much for our fantasies of the three "kids" curling up together to sleep!
Charlie will be a great watch dog. He is already alert and taking notice of the neighborhood dogs barking up on the hill. Baxter is just interested in cuddling. Each are 5 lbs. and they have great big feet for their little bodies. They also have very long eye lashes--such sweet little faces!
We were told that they need to pee around 10:30 at night and that they should be okay until about 6:30 a.m. We have 30 minutes before our last backyard outing. Sam is sawing logs and they are sacked out on their doggie blanket on the bed. They lie in positions as if they have no hip bones: back legs straight out behind them and front legs straight out in front. Every now and then there is a whimper, but they are very much asleep. It was a big day for them: leaving mom, leaving home, riding in a car, meeting Otis, adjusting to us, and learning that the terrifying water dish wouldn't hurt them (they were petrified of it initially!) They make little puppy grunts every time they wake up and reposition themeselves on the bed. It's soon time to put them in their little doggie play pen for the night. I shall probably not sleep well because I will be listening for their middle of the night signal that they need to go on a pee outing. What little warm, wiggly miracles they are! I am delighted to have them.

Truth in Advertising

Found here

Years ago when I moved to Southern California, my sister and brother-in-law used to drive me through various towns to give me a sense of my surroundings. There were the desert towns that were very hot (and that left me cold!) and also quaint old money suburbs that were enchanting. I particularly loved going up to Oak Glen, or "Little New York" as it was called at that time. It smells like apples year round and it is much greener than down on these dusty plains.

To get to Oak Glen, one has to drive through Yucaipa, a bedroom community of the city of San Bernardino. It is in the foothills and until 10 years ago, it was not much more than a collection of disheveled little houses of older people. What always struck me were the little white signs that so many people had at the edge of their lawns on the street. These signs had Bible verses printed on them. A person could get nearly a full Bible chapter just by driving up California Street. We used to chuckle at the randomness of these verses, wondering what they hoped that passersby might gain from reading them.

I didn't think about it for years until we moved here two years ago. It is a wonderful little town now since hundreds of new homes, landscaping, and businesses have augmented this place. The other day though, I noticed some of those little signs sticking out of someone's lawn in an older section of town. As I drove I read, "He that believeth and is baptized will be saved, but he that believeth not shall be damned." Down a little further, I came across this one: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." I'm wondering what effect the homeowner hopes the latter verse will have on people driving by. How about this cheerful message: "Because you have rejected knowledge I also reject you as my priests; because you have ignored the law of your God, I also will ignore your children."

What kind of seeker after spirituality might be attracted to something like this?

I remember one of the members of my childhood church put up a billboard on the edge of the junkyard he owned. It read, "For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life." This verse always struck me as rather ominous, but I suppose it depends on the perspective and needs of the people who drove by.

The sign down the road caught my eye this morning: "It is written, "I believed, therefore have I spoken."" What on earth can this mean to someone who is unfamiliar with scripture? Other than giving drivers a good laugh as they look over at it. What is the intended effect of this? What kind of representation is this of Christian beliefs for people who don't know anything about how Christianity? Will they have heightened ideas of the love of God? Will they be intrigued about Christian beliefs enough to go home and pick up a Bible and start reading? Or does it simply create a caricature of Christians?

Meaningless remarks, signs, and depictions can actually negate the positive witness of Christians. The sad thing is that we all do this: indelicate jokes, non sequitors in reverent settings, retaliatory remarks in response to strong comments of others. These things dilute what Christianity is and how others might perceive it. What impression do you give of Christianity and your walk with God? Is the message clear? Does it pique the interest of other people? I ask myself this every time I drive past these unusual little signs.

Our Boys--Update

This morning our cockapoo breeder sent us more pictures of our boys. We think they are terribly cute and can hardly wait the 15 days until we pick them up. Above is Baxter and Goldie, one of his female litter mates. This is probably their first time outside in the grass. It's been warming up here lately, so this was taken most likely over the weekend.

This is (fatso) Charlie in the background, with Baxter in the front. You can see that they're both variegated looking puppies. Their mother is a blue merle, which is a combination of grey, black, and brown variegated colors. Their father is a copper colored cockapoo.

Here is Baxter, sacked out in front of the puppies' kennel. You can see his colors a bit better in this picture. And just for the record, Baxter is my puppy and Charlie will belong to Sam. We are very happy expectant parents!

If you would like to see another half-grown puppy from these parents, you can see videos of Quica the Cockapoo on YouTube. Here's one that I like especially well. This one makes me laugh. It is of Lucy at Myrtle Beach (don't know who this is, but you can see something of the energy and delightfulness of these types of dogs). As my father would say, Lucy is a bugety-bugety-bug type of dog (Linda, you will understand this!). Enjoy!

Natural Beauty

Found here

For some time I have been trying to change my hairstyle. I have felt vexed by wearing the same style for nearly 20 years. The one reprieve during that time was in 2002 when I had just lost 35 lbs and had a thinner face with more defined cheekbones. My hairstyle had been what I would call short, spiky, and sassy. Now as a 'woman of substance' I look too full-faced with my hair brushed back from my face in that '80s look.My stepdaughters have commented that I should do this or that with my hair but I summarily dismissed their remarks because they are teenagers and I have pretty much resigned myself that whatever I do not be exactly right, including how I dress or what I do with my hair. But this year when we were visiting Stepdaughter #3 in Puerto Rico, she asked what I would do with my hair for her big sister's wedding in July. I didn't know. She suggested that I grow out my hair because she would like it (this is the same girl that suggested that I wear chartreuse nail polish). Why not? I've grown my hair since March.
I have almost shaved my head a hundred times since March.

It's hard to find a good hairstylist who can catch the vision that you don't really have yourself of how you might look with an updated hairstyle. It didn't help that we've moved in the last two years and I've been trying to find someone in our neighborhood to patronize. I went to several hairstylists and always came out unhappy. I either looked like my mother in 1963, or my hair would be flat to my head, or cut above my ears, giving me the appearance of an egg with fuzz on top. Sam's eyes would narrow as I'd come in the door and he'd ask in an agonizing tone, "Honey, why do you go to these people who do this to you?" After washing and styling my hair myself (back to that 1980s style--hair brushed back from my face, tucked behind my ears on either side, bangs curled and over my forehead), we'd both agree that it wasn't as bad as I'd looked walking in the house. But I knew I was about 20 years behind the times and Sam kindly never mentioned how outdated I looked.

Last Tuesday afternoon I met with Megan at a place called Salon Strut. Either I would come out strutting, or it would look like I just had my struts replaced. Both held possibilities. Megan is about 22 and had dyed orange hair that is folded over her head and held in place with a clip on one side. The back looks like it was dried with a high power fan--it stiffly shoots out in all directions. She could not have been nicer or more accommodating, however. I took her a couple pictures of hairstyles that I liked and she talked me into "something really easy and updated" that had elements of the look that appealed to me. It's an updated shag haircut.

It was fascinating to watch her style my hair after the cut. She suggested that I would look younger if I were to wear my hair with side bangs (bangs are not straight down, but swept over to one side) and the sides not tucked behind my ears, but moved toward my face on either side instead. As she talked, Megan flipped my hair up and out all around the sides and back, and dried my hair back and forth over the top of my head. "You have wonderful hair," she murmured as she jhuzhed my hair. "This is jhuzhing and you need to do lots of it with this hairstyle. No more round brush. Just use your hands to separate out your hair and then give it shape." It all looked simple, and I took note of the product she used. Phomolient and some kind of pomade to separate out the strands once it was dry. Yes, I could do that.

When she finished and I looked in the mirror I was amazed. My hair looked much darker (must be that pomade) and I looked 10 years younger. Sam would like this! I told her that I have lots of hair product at home that I have been using right along, and I think I could style my hair with that.

Sam got up off the couch when I came in the house and remarked, "Now that's pretty, Honey!" I fairly floated up the stairs to our room, where I set out the requisite products for Wednesday's styling. I could hardly wait for the Big Reveal at work.

I was so excited Wednesday morning that I leaped out of bed at 5:30 and took a shower. Couldn't wait to try the new styling techniques. But since Sam was still asleep, I just laid out my new clothes that I'd gotten so all of me would look different that day. When finally I did my hair, Sam stood by watching. "Is that how she told you to dry your hair?" he asked cautiously. "Yes," I replied with an air of superiority. "No more round brush. She said I can use my head as the round brush and dry my hair over the top using the curve of my skull." I leaned my head to one side and my wet hair fell to the left. "See?"
He seemed unconvinced but hurriedly kissed me and left for work. When my hair was dry (and standing on end), I put some hair pomade in my hand and even between my fingers, just as Megan instructed me to do. "Work it in at the roots" I said aloud, echoing her advice. I pulled my bangs over to one side and slid the pomade through them. Into my new outfit and one last look in the mirror. "Well, this isn't exactly what I looked like yesterday, but I'm not really used to the look yet, so maybe this isn't entirely right."
It wasn't even close. My bangs looked like a grease slick and my hair fanned out on the sides like my sister's prom pictures from the 1960s. I tried to ignore the hair pushed forward on my cheeks. That might drive me crazy, but at least I had a new look. Now I just needed to update my wardrobe to complete the look.
During the day I jhuzhed my hair and followed Megan's instructions to "use your fingers to jhuzh your hair during the day so the heat of your hands can reactivate the product and restore your style." By the time I walked in to my group therapy class at noon, my hair was flat to my head and looked like a staticky silk helmet in a style that made me look like a henchman. Mercifully, no one commented on my new look.

On Thursday, I tried again while Sam stood by to encourage, cajole, and then just plain annoy me with his helpful suggestions. "No Honey, that's not going to get you the right look. I don't think it helps to dry your hair with your head upside down." I fought back the words, "Oh really? Then let's see what you can do with it?" and continued on "giving body through postural elements." How could I have been so stupid to believe such a thing could happen? Postural elements? Either this girl was inarticulate or this was a term she had learnt in cosmetology school. There were no recognizable elements visible, postural or otherwise, as I stood back upright and surveyed the damage in the mirror. Bozo the clown was more like what I looked like now. Sam doubled up with laughter. "Honey, get back in the shower and start over." I was running late and didn't have time to do that so I hastened him on his way to work and tried to fight my hair into submission. The pomade, AKA "Hair Control Creme" was not working and I was about to forget myself. My hair shot out in all directions and my bangs wouldn't go to the side. They hung straight down limply--not even the '80s curl in them. I tucked my hair behind my ears and rushed out the door to class. Again, no comments about my new look. I tried to avoid mirrors and to act natural.
When I got home in the evening Sam took one look at me and asked, "Why did you get a style that is so hard to do?" My muttered comments about not wanting to look old and how easy it looked in the salon did not offer anything to the conversation and I quit the room. Perhaps I could go back to Megan and have her show me once again how to style this mess.

Friday morning found me sitting at Megan's station in Salon Strut. She had me dry my hair in front of her and then she "pieced it out" --put the Hair Control Creme in her hands, between her fingers, and she worked magic on my head. I just love how it looks when she does it. I left the salon feeling confident that I could recreate this look. What had I done wrong? I left out the teasing at the crown of my head, and I hadn't dried my hair right. I need to jhuzh everything except the bangs and then it would look how it should. My students commented enthusiastically about my hair and I called Mother triumphantly: "When you see me tonight, my hair will look the way it's supposed to." She couldn't wait.

I speak once a month at Mother's retirement center, so I was particularly happy to be able to walk into the meeting room with the new haircut. Mother's mouth fell open and her eyes widened as she came right over to where I was sitting. "What happened?" she asked in horror.
"What do you mean, what happened?" I retorted. "This is how it looks."Mother began laughing and wheezing. "Really?"
"It's not a style for the over 80 crowd, but it's an updated style that is supposed to look tousled and young."
Mother admitted that my hair looks darker and I do look younger this way. But when she returned to sit with her group, I could hear her whisper loudly to her friend, Evelyn, "It's supposed to look that way." There were giggles all around, even though after the meeting, several people said my new look was "very becoming."

Yesterday morning I washed my hair twice and had a meltdown before going out the door to church. The bangs aren't right and there was no amount of jhuzhing that could induce my hair to flip out at the sides as Megan could make it do. I pulled my bangs to the side and put more Hair Control Creme in my fingers to give it one last hurrah before I slunk out the door to the car. Suffice it to say, there were no comments about my hair in church. Sam and I sat near the back, and when Mother turned around to wave at us, she thought I was someone else sitting with Sam. I felt completely demoralized.
Sam and I went out for a hike in the high desert yesterday. There is a lovely spot called Whitewater Preserve where there is a beautiful mountain stream in the middle of nothingness. As we were wading in the ice cold stream, the wind came whistling down the canyon and caught us, nearly knocking us down. My hair flew in all directions and I could barely see where I was going. Sam shouted above the howling wind, "There! Now your hair is looking like the hairstyle."

Tomorrow I am going back to Megan for another styling lesson. Her comment, "If you can't style your hair, what good is my haircut?" is ringing in my ears. Other than getting a wind machine, I'm not sure what to do to get my hair to look right, but I'm not giving up.
Yet.

They're getting bigger!

This is the litter of puppies from which Baxter and Charlie hail. Baxter is at the very back, and Charlie is the brown merle right in front of him. It is difficult to get a clear idea of just how tiny these little guys are, so let me try to explain it this way. The mother is just 15 lbs, and there are five of these little guys. Each was about the size of a small ice cream sandwich. Not flat of course...but just saying.

We've been eagerly waiting to get our weekly pictures of our boys, and every time we receive one I print it off and put it up where we can see it. I know that when these babies get to us our lives will change dramatically. No more taking off on a whim or staying out all day or all night. We'll have to get home to take care of the dogs. We will be like the senior citizens we know who are always worried about feeding the cat or leeting out the dog. But I think this will be good for us, too. We've both wanted dogs for a very long time.



Here is Baxter after his first bath. What a little sweetie boy! You can see how little he is by the size of the woman's hand that is holding him wrapped in a hand towel. Only three more weeks before they come home to us. Can't wait!

Living in the In-Between, Part III

Perhaps no place do I see this issue of polar extremism more than in religion. Especially issues of those who have had some experience of pain associated with their religious experience. This is not a criticism by any means, but rather, an observation. As someone who felt very hurt by my religious group at one time, I well remember pulling away from the church and wishing I could just find someplace else to worship where people weren't socially irresponsible, emotionally inept, or relationally clueless. I wanted nothing to do with my church. So I'd find places where I could try on other religious congregations. I wasn't interested in other beliefs because I felt firm in my own. But the people in my church were problematic.

So on Sabbath morning I'd go and sit in St. Paul cathedral and listen to mass, joining in on the "Our Father" and fading out when the theology went in a wierd direction. It took awhile, but I finally realized that I needed a sacred experience and needed to be with people who believed the same things that I did--no matter how they acted or what they were like. After several weeks I was ensconced in a church with members whom I grew to love and appreciate. For a long time I was content to be as opposite as the "wierd" ones as possible. No one would have guessed my faith affiliation because I was trying not to be like the ones that drove me to distraction. But eventually it became critical for me to examine what I believe, how attached I wanted to be with the church, and whether or not I could commit to a group of people who drove me crazy. It is not at all unlike living in a family, actually.
Now I teach in a church sponsored university, speak almost daily of my faith, and try to contribute to the church in various ways.

I'm glad I went through this experience, as difficult as it was, because now when my students talk about their spiritual issues, it resonates with me. A few weeks ago I asked my students to discuss their spiritual journeys until the present. "What spiritual experiences have you had in your life that influences the way you approach spirituality and religion with your clients?"

It was amazing to me to hear that every single one of them had been raised with fairly strong involvement in a variety of denominations. Most of them tearfully recalled painful family events that made them question everything they ever felt or knew about God and religion. They then went off in the opposite direction in a reaction to their pain. Most were still entrenched in that oppositism. It was a curious thing though, to hear them describe themselves in terms of what they now are not, as opposed to what they are and what their religious ideas are now. They are still living spiritual lives organized around the original faith experiences of their childhoods. It's just that it's an inside-out experience: the opposite, polarized experience.

It struck me that many of them have thrown the baby out with the bath water. There are so many positive features of every religion, and these things should not be discarded in an attempt to leave our shadows behind. But reactive people do this routinely. I have watched lots of people go from church to church, trying to find the perfect place, the right preaching, good fellowship, clear theology, and the right mix of personal freedom and spiritual responsibility. It always feels good as long as the main feature is the opposite of the troublesome feature they so resented when they were offended at church, etc. But over time, things shift and they find another objectionable feature and need to relocate to a place that is the opposite of that. It is difficult to live on the repelling end of a magnet.

People do this all the time with relationships. One ends a relationship because the husband is lazy and doesn't lift a finger to do anything around the house. So the wife vows, as she leaves him, that she will find someone who carries his weight in the chore department. She finds a man who is very handy and who can do anything. This makes her very happy, until she realizes that he isn't affectionate at all. So once again, she is looking for someone who is handy and affectionate. This can become protracted and painful, as in frustration she tells you that she just hates men after all of this.

It takes time to carefully think through what to do about our spirituality and our relationships. We need to consider what is good about these things, and then what else do we need and how we might get them or negotiate issues around these features. I always tell clients who have experienced spiritual abuse, or who are angry at their church, to wait before making any decision about what to do. In the heat of anger they are ready to leave in a huff, jump on some other bandwagon, or go tell someone off in church leadership. If they can hang in there for some months, they might swing back the other direction. In the meantime, they can devote thought and exploration to their own spirituality.
Being differentiated means that we have taken time to get over our reactivity and logically think about what elements of our religion or church body we want to keep and where we want to make changes. We need to stick close for awhile and avoid forfeiting the parts of our affiliation that we truly enjoy, before augmenting or changing some of our practices. We might need to be more in the middle on who we have over from church, or what kinds of issues we talk to other congregants about, how close we want to be to the pastor, or which elements from other denominations we really admire and would like to use for ourselves. This is infinitely better than walking away from all of it.

In Southern California's Inland Empire, we have over 80,000 former church members of my denomination. There are even ex-member organizations where people go and discuss how angry they are at the church and how they have really been worked over by something or someone. An acquaintance went to one of these meetings and chatted with a group of people without letting them know that he is a church member in good standing. Interestingly, the comments of the attendees were decidedly sad, and many explicitly stated how much they miss the church, the subculture, and the practices of the church. All of their conversations were about loss. Why didn't they go back or find something similar? They were invested in being the opposite of the hurtful church or dyamic. It was easier to simply walk away from everying. When they found out that my friend wasn't just like them the conversations stopped cold.

Interesting, isn't it? It is truly difficult not to fishtail wildly in the wake of spiritual or relational trauma. Finding the middle ground that is composed of revised elements and new input, is quite difficult. But well worth it in the long run.

Living in the In-Between, Part II

Differentiation is a big word that describes successful living in the in-between. Rather than being wishy washy and avoiding taking a side, it means that the individual has been able to think critically about the issues and then make a response. It is not a knee-jerk reaction.
There are certain ways we react to thins that almost seems built in. I feel angry when a store clerk calls me "Hon" or "Honey" when I am old enough to be their mother. If someone makes a comment about the shocking weight of someone else, I immediately want to take up for the overweight person. You don't have to be a psychologist to understand that one!

Other people become quite placating and deferent when they are confronted by an angry person. My almost immediate response if I am accused of something is to begin questioning myself as to how I allowed this to happen--to take full responsibility before I know the scoop.

I have dated men in the past who could not allow me to ever pay for anything when we were together. It wasn't just that they were gentlemen, they were almost frightened to think of being given anything. They simply could not receive from anyone else. It made them feel vulnerable to be given anything. Wonder why we never got together?

Many of our reactions to things often form due to the emotional paths of least resistance in the families in which we grew up. We either took on a role of placater, caretaker, family clown, distracter, antigonizer, or rebel. Of course, there are other roles that kids can take in the family. It all depends on what behavior is needed to keep the family in balance, or homeostasis, as it is called.

So kids learn to do certain things or react in specific ways in response to triggers they sense in the behavior of others. It might help them survive or find purpose in the family, but it often doesn't bode well for them over years. And here is a rule: The more the unspoken emotional charge in a family, the more compelled a child feels that they must react in a highly predictable way, and the more reactive they are as adults. This may preserve a sense that the family is harmonious. But it comes at a high cost to the emotional wellbeing of the child.
Fast forward about 20 years. That individual won't be able to tell the difference between their thoughts and their feelings. They just react, out of touch with their feelings and not sure what they really think. They are highly reactive to specific behaviors in other people. The more reactive they are, the more likely to "jump on the bandwagon" and agree with all tenets of some ideology. Moreover, they will become a fierce proponent of the idea and highly reactive to those who disagree. Murray Bowen, one of the founders of family systems theory, stated that this kind of behavior is driven by anxiety. The more emotional charge there is, the less tolerant the individual will be of alternate viewpoints that others may have.

This takes us to finding the middle ground. It is extremely difficult for someone who is highly reactive to be able to locate themselves thoughtfully, on a continuum of views. They will react to what they think is being said or forwarded, but such a person isn't typically thoughtful or able to entertain the possibility that there may be varying shades of truth across a spectrum of related ideas. So they become entrenched and invested in a certain way of thinking and there simply will not be further discussion. Unless it is to press others to adopt their views as well. Because it may be that they have never learned to be who they are fully, in the presence of someone who isn't like they are.

I think that it is quite difficult to thoughtfully, non-emotionally consider how we want to think. That's right: Think about how we think, and not confuse a misguided feeling with a thought.

So as I think about religion, politics, current events, relationships, I need to be careful that I thoughtfully consider as many options as possible as I think about what position I want to take. Is it a position of integrity? Am I overlooking some point that is important to me if I locate myself too far one way or the other on the continuum? The only way to know is if I slow down, take a deep breath, and consider the entire range of possibilities.

Living in the In-Between

Found here

We are all on the edge of our seats watching BP as they are trying to fumble their way through the process of stopping a horrible oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The original estimate of the amount of oil leaking per day was 2000 gallons. It has now been updated to 200,000 barrels per day. The pressure behind this leak is 70,000 pounds per square inch (psi). Imagine the amount of oil that is mucking up our oceans and coastlines.

As someone from my church leadership wrote in the last 24 hours, this oil leak could completely wipe out all living creatures in the entire ocean (this prediction based on the word of a former ocean oil drill engineer).

Is this the beginning of the end of the world? Could it be one of the first of the seven last plagues listed in the book of Revelation? Will this completely ruin our economy? Will it crash? Is this a portent of things to come? What should we do?

This kind of world event makes those of us whose lives have been focused on the "watching and waiting" commands of Jesus, become quite alert. And yet, it is also easy to tell oneself that these things have happened before and will always be present in our world. So why get worked up and panic--as many Christians do?

It is easy to fall at one or the other extreme end of this conversation: either it doesn't matter that these things happen, and they have little eschatological meaning, or else they are a portent of immediate danger that calls for an immediate and decisive response. It is rare to hear anyone articulate a middle of the road, or more moderate opinion on these kinds of things. Interestingly enough, if Christians from my subculture don't immediately respond with a sense of urgency, they are thought of as nominal Christians. If they do, those who are on the other end of the continuum think of them as religious fanatics. In this, as in many, many other arenas, I ask the question, Where is the moderate, thoughtful response to things like these? Especially when the issue is extremely charged?

Just tonight, as my class watched the videotape of one of the students conducting therapy with a woman who had been convicted of child abuse crimes, we noticed that she reported behavior that was either above reproach--almost too good to be true--or else she was suicidal--all bad. There was no in-between. I reflected to the class that people who abuse others are often so emotionally fragile themselves that on a deep level they can't admit that a part of them is flawed or broken. To do so would put them at the "all bad" end of the continuum. So they try to live at the "all good" end of the continuum, at least in public view. This is how the "pillar of the community" can be a serial killer. It is quite difficult to bring such therapy clients to the place where they can recognize and admit that they are a combination of good qualities, behaviors, and thoughts, and bad tendencies, behaviors, and thoughts. It is an all or nothing proposition. Until they can claim any portion of "badness," they split off the objectionable parts of themselves in their minds and manifest only the superlatively good side. Or, when they can no longer ignore the bottled up "bad" parts of themselves, they act them out without impunity. Their behavior is absolutely evil sometimes, because it is undiluted with goodness. They are at either one end of the continuum or the other, but can't seem to live in the middle.

It seems that it's more of a human quality to try to lean toward one extreme or the other, and that's true in both the emotional and spiritual aspects of our lives. It is more complex to work our way into a more moderate stance. We see the results of this kind of polarizing behavior in America's political climate. We align with either Democrat or Republican and tend to villify the other--everything about them. Again, it is difficult to pick and choose from the variety of legislative initiatives to align with without feeling that we need to embrace the extreme of one side or another.

How do we live in the in-between? Is it a bad thing? Is it worse than throwing out the baby with the bathwater as many of us have done as we skittered to the extreme end of an issue? This is not in any way to disparage those who disseminate religious, political, or other scenarios that seem to polarize. It is an honest question. Is moderation a goal for which we should aim?

I would like to suggest that it takes considerable internal fortitude to be able to sift through options and ideas with which we are presented, whether religious, political, or emotional. It is much easier to scoot to the extreme end, to be caught up with what people are whispering about with furrowed brows, rather than laboriously think about issues that are full of emotional charge. And yet when we fail to do this, we lose out on the good that can be found at both extremes: the "bad" extreme is rejected for it's complete odiousness, and the good extreme, which can't be fully enjoyed because it is rigidly held in its extreme form without being able to see that nothing can be all good. Thus, people at the "good" end actually embrace the negative portions of their ideas at that ideological endpoint, and eschew the good parts of the opposite end of the continuum.

In Part II I will talk about differentiation, what this is, and how it applies to situations like these. Because every single one of us struggles with this in some form or another. No one is exempt.