here’s a little ditty i wrote about vaccines to the tune of jolene, by dolly parton:

doctor's office waiting room on "shot day"

vaccines, vaccines, vaccines, vaccines,

i’m begging of you please don’t hurt my bird.

vaccines, vaccines, vaccines, vaccines,

it’s hard to sift through everything i’ve heard.

          your protection is beyond compare

          shielding us from rubella’s snare

          all for little more than an infant’s scream.

some say you make kids autism prone

when you mix with testosterone

are your effects really this extreme, vaccines?

          they fight about you in the news

          but the parents are the ones who lose

          your truth is so evasive, damn vaccines.

so once a month we have “shot day”

according to a schedule that is delayed

tripling our trips to the doc for mean vaccines.

          vaccines, vaccines, vaccines, vaccines

          i’m begging of you please don’t hurt my bird.

          vaccines, vaccines, vaccines, vaccines,

          it’s hard to sift through everything i’ve heard.

no parents’ day out or church nursery

for a kid without immunity

you can’t fully join society without vaccines.

          i had to have this talk with you

          since last week i gave in to you

          we faced the dreaded MMR, vaccine

vaccines, vaccines, vaccines, vaccines,

i’m begging of you please don’t hurt my bird.

vaccines, vaccines, vaccines, vaccines,

it’s hard to sift through everything i’ve heard.

though we actually own two (TWO!) sleds to be used during the one (ONE!) yearly memphis snow day, the monkey and bird preferred this one instead:

clearly, it’s a makeshift world!

and yes. this is the same laundry basket where the baby jesus and his plush pals laid their sweet heads during the kids’ advent manger scene improvisation.

a couple of months ago, when our good friend and neighbor steve passed away suddenly, andy and i dreaded telling the monkey. steve was to the monkey as mr. wilson was to dennis the menace: the object of affectionate and well-meaning pestering. (steve’s patience, however, far exceed that of mr. wilson!) 

the comings and goings of “buddy steve,” marked by the roar of a diesel engine, were more accurate and dependable measures of time for the monkey than the PBS children’s television lineup. and that’s saying a lot.

so, when i tearfully explained to the monkey that buddy steve had passed away, i braced myself for heartbreaking four-year-old despair. instead, the monkey simply said,

“okay. can i go play now?”

the heartbreaking four-year-old despair came yesterday, as the monkey was recalling how buddy steve and andy had fixed his sink eight or ten months ago. “buddy steve died,” he informed me. “but daddy’s never going to die.”

part of me wishes that i had simply lied to the monkey and affirmed his notion that his daddy will live forever. instead, i told him that nobody lives forever. then, both of us came unraveled as he applied this theory to mommy, himself, and finally to “the whole wide world.” with tears streaming down his face, he crawled into my arms and wailed,

“the whole wide world is going to die.”

then, in what i believe was actually an appropriate action of disbelief and rage, he pitched a fit which resulted in a swift headbutt to my right cheek bone.

the rest of the day and evening were marked by periodic and tearful conversations about death and the same kinds of hopeful promises i remember hearing from my mom and dad, that we are going to be around for a long, long time. i believe it’s our job to give the monkey a sense of stability. i also believe we are to ease him into the notion that the world is not all rainbows and butterflies.

the latter, in all of its various forms, just might be the most excruciating task of parenting.

the scene unraveled quickly.

our annual trip to the pink palace enchanted forest began as it usually does, with unbridled excitement about the escalators leading to the exhibit. with spirits elevated, the boys quickly embraced beloved out-of-town friends before bounding into the faux snowy cave, dimly lit by christmas lights and animated by the same motorized woodland creatures that enchanted me as a child. there was a happy sort of pandemonium as the kids frollicked amidst the sights and sounds, pausing only occasionally under the hypnosis of what is sure to be the world’s largest and most detailed electric train set.

as we settled into the line for santa visits and photographs, i fished a wad of pipe cleaners from my purse to occupy the boys. in a previous life (otherwise known as the day before), pipe cleaners were highly revered and even trance-inducing.

however, in this scene, they were apparently a blaring disappointment. the monkey flippantly asked for “another surprise,” at which point i explained that there were no more toys in my purse.

what followed was every mother’s worst nightmare: public humiliation in slow-motion. the monkey hit me three times, despite my very clear and intermittent 1-2-3 magic-style warnings about the consequences of such behavior. i was left with no other choice but to cut the outing short and head for the car.

i held the monkey’s mid-section under my right arm while he kicked, screamed, and flailed his arms. this allowed me to chase down the escaping bird, who was suddenly deep in conversation with a singing, snow-dusted squirrel.

source: jupiterimages.com

i heard an acquaintance utter my first and last name to her friend, and i turned around just in time to glimpse the ultimate sign of judgement: her pointer finger.

during this befuddled pause, i inadvertently loosened my grip on the monkey just long enough for him to make a break for it. as i chased the monkey through a sea of themed christmas trees and parenting-horror-show spectators, the bird teetered dangerously on the edge of the escalator. in the day’s only redemptive moment, i was able to snag the monkey and return to the bird just in time to prevent his impending tumble.

we provided another ten minutes of this entertainment before we made it to the car, and as i drove home to the now familiar soundtrack of the monkey’s wailing protests, i reassured myself with recollections from 1-2-3 magic. i remembered the notion that sometimes parents have to punish everybody, ourselves included, to get the point across. i replayed the author’s insistence that humiliation is a small price to pay for the future reward of well-behaved children.

but seriously. is there any other job in the world in which you’re not doing it right unless you look like a complete idiot?

after the “disenchantment,” the monkey was an angel for the rest of the day. 1-2-3 magic did pay off. but there was something about his demand for “another surprise” and his sense of entitlement during the pipe cleaner incedent that makes me want to read yet another book: the price of privilege.

’twas eight days before christmas and all through preschool

performers were clad in halos, santa hats and tulle.

the parents were settled all snug in the pews

with grandparents, neighbors, and of course, camera crews.

when through the side door there processed such a clatter

that the audience responding with clapping and laughter.

lining up on stairsteps according to height

was a ragamuffin choir, unselfconscious and bright!

the monkey spoke not a word as the piano intro played

then with gusto and hand motions, he assumed a gospel singer’s sway.

his voice could be heard above those of his peers,

and his tonsils could be seen during his open-mouthed cheers.

with my cheeks tear-streaked from guffawing i rose

as the monkey hugged his fans at the program’s close.

but andy said it best, ere we drove out of the lot:

“thanks for procreating with me. i love who we got!”

for four years and four months, my world has constantly expanded.

motherhood has brought new and interesting people into my life. the day we brought the monkey home from the hospital, i became a member of a diverse group of fellow moms who share something so basic that there is potential for meaningful conversation even in the checkout line at target.

motherhood has broadened my realm of experiences. i’m not just a woman in my thirties. i’m a little boy in the terrible twos. i’m eating ice-cream for the first time. i am wrapping my four-year-old mind around the concept of death. i’m testing limits, drawing on walls, and climbing on counter tops. i am getting my first bicycle with training wheels for christmas.

on the other hand, for four years and four months, my world has constantly contracted.

motherhood has zapped my energy supply. never before have i had the level of connection with friends that i do now. the paradox is that i no longer have the get-up-and-go to make these connections happen regularly. 

motherhood has narrowed my realm of experiences. there are mind-blowing heights and depths in my every day. but most of these events take place within the four walls of my home.

the female body is not the only part that expands and contracts in the process of ushering in and supporting new life. long after the pregnancy is over there is a new largess and a new kind of narrowing with which to contend. the simultaneous awe and discomfort of pregnancy take up residence in the mind for how long? four years and four months? eighteen years? from now on?

as i have confessed in an earlier post, i am not always very good at explaining elements of my faith to my children.

perhaps this is because kids are such concrete thinkers and i, on the other hand, am not. or maybe this is because i am keenly aware that concepts such as communion, resurrection, and the trinity are truly bizarre. if i tell my kids now that god had a baby named jesus, for example, will they ever find pause later to consider just how outlandish this story is? if stories like this become part of the familiar fabric of their childhoods, will they ever be able to recognize the unpredictable and mysterious nature of god’s movement in the world (and humanity’s interpretations thereof)?

contemporary theologian and renowned children’s book author, rabbi sandy sasso, set me straight on this topic a few years ago when i heard her interview on the public radio program, keeping the faith. sasso asserts that children are innately spiritual, and that, unlike many adults, they have not developed a fear of mystery or unanswered questions. furthermore, sasso emphasizes that it is important to teach our children the sacred stories from our own backgrounds, even if we have negative associations with these stories, even if we see these stories differently now, even if they no longer inform our notions of truth.

“stories,” says sasso, “are the vocabulary of theology for children.” they, along with the communities that tell them, are the tools children need to grapple with the mystery themselves.

these are the thoughts that went through my mind the other day when the monkey became deeply involved in creating a “major” out of a laundry basket. you know, a “major,” as in “away in the ‘major’ no crib for a bed…”

the fun continued as a stuffed animal became the stand-in for the baby jesus.

and finally, when the kids took turns dive-bombing into the “major,” i reminded myself that they were just getting the feel for some very necessary tools. they were careening into a much-needed theological vocabulary. maybe they even recognized how bizarre the whole birth story is. after all, making a crib out of a laundry basket is about as strange as making a crib out of a feeding trough.

 *********

a what sorts of insights are emerging from your own versions of chaos? play along if you’d like. check out what erica, maryann, jaime, and kathi are finding in the midst of chaos. if i’ve forgotten to mention you here, please let me know and i’ll make the necessary revisions.

wednesday marked the first day of hanukkah and the first day of december, and last sunday marked the first day of advent. my favorite local radio station began playing holiday music before thanksgiving, and a giant inflatable santa has been looming over union avenue since before the last pumpkin was procured from beneath his (slightly premature) air-filled feet. this is the time of year when i usually get serious about my spirituality.

in years gone by, i have read a bit of tillich each day, edited and published college students’ thoughts on advent, and spent time pouring over wonderful holiday stories by harper lee and truman capote. but those years are as i just described: gone by. there is no time for intense study, no time for ruminating on light in the darkness, no time to be so intentional about making room for hope and divinity and the dawn of new life. 

instead, there are santa beard christamas countdown calendars involving cotton balls and glue. there are cookie-baking parties and charlie brown specials. i think bonnie j. miller-mclemore says it best in her book entitled, “in the midst of chaos:”

“when people think of the spiritual life, they typically picture silence, uninterrupted and serene — a pastor’s study, a cloister walk, a monk’s cell. thinking of parenting, by contrast, they imagine noise and complication, dirty diapers, sleepless nights, phone calls from teachers, endless to-do lists, teen rooms strewn with stuff, and back seat pandemonium. by and large, these portraits are accurate. the life of faith requires focused attention that comes most easily when one is least distracted, while caring for children is one of the most intrusive, disorienting occupations around, requiring triage upon triage of decision and response. can one pursue a ‘spiritual’ life in the midst of such regular, nitty-gritty, on-the-alert demands” (2)?

when the holidays hit, there is no time to simulate the perfect conditions, tie up loose ends, or send grief away on a month-long cruise. my children are just as inclined to create poopy diapers and impromptu marker-on-wall illistrations on christmas morning as they are on every other day. there is no such thing as escaping the chaos in order to locate one’s spirituality. the meaning is IN the chaos. the chaos IS the pastor’s study, the cloister walk, and the monk’s cell. parents have the added challenege and opportunity to look for the extraordinary in the ordinary.

so that is what i’m going to do this holiday season. i am going to look for moments of deep truth and goodness in the midst of our particular brand of pandemonium. and then i am going to post about these moments in an image or phrase. if the bedlam that exists in your house should happen to contain a glimpse of divinity or insight, do share (themsrevolution(at)gmail(dot)com)! there’s no telling what we can find in the midst of chaos.

[source for this post can be found on the bibliography page located on the sidebar to your right.]

you never know when a piece of obscure information will turn out to be useful.

take the paragraph in my human development textbook on the subject of “the birds and the bees” chat with children, for example. when i read it six years ago, i could not have predicted that the time would come when this paragraph would be the tiny little rope of rescue that would save me from (yet another) dark abyss of parental cluelessness. how was i to know then that the words, “do not offer more information than your child is requesting” would emerge from the depths of my memory at just the right moment, the moment when the following comedy of errors ensued?

monkey: “mom, how do babies come out of their mommies’ bellies?”

mary allison: “they come out of the vagina, monkey.”

monkey: “mommy, what’s a vagina?”

mary allison: “you know how you have a penis? well girls don’t have penises. we have vaginas instead.”

monkey: “you mean that little hole?”

mary allison: “yep. that little hole.”

monkey: “where the poop comes out?”

mary allison: “nope. a different little hole.”

monkey: [after a ten minute silence] “so… that big old baby comes out of that little bitty hole??”

mary allison: “yep.”

monkey: [shaking his head] “well that’s not good AT ALL!”

mary allison; “tell me about it.”

hilarious that a four year old is able to recognize when the laws of physics are not working in one’s favor.

i suppose the monkey will store these fascinating new insights into the recesses of his memory, and i suppose they too will surface at just the right moment. after all, you never know when a piece of obscure information will turn out to be useful.

but lord help us if my four-year-old has any use for any of this information any time soon!

one of the best parts of facilitating this little makeshift blog is that readers regularly send me recent and provocative articles about the state of modern motherhood. thank you, and keep ’em coming!

the last two articles i received are friction-inciting commentaries on the cultural construction of motherhood. one deliniates the high child nurturing standards held by american women. the other investigates the high career-related standards held by this same set. taken together, these articles reveal a veritable fog of ridiculous expectations obscuring nearly every aspect of women’s lives.

the first is a wall street journal article by erica jong describing the attachment parenting craze as a sort of self-inflicted prison for mothers, who, despite their best kid-wearing, cloth-diapering, baby-food-making efforts are never able to meet the socially accepted standard for mothering, which was created in large part by dr. sears. but no matter what one’s thoughts are regarding attachment parenting, it’s hard to disagree with jong’s lament: “rarely does a new mother hear these golden words: “do the best you can; there are no rules.”

the second article is jessica olien’s slate magazine exploration into the culture of motherhood in the netherlands, where part-time work, outings with friends, and self-care are celebrated ways for moms to spend time. as opposed to the guilt felt by american mothers who remove themselves from the full-time workforce, dutch women do not seem to link their self-esteems to their workforce prowess. the conclusion is that the drive that american women have assumed in order to further women’s progress has “set us up for a world in which none of us is having any fun.”

olien writes,

“…american women as a whole are not getting any happier. if anything, the studies show that we are emotionally less well-off than we were before.”

high standards have the potential to launch us into more meaningful, productive, and useful lives. but perhaps something has gotten lost in translation between our feminist fore mothers, who constructed domestic co-ops and deconstructed glass ceilings, and those modern women who have inherited big tasks that have somehow become detached from the big dreams that birthed them. what was once a grand vision of equality seems now to feel more like a universal clamoring for perfection in every arena. the guilt that ensues squelches the kind of big dreaming that women once had for the state of the world. and so, in the words of jong, we reduce our visions to the scope of our homes and families. “[we] substitute our own small world for the world as a whole.”  

standards ought to be the bi-product of dreams, the way they came into this world in the first place. so perhaps the key to generating a world that is fairer (and for heaven’s sake, MORE FUN) is to leave our faithful posts as the keepers of the rules and ideals. if we join the ranks of the dreamers, perhaps the standards we generate will make more sense in our contexts. perhaps standards will not imprison us but free us. but the only way to get there is to start where the women before us started: with a vision of a better life.