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I love this dialogue between Daddy and Daughter. People who know me will recognize me in there somewhere. I am not a chemistry professor, but I did spend 30 minutes recently trying to explain the concept of process variaton to my daughter Girlzilla who keeps missing the bus, requiring a ride from me.

I started charging her $30 per ride. She was outraged. So I explained to her:

Think of all your morning out-the-door times as a population that has an average and a standard deviation
Not all of your out-the-door times meet standards (you miss the bus)
You can look at your morning prep from waking time to walking out the door as a process that produces this critical measure — out-the-door time
You can choose to change your process to make your average out the door time earlier, allowing for your current level of variation in your morning prep process (scoot the average)
You can choose to change your process to reduce the variation in your process (be more consistent) thus allowing you to have the same average, but make the bus more consistetly (squish the standard deviation)
But I admit change is painful. Especially if it involves getting up earlier in the morning
So you can also decide to live with a certain amount of non-conformance (missing the bus)
Apparently you have been deciding that the considerable pain of change is greater than the incovenience of missing the bus for you
But you have not accounted in your considerations the inconvenience to me
So I am charging you $30 (or six hours of babysitting) for each ride, thus shifting the pain back to you so you can make an informed evaluation of your morning preparatory process results
Now that your non-c0nformances are sufficiently painful, you can do any combination of three things:
Wake up earlier or do something to “scoot” your average ready time earlier, thus making it to the bus in time
Streamline your process to reduce the variation, allowing you to wake up at 6:15 and leave by 6:40 on a consistent basis and still make the bus in time
Or pay me for each non-conformance
Now you get to make the decision of how much money you wish to spend to avoid the pain of change, and thus I am treating you like an adult

Having explained everything so well, can you be surprised that she still was not convinced? Apparently my logic “Sucks.” But her on-time performance went up over 80% over the next month. So Daddy does know best. Heh.

This is what delayed gratification day brought Momma in Her Kerchief and I in My Cap. Heidi got a new loveseat and chair for our room and I got a new digital camera. Merry Christmas to us. Mr. Freshpants is front, Olivia is left, Girlzilla is center, and Petunia is on the right.

Once in awhile I am so grateful that I am not traveling through adulthood without children to protect me. I am newly 41 years of age, and without kids I would truly feel it. Or worse.

Once again, my kids have stumbled me over a great fun find, Who Needs Donuts by Mark Alan Stamaty. I found the book sitting on a table at the library in the kids section. I read it to the kids last night and then spent about thirty minutes myself just looking at the details in the pictures, like a kid myself. I might have to buy my own copy while it is still in reprint.

Each page of Stamaty’s book mixes the detail of a “Where’s Waldo” scene with a gently surreal absurdist outlook on life. Turns out that the absurdist style got the book panned by overly conservative reviewers at School Library Weekly (they obviously didn’t have children to protect them like I do!) when it was published in the 1970’s and Stamaty gave up children’s book publishing for a life of writing comics for the Village Voice, New York Book Review, and Slate. He was poor and needed to focus on forms that would actually earn him a living. (read a great interview about the book at Rands In Repose) Years later, one of the reviewers apologized to him and said her review was wrong, but it was too late, he had moved on.

So it turns out that if it weren’t for a few stuffy reviewers, Mark Alan Stamaty might well have been be one of the best loved children’s authors both kids and parents alike could adore. Then there would have been the animated series, the merchandising, and just maybe my kids would be watching Stamaty-toons instead of insipid-toons on cable today.

But instead, “Who Needs Donuts” is a rare gem and a “cult classic.” And it looks as if I am joining this particular cult. Thanks to my kids.

Hey Y’all, little (younger) Cody here

Seems like I always remember about writing to the family newsletter just exactly when I see Terry’s name in my inbox. My monthly “Doh!” experience.

I never remember in time, so I am writing late. Sue me.

First of all I want to thank Terry. Faithfulness is what allows one to persist in a loving effort that seems thankless and at times fruitless. Terry got but one letter this month, but still sent out the newsletter for everyone. That’s a witness of faithfulness if I ever saw one. So thanks for this, Terry.

I dunno, maybe a deadline-less medium might garner more contributions. Something where you could write whenever you remembered — like a blog maybe. The monthly deadline could be a digest of the months posts and an exhortation for us slackards to get something in when we can. And maybe our little newsletter is just in a slump.

But whatever the case, keep the faith, Terry. For all of us.

So I am sitting here in a hotel room in Atlanta. Heidi and I are at the Smartmarriages Conference finding programs to teach relationship skills to new parents and step families at our church. I’m looking for something with an angle that will get the usually recalcitrant male half of our target couples to marriage education without being literally dragged there by their wives.

Saw a forthcoming book title called “How to Improve Your Marriage Without Talking About It.” Hmmmm…Interesting. Most marriage education is centered around talking about feelings. Which means asking a guy to go to a marriage class to improve his relationship with his wife is like asking him if he wants to bond with his wife by painting each others’ toenails and sharing a pint of Hagen Dazs. Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot of great marriage education out there, but there has to be a more guy-friendly way to approach this whole thing. And so I am in the hunt. Wish me luck.

I worked for the last few days here in the hotel room. I can do this because I took a job as a consultant for IBM and I am a mobile, at home employee. Functionally, I am somewhere between being a futurist and a process designer. I work closely with a global group of people only two of whom I have ever met. The particulars of the job are complicated and boring to explain. But what I can say is that I’m still adjusting to the whole change in life that the new job has brought about.

In fact our family is still reeling from a bunch of changes all at once, my job, Heidi’s job, the start of summer (always traumatic when the kids suddenly are home all. day. long.), and my father-in-law’s death in April. Rick died the way he wanted to and he is certainly in a better place, but we are still discovering the various ways in which we’ll miss him. One of the main ways is that he used to be the primary caregiver for his wife who has dementia and now that role has fallen to Heidi, co-starring yours truly. We are still figuring out which end is up.

The kids are enjoying summer. Aaron is enjoying karate and swimming. Gracie enjoys ballet lessons and swimming. Olivia enjoys life in general and jumping into the water and climbing on daddy. Olivia, I do believe, has replaced Hannah as our loudest child ever. That’s partially because Hannah has quit making the effort. Even the great ones have to retire. Hannah, for her part so far, is sleeping this summer as if the school year were a big turkey dinner chased by a large slice of pie a la mode. But that is all changing as she gets more involved with the summer church activities that are kicking in. That and she has a posse that she hangs out with. She’s doing all that stuff kids used to do with their summers back before they were so overprogrammed and overscheduled. More power to her.

Speaking of overscheduled, I hardly ever have time to make anything out of trash anymore, or paint on cardboard, or write poetry. I did however have the time to make my nephew a graduation present out of duct tape. I was going for the title of Eccentric Uncle. Which I won handily, thank you. But I have not regained the balance in my life that lets me live at the level of quirk to which I have become accustomed.

And that, teacher, is why I am turning in my newsletter contribution a day after the newsletter came out. I hope you all do the same.

Hope all y’all are doing well. Please respond. And help Terry by breathing some life back into the family newsletter.

Little (younger) Cody

The Mustard Seed didn’t ask to be small.
In her dreams she may have been
glamorous like a flower or
important like an oak.
But with her “Yes” His Grace was planted.

The Mustard Seed didn’t ask to grow tall,
Pushing her roots through rocky dust.
Her leaves seared by Summer sun.
But with her ache and sweat she sowed
The Faith and Life His Plan demanded.

The Mustard Seed didn’t ask to shelter all
the flock He gathered in her branches.
But with her love she held us together
and became the Love His Law commanded.

I wrote this to send to my Grandma Clark who turns nintey years old this week. She is, in my eyes, one of the saintliest people I know. One of the most humble and doggedly joyful people I know. When I look around at our Thanksgiving gatherings with eighty family members I marvel at what God has made through the love of this one little person. She reminds me of the Oklahoma Hill Country Church of Christ version of St. Therese Of Lisieux and her Little Way.

Happy 90th Birthday Grandma Clark!

It’s good for them. And you, I’d venture to hypothesize. I wonder if oxytocin and arginine vasopressin are part of the reason why it feels so much better to have someone else rub your neck than it feels to rub your own?

Okay, so I’m not updating much. Life is has been tumultuous lately. It will take a little while to get back into some kind of equilibrium, some kind of routine that is sustainable. Right now we are renegotiating the routines of our family life and our marriage.

But it’s a good thing. Ultimately good news. Heidi and I have a new job. Or two depending on how you look at it.

Heidi and I agreed to take on the youth ministry staff position at our parish which was in desperate need after the former youth minister left suddenly. We aren’t exactly Mr. and Mrs. Right for this position, but we were Mr. and Mrs. Right Now (and willing to help.) So for the past six weeks or so we’ve been playing catch up and rearranging our lives to make up for the fact that Heidi is no longer a stay at home mom anymore.

And then we were hired to fill the adult and family minsitry position at our church. The youth ministry is a temporary stop gap. This other is our passion. Heidi and I have had a couple vision of working together at something we love for years now. The opportunity to do so this early in our lives is a source of joy.

But the fact that the new new job overlaps the old new job is a source of chaos. At least until Heidi and I get remarried.

Yes, remarried. I plan to ask Heidi to remarry me for, like, the tenth time or so. Every time our lives change in some significant way — a new child, a new job, a new house — it’s a new marriage. All the routines, the plans, the expectations, the commitments need to be revisited, restated, and recommitted.

We have a lot of work to do, preparing for this new marriage, for this new life. Last night I was talking to the teens at bible study about Advent and how we need to prepare our hearts for the new life Christ brings into the world. I see the relationship work before us as just such a necessary preparation. And a joyful one!

I have several activites that are my barometers of life. Art, poetry, reading, exercise, prayer, and, yes, writing here in Overflow, are all activities that I have as part of my personal life if the rest of my life is to be sustainable. Right now it’s just not sustainable, but we’re doing the work to get there.

I sent Speedy his Christmas present today. I included a letter, the first I’ve sent him since he left our home to join another family early this this Fall. I couldn’t help being sad. Mainly because I couldn’t send him the letter I wanted to write and say what I’ve wanted to say to him since the week we knew he wasn’t going to stay with us.

Dear Speedy,

Cody

Instead I wrote him some stuff about Christmas and toys and how I missed reading and singing and drawing with him. I had intended to write sooner, but I just didn’t know what to say. Best to keep the first letter light.

The best I can pray for is that Speedy is finally in his forever home. But I’m still sad.

233 freekin’ foster kids!? I’d retire too.

Mr. Freshpants’ favorite lunch sandwich of late is white bread. That is, ham and cheese sandwich, dry, hold the ham and cheese. Two slices of white bread he eats like a sandwich.

Personally, he’d prefer to skip the sandwich. He’d sit and eat chips for his whole meal if we’d let him. Except for that “No Sandwich, no chips” rule Mom and Dad made especailly for him. So I’d think this minimum sandwich approach is Fresh’s creative way to get at the chips faster, but he asks for his bread sandwich even when there are no chips available. He’s such a loveable goofball. Four year olds are great.

Yesterday, Petunia grabbed the sidewalk chalk and marked on the blackboard easel we have sitting out on the back porch. She surveyed her work, then turned to look at Olivia, who was observing the older kids’ action from her walker on the porch. Petunia then went over and hugged Olivia.

Except it was an awkward looking hug that took an unusually long time. When Petunia stepped away, Olivia’s mostly bald head had blue chalk marks all over it. Apparently Petunia was impressed with the way the blue sidewalk chalk showed up on the black surface of the chalkboard (better than on any sidewalk, that’s for sure) and wanted to try it on another dark surface.

Yes, we had to have a quick reeducation session with Petunia. But it was still pretty funny. Olivia was beaming, sporting a blue bald baby-punk chalk tattoo.

You know, seems there’s never a camera around when you really need one.

The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout
Down came the rain and washed the spider out
Out came the sun and dried up all the rain
And the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again

A comment by Siona on one of my previous posts clued me into the spiritual significance of this song I sing over. And over. And over with my kids.

This little song can be either depressing or encouraging, depending on my mindset. If I, being an itsy bitsy spider in my own right, am trying to actually get somewhere, do something specific, achieve a goal, then the repetition is frustrating. Just leave me alone and let me get up that water spout, dammit! I’d curse the rain and the sun both. And sue the makers of the water spout for not providing handrails or footholds or some such silliness.

But with the right spirit, if just being an itsy bitsy spider is enough in itself, I can enjoy the sun and the rain and the climb and the occasional hair-raising rush down the water spout. The repetition becomes a litany of lived moments, each one a sacred offering, a celebration.

Being that itsy bitsy spider is not such a bad thing. Depends on where my ego is, I guess.

I know, I know. You do actually have to get somewhere and accomplish some goals in life. I do have to earn a living. But so many of my moments are a natural part of the litany – repetitive, goal-less. And if you are always trying to get somewhere or accomplish something, the moments of daily repetition are an imposition, an inconvenience, instead of a litany of sacred moments

Shaving.
Brushing teeth.
Making the bed.
Driving to work.
Picking up toys.
Vacuuming.
Paying bills.
Shopping.
Making the bottles.
Bathing the kids.
Changing Diapers.
Putting the kids to bed.

Then watch a little TV, go to sleep, (itself a repetition) and wake up and do it all again with a few variations.

So each day at some point I stand in my living room looking at the toys strewn everywhere, sippy cups perched perilously on furniture, folded clean laundry waiting to be put away, restless children growing surly with cabin fever and TV hangover, dog bowls empty. I feel the pull to action…

So, what will it be today Cody? A sacred litany, or a resentful hurried rushing to the next thing?

“…and the itsy bitsy spider climbs up the spout again.”

Every once and a while, Heidi sends something I wrote on my blog via email to one of her friends. It’s nice to know that she occasionally likes what I have to say enough to share it further. Well, it’s time to reverse things. She sent an email that expresses an issue – a gripe I have about us “conservative Christians” – better than I could. I was trying to choose something to post that would stand up well while we go on five or so days of summer vacation, so I’m blogging my wife. It bears reading several times, especially for us “conservative Christians”:

John,

Heidi

I’ll add that Annise Parker hit it right on the head – if you are opposed to people like her adopting children, get out there and adopt unwanted children so there is no need for people like her to adopt children.

And with that, we’re off to Oklahoma, the center of gravity for conservative Christians who oppose gay adoption.

Took the afternoon off to go read Speedy’s CPS case file yesterday. Not a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon off, but very enlightening.

We sat in a little room with an eighteen inch stack of documents and combed through it all over three hours. Buried in the legal documents, medical forms, school reports were little nuggets of insight, small windows of perspective into what Speedy’s little life has been up unto this point. The perspective of the neighbors who reported the neglect. The perspective of case workers, the birth parents, the lawyers, the other foster parents – all with little bits of the picture. Like looking through a glass darkly at the early life of an abused and neglected little boy.

We didn’t read anything too shocking or surprising. What we got from that stack of paper was confirmation, context, and a bit of affirmation. We now know more about the source of Speedy’s anger, his insatiable thirst for attention, his need for control, his quirks about food. What we also got was a bit of affirmation that our family is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Granted that’s not saying much. The poor kid’s been through a lot.

What haunts me still is the fact that this huge stack of paper is just one story. Just one kid out of thousands in this city alone. You can only do so much, but it doesn’t mean you don’t want to do more.

Speaking of the muck of life and equanimity, Cynthia at Art For Housewives has been on a roll lately. Check out this sprawling and whimsical entry for May 31 centered on domesticity and culture.

The other day I ordered a copy of Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House, the much celebrated book by Cheryl Mendelson. I thought about ordering it to give to my wife as a “welcome back to full-time SAHM” present. (When she first quit work to stay home the first time, I presented her with a new edition of The Joy of Cooking. Which we both use more, ahem, than we use our bibles.) But I figured it’d be more of a “present” to her for me to get it and read it myself. She can borrow it from me.