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Archive for April, 2009

mohawk1One day this week, when I picked Boss up from his Christian preschool, he told me he was sad because Spike (name changed for privacy) didn’t go to his school anymore.  I asked him why, but he didn’t know.

Last night, we attended a Habitat for Humanity meeting at the church that runs the preschool he attends, and we happened to run into Spike and his mom.  I asked why he wasn’t going to school there anymore, and she explained that he was kicked out because he got a mohawk.  This confused me because I remember seeing Spike on the first day of school, and he had a mohawk then.  So I asked her about it, and she said that he had indeed had a mohawk at the beginning of school.  She explained her frustration with the decision and the school’s lack of understanding with her 5 year old’s haircut.  There had been meetings and everything.

Today, I emailed the director of the preschool to let her know that I was frustrated with the decision.  I mean, I read the rules and dress codes and nothing was ever mentioned about haircuts!  Furthermore, what kind of message does this send to Spike and Boss and their school friends?  That Spike has done something wrong, that he’s not good enough, that somehow, God forbid, he’s not worthy to learn in God’s house?  I told the director that my prayer is that this decision would be reconsidered because I’m quite certain that Jesus does not care what kind of hairdo any child has.  I hope that my concern doesn’t fall on deaf ears.  My husband said that some parent probably complained about his hair and that’s why he was expelled.  If so, maybe my complaint about his expulsion for such an ignorant reason will be weighed in as well.

Do you think a child’s haircut should matter?  Or do you agree with me that we should let them learn to express their true selves now so they won’t be so stifled when they reach adulthood?

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Huh?

Below is a conversation I just had a few minutes ago with Bubba while we were painting.  I love this stuff and think it’s adorable.  However, it’s also why I crave adult interaction the way a heroine addict craves heroine!  Not the best analogy I know, but my brain cells have been killed by motherhood.

Bubba: I’m making an elephant.  And I’m making a little boat.  It’s a little one.

Me: Is the elephant in the boat?

Bubba: Yea.

Me: Is the boat sinking because the elephant’s too big for it?

Bubba: No.  It’s not a boat.

Me: Oh.  What is it, then?

Bubba: IT’S A GIRAFFE!!!!

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0903-008I know God is real because Bubba is finally potty-trained!!!  Seriously, people, I was beginning to think that would NEVER happen!  But I dedicated the day Wednesday to trying, without much hope, the potty-train in one day method and it worked!!  Hallelujah!  Cue the choir of angels!

Remember, if you will, that he was having problems going poopoo on the potty.  Well, he passed the test tonight.  He came and told me he needed to go poopoo, so we ran and sat him on the potty.  After 20 minutes, he did the deed.  He cried when it happened because it scared him.  I assured him that it was a great thing to celebrate.  And when he realized what he had done he said very emphatically, “It’s a BIG one!!”

Ha!  I’m SO beyond blessed!

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girl-praying When I was probably 5-7 years old, I experienced a true answer to prayer that further substantiated my already strong belief that God is real.  I was staying at my Nanny & Poppa’s house, this was before I went to live with them permanently.  I was in the house with my Poppa, when we heard a crash outside.  He told me to stay in the house and he ran outside to see what caused the noise.  I witnessed the event from a bedroom window.

The crashing sound was made by my very drunk Daddy crashing his pickup truck through the chain link fence.  He told my Poppa, who was his dad, that he was there to pick me up and take me with him.  My Poppa, realizing this was a terrible idea with the state my Daddy was in, refused to let me go with him.  My Daddy could get extremely angry when he was drunk, and he didn’t take this refusal kindly and told my Poppa in words I won’t repeat that he was taking me whether Poppa wanted him to or not.

Poppa ran in the house, locked the door and retrieved one of his hunting rifles from his bedroom.  Then he ran outside and pointed the gun in his own son’s face.  He told him to leave and come back when he was sober.  My Daddy continued to insist on taking me with him, and my Poppa began begging him to just leave and come back when he was sober or he would have to shoot.

Now, while it was true that my Daddy was an alcoholic and could be very violent at times, he never once laid a hand on me.  He loved me and made me feel loved and special.  Somehow, that anger of his was never directed toward me.  I loved my Daddy probably more than any other person on Earth, and I did not want to see him hurt by my Poppa even though I knew that Poppa was right to not want me to go with him.  So when my Poppa told him he would shoot him, I ran into the living room and knelt down at the red floral vinyl couch and began to pray earnestly that God would keep my Daddy safe.  I believe my actual words were, “Jesus, please don’t let Poppa hurt Daddy!”

Then I ran to the window to see what was happening.  The shouting was escalating and I could tell that, while neither of them wanted to hurt the other one, they were both willing to do whatever it took to get what they were after.  So I ran back to the couch and prayed some more.  I begged and pleaded God to keep my Daddy safe from harm.  It ties my stomach in knots even now to think of how earnest and desperate that prayer was!

Then I ran back to the window to assess the situation.  The fight was getting worse.  Tears were streaming down my face and my heart was racing.  Then it happened…Poppa pulled the trigger just inches from my Daddy’s chest!

Everything stopped.

No more shouting.

No more movement.

Just silence.

Poppa had pulled the trigger, and it had jammed.  Both men, father and son, stood staring at one another in shock and disbelief.

Fortunately, the fact that his own father had just tried to shoot him sobered my Daddy enough to make him realize that he should leave, and he did.  My Poppa sat on the steps and cried.

I ran back into the living room, knelt at that vinyl couch one more time and cried my eyes out.  This time, my prayer went something like this: “Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you, Jesus!  Thank you!”

I know my God is real because He hears and answers my prayers.

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