Out to Lunch

Early in our marriage, I packed Craig’s lunch for work each day. God knows I couldn’t make dinner, so I thought lunch would be a nice compromise. He seemed to appreciate the gesture, and it made me feel wifely and loving and grown up.

One day Chase and I drove to Craig’s office to have lunch and to meet his co-workers. Craig was waiting in the shiny lobby and proudly led us into the conference room, where clusters of pretty people in fancy suits waited to greet us. I was nervous, because the room felt so different from the teachers’ lounge at my school, and because everyone was staring at us, but mostly because I was desperate to make Craig proud. Also, in situations like this, I always feel very short. Usually I start feeling taller and better when everyone sits down. But this time when everyone finally sat and started to eat, things got dramatically worse.

Most of Craig’s co-workers carried their lunches in from restaurants...the women drank lattes or green teas and nibbled pastries from Starbucks and the men ate Panini Sandwiches from Panera. The few that appeared to have brought their lunches from home carried their sushi rolls, chopsticks, and Evian in fancy patterned lunch packages that looked like mini briefcases .

Craig, on the other hand, THEIR BOSS, was beaming at everyone while using his brown paper sack that I had DECORATED WITH RAINBOW HEARTS as a placemat upon which he had spread his four teeny triangles of peanut butter and jelly, Poly-O string cheese, goldfish, fruit snacks, and FRUIT PUNCH JUICE BOX . I watched with horror as he fished out the little 3 by 5 card in the bag on which I’d written “To the best daddy in the world, We are so proud of you! XOXOX, G and C.” He read it, smiled and slid it into his pocket. Then I shuddered as I watched his huge fingers pry apart the string cheese’s plastic wrapping and eat it in two bites, and then rip off the teeny straw from the juice box, poke it into the little hole and drink it all in one sip. Then, to my utter dismay and humiliation, he opened his OCEAN ANIMAL FRUIT SNACKS and tossed them into the air, one at a time, catching each one in his mouth.

I melted into my chair, willed my face to return to its original color, and tried to appear very busy feeding Chase. Occasionally I glanced at Craig’s face for signs of humiliation, but none was there. He just looked happy and…proud, actually. I was struck deaf and dumb. I gave up on making a good impression and just tried not to cry.

When Craig got home I greeted him with:

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME A YEAR AGO ABOUT GROWN UP LUNCHES ? WHERE DOES EVERYONE LEARN THESE THINGS? DID I MISS SOME SORT OF CLASS? WHAT OTHER BASIC LIFE THINGS DO I NOT KNOW? I WANT YOU TO WRITE THEM DOWN FOR ME, PLEASE. RIGHT NOW. “

Craig looked surprised and then smiled and said, “I love your lunches.”

I offered a half hearted smile and then turned away to make (the phone call that would result in the delivery of) dinner.

That night I went into Craig’s closet to put away his laundry and noticed that he had taped a note card to the inside of his door. It said “To the best daddy in the world, We are so proud of you! XOXOX, G and C.”

Honey, YOU'RE HOME!

When Craig gets home from work in the evening, he usually finds the kids and me waiting for him at the end of the driveway. I wave and smile, the kids jump up and down… it’s all very Normal Rockwell. Craig thinks it’s sweet. The neighbors think it’s sweet. It is kind of sweet.

But here’s what nobody knows:

We meet Craig at the end of the driveway because I cannot wait another three minutes to pass off the children.

I've watched through the front window when he arrives home and seen how he dawdles in the car before getting out, inches to the mailbox, stops to pet every passing puppy, and then creeps up to the front door with little teeny baby steps. Let’s just say it’s a bit slower process than he employs when he runs out the door to leave for work in the morning.

So, welcome home, honey! Hugs. Kisses. Here are your three beautiful children. No, no, don't worry about the mail, I'll get it. Just hurry on inside.

I’M ON TO YOU, MISTER.

Twisted, Sister

Here’s a strange one.

I have this recurring dream in which my sister and I have been kidnapped by bad men. We are put in two different white cells, separated by a thin wall.

One of the kidnappers enters my cell and says that in thirty seconds I will hear an alarm. Then he points to a single red button on the wall across the room. He says “After the alarm sounds, the first sister who pushes her button will be killed. The other will be released. You may not move until the alarm sounds.”

He explains that my sister has just been given the exact same information.

Then the man leaves. A minute later, the alarm sounds…and I shoot up and run faster than I ever have, leaping towards the button, slamming against it, then sinking to the floor, panting… and waiting to die.

Isn’t that WEIRD?

But here’s what I think is even weirder:

I ALWAYS GET TO THE BUTTON FIRST. EVERY SINGLE TIME.

And I can’t help but consider that my sister’s legs are SIX INCHES longer than mine, and so are her arms.

So I think it might be time to ask…

WHAT IN THE SAM HILL ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE, SISTER??? A CROSSWORD?

Jeesh.

Just Soaking

My sweet husband helps with the dishes each night. Actually, he helps with starting the dishes, but he has trouble finishing, which, as Seinfeld suggested …is really the most important part of doing the dishes…the finishing.

Every evening, I notice that I am alone at the sink and that Craig and the kids have sneaked out back to the trampoline. Last night I followed them and called out sweetly, “Honey? Did you notice that there are still piles of dishes in the sink?” And like always, he said:

They’re just soaking, babe. It’s part of doing the dishes. It makes it easier to get them clean.

As you can see, sometimes Craig uses my lack of knowledge about basic household duties to get out of things. This isn't right, people. But it's pretty clever.

I have resolved to steal his move.

When my husband arrives home tonight, he will find me reading a book on the couch, having abandoned the children in the bathtub.

When he panics, and asks me for an explanation, I will say the following…calmly and sweetly.

They’re just soaking, babe. It’s part of bath time. It makes it easier to get them clean.

Still Got It

The other night when Craig got home from work, I went to the bookstore to blow off some steam. Not a bar called The Bookstore...the actual book store. Borders. I know, somebody stop me.

Anyway…I’m sitting in the café with my latte and a pile of classic novels that I plan to start reading just as soon as I get caught up on the Gosselins…when I notice this guy across the cafe staring at me.

Here was my first thought:

OH MY GOSH maybe he recognizes me from the blog!!! Maybe I am ACTUALLY FAMOUS but I am just so humble and grounded that I don’t even know it. But then I remembered that the only two men who read my blog are my dad and my neighbor Pablo, and this guy didn't look like either of them.

So my next thought was this:

YEP. I STILL GOT IT. LOOK AT THIS GUY. HE CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF ME.

And then, while I was mentally rehearsing how to relay this story to Craig, thus proving my desirability beyond a shadow of a doubt, the guy stood up and started walking toward me.

Oh, no. Oooooooh noooooooo. I am secretly terrified of boys.

"Excuse me ma’am? Ma’am? I’m sorry to interrupt you.”

“Umm…that’s okay.”

“I just thought you might want to know. When you went to get your drink I couldn’t help but notice that you have stickers all over your back. There's like twenty of them back there.”

Thank you, Tish. Thank you very much.

Airing Our Dirty Laundry

Ah…it’s Sunday. The day I don’t blog, launder, sweep, or cook -you know, out of love for Jesus. And utter exhaustion.

Today however, I must break my Sunday rule. Because something happened yesterday that I can’t NOT tell you about.

Yesterday, I sneaked out of the house at the crack of dawn to go to the grocery store. I don’t even change out of my pajamas to do errands anymore... it has come to that. I just brush my teeth, grab my purse and I’m out the door. Okay, I don’t always brush my teeth, but I use mouthwash every time.

So as I’m walking up and down the grocery aisles, I notice this distinct, mildewy, putrid odor following me. And I keep looking around for the responsible party, until I discover that she is me. I stink.

When I get home, Craig rolls out of bed to help me with the groceries and I say “Honey, smell me. I stink.” And he sniffs my shirt and says without surprise, “Yes, you do.” And I say “Well, what IS that? It’s disgusting.” And he says the following:

“It’s mildew. All our clothes smell like that. We always stink.”

I’ll just give you a few seconds to digest that information. I know I needed a little time.

“WHAT? WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME, HUSBAND?”

“I was scared to tell you. You get sensitive about….housekeeping stuff.”

“Oh. So let me clarify here. You’d rather reek all day at work and allow Chase to be THE STINKY KID IN CLASS than risk me getting mad?

“Yes. Yes, I would. Definitely.”

Kay.

I left the groceries on the counter and immediately drove back to the store to buy some fancy detergent, the kind that costs more than five dollars. I smelled them all until I found one that reminded me of flowers and every popular girl I’d ever met. Then I came back home and started washing each Old Navy t-shirt, Dora panty, and pair of yoga pants in this house. I’m still not done.

I learned two very important things yesterday, and I’d like to share them with you, just in case you are in the Laundry and Wife Remedial Classes, like I am.

#1. Okay- this is, apparently, how laundry works. Say your laundry day is Wednesday. You cannot put the laundry in the washer on one Wednesday, and then wait to put it in the dryer until the following Wednesday. You must finish it all on the SAME Wednesday. It’s unfair, but true. If you don’t, your family will smell like dead mice.

#2. You must be sweeter to your husband so he is not afraid to tell you that your entire family reeks.

Sigh.

Housekeeping and marriage are complicated.

Mean Mommy

I took the kids to Taco Bell for dinner last night. At a special all-organic one near my house.

Right.

We pulled up to the drive -thru and just as I rolled down the window to order, Tish screamed "I WANTED CHICK-FIL-A!” and burst into tears. Then Amanda started her ear-shattering hyena shrieks, you know, because Tish was crying, so why not? I looked at Chase, the last Melton standing, and he gave me his signature stoic expression – the one that means he’s mentally counting the years till he leaves for college. It had been a long day.

I screamed our order above the minivan mayhem. After we paid, the tired man behind the window handed me our...food, for lack of a better word. I looked inside and saw that our order –much like the day – was all wrong. And then my kids watched me throw the bag on the passenger seat, sigh loudly, roll my eyes, and drive off without saying thank you or goodbye to the tired taco man.

I am finding it hard to think enlightened thoughts about myself this morning. Because I have this nagging suspicion that maybe the Taco Bell man’s right to respect, patience and decency should have trumped my imaginary right to a perfectly assembled fast food meal in two minutes or less.

Perhaps I need to stop channeling my daily frustrations into utter disgust at people like poor taco man for unforgivable transgressions such as providing me mild instead of medium hot sauce. I have decided: that is not sweet. In fact, it’s actually pretty mean – even meaner than giving me the wrong sauce.

I would like to be someone who is not mean, so this weekend I am going to practice. Only, of course, on people who don’t deserve mean, like Mr. Bell.

As for the Melton Girls, so help you God, I will turn this car around.

Right This Way, Please

Hi everybody.

Can you do me a favor? If you like this blog, if you read it often, would you register as a follower?

As far as I can tell, there is absolutely no benefit to you for doing so. But there are a few benefits for me.

First, I’m a little insecure. When I see all of your teeny faces in the corner of my blog, it gives me confidence.

Second, I have been waiting my whole life to have followers.

Third, and most importantly, new followers allow for moments like this at home…

When I launched this blog a week ago, I began a ritual of running to the computer every ten minutes to see if I had any new followers. I do this all day and evening. Even during dinner. Yes, I do.

Last night, during one of my checks, I yelled down to Craig:

“HONEY, HOW MANY FOLLOWERS DID JESUS HAVE WHEN HE STARTED OUT? I CAN’T REMEMBER.”

“TWELVE, HONEY.”

“THAT’S RIGHT. TWELVE. I HAVE FORTY-TWO.”

Silence.

Then…

“GLENNON. DO NOT WRITE THAT ON YOUR BLOG.”

She Loves to Laugh and Smile

If you have a moment, I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Gena. Today is her birthday.

Sometimes I tell people that Gena is my best friend. This is ridiculous, because Gena has legions of closer friends who see her every day, remember her kids’ birthdays, RSVP to her parties, call her on the phone, and do all sorts of friend-type things that are much too hard for me. I mostly just think about her a lot, and send her emails. So maybe it’s more truthful that Gena is my favorite friend.

I bet a lot of people fraudulently call Gena their best friend, though. She’s blonde and beautiful and fiercely stylish and bubbly and classy, like champagne. She’s the type that had already made the high school cheerleading squad before trying out. Like when she was five. She has a big, fancy home that is always full of beautiful people and food that looks like it was really hard to make. Her family worships the ground that her perfectly pedicured feet walk upon. People with this sort of charmed existence are supposed to be shallow and mean, just out of general fairness. I kind of thought this was the deal.

Gena has ruined this theory for me.

If you don’t mind, I’d like to share a few things about Gena that she’ll never tell you herself. Not even by fake accident.

Gena’s the sun… and those she loves revolve around her and soak her up. She’s her daddy’s girl, her husband’s rock, her childrens’ everything, and her friends’ favorite.

She helped create a volunteer group that matches local kids with community service projects. They cheer at the Special Olympics, decorate the Ronald McDonald House for holidays, and throw parties at homeless shelters.

She is in a wedding every weekend.

The neighborhood girls show up giggling on her doorstep and she drops everything to help them prepare for cheerleading tryouts.

She takes really good care of her grandparents.

Her son is some sort of anomaly. He's kind, gentle, and strong, with more than a touch of intellectual and athletic genius.

Her priest visits her frequently for dinner. Everyone visits her frequently for dinner.

She has unshakeable faith and audacious courage. But she’s vulnerable, too

There’s so much more, but I know you’re busy. I’ll just end with this suggestion: If you see Gena today, don’t be intimidated by her fancy shoes. Go say Happy Birthday. She’ll take off her sunglasses, cock her head to one side and hang open her mouth slightly…and even though she’ll have a baby on her hip and another tugging on her shirt, she’ll smile, and make time for you. She’ll LOVE you. And a few minutes later, you’ll want to call her your favorite friend, like I do.

Because you’ll learn that Angels Wear Prada, too.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Gena.

And Then A Hero Comes Along....

A lot of things about life confuse me. Marion Barry, The Girls Next Door, and ovens- to name a few. This section of my blog, “I’m just saying”…is dedicated to my general and specific confusion.

A while ago I watched CNN Heroes, an awards show that honors people who are saving the world.

The first Hero honored was Maria Ruiz, a Texas woman who works the night shift, then comes home every morning to feed her five children breakfast and walk them to school. Then, instead of sleeping, she packs up her van with food and drives to the Mexican border. She waits at the border for three hours each way, to deliver food to the hungry children of Juarez, Mexico. Every day.

The second Hero was Yohannes Gebregeorgis, who established “Ethiopia Reads,” which provides public libraries and literacy programs to impoverished Ethiopian children.

Next was Carolyn LeCroy from Norfolk Virginia, who started the “Messages Project,” helping children stay in touch with incarcerated parents through video messages.

Next came Viola Vaughn. She moved from Detroit to Senegal to retire, but when a group of kids asked her for help with their classes, she began a program that has helped hundreds of Sengali girls graduate from school and start successful businesses.

After each Hero’s story was told, he or she would accept a trophy and give a speech. The audience, made up of celebrities and regular Joes, clapped earnestly in their seats and wiped stray tears here and there.

And then Christina Aguilera came on stage and sang the song “Beautiful.”

And as soon as she was done singing, the entire audience rose to their feet to offer a three minute standing ovation …FOR THE FIRST TIME ALL EVENING.

I sat stunned on my couch, hoping that maybe I’d missed the announcement that Ms. Aguilera had just cured cancer.

Nope. She just sang really, really well. Heroically well.

This, my friends, confuses me.

I’m not saying…I’m just saying.

Cracked Vase

I recently had my feelings crushed by a friend with good intentions and bad timing. I shared a personal story with her and in response, she shared a personal criticism of me. The criticism was valid. But that never really matters, does it?

I used to drink and eat when I felt sad or confused, but now I pray and write. And eat. So I dragged my bag of chips and heavy heart upstairs to the computer that day. This is what I came up with:

Cracked Vase

Each of us, at our essence, is a beautiful bouquet of flowers ... God living in us. Unfortunately, if we’re brave enough to offer our bouquet to the world, we have no other choice but to present it in the cracked vase that is our own self and has seen better days. The world has knocked us around, and has left some of us a little chipped and others in pieces on the floor. Miraculously, regardless of the degree of damage to our vase, our bouquet remains unscathed… as pristine and breathtakingly perfect as the day God gave it to us, on our first day. So when my neighbor offers me her bouquet why do I notice the imperfect instead of the perfect? Why do I need to see the broken instead of the unbreakable? Why can’t I see the bouquet for the vase? Is it because I think if I focus on how broken her vase is, she might not notice that mine is shattered? And am I even aware that all the while I am missing out on the beauty, the offering, the blessing of her bouquet? Each time I point out her cracked vase I suggest that maybe her bouquet would be better back there on the shelf, where not so many people will see it. And she starts to doubt that she ever even had a bouquet…she remembers that she’s just a cracked up old vase after all. That’s all she’s ever been, really.

I am going to ask God to show me the bouquet instead of the vase. I want to see and respond to the flowers, and to say thank you to the neighbors who offer them. Because it’s so brave to keep offering your bouquet, what with being so cracked and all. It’s like showing up at a bridal shower out of love for your friend even though you’ve spilled a latte in your lap in the car, and it appears that you’ve peed yourself. So brave. Then maybe, if my neighbor asks, I’ll try to help her patch up her vase a bit…make it a little stronger, to hold in more water and keep her bouquet fresh…but only if she asks. Otherwise I’ll just thank her for her courage and tell her how beautiful, colorful, and perfect her flowers are. How they, like everyone else’s, are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen, and how they made my day. Then, if I’m feeling brave enough, and she has time….I’ll offer her mine. And I’ll ask God to shine the light on his bouquet instead of my cracked vase. And He will, but maybe he’ll also remind us both, my neighbor and I, that the cracks are where the light sneaks out. And in.

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

2 Corinthians 4 7-9

Faith Like a Child

We’ve been members of lots of churches on our faith journey.

Right after Chase was born, we started going to a cozy little Methodist church. The congregation was old, wise, and gentle. The elegant minister peppered her simple sermons with “God is good,” to which the whole church replied musically…“All the time.” I think this may have just been her way of keeping those closest to heaven (the kids and elderly) awake, but I loved the steady reminder. I also loved the part during the service when people would stand up and ask for prayer about whatever was on their hearts…a granddaughter’s piano recital, a daughter in-laws breast cancer, a lonely friend. We were doted on like grandchildren there, and we felt valued and adored, like everyone should feel at church.

There were too few children to teach a separate Sunday school class, so the minister would call the kids to the altar and use a parrot puppet to teach them a simplified version of the day’s message. After the parrot lesson, the children scurried back to their parents in the pews and the minister delivered the adult message.

One Sunday, during the grown up sermon, I looked down at Craig’s hand in mine and his fancy church shoes and my mind started wandering. I marveled at how handsome he was and how fantastically mature we were to be in church, together, by choice. Like I always do, I felt like I was just playing grown up, complete with my costume of lipstick and heels . My day dreaming caused me to lose track of the sermon, and when I tuned back in, I was lost.

I leaned toward Craig's ear and whispered. “I’m lost. What is she talking about?”

After a long pause, Craig whispered out of the corner of his mouth:

“I have no idea. I only listen to the parrot part.”

Our Little Fighter

This is Amanda- our youngest.

When Amanda was born, she flew through the birth canal at such breakneck speed that she was a little…rough upon arrival. Actually, she was dark purple and quite swollen from head to toe. All the nurses looked down at her and cooed and pretended to notice that she looked like me, or Craig…but it was painfully obvious that the only human she came close to resembling yet was Rocky Balboa.

Besides the little appearance glitch, I assumed that all was well until Amanda returned from her first bath with a sign on her bassinette that said, in huge block letters:

“I HAVE A BRUISED FACE.”

When I asked the nurse why mine was the only baby with her shortcomings advertised, she told me that since Amanda was so purple, they were afraid that a nurse might panic and start to perform CPR on her. I was distraught. Every time I looked at that sign I felt like Amanda was being forced to wear a baby dunce cap. I imagined all the other babies pointing at her and giggling in the nursery, scootching their bassinettes away from hers so as not to be associated with the “bruised face chick.” Stupid Snotty Jerk Babies. When the nurse suggested that I might be over-reacting, I asked her why Amanda would be crying so much if not for the fact that she was terribly embarrassed.

Clearly, the Percocet hadn’t kicked in yet.

But Craig was smart enough not to suggest more drugs when I talked to him about it. He had a more creative approach to the problem. The next morning when I woke up, I noticed that another sign had been added to Amanda’s bassinette. Now above her teeny purple face it said:

“I HAVE A BRUISED FACE"

“BUT YOU SHOULD SEE THE OTHER BABY.”

And since Amanda was named after the most relentless and graceful fighter we’ve ever known- this was a fitting start to her little life. More on her namesake later..when I can find the words.