10 Spot Ramble: Checkers!

We all know this kid will be terribly embarrassed of this photo someday.

We all know this kid will be pretty embarrassed of this photo someday.

Someone found StealingFaith by typing in “are socks older than checkers?”

Call me crazy (I know that’s the most tame of all the terms I’ve been called in my lifetime) but I think that’s a fantastic question to ask! (The answer is, “No.”) I’ve already explored fun facts about socks, and I think this random search engine term is the perfect diving board to discover more about checkers, everyone’s favorite childhood game.

10 Spot Ramble: Checkers!

1. Checkers does not care about Prime Numbers. If the creators of checkers cared about prime numbers, which are numbers only divisible by 1 and themselves, they would not have chosen to have 64 squares on a checker board. They further thumbed their noses at mathematicians across the centuries by designating 12 playing pieces per opponent. Oh! The nerve!

2. Checkers is not a drink, nor a drinking game. It is, however, called “draughts” in many countries. Which explains why some people might find playing Checkers with a malted beverage alluring. Personally, I find a level head increases my competitiveness, so I will not be drinking a draught while playing draughts.

3. Checkers is not from New Mexico. Scholars believe the modern Checkers game evolved from a similar game played as far back as 1400 B.C. called Alquerque or Quirkat that was played in ancient Egypt, Rome, Greece and India. It’s important to note that Egypt, Rome, Greece, and India are not in the United States or New Mexico (which I think is an independent country in all ways that really matter) but it’s obvious “Alquerque” has influenced the name choice of Albuquerque.

4. International Fame and Fortune. World checkers champions have been recognized since 1847. I’m not sure why someone would travel the world for a checkers tournament, but I suppose there have been lesser rationales for going abroad. Just ask Hemingway.

5. Checkers are not Chinese. Though they share a name and similar concepts, Checkers and Chinese Checkers are not related. Chinese Checkers has nothing to do with China, and originated in Germany. The game was put on the market in the early 1900s and was called “Chinese Checkers” to capitalize on the public’s familiarity with checkers and to give the game an oriental flavor, as a marketing ploy.

6. Checkers is for Predestinationers. In the 1500s the rules of Checkers were rewritten so that, if given an opportunity to “jump” an opponent, the jump must be taken. This forced capture rule removes free choice. And the reference to predestination and Calvinism is quite obscure unless you happen to be married to a guy with a degree in Biblical Studies. Which I am. So I do know the differences between Calvinism and Armenianism, though I won’t go into that now because we’re talking about Checkers, not religion. Sheesh!

7. Checkers is Obsessive. Perhaps every hobby had its proponents who are more fanatical than rational… there is no doubt that Checkers has drawn its own following of cultic red and black square hoppers who have access to the internet. Want proof – this page, dedicated to “Leon H. Goans, who trained me in the traditional manner of (1) defeating me game after game by mail, (2) offering advice and encouragement, (3) losing to me now and then as his health deteriorated, and (4) giving me much of his checkers library.” The idea of playing Checker by mail gives me hives. But that’s because I’m not obsessive. About Checkers.

8. Level Playing Field. There are a few moves so aggressive, so cunning, so… divine that they have been banned from formal Checkers games. I don’t know what they are. I will likely never need them, as I rarely find myself in a cutthroat Checkers game. But it’s nice to know these moves exist and are banned.

9. Families that Play Together, Stay Together. Truth is, as a child my mom got so mad at my uncle over a game of Sorry she refused to let my sister and I play it as children. So the idea of board games ensuring domestic, familial bliss is a bit bogus. That being said, it makes sense that if you can play board games together there’s a decent chance your family is liking one another and communicating. So it’s not that much of a stretch to assume Checkers = Family Values.

10. Ridges are best. As an informally trained Checkers player I have experiences three different Checkers boards and playing pieces in my lifetime. This obviously makes me an expert. As an expert I’m just going to put it out there that the playing pieces with ridges are absolutely more awesome than the smooth fellers. If you’ve got a King or Queen that keeps losing its crown you’ve got a problem on your hands. Ridges make them stick better and that’s a good thing.

Thanks for enjoying your most recent addition of the 10 Spot Ramble. May all your checkered days be fruitful and full of victory.

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My Soap Box

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I just read that four boxes keep us free:

The Soap Box

The Ballot Box

The Jury Box

The Cartridge Box

Keeping this in mind, I would like to exercise my right to the Soap Box and mention something that’s limiting my freedom: my Pampered Chef pizza stone and my cast iron griddle.

I utilize both of these kitchen items regularly and yet I struggle every time with the clean up. I get it that you’re not supposed to go after them with soap and such, that the build up of oils act as a “seasoning” for the baking…

… but truly, it’s gross.

My pizza stone has burn marks from pieces of cheese. And if I can see a mark on the stone that means there is a bit of decomposing cheese stuck to the very same surface I’m using to feed myself a freshly cooked pizza. That’s just not right.

It’s the pure fear of eating pizza that tastes like Dawn soap that keeps me from scrubbing away at that stone. And I have to admit, really quietly…

~~I put my pizza stone in the dishwasher once.~~

Did you hear something? No? Me, either.

The cast iron griddle offers the same conundrum for me. It sits in my sink after use for many hours while I decide if today is the day I’m going to break out the steel wool and go to town. Right about the time my hand itches for that strange combination of SOS pad and blue soap I think of the joy my husband had when we opened the box to that griddle (it was a wedding gift) and he imagined the character it would gain as we used it over and over for our family meals.

The voice inside my head says, “That’s salmonella, buddy, not character, it’s giving us.”

But, once again, I ignore the voice that screams “GERMS! GERMS! GERMS!” when I look at the pan, wipe it down thoroughly, and put it away.

I always heat it up to scorching hot before I cook anything new on it.

Why, oh why, must I actually take care of these kitchen items as directed? I can rebel in so many ways, and yet I’m inhibited when it comes to my naturally cleaning inclinations in this area.

It’s true. Life is just not fair.

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On Facebook

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This morning I checked Facebook when I woke up. It’s become my morning tradition, my way of considering what’s happening around the world before I dare to stick my toes out of the covers and face what’s happening in my own home.

Sometimes I feel guilty for how I use Facebook, because, let’s face it – Facebook is a socially acceptable way of being a Peeping Tom. We show up, creep around on a newsfeed reading about other people’s lives, and often exit the conversation without saying a word.

Not a model of healthy relationships.

At about 6:23 a.m. I realized that while I’ve been posting stories of my three-year-old old surprise pooping in public, my caffeine addiction and lack of sleep… my friends have been using Facebook to privately message a prayer request as cancer spreads and financial burdens overwhelm; to mourn with a local family whose 8-year-old was killed in a boating accident; and announce an ER visit to treat a bullet wound. (I laughed, shook my head, and gave thanks that my friend was shot in the arm and relatively unharmed. And of course I responded, “It’s all fun and games until someone gets shot in the arm.”)

Real life. Not made up social blustering and preening.

I don’t see many stories of people bragging on my news feed when I go on Facebook. Most of my Facebook friends are vaguely well-balanced, authentic, and have a knack for fitting life into two-to-three sentences before they hit “post.”

I realize this isn’t the case for everyone. In fact, I’ll never forget the Yellow Pages salesman who, during a sales visit to our business, said we should keep our Yellow Pages ad because most people were like him and just used Facebook to “creep on hot chicks before bed.” I was appalled then and still stunned at his lack of professionalism now.

I realize Facebook can be a detriment, add covetousness to your life, and act as a phenomenal time waster.

This morning, however, I’m grateful for the ability social media has to mobilize the troops to help; to quickly communicate significant life events (always good to know your friend really is pregnant when she’s in that awkward “fluffly” stage of gestation); to provide access to experts in your area of interests; to provide a belly laugh when needed (still go back to the status update a friend posted about seeing a man sneeze in his car, hit his head on the steering wheel, and honk the horn! It’s been almost two years since she posted that and I still laugh out loud).

Thanks, friends. I appreciate you. And Facebook – I appreciate you, too.

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A Poop Story. Again.

When the baby gets the wipes, you know you’ve got a mess on your hands.

There is nothing that can humble with the same flair as discovering your child has pooped on a wooden chair while visiting a friends house.

Yes, yes. This was the highlight of my evening.

We went to a friend’s house. Their three-year-old came running into the kitchen, asking for a wipe, because there was poop. The father of the house asked the mother of the house to follow up on that because he believed her when she said there was poop.

It was a difference of opinion, as the mother of the house couldn’t quite believe there would be poop around that her three-year-old would need a wipe to clean up.

The mother of the house disappeared about the time Tres rounded the corner with her dress up and her underwear down, showing me that, without a doubt, she had pooped in her underwear.

In the process she had also doused a wooden chair with poop. Which the mother of the house cleaned up because she was already en route to discover why her three-year-old needed wipes when I was approached by my daughter celebrating the full moon.

Yes, she was mooned everyone in the house and good percentage of the elk population of the area (assuming the elk were spying on our doings from the woods).

Proud, proud moments.

“What happened?!” I exclaimed as I took her to the bathroom and took care of her filthy underwear. “You know to use the potty!”

“I got surprised,” was her response.

And I can’t really blame her because most everyone gets surprised by a bowel movement at least once in their lives. But, really? Did it have to happen tonight? On a wooden chair, too?!

At least the three-year-old knew what to do… get the wipes and save the day.

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Questioning

How many questions to you ask yourself a day?

I recently remarked that living with small children who have questions about everything is like being pecked to death by ducks.

My friend, who has a bit of the devil in her, sent me an infographic stating a four-year-old typically asks 437 questions a day.

Suddenly my world made sense!

I don’t have a four-year-old at present, but I do have a seven, five, and three-year-old and then there’s Bubby who may not ask questions but is certainly comfortable making his voice heard. Questions are a LARGE part of my day.

In the midst of the basic, mundane, and downright silly questions about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, the kiddos usually sneak a serious topic in, a question that deals with theology or morality, how we treat others and how they treat us. Racism, sexism, religiousity… these are the questions that rear their ugly heads without warning in our household.

It’s fun talking to the kids as they figure out life. The first time they ask a serious question about the birds and the bees I’m probably going to want to run for cover, but so far our questions have been within the realm of comfortability.

But after spending some time thinking about the 500+ questions I receive from my children every day I started wondering how many questions I ask myself on a daily basis.

I have a running dialogue in my head about whether I’m making the next right choice.

As I prepare lunch I question whether I should heat lunch up in the plastic or put it on a glass plate to avoid chemicals. The kids ask me if they can have a snack and I question whether they can eat their lunch if I say yes.

I find so many principles in conflict and I question my judgement.

If my goal is to say, “yes” as often as possible… why do I have to say, “No,” so often?
Are relationships really a mess worth making? Why isn’t being a mom easier, more intuitive?
Am I guiding these young lives in a way that will make them useful human beings, well-adjusted, contributing members of society?

These questions swirl around my head on a constant basis, providing background noise to my thoughts as I go about my business of wiping noses, wiping bottoms, and wishing everyone in the household knew how to keep the hand towel on the rack!

The worst part of this whole venture? I don’t have the answers to my questions. It’s a cruel twist of fate for this control freak – I don’t have the answers and, in some cases, even a vague direction for the questions that pester me.

I do have a coping strategy, however. In the midst of all of those questions about whether I’m parenting “right” and such, I have learned a few truths:

God is not a God of fear. If I’m scared it’s a trick being used to distract me from faith.

There is no right way. There are many useful techniques of parenting available, but there is no sure and prefect way to parent perfectly.

Children are gracious. When I make mistakes my children are constantly willing to offer forgiveness and a hug on the back side. Saying, “I’m sorry,” to my kiddos is healthy for me when I’ve made a mistake and teaches them that apologizing is a skill valid for everyone in life.

Children are resilient. How many of us can look back at our childhoods and see that our parents took a misstep or two? And guess what, we survived. We’re ok. Our parents are only human and did the best they could at the time. Our kids are going to survive our bumbling parent attempts, too!

What do you do when the questions threaten to overwhelm you?

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Deliberately

Look ‘em in the eyes!

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

I spend a lot of time thinking about if I’m doing things On Purpose.

Perhaps it’s because my sophomore English teacher made us read Henry David Thoreau and I really connected with his explanation of Where he Lived and What He Lived For at Walden Pond, or perhaps because I’m a bit more controlling than the average person; I always had a feeling that to truly live you have to passionately participate in life.

Do you ever envision LIFE as a real, practical, tangible thing?

I imagine LIFE to be a bucking bronco, itching to go at the starting gate and waiting to see who can ride the longest – with the most flair – without falling off. In my own life I’ve been thrown a time or two from that bronco – which (after catching my breath) only makes me more determined to get up on my feet and step up to ride again!

The problem with LIFE, the bucking bronco, or however you imagine it, is that it never stops moving. It’s like driving on San Francisco hills: you’re either rolling backwards or actively driving toward a destination. There’s no coasting. With LIFE you’re either managing it or it’s managing you.

I spent time thinking about that this afternoon because I got to drive home from The Big City all by myself, Stella the Suburban was empty of any bodies besides my own yet filled with a trunk load of Costco toilet paper.

I’m not used to the quiet time, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Lizard was ahead of me in our new-to-us vehicle that doesn’t fit every member of our family at once but does drink fuel like it’s a tiny shot of expensive malt, as opposed to Stella, who guzzles like a sailor set ashore after a long trip at sea.

The quiet time, combined with the celebration of Tres’ third birthday and the sudden realization Uno is in her eighth year of life, had me questioning myself:

Am I living on purpose?

What are my purposes?

Do I need to tweak what I’m doing right now in order to align more closely with the calling on my life?

Am I doing what needs to be done to satisfy the call I feel compelled to answer?

My personal good news is that I think I’m in a sweet spot of letting God be in charge. The sad news? This time I have with my kiddos is flying by and I’m letting my own impatience and exasperation lose opportunities to know them while they still want to be known.

That is damning news, my friends. Damning. It bears little resemblance to the deliberate, intentional parenting I chose when we decided homeschooling was the right choice for our family.

I’ll be working on this concept for quite awhile, I’m sure, but I wanted to let you know these thoughts are on my mind because I wonder if you’re living deliberately?

Are you living on purpose?

If someone asked you for three things that make you passionate, make your face light up and your heart happy – could you rattle them off? Or would you have to think hard?

Are you living a life on purpose?

When it’s all said and done, these questions, the ones about how we choose to live, they’re the ones that will haunt us when we’re in the nursing homes wondering if this is all there is. They’re the questions whose answers make life worth living.

So, are you? Are you living on purpose?

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Copyright © StealingFaith.com 2010-2013 | All rights reserved

Not Big Enough

Tres is turning three.

Tonight is the last night I will put Tres to bed as a two-year-old. Tomorrow she turns three.

She fell asleep in the recliner, cuddled and warm, sweet. Sucking her thumb and wearing a tu-tu. So I lifted her into my arms and took her to bed.

Once we got to bed I tucked her in and pressed my ear against her chest, listening to her heart beat.

Thu-thunk, thu-thunk. Thu-thunk, thu-thunk.

I wondered how many times I’ve listened to that heart beat since she was born.

I came to my computer and re-read the note I wrote a few days after you were born. It made the bridge of my nose hurt with suppressed emotion. Three years ago I wrote:

“You are worth every contraction pain, every sore muscle, every emotional hormonally driven moment, every day spent in nausea, every uncomfortable moment of the last nine months, three weeks and four days.

You are more than worth it.”

And today, now knowing her and seeing her personality develop, I can say without a doubt, She is amazing! Tres is stubborn and funny and thoughtful and independent.

My third girl has a sense of humor that blesses everyone around, and an ability to stick to her guns that will pay dividends for her in the future as a leader. She is kind to her sisters (and spoiled by them!) and makes her brother laugh with joy.

I love that she put her flip flops on the wrong feet and, when I told her they’re backward, looked at me and said, “No, they not backward! They perfect.”

I love that this week she danced into the kitchen and announced, “I a big girl!” paused, held up a finger, wagged it, and said, “But not big enough!”

She tells stories in complete sentences, worries about coyotes, and loves Pingu. She’s tall, blond, and still practically perfect in every way!

And, as I said in the letter I wrote to her when she was days old… she blesses our lives. Now… and forever.

Happy birthday, dearest.

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It’s Worth Fighting

Samwise Gamgee

A Note from Middle Earth (a.k.a. The Lord of the Rings):

Frodo Baggins: I can’t do this Sam.

Samwise Gamgee: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are.

It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?

But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer.

Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.

Frodo: What are we holding on to Sam?

Sam: That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo… and it’s worth fighting for.

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Big Leagues

Big League Chew

It’s time to discuss how toy makers hate parents.

This hatred is a long-standing conspiracy. I know this because I’ve recently tried to introduce some of the toys of my youth to my own kiddos and have discovered there is pure evil within some of my childhood favorites.

I can’t believe my parents had more patience than I have, and as an adult I also can’t figure out why I loved these toys to dearly. Yet, the fact remains the play things of a long-ago era are a real and present danger to my “parent-calm” today.

ViewFinder. The View Finder looks so innocent, a window into another world… or, when viewed from another angle, a torture device. I’m not over-reacting. Consider the fact the ViewFinder is used to cover ones eyes. If a child (who shall not be named) placed said ViewFinder over their eyes and, instead of remaining motionless, decided to go trotting around the house, I imagine you can see the pain involved in running into a wall with a ViewFinder attached to the face at the bridge of the nose. Not that I know anything about that.

Hungry, Hungry Hippos. Personally, I LOVE this game – Love it! However, it’s about as quiet as a tutu-wearing elephant dancing through a bubble wrap factory. In our house, as soon as the baby is down for nap a rousing game of Hungry, Hungry Hippos begins, complete with snapping hippopotamus and marbles flying faster than a speeding bullet. The volume on this game is off the charts. (Although, admittedly, the fun factor is pretty high, too!)

Tiddly Winks. It’s an unfortunate name, Tiddly Winks. As an adult I look at the word choice of “tiddly” and “wink” and my mind drifts to the nursery rhyme about Wee Willie Winkie running around town creeping on people through their windows! ”Winkie” is just not a word one can say without a giggle. Name aside, why, oh why, would anyone think it’s a good plan to put a bunch of tokens together with small children who can’t help but put everything in their mouths? I just know I’ll be “winking” at a Tiddly Wink one day out of my toilet after that token has completed an unfortunate gastrointestinal journey.

Pick Up Sticks. I see about as much enjoyment out of Pick Up Sticks as if I could grab an open bag of Pretzel sticks and swing it around my head like a lasso. Maybe my kids are the only ones, but they have much more fun creating a disaster than picking up anything whether it be sticks, pretzels, or their dirty clothing. Any game based on a premise of cleanliness is a game designed to bring parents to their breaking point.

Now that I’ve added my two cents about all this, I think I’ll go watch E.T. and chew some Big League Chewing Gum in honor of the 80s.

The End.

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Unpleasantness

So… yesterday I jabbed myself in the eyeball with a piece of rebar that was sticking out of the side of a rabbit cage.

It wasn’t a pleasant experience. However, I survived and live to tell the story, no pirate patch needed.

Another unpleasant experience this evening? Dos’s pants fell down. We were walking the parking lot and one minute she was clothed, the next minute she wasn’t.

I don’t understand how these things happen. And why is she always the one who ends up nekkid in public?!

My silly troubles faded away quickly when I popped over to the World Wide Web and read an article about Kermit Gosnell, the Pennsylvania doctor who is being charged with murder for performing live birth abortions.

If you have the ability to experience, to truly feel outrage, this case must make your blood boil and your stomach heave.

The article I read is one of many surrounding the story of this macabre business as the testimony in the case is revealed. Details of late term abortions resulting in live infant death are being revealed, along with the callous disregard of Gosnell and his willingness to end those lives by severing the spinal cords of the littlest ones.

I think of it and remember how I felt the moment I heard my child’s first, gasping cry. And then I imagine that whimper cut short, and the confusion that tiny human felt, along with the pain.

It makes me cry. But who am I, just an emotional mother.

Assuming you’re unemotional, no matter how you look at it, this case is chilling.

So, after learning of this story, my family went to dinner. While we were there we noticed two families in the restaurant with very little newborns. They were so tiny! The eyes had that disoriented, unfocused look and their cries were so soft they were almost laughable. I held my own baby, a robust 9 months old now, and remembered back to the days I was just getting to know him. I looked at my 7 year old daughter and marveled at how she has lengthened and matured.

I don’t know what history will say of us for our culture’s ability to overlook the death of innocents, but I do hope the outrage over this particular story spreads deep and wide – and is loud!

If statistics are true, 25% of American women have received an abortion… and while I can’t even begin to know or understand the circumstances that led to these decisions as women and doctors exercised their “right to choose,” I do believe there is a trail of unhappiness and pain littering that right to choose.

My response tonight, for a bit, was to hug my children tighter and hold them just a little longer in gratitude that they are here, present, in my life. They enhance everything I do and I would be lost without them.

Even when they drop their drawers in the parking lot of the China Star Buffet.

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Stealing Faith

humor for relationships, family & life

10 Spot Ramble: Checkers!

My Soap Box

On Facebook

A Poop Story. Again.

Questioning

Deliberately

Not Big Enough

It’s Worth Fighting

Big Leagues

Unpleasantness