Why Nature Hikes?

I've been posting a ton of photos lately of all the outings and adventures I've gone on with my three kiddos this summer. They are little - ages 3, 2, and 1. (Ok fine, the oldest is almost 4, but he's my baby and I can't face that fact yet, so please let me just say he's still 3.)

Now, I don't have a huge social media following, and I really don't want one. I have about 200 Facebook friends (probably only half of whom actually follow me) and about 100 Instagram followers (again, probably only half of whom are real friends). So I don't post these photos and memories for my friends to enjoy, although that is a fun side benefit. And I don't post these photos to rack up more followers or build my brand or whatever you'd call it. I post these photos for myself... so I will remember the time we saw dinosaurs at Brookfield Zoo, drove to the beach on a whim, explored the lakeshore, went to a children's museum, went down the rocket ship slide at the park, walked to the local ice cream store, or got super muddy playing by the river.

Time flies when you're having fun, and these kids are equal parts awesome and exhausting. My posts are like postcards mailed to myself. Digital memories and scrapbooks that I'll be able to look back on, to enjoy these memories all over again.

But of all the things we do together, my favorite is always nature hikes. I got to thinking about why that is. I like zoos, playgrounds, and museums too. Visiting family and friends is always fun. Heck, I even like taking them to Aldi. But nature hikes are the best. Why?

1. Nature > People. Playgrounds are nice and all, but have you ever noticed how many other kids and parents are hanging out there, ruining the atmosphere? Uhhh, how dare they. Contrary to all evidence, I am not a kid person (my own perfect offspring notwithstanding), and I really don't enjoy spending time in a place designed to attract the little heathens. Also, if you're an introvert like me, you simply cannot think straight if you are surrounded by other people for too long. You need some peace and quiet. And if you're an introvert with three small kids? You need to get them outside for your sake and theirs. As a wise person once said, "They can't bounce off the walls if there ain't no walls."
2. Nature calms my soul. I've read a million articles about the healing power of nature, but all the evidence I need is in my own body. The way my lungs expand, my pulse slows, and my anxiety coasts (instead of raging). Being outside makes me a calmer mom, which makes me a better mom. Also, God made nature, so getting "back to nature" is getting back to God, yeah? When we enjoy nature and thank God for it, that's actually a powerful form of prayer. We are joining with the created world in singing God's praises. (See Psalm 19.) 
3. Nature = Discovery. Cabin fever is a legit thing, especially when you share your cabin with three hurricane-force kiddos. But also, what is there to discover at home? You live there, so you kinda know your way around. Getting outside means there are limitless discoveries just waiting for you to notice them. Look under some rocks - worms! beetles! dirt! Look in the river - fish! ducks! frogs! Look up above you - sunlight! clouds! trees! Look on the ground - grasshoppers! sticks! flowers! animal footprints! There's always something new to notice, if you keep your eyes and ears open. This is fun whether you're 3 or 33 or 103. For real, I hope I'm still going on nature hikes at 103. (Just kidding, I hope I'm dead by then. But if I'm not, I better still be enjoying the great outdoors.)
4. Nature fosters the arts. Monet and his water lilies. Keats and his nightingale. Ansel Adams and his landscape photography. Bob Ross and his mountains and friendly trees. Need I say more?
5. Nature fosters the sciences. Newton and his laws of physics. Audobon and his study of birds. Mendel and his garden peas. Again, need I say more?

So there you have it. Why do I take my kids on nature hikes? Because I want them to be curious, calm, and observant. I want them to be little artists and scientists in training. I want them to have fun exploring the beauty of God's green earth. I want us to make memories together that involve more than sanitized plastic toys and animated movies (which I'm not knocking, by the way. Don Bluth, you are my hero.)

I have no idea what my kids will grow up to be. But if they grow up to enjoy nature and appreciate being outside, I will have gotten at least one thing right.

A Mother's Day Note to Self

On those days when you feel like you're failing at motherhood (and maybe life, too), try to remember that you come from a long line of fiercely devoted moms and grandmas... Women who loved their children with abandon, with joy, with a love stronger than all the forces that tried to stop it. You have this love pulsing through your veins. You have this faith entwined in the roots of your family tree. You have this steely resolve locked in your marrow, encoded in your DNA.

Embrace the struggle. It is worth every stretch mark, on your body and on your heart. It is worth every hour of lost sleep. It is worth every tear, every headache, every ache and pain. Your children are worth all this and more. Keep loving them as only their mother can. They will NEVER have another mom. You are the one, the only one. Cherish this special job the Lord has given you. Step humbly and bravely into this refining fire. Squeeze all the memories out of today's adventures, swallow that nectar, and let it fuel your tomorrow.

Your great-grandma did. Your grandma did. Your mom did. And now, it's your turn. 

Chase your kids around the backyard. Read them Goodnight Moon before bed. Be their jungle gym and their tickle monster. Give them piggyback rides and back scratches. Bake them M&M cookies. (Maybe even let them eat a few before dinner.) Sing to them the old songs, the old poems, the old rhymes... the ones you learned by heart before you could read a word. Do everything your mom did for you. Do everything they will do for their children someday, unconsciously, automatically, from an alchemy of instinct and memory.

You say you can't do it all. But look, you're already doing it! Don't give up now. Don't listen to the lies in your head. Open your eyes and stare into the depths of your children's. See how much they trust you? See how much they need you? See how excited they are just to be near you, to feel you wrap them up in a cozy mama hug? Listen to the melody of their laughter. Study their magnificent miniature fingers and toes. Inhale their sweet tangled hair. Being a mom is tough, but loving your kids is easy. Your heart made that decision long ago. Now follow it, like a path in the woods, and just see where you end up. Your knees might get scraped, your feet might get blisters, your face might get sunburned... But it is worth it. If your children know their mama loves them, no matter what, then it was all worth it. And if that is true, then you most certainly have not failed.

Au Revoir, 2016! Bonjour, 2017! (Old Year Review, New Year Goals)

Yeah, I know, it's February. Not exactly the typical time for a "year in review" post, but what can I say? I'm a rebel. With a blog.

I've been feeling really scattered the last few years. (This is perhaps due to having back-to-back-to-back babies, but who's counting?) To keep myself grounded, I started picking a word of the year. For 2016, the word was WISDOM. The fact that I picked that word says more about what I felt I needed than about what I actually learned in 2016. However I did learn some important lessons, come to think of it. . . .

1. Girls ain't so bad. I was seriously scared of having a daughter. Girls, ugh... all that drama. And lipstick. And dresses. And pink. I was a major tomboy as a kid, and even now as a grown woman, I can literally count on one hand the number of times per year I wear dresses. There was a reason I jokingly referred to my first two pregnancies (with boys) as "dodging the pink bullet." I was scared to death of how to raise and interact with a girl, even in baby form. But as is often (nay, always) the case, God knew what I needed better than I did myself. And so, I was given my third child, a daughter named Ruby. She put all my fears to rest, almost immediately. She sleeps great, she eats great, she smiles constantly, she gives me the biggest open-mouthed grin whenever she sees me after any length of time apart (even an hour) and leans into my neck, pulling on my hair and trying to consume me, it seems. I cannot imagine our family without her, and I cherish every moment I get to hold her, tickle her, and see her return my smile with her own sweet little giggle. So, yes. Lesson learned. Having a daughter is a pretty cool thing. (Caveat: Check back for an update once she hits the preteen years.)

2. I can do hard things. I've heard of folks repeating this to themselves as a sort of pep-talk mantra. "I can do hard things, I can do hard things, I can do hard things." And there were definitely times this year when I resorted to that strategy. But mostly I just cried, or prayed, or sighed with exasperation, or snuck off to a closet for a few stolen moments of sanity-restoring solitude. This year I had three kids under age three, for three months. It was as crazy and exhausting as you probably imagine. There were definitely days when I thought, sincerely, that I would not make it until my darling husband got home from work. But now, having come out the other side, I can say that I survived. I did not lose my mind (completely). Hard things got done. By the grace of God, the crucible did not destroy me. And you know what? It's one thing to believe/hope/pray you can do hard things. It's another to actually prove that to yourself. And that knowledge is a very powerful thing.

3. I need people, even (especially?) when I don't think I do. So, as a proud introvert, I was not prepared for this epiphany. People = a necessary evil. Sure, I have a handful of good friends, and I like my family most of the time. But anyone beyond that? Not so much. Enter the year of adjusting to three kids, and I learned just how desperate I could become for adult interaction. You try spending 12 hours changing diapers, cleaning up messes, preparing meals, feeding small humans (and if you're lucky, yourself too), and see if you don't miss even something as simple as a "Hey, how's it going?" from a store cashier. This year I came to realize the value of friendships. My old friends and my new friends all supported me in amazing ways, from bringing food to our home when Ruby was a newborn, to texting me with encouraging words, to praying with me when I felt like I was going insane, to sharing their own struggles in a humble way that made me realize I was not alone in this journey. There were times when I couldn't make it to our get-togethers. And guess what? I missed them. Truly missed them. Much more than I thought I ever would. For someone who craves time alone like a fire craves oxygen, that was a pretty big deal.

4. Nature heals the soul. This year was a tough one, a marathon of hard days and interrupted nights, all running together. But whenever I had those awful days/weeks when I wondered, Will I ever feel like myself again? there would come a moment when we would get outside, and something in the wind would restore me to myself. That might not make sense, but it worked. Every time. We went to the beach, to the park, to the back yard. I felt the sunshine, inhaled the breeze, saw the clouds, heard the squirrels and the birds . . . and something clicked back into place. It was almost like a dislocated shoulder, and I had almost gotten used to the pain, when suddenly—pop! I felt my soul snap back where it belonged. So if I learned my lesson, this year I'll do the wise thing and force myself to get outdoors more often with the kids. It truly resets my spirit and gets me back to feeling like me.

That was 2016, in a nutshell. Pain endured, wisdom gained.

So what do I hope to gain in 2017? Well, my new word of the year is JOY.



I have wasted far too much of my emotional energy on things that do not bring joy, either to me or to others. So the goals for 2017 are to fix that. How? Here's my game plan:

1. Do more things that fill me with joy. Like reading, writing, hiking, baking, doing art projects, snuggling with my kids, and going on dates with my husband. By definition, this time will have to come from somewhere. So I will spend less time doing stuff that does NOT fill me with joy: reading product reviews for future purchases, mindlessly surfing the internet, watching Netflix late at night (when I should be sleeping!), and sitting around feeling tired/sorry for myself.

2. Choose to rejoice. Even on the hard days. Because guess what? If God made this day, we're supposed to rejoice in it! And as Elwood P. Dowd once said, "Every day is a beautiful day." Indeed. Happiness is a feeling, but joy is a choice. (I'm probably stealing that idea from someone who said it more eloquently, but you get the point.)

3. Refuse to let anyone steal my joy. That includes mean people, angry people, sad people, and the devil himself. This even includes me and my melancholy-prone self. I've gotten into a bad habit over the years of letting other people's reactions dictate how I feel. If they're disappointed in me, I'm disappointed in myself. If they're mad at me, I'm mad at myself. If their feelings are hurt, I must be guilty (and guilt-stricken). No more! This is the year I want to make a devoted effort to control my own attitude, not give anyone else the power to control it.

That's it! That's enough. :) What are your goals for the year 2017?

"I Went by the Water" (a poem)

What a week! In the last seven days, I've attended a funeral and a baptism, lost a whole day to a debilitating migraine, and watched our next president get sworn into office.

Everyone seems to be posting about Trump's inauguration, or the women's march in DC, or how unhappy they are about one or the other. . . and honestly I'm just so sick of politics, I can't stand it anymore.

As an antidote to all this, here's a poem I wrote over the summer on a solo hike--an uber-awesome and all-too-rare thing when you are a mom of three under three! I remember the day was hot, near 80, and I was sweating as I hiked around the lake. My husband was home watching the kids. I'll post some pictures from that day too, if I can find them.

I Went by the Water
7/10/16 

I went by the water to sit and listen.
To open my ears and let the truth come flooding in, 
suffocating my fears with its thick rippling drops.

But there were airplanes in the sky,
Screaming over my head,
And their engines were louder 
than the butterfly's song. 
I could not hear the frog's heartbeat 
nor his suspicious blinks 
eyeing me half-submerged 
in the muddy shore.

And the airplane's wings were stronger 
than those of the dragonfly buzzing, 
the seagulls shrieking, 
the oriole soaring, 
the crane gliding 
into the waves like a blade through flesh.

And every time I thought, 
"There! 
A flicker of silence! 
That's where the truth is. . . ."
It was a mirage, 
shattered by the foolish roar of another jetplane, 
carrying executives to important meetings, 
shuttling vacationers to five-star hotels... 
and utterly crushing the whisper of the lake, 
the tiptoe of the squirrel, 
the hush of the grass 
twinkling in the breeze.

Frailty as Evidence of Eternity

When discussing God's existence, critics/atheists will often make the argument, "How could a good God create people in a world with so much pain? Why would he make humans in the first place if they were just going to suffer?" Many answers have been offered for this, not least of which is that free will necessitates the element of choice - choosing good vs. evil - which therefore creates an opening for evil, pain, etc. in the world. But another answer, and I think perhaps a more convincing one, is this: Human frailty is actually evidence of eternity.

Why would God create people in a world with so much pain? Because the world was originally created to be a paradise, free from pain and anxiety and fear of any kind. Our existence began in the Garden of Eden, not in this sad, crippled, broken place we now inhabit.

In this original state of edenic perfection, humans were designed to live forever. Our bodies would not wear out. We would perhaps still age, but not in a deteriorating way. We would always be strong, always be healthy, always be whole. We would never get headaches, heart disease, sunburn, frostbite, dementia, depression, or cancer. All this was, of course, lost when Adam and Eve's pride cost them their place (and ours) in Eden.

But God did not just create humans with bodies; He also gave us souls. As C. S. Lewis famously said, "You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body." So while the body suffers a great deal in this life on earth, this is not a permanent state. When the body dies, the soul will go on to either be forever happy in heaven or forever tormented in hell.

Human frailty is actually undeniable evidence of eternity. If we were made for this world only, why would God give us such fragile, easily damaged bodies? The answer is that he would not. And he did not. He gave us elegant, perfect, unbreakable bodies, and he put us in a world where these bodies would have nothing to hurt them. But then the Fall of Man happened, and the curse was unleashed. Hands meant for endless pleasure and painless work now had to endure blisters, burns, bruises, broken bones, age, and arthritis. Feet designed for running in the cool grass and walking next to the Creator would now be crippled by callouses, splinters, blisters, gout, infected nails, and sprained ankles. Lungs meant to breathe pure air in a paradise would now be subjected to allergies, asthma, pneumonia, and consumption. Brains made for processing joy and delight would now be plagued by debilitating fear and overwhelming darkness.

Our bodies are now so incredibly fragile, so easily damaged. Nobody would disagree with this fact. And yet few people would see this as evidence of eternity, of the time when our broken bodies will be restored and renewed . . . when we will return to paradise.

Evolution is often touted as something that converts needs into abilities. For example, a rabbit needs to blend into his surroundings, so he develops the ability to change fur color (brown in summer, white in winter). Or a fish needs to cross dry land, so he develops legs to walk. But if it were as simple as this, why wouldn't humans have developed abilities to meet our needs? Why are our bodies not stronger, faster, more durable, less fragile? Because in their original design, they were all those things and more. We have not gained new abilities because our old abilities are still there, dormant as seeds in the frozen winter soil. It's not our bodies that have changed but the environment where they exist. The Garden of Eden was lost, and we were left to live in a harsh, cursed, broken world. But when we are placed back in an environment of perfection (when we reach heaven), our bodies will be restored to their original state. The earth will thaw, and the seeds will sprout once again.

At least, that's one option - the option God wants for us. The other option is hell, where everything is even worse than it is on earth, where the effects of the curse will be uninhibited and unending. In hell, pain will be continuous, uninterrupted. Suffering, burning, agony . . . forever.

A human being is a wondrous thing. It was God's piece de resistance, his final and greatest creation. It was not just good but very good. And someday, our bodies will return to their intended state . . . when our souls return to their home, to the presence of the Almighty, where there is no need for the sun because his glory illuminates all of heaven.

Our frailty is evidence of our eternity. But we must die to be reborn. We must leave this broken place to reach that perfect place. O Death, where is your victory? The death of our fragile bodies is just the means to their ultimate restoration. As our Lord Jesus said, for those who believe, "Today you will be with me in paradise."

"All of the Autumn Leaves" (a poem)

So here's the deal... I keep resurrecting this blog, and then I keep having more kids, which means less and less energy available for reading, blogging, and other personal enrichment activities. In fact, as I write this, my three-year-old is guzzling down a lime green popsicle two feet away (living dangerously) and my two-year-old is trying to roundhouse-kick my laptop. Meanwhile the baby (whom I like to joke is my favorite because she sleeps the most) is upstairs, you guessed it, asleep.

Anyway, here's my attempt to once again restart this blog. This time I'm posting a poem I wrote in October, my first one in months. It's about how fast the time goes and how powerless I feel to make it slow down. Like that song "Do You Realize?" when they say, "Do you realize that life goes fast? It's hard to make the good things last. Do you realize the sun doesn't go down? It's just an illusion caused by the earth spinning round."

So this may be the only blog post I do for the next six months, or maybe this will actually encourage me to blog semi-regularly again. Who knows.

Without further adieu, here's my poem. Rather fitting as we leave autumn behind and enter winter.


All of the Autumn Leaves
(Or, An Ode to Existential Angst)
10/21/16

How can I put this into words
And make it say something you've never heard?
How can I sketch that slippery way
A day rolls into another day?
Midnight comes and midnight goes.
I'm awake. I'm asleep.
I forgot to change clothes,
Again and again,
The clock will strike.
Again and again,
I will turn out the light,
As all of the autumn leaves blow by.

My children are growing,
They're growing too fast.
As everyone tells me,
"Well, babies don't last."
You put them to bed,
Plant their seeds in the earth,
And their bones reach out
Like roots in the dirt.
In the morning you marvel
When shirts no longer fit,
And somewhere your heart flinches: "Not yet. Please not yet."

It's dead exhaustion and pure elation.
It's all the hard work with no standing ovation.
No blue ribbons, no gold medals,
No bouquets of fragrant petals.
It's all the prayers that go unspoken,
All the talismans and tokens,
Moments strung on a rosary,
Pearls of all that's supposed to be,
Perfect and broken,
A dream awoken,
And all of the autumn leaves blow by.

Every morning I make myself
a steaming hot cup of promises,
And every evening I make myself
a frosty bowl of regret.

Photographs, photographs,
Click-click goes the shutter.
Photographs, photographs,
"Good-bye," they all mutter.
Images, ages, and imagination,
A gust of wet words
A howling of trees
Sepia-tinted memories
The crunch-swish-a-crunch
Hush now--do you hear it?
My fingers grow numb,
But ah, not my spirit.
I inhale the burnt sky and swallow the stars,
I rake and I scrape,
Til blisters are scars.
And all of the autumn leaves blow by.

But the ground's never bare,
My hands never still,
Keep raking, collecting,
Don't stop documenting,
Harvest these moments
Before winter's chill.

How can I hold on
To the infinite?
How can I grasp
This pulsing vein?
It tickles my neck
And bleeds down my shoes.
But the tighter I squeeze,
The faster it goes.
Til all of the autumn leaves blow by.

This is only a test.

Blah blah blabbety blah... something in *bold*

Link to
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I Want to Be a Really Useful Engine

I said that to my husband today. Why? It's a combination of feeling creatively impotent, earning very little money (since I quit my full-time job over a year ago), and watching excessive amounts of Thomas & Friends episodes and movies with my train-obsessed toddler.

Sure, I feed and clothe and clean up after my two little guys (and myself, too, if I'm lucky). But if that's all I get done at the end of the day, I tend to feel a little deflated. Discouraged. I feel inefficient. Unproductive. And often, unmotivated to do anything to improve.

I hate that feeling. Type A person that I am, I need to feel like I'm getting stuff done. And I don't just mean, it makes me feel good when I accomplish things. (It does.) But I seriously NEED that feeling of accomplishment. It's a drug. Checking off those boxes on the to-do list. Getting that "productivity high." It's euphoric. A rush of relief. A validation of my worth. Demonstrable evidence that I'm not totally useless. In fact, when I get stuff done - really plow through my schedule, bang bang bang, like a sniper picking off targets - I can almost feel the pat on my back, almost hear the reassuring voice of approval... and lately it sounds a lot like a certain rotund top-hat-wearing gentleman.

As Sir Topham Hatt would say, "You're a really useful engine."

But then sometimes... okay, a lot of the time... I don't get stuff done. Sometimes it's because I literally have one or more children hanging off me, making even a 45-second solo bathroom break feel like a vacation. Other times I'm emotionally spent and have nothing left to give when I finally do have the free time available to actually accomplish something outside of the feed/bathe/clothe cycle of child-rearing chores.

And in those times, when I've gotten nothing done, when I can no longer feel the pat on my back, can no longer hear even a whisper of approval... that's when the Devil creeps into the void. And he glides his reptilian hand around my shoulder, comforting me with a false sense of entitlement and pride. And he drizzles my empty ears with all-too-logical lies... about how I've failed at last... about how my true self has been revealed... about how I'm really worthless after all, no good at anything, probably never was.

I know enough to recognize these as lies. I can even summon up the bright, clean words of Scripture to contradict them. But I'm shocked at how appealing it remains to believe the lie (even when I know it's totally untrue!) and wallow in the resulting despondency.

That happened today. And frankly, it made me feel like crap.

Tomorrow... here's my plan to do better.

1. Hear a lie? Speak the truth! Don't just remember the verse haphazardly in the back of my head. Go open my Bible, find it, read it out loud, and for good measure, write it down! It's a lot harder to believe the lie when you're seeing, hearing, and writing the truth.
2. One and done. Skip the to-do list. Instead, just pick one thing to get done - one and only one. I read somewhere that the ideal number of items for a to-do list is 3-4. More than that, and it becomes so discouraging/overwhelming that you give up halfway through. So rather than tempt fate, make it easy. Do just one thing. As a bonus, this should make it easier to do that one thing thoroughly and well, rather than racing through it on the way to the rest of the list.
3. Be purposefully unproductive. By this I mean, be intentional about relaxing or "being lazy." If you plan it, rather than fall into it, you feel more in control... and less guilty about slacking off. That's the theory at least.

So, that's my plan to be a really useful engine. One that Sir Topham Hatt would be proud of. And hopefully one that can be proud of myself too.

4th of July in Higginsville: The Tradition Continues

(Alternate title: 1 Minivan, 500 Miles, and 2 Kids Under 2... What Could Go Wrong?)

Tomorrow we embark on our first family road trip in the new minivan. We are driving 500 miles (one way) to visit my family in Missouri. It normally takes 8 hours. With two kids? We'll be lucky to make it in 10 or 11. I'm already dreading/yearning for the journey.

For this is not just any road trip. This is the annual 4th of July family reunion and fireworks extravaganza! This seminal event is older than I am. And I desperately hope it outlives me too.

This is my pilgrimage, and Higginsville is my Mecca.

Numbers have ebbed and flowed over the years, but the tradition remains. Food, family, and fireworks. What could be better?

My boys are 7 months and 22 months old. C experienced it all for the first time last July, while little brother V will soon have his turn.

What am I most excited about? (Aside from the fact that this is the first summer since 2012 that I haven't been pregnant over 4th of July?)

There are fireworks, of course. The city ones and (arguably better) the ones we set off in my uncle's backyard. Don't worry; nobody's lost any fingers (yet). Prickly sparklers that you can use to write your name in the sultry summer air. Colorful smoke bombs that warm your heart (and burn your eyes). Black "snakes" that curl and hiss on the pavement. Parachutes that the kids chase and fight over. Towering fountains of color. Patriotic explosions of gunpowder and rainbow-colored streaks of sparkling light.

There's all manner of unhealthy and undeniably delicious food. Watermelon and chocolate pie. Fried chicken and corn/tomato/onion salad with vinegar so tart it makes your tongue tingle. Freshly grilled burgers and fat, sizzling brats. Coolers full of slick ice water, frosty cans of Pepsi, and glass bottles of cream soda.

There are cousins galore - first, second, third, twice removed... we got 'em all. People who share the same great-grandparents. And that's enough.

There are pallet nights. Bodies of uncles and cousins and brothers all stretched out on the floor side by side. A mound of blankets and pillows, popcorn and chocolate bars, ghost stories and family legends.

There are late-night walks around town, down side streets and through the city cemetery, or down to the local Sonic for curly fries and half-price milkshakes.

There are walks on the railroad tracks in the midday heat, the summer sunshine blanketing you in tangerine heat, the metal rails burning through your rubber shoe soles, the heat sapping your energy, making you dizzy and giddy and beautifully weak.

There are trips to the small blue house with the white porch on 23rd Street, where my great-grandparents and their nine kids lived the bulk of their lives. The house where eleven people once lived, sharing three bedrooms and one bathroom. The house, now in sad disrepair, where my grandmother was born, along with all but the youngest of her eight siblings. The house my mom would park her pickup truck in front of in the blackness of 2 a.m., after driving all night to get there, with my tiny girl self asleep in the back. The house that, despite the passage of time, still feels like "Grandma's house." Still feels like home.

There are drives out in the country, the gravel roads crunching and spitting and smoking with white dust, just as they did when my great-grandfather drove them and honked to the imaginary men out there picking corn (in the river), or fishing (in a cornfield), or to the cows who somehow "managed to get a square meal out of a round bale of hay."

What am I most excited about? The passing of the torch. The glory of tradition. The fable of the past. The whisper of the future. The names of my loved ones etched in cemetery stones. The laughter of my sons trickling over the green grass.

Happy 4th of July.

An Ode to Parks & Rec, 30 Rock, and Netflix

What can I say? I have become a Netflix junkie.

I'm not alone, as something like 30% of all US bandwidth between the hours of 8pm and 3am is devoted to Netflix streaming. Unlimited movies and TV shows, all commercial free, all instantly available on either your phone, computer, or good ole fashioned television. And best of all? They start the next episode automatically... making it a passive act to keep watching and requiring an active decision to stop watching. (They call it binge-watching, but really isn't it more like chain-smoking?)

In the last six months or so, I've watch two entire series: Parks and Recreation (completed in February) and 30 Rock (completed tonight).

What have I learned from binge-watching these two amazingly funny shows? Well, for one thing, there is great value in detoxing from your day by sittin on your fanny and watching something that makes you laugh. Don't let anyone ever tell you it's a waste of time to laugh. And if watching a certain show or movie makes you laugh, don't think of it as "slacking off." Consider it therapy.

"But exercise! And reading! And crafts! And social events! And family function! And laundry!" etc. etc. etc. All true, and all worthy endeavors. But I truly believe that God (Creator of all good things, including the Sabbath, aka "day of rest") would not begrudge anyone the chance to kick back and indulge in an episode (or four) of his favorite show, at the end of a long, hard day.

So I guess what I'm saying is...

Treat yo self.

Anything is a toy if you play with it.

Live every week like it's Shark Week.

I want to go to there.

I have no idea what I'm doing, but I know I'm doing it really really well.

Give me all the bacon and eggs you have.

Please and thank you.

You had me at "meat tornado."

There are no bad ideas. Only good ideas that go horribly wrong.

Now if they would just create a new show in which Andy Dwyer, Ron Swanson, Jack Donaghy, and Tracy Jordan are all shipwrecked together on a desert island. Is that too much to ask?

And that is literally the end of this blog post.

28 Reasons I Hate the Month of February

February, you are a terrible month and I hate you. Here's why:

1. It's the farthest away from both Christmas and spring - like wintertime no man's land.
2. It has no good holidays. Groundhog Day is a way better movie than the actual day. Valentine's Day is, let's face it, a glorified Hallmark holiday designed to get people to spend money on roses, chocolates, and sappy cards... or to feel bad about themselves if they are single.
3. It always feels colder than January.
4. People argue about whether to pronounce it "Feb-rew-ary" or "Feb-you-ary." Who cares! Both sound stupid.
5. It eats the last slice of pie and doesn't even say sorry.
6. It's the shortest month of the year, yet it feels the longest.
7. It contains the birthday of someone I hate. You know who you are.
8. The only cool thing about it - Leap Day, aka February 29 - happens only once every four years. Like the Olympics, except nobody looks forward to it.
9. It's horribly dark because the days are so short, yet there's no relief from Daylight Savings Time "spring ahead" until March.
10. There's no good sports on TV. March Madness for basketball is in, you guessed it, March. Baseball's opening day isn't until April. Football's Super Bowl is of course awesome, but it's just a one-day thing. (No, hockey doesn't count as a good sport to watch on TV. Sorry.)
11. By February you're sick of wearing winter clothes, and it's still 10 degrees outside, but the stores are selling swimsuits. Why?!
12. Tax season begins. Boo.
13. Fewer Fridays in the month = fewer paychecks = sadness.
14. It spits when it talks.
15. Everyone has cabin fever from being stuck inside all winter with nowhere to go.
16. It's too cold for garage sales. 
17. Lent begins, which isn't bad, but lots of idiots use it as an excuse to "give up" something random, like a second chance at their New Year's resolutions.
18. It claims to be the month of love, but it's actually the month of hate. Because I hate it. A lot.
19. It sounds too much like January (another month I have little use for). I might like February more if we called it Febtember or Febril - which I think means "fever" in Spanish. As in cabin fever!
20. It's Black History Month. Ok fine, but where is my English-German-Scots Irish mutt history month?!
21. It has Chinese New Year - way less fun than regular New Year. And no fireworks or alcohol.
22. It's the THIRD month of winter (in a row!), so by now you're definitely sick and tired of the cold and snow! Bogus, man.
23. It's a jerk. Seriously, it keyed my friend's car last year. Such a jerk!
24. It's the literal midpoint of the school year, but it's a month past Christmas break and a month before spring break. So all the kids (and teachers) are burnt out and depressed from overwork (and seasonal affective disorder, due to lack of sunshine).
25. Yoko Ono was born in February. Think about it. If February didn't exist, she'd never have been born and the Beatles would never have broken up.
26. It takes candy from babies and pushes down old ladies (with ice).
27. It's March's annoying little brother, whom you have to hang out with if you wanna see March, but it always breaks your toys and gets you in trouble.
28. It comes EVERY year. Seriously, wouldn't once a decade be enough?

Today is March 1. Thank goodness! FINALLY spring is in sight!

Goodbye, February, and good riddance! 

The Sanctification of Mommy

I seriously feel like this could be an entire book (and quite possibly, someone has already written it), but allow me to just discuss my own personal experience.

In the 18 months since I first became a mother, and especially the last two months since adding our second little one to the family, I have rapidly been forced to shed ANY illusions of my own virtue. It's been equal parts humbling and horrifying. Yet ironically, that stark image of my undeniable brokenness has a bright side: It has made me more open to God's plan, more willing to trust Him, because I know how much I need it. I can finally see just how bad off I am. And I know how much I need Him to soften my hard heart and sanctify my tainted spirit.

Motherhood has not broken me. It has just revealed how broken I was all along. How I had no hope of changing myself or controlling my selfish impulses. Without the mercy of God and the help of His Holy Spirit, I'd have murdered someone by now... probably for something as trivial as spilling milk or not taking out the trash. That might sound like a joke, but it's not. No sarcasm. No sense in pulling my punches, so I'll just say it: I am capable of the greatest atrocities ever committed by one human against another. But those impulses have been held back, mostly by modern conveniences and a strong support network. Underneath all that, though, the reality remains: I'm a danger, to myself and others. Just because you can see with glasses, it doesn't mean you're not near-sighted. Sure, when life's easy, I can be a nice person. But when life gets hard, the true colors fly.

Yup, once you have kids, there's no denying it. You're a jerk. Deep down, you're not a good person. Your motives are as corrupt as your behavior. This quickly becomes indisputable when you see how you react under the pressure of parenting. You might call it "the crucible of children."

I used to think I was patient. Not after cleaning those Cheerios off the floor for the eighth time today. I used to think I was gentle. Not after yanking my toddler back from the stairs so hard I worried I might have tweaked his shoulder out of its socket. I used to think I was organized. Not when my toddler is determined to undo all my work in record time. I used to think I had a servant's heart. Not when my children's needs feel more like chores I resent than beautiful chances to love and serve my family. I used to think I was compassionate and self-sacrificing, that I put others' needs ahead of my own. Ha! Not when I'm running on 3 hours of sleep and see a way to leave my exhausted hubby with the kids while I go take a break/nap.

You get the picture. As a wise friend once told me, "Parenting is not for the faint of heart." Amen.

Unfortunately we are all fainthearted. We are all fickle. We are all out for ourselves. 

We might say (even convince ourselves) that we are kind and good people, loving and patient parents. But like a chemical reaction, the proof is in our boiling points. The times we explode with anger, instead of answering with a sigh and a soft word of reprimand. The times we put what we want (food, sleep, recreation, whatever) ahead of what is best for our children, all while claiming to love them "more than anything." The lowest moments when our true desires unmask themselves and we are confronted with the truth: we are broken. Self-centered, short-tempered, lazy, angry broken people.

This reality has hit me like a brick to the forehead. And it left a mark. I'm not the mother I wish I was. I'm not even the mother I claim to be. You don't judge an artist based solely on his best painting, nor a cook based solely on his best dish. No, you consider the full spectrum of what they make, good and bad, and then give a judgment of averages, as it were. That only makes sense. But somehow we expect a different rule to apply to our behavior, especially in how we treat our children. We attempt to validate our parenting by magnifying our "creme de la creme" days, those rare jewels of crisp and calm behavior, and minimizing our regular "burnt toast" days, chock full of failures.

So what happens when you hit a wall of bad days? When you can't lie to yourself anymore about what a kind, loving parent you are? When you catch more than passing glimpses of your faults? When you are forced to confront the truth of your brokenness? What happens then?

Here's the beauty of seeing your soul in a full-length mirror, gazing on its naked ugliness. You are freed from the dangerous illusion that somehow you are making it, you are doing a fine job as a mom or dad, heck, you're probably in the running for parent of the year. Nope. Not even close. You yelled when you should have spoken gently. You checked Facebook instead of reading to your child. You fed him a cookie instead of a banana, because it was a quick way to get him to shut up and you were too lazy to spend two minutes peeling it for him, or ten minutes making him a nutritious meal. You did all these things and more, not because you were "just tired" or "needed a break." No, you did them because that's who you are on the inside. 

That's me, I realized with a shudder... and then a great sigh of relief. Why? Once you recognize your own depravity, you can lean into it. And once you lean into it, you can let the Lord help you rise above it. Nothing to measure up to anymore. No charades. No being your "best self." Guess what? Your best self is still a terribly flawed person. Don't waste your time trying to prove otherwise. But also don't just accept yourself the way you are. Instead, simply accept how badly broken you are... and then accept the only source of true healing: the mighty hand of Jesus Christ.

Smart Phones, Photos, and the Struggle to Live in the Moment

My smart phone (um, my only phone) died very suddenly last weekend, resulting in the loss of quite a few photos and other sundry digital memories. This was especially upsetting because it happened with almost no warning. No chance to save my data. No last second to run back into my burning house (of pixels) and grab my prized possessions, i.e. all the adorable pics of my one-year old and his newborn brother.

Needless to say, I was pissed. At technology, for betraying me like that. At myself, for not creating redundancies and saving my data in multiple locations. At society, for normalizing digital photos to the point that 35mm film is archaic.

Once the dust settled and I wept pathetically over my lost photographic memories, a few epiphanies hit me:

1. It could be worse. Seriously. I lost my phone, not my pinkie toe. Buck up, I told myself, and get over it. There are still starving people in Africa (AND America), so how dare I cry over what is basically a sentimental inconvenience?

2. I must print more photos. Letting them linger, either on my phone or in the cloud, somehow makes them less real... and infinitely more vulnerable to destruction. What can kill a paper photo? Fire, water, theft. That's about it. What can kill a digital photo? Almost anything. Accidental deletion, new online data storage limits, or simply changing technology itself.

Thirty years ago VHS was the pinnacle of modern tech. Fifteen years ago the DVD was unparalleled. Now both are passe, usurped by Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, etc. In another ten years, who knows what will be next? Meanwhile, we still hang family portraits on our walls. We still cherish old faded polaroids. Bottom line: Humans are tactile beings. We like to hold things in our hands. Printed photos will never go out of style.

3. Are smart phones murdering our artistic energy? Are they plowing over and polluting the empty fields in our minds where wild beauty would grow, if left alone? If my phone kills the many seeds of boredom before they have a chance to take root and flower into creativity, am I shooting myself in the foot, artistically speaking? How many poems go unwritten, problems go unsolved, questions go unasked, prayers go unspoken--all because we distract ourselves with instant, endless handheld entertainment?

Related: I read an article recently about how some CEOs of major tech companies take smart phone "holidays." A chance, short or long, to literally unplug. Some turn off their phones for an hour before bed each night, some during a dinner out, some for a weekend ski trip, some for days or weeks at a time just because.

I really ought to build in detox time, I thought. Like those screen-free Sabbaths some of my friends observe. Only I'd ideally make it longer (a week if possible). Why? Preservation of what I call the sanctity of the present moment. Try it sometime. For me, it takes at least a day just to stop reaching for my phone every hour, to check email or texts or weather or social media or whatever. Perhaps most alarming, I did even notice I was doing it so often... until I was forced to go two days with no phone at all.

So... am I being a technophobe? Am I zooming in on modern smart phones and blowing this whole thing way out of proportion? I don't think so. But perhaps we should ask a more basic question: Is technology evil? No. In many ways it's a wonderful and powerful tool, even life-saving in some cases. But like anything with such potential, it can be abused. It can breed addiction. A cure can be corrupted into a cancer. A miracle drug, in the wrong doses, can eat you alive from the inside out.

Here's hoping technology will never eviscerate our lives, our arts, our experiences. May we always be ready and even eager to detox... to unplug our phones for the sake of renewing our spirits.

Cabin Fever

I will forever remember the last week as definitive proof that I would never have survived as a pioneer woman.

Back in the day of the great plains settlement, everyone knew about prairie fever (and hoped it wouldn't happen to them). Hallucinations. Paranoia. Anxiety. Depression. Madness, in a nutshell, brought on by extreme isolation. Nowhere to go and no one to talk to, for weeks or months on end. And no wifi or Facebook or cable to help them cope! *shudder*

Now back to 2015... We have been stranded indoors, due to extreme cold. I literally did not leave the house for four days. Four days! Whilst stuck inside, I didn't just catch up on Netflix and eat cookies. (Although we are dangerously low on Oreos right now.) No, I had to entertain and care for a 16-month old and a 6-week old, both of whom require shall we say, a considerable amount of work.

At one point I actually begged my husband to let me shovel the driveway, in -5 degree temps and insane windchills, just because I was that desperate to get out of the house!

One night I was about to escape for a 15-minute errand of getting gas for the car, only to discover... the battery was dead. Much like my dreams of going anywhere. It was a low, low point. I nearly broke down sobbing, but I was afraid of what would happen to tears at -5 degrees. I imagined something like icicle mascara lines and decided to bottle up my tears until spring. Or at least February.

Today is the last day of ridiculous cold, with a high of 4 degrees. (At this point anything above zero is somehow counted a win. Wait, why do I live in Chicago again?) So the end is in sight. Tomorrow will be back in the standard-miserable winter temps, and I should be able to venture out with the boys in tow, albeit dressed in half a dozen layers. They'll look like little explorers about to climb Mt. Everest. But at least we will be able to get outside these walls and break the cycle of boredom.

So, lesson learned from this week's frigid lock-in? I would be a terrible pioneer woman. Maybe not terrible, but probably another hapless victim of prairie fever.

Unless... I learned to beat it. How does one beat isolation? It's tricky because you're really fighting yourself. And all the dark thoughts that come when you don't have errands and transportation and the outdoors and other people to distract you from the worst parts of yourself. Where do you hide from your own shadow? What can save you from the sanity-slicing effects of extreme isolation?

God, first of all. Prayer (mainly the SOS variety) saw me through the worst parts of this week. Also, projects. It matters less what you do than that you just do something. Creativity is second to productivity. Think of people who are shipwrecked or in prison. The goal is not so much to make time pass as to make the passing feel deliberate. To create a sense (even an illusion) of purposeful forward movement. As opposed to that sickening sensation of being stuck in one place, which all too easily breeds a twilight-zone sense of claustrophobia... and desperation.

Keep busy, keep sane. Inertia is your friend.

So next time you're marooned on a desert island (or in your own home for an entire week), remember: prayer and projects. The two best ways to fight prairie fever.

Upon Entering the Year 2015

I have let this blog sit idle for many moons, but now seems as good a time as any to fire it up again and see what epiphanies it might spark.

So as we embark on 2015, here are a few thoughts on the year just ended. What happened in 2014?

1. I became a mom, again. Which brings my total number of offspring to two. Just four more to go! Just kidding. Maybe...

2. I quit my job. Because having a newborn and a toddler AND working 40 hours a week is outside my capabilities. And childcare for said kidlets is outside our budget.

3. I slept very, very little. Impossible to overstate this. I averaged maybe 4 hours total (not in a row) per night. More later on the psychoemotional effects of this extreme sleep deprivation. Bottom line: not pretty.

4. I wrote very little. Either poems or essays or ramblings of any consequence. Here's hoping next year sees a big improvement in this area. After all, "A writer writes, always." Presumably even when they are caring for two children under the age of two.

5. I turned 30. Existential baggage to be unpacked later.

Highlights of 2014 concluded. Now on to the new year! May I be more creative, better rested, and less of a basket case in the coming year. Pleased to meet you, 2015. I can tell that we are gonna be friends. (Yeah, White Stripes!) *fistbump*

Good-bye, but not farewell

The road to hell is paved with good intentions . . . and likewise, those smelted bricks of sloth and distraction pave the path to unwritten blog posts. It is spring, and I'm feeling the need to clear away clutter, tie up loose ends, and let my rooty fingers sink into the soft, black earth. Therefore, in the interest of concluding my period of unplanned online silence with a more definitive pause, this post will serve as evidence that I have 1) not abandoned this blog, and yet 2) not found it within me to keep it updated, even on a semi-regular basis.

Frustration. Regret. Shame. Self-loathing. Justification. Acceptance. Adjustment.

So goes my cycle of grieving this space and its many unwritten words.

For now, it seems best to put my inner blogger out of her misery. I am still writing, although most of my work is currently in the state of a newly born child: covered in blood and fluids, and not quite ready to be presented to the general public. Whilst swaddling these precious, messy creations, there is little time or inclination to document their births and rebirths, at least not without neglecting their daily needs. In short, I have found that the guilt, etc. over not blogging tends to exacerbate writer’s block in my offline creative endeavors. So again, for now—which is not the same thing as forever—no new posts will be forthcoming.

Best of luck to you in your own literary pursuits. I’m sure we will meet again someday. . . .

Sharing Scares Me

Recently I've had the unpleasant pleasure (stick with me for a minute on this) of sharing my thoughts and feelings with people who don't have an obligation to love me no matter what forever and ever. Namely, people who are not my family or my devoted husband. Who is family, come to think of it, now that we share the same last name and all. (He wanted me to write "my family and my husband" in an e-mail this week, and I argued it was redundant.) Anyway, this week has been a growing experience for me, and I figured I would share it with the world via my invisible soapbox on the good ole internets.

For the first time since high school, I'm in a small group that I really feel compatible with. From college onward, I tried several "false starts" with other groups, but nothing really stuck. It either felt artificial and forced (kinda like when you have to share a car ride with your weird cousin and his goth girlfriend and your only shared interest is the movie Braveheart), or more like a quilting bee (but one where everyone brings a Bible prop but really just wants to discuss the latest gossip in the guise of prayer requests). This group isn't like either of those uncomfortable extremes. This group is uncomfortable in a good way, in the way a snake feels tight and full just before he sheds his skin. This group is real... and a welcome change from my lack of deeper spiritual sharing over the past few years.

There's something powerful and humbling about voicing your struggles and knowing that the people listening will be praying for you, while you're also asking God to help them with their struggles. My new small group has only been meeting for a few weeks, but already I sense a warm kinship with these people and (oddly, for me) a desire to open up and tell them what I'm dealing with. Not all of it, of course, because that would just be cruel and frankly rather depressing for everyone. But sharing some of it, that seems doable and, yes, even healthy. Bonus: it's cheaper than therapy.

In addition to this awesome new small group, I've also joined (I know, I'm a regular sign-me-up Sally lately) a writing group started by some coworkers. It's a low-key way to get feedback on our personal writing and rekindle the lost scholastic art of how to give and receive constructive criticism. So far we've had members share a blog post, a short story, a children's story, and a poem. Fiction and nonfiction, poetry and prose, varying lengths and depths and shapes and styles, each piece as unique as its author because it's a piece of him or her put to words.

If I may, I would like to dub this group effort a resounding success, as thus far I have been challenged, encouraged, surprised, and awed by the range of voices in our group and the generosity of each member, both in sharing their writing and in giving useful comments to each author. I feel very lucky to be a part of this group at its inception and look forward to many meetings to come.

So what do these two things have in common? Both lovely groups of people expect me to (gulp) share myself with them, just as they share themselves with me. Needless to say, sharing scares me. What if they learn more about my background and don't like me anymore? What if they think I'm a self-centered jerk? (Which, y'know, I frequently am. But somehow it's worse if other people agree with me on that.) What if I hurt somebody's feelings? What if I say something stupid? What if my poem... sucks?

Forget the hypotheticals. Throw away the fear. Take a chance and see what happens. That's the kind of counsel I would previously have given to others, while conveniently ignoring it myself. But this time, I'm taking my own advice.

Sharing scares me. Always has, always will.

But it's also totally worth it. Kinda like getting married. Carpe diem.

I raked the leaves in my yard today.

Photo courtesy of Wiki Commons

I raked the leaves in my yard today. It's funny, I didn't think I had a big yard until I decided to rake the whole thing—front and back—in one shot. (Confession: I only made it through 2/3 of the backyard before it got dark and I got tired.) This really should be used as a trick by savvy real estate agents. Wife: "Oh, honey, the house is lovely. But the yard's a little small, don't you think?" Husband: "Why, yes, dear. Not much land at all." "Um, sir," says the savvy real estate lady, holding out a rake. "Why don't you rake the leaves in that corner of the yard there." [elapsed time 10 minutes] "Doesn't seem so small now, does it, Mr. Jones?" And then she would make the sale and treat herself to a double-mocha latte or somesuch on her way home that night... Ok, back to my yard. Raking it really gave me a fresh appreciation for the size of our place. And it isn't really that big, but boy, when you're raking the leaves (or mowing the grass, or shoveling the snow), the yard sure seems to get a little bigger. And I'm grateful for that little eye opener.

I raked the leaves in my yard today. Alone. I did this chore alone because my darling husband was (and still is) asleep upstairs, having worked some 13 hours yesterday and 11 hours today, with nothing near 8 hours of sleep in between. When he sees tomorrow that I've raked the whole yard without him, he'll probably protest and say he feels bad and that he owes me one. Which is hilarious, given the number of sometimes vicious/sometimes pathetic meltdowns he deals with on a weekly basis from me, his loyal but emotionally unstable wife. Also, when I'm sitting downstairs with a kitten on half my lap and my computer on the other half, he'll be the first to answer my entreaty for a fresh diet Pepsi with a smile and a "yes, dear." In other words, he doesn't owe me anything. And really, I suppose I don't owe him either. Husbands and wives shouldn't keep score. Besides, we are both in debt only to Jesus, to whom we owe everything—including the joy of finding and marrying each other.

I raked the leaves in my yard today. My yard. This is now the second fall that we've lived in our house. *cue "Our House" by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young* But just last week, while pulling in the driveway, I had another one of those wait-do-I-really-live-here? moments. The first six months we lived here, I felt like I was continually housesitting for somebody else. Now that it's been well over a year, I'm finally settling in more, gradually feeling comfortable, relaxed, content... at home. I've gained a possessiveness that is less selfish than it might sound. I'm taking ownership, and taking pride in maintaining what the good Lord has given me. My kitchen. My basement. My yard. And yes, my leaves to rake. The joys of home ownership, indeed. With two cats to boot (though, not "in the yard" as the song goes, since the great outdoors are verboten to my declawed felines).

I raked the leaves in my yard today. A simple job. A satisfying bit of exercise, out in the warm(ish) fall breeze. But the best part... the smell! Oh my word, if you haven't raked leaves in a while, if you've forgotten what this amazing and all too brief season before winter can do to your nostrils and your lungs, go grab a rake (yes, I mean you!) and forge a giant leaf pile. Then dive in, cover yourself up, and wallow in it, just so you can inhale and absorb the delicious aroma that emanates from those crunchy orange and yellow slices of autumn. Nothin' like it...

Book Review: What Language Is

My latest book review is now posted online at the Englewood Review of Books. Let me know what you think!

In this review, I give high praise to renowned linguist John McWhorter's insightful new book, What Language Is: And What It Isn't and What It Could Be.

 

If you're into linguistics, words, etc.... or if you're a self-confessed word nerd (like moi)...  or if you simply enjoy reading intelligent books written by people who are both really smart and really funny, you'll appreciate this gem. McWhorter is something of a genius when it comes to making linguistic studies accessible and entertaining. I highly recommend his latest, What Language Is.

You can order What Language Is online for $15 at Amazon or Barnes and Noble. It would make a great Christmas present for the English professor/avid reader in your life. (And no, I'm not getting paid to pitch this book. I just really like it.)

Incidentally, McWhorter was recently quoted in this story about the AP transcribing Obama's speech with informal/vernacular spelling (complainin' ) instead of formal spelling (complaining). In Obama's defense, as McWhorter puts it, the president was simply speaking with a "blaccent."