The Rise and Fall of Communication; When Words Overwhelm

I have heard much lately in the media decrying the negative effect technology has had on our ability to communicate. "How times have changed!" said the woman about to turn 50. I can vaguely remember the days of party lines--when several families shared a single phone line distinguished by unique rings; a hey-day for eavesdropping, a continual test in patience as you waited for the line to be free. Once homes got their own individual lines, people could call anyone in town. Long distance (from Ashby to far-far-away Fergus Falls) was a luxury that was rarely indulged because of the cost and poor quality of connections.

My grandmother died sixteen years ago thinking the greatest thing to happen in the communication arena in her golden years was the popularization of CB radios. I remember the unit she had set up in her dining room and the rough-and-tumble handle she gave herself; Misty. She was thrilled to have a static-filled conversation with amiable truckers who passed by on I-94. Now, when we want to talk to someone who's out and about, we have cell phones. Gram and all her friends eagerly awaited the delivery of the local newspaper each week so they could read the social column and find out who ate supper with whom, and who motored to where to visit which relatives. Now, when we need to have all those intimate details in the lives of others, we have Facebook. Ahhh....communication on the rise!

My own children can barely remember a time before laptops on every lap, Blackberries in every backpack, Facebook, Skype, and Twitter. Kids don't pass notes anymore--they text. And each invention gives us faster access to others than the one before. Few children have written a letter by hand, attached a stamp, mailed it, then waited two weeks for a response. "Isn't that what the Pony Express was for?"

I vividly recall the excitement I felt the first time I sent an email from our old Gateway and, seconds later, heard the thrilling words, "You've got mail!" Magically, something launched out into the air from Philadephia to California and came back to me: My own words!! I'm sure Alexander Graham Bell could not have been any more delighted.

Little more than a decade later, good old email is bleeding at the wayside of the information highway. We have launched into much faster connections that require far less effort. Email didn't demand proper greetings or closings. Texting doesn't require capitalization, punctuation, or even spell-check. In fact, it has its own abbreviated language, LOL!

Instant technology has impacted our society in countless ways. Who knows how many lives are saved because anyone--anywhere--can access 911 in an emergency! What a blessing for families of missionaries and servicemen to be able to see their loved ones and talk over Skype? What grandparent isn't thrilled to get a photo text of their grandchild's new tooth the minute it bursts through his baby gums?

And yet, could it be...technology is a gift with strings attached? People of all ages are now expected to be on-call 24/7. A 12 year-old can't walk down the street or sit down to a meal without texting friends. A working mom isn't allowed a day blissfully shopping or lunch with a friend without answering her phone 25 times to settle sibling disputes. Anyone who wants you for any reason (or just happens to be bored) can contact you at the far reaches of the earth in the blink of an eye. And heaven help you if you don't respond in a timely manner. (Which, under no circumstances, should ever exceed an hour.) If you don't return calls you are inconsiderate and rude. If you don't update your Facebook status for two days, people worry that you are dead. Apparently people can't exist without knowing what you ate for dinner or how you will spend your Saturday afternoon.

We are smothering each other with closeness.

Don't get me wrong: I am a huge fan of technology and social networking. I love to see my 2 year-old granddaughter who lives three hours away when she first gets up in the morning sitting in her jammies eating cereal. (Which is the exact same reason I don't Skype many people myself. I don't wish to be seen first thing in the morning as I sit in my jammies drinking coffee.) I also love Facebook. I love how it lets me stay in daily/weekly contact with friends on both coasts and updated on the lives of many families I work with in the community--connections I would not otherwise have. I'm happy to get frequent news on my own children and grandchildren on the days I'm too busy to call them. But I wish there were rules of etiquette that came along with new advances in technology. I fear we are getting tech-savvy faster than Miss Manners can keep up. I don't wish to accept friendship from someone I have never met. Neither do I want peripheral "friends" stalking me and never writing on my wall. Facebook says I have over 200 friends, but do I really? How many of them would I call if I had a crisis in my life?

And don't even get me started about my cell phone. Since birth I have disdained carrying a purse or baggage of any kind. Yet, because not every garment I own contains a pocket sufficient for carrying a concealed phone, I am constantly looking for it. I have lost my phone in the yard, in the car, in public bathrooms, in the ditch under piles of leaves. I spend hours each week looking for it and/or wishing I had remembered to charge it. What to do? I have considered having it surgically attached to my body. Then, it could be wired to receive electricity from my heart so it would always have battery. In fact, if I had a bluetooth attached under my hairline, I could walk around talking to people all day long and never even have to think a thought to/by myself!

Which brings me to The Fall: Not only can we speak our minds in an instant, we are expected to respond just as quickly. Sadly, because we can communicate every thought that flashes through our little heads in a blink, I fear we have lost something important: The ability to think before we speak. Or the privilege of "disconnecting" for any part of any day just to decompress from all the closeness. What began as a blessing of connection becomes a prison of obligation.

In our current abundance of words and unlimited access to others, we must pay special attention to what we communicate to them. Solomon said of excessive verbiage, "...there[in] is much opportunity for sin." Or, in more current vernacular: "The more talk, the less truth; the wise measure their words." Prov 10:19

Since to stop talking altogether is unthinkable, we would do well to heed the ancient (strangely appropriate) instructions of Paul to the people of Colossae: "Everything you say should be kind and well thought out so that you know how to answer everyone." Col.4:6

And remember the wise words of our elders: If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.

Porch Theology

We three sat on the front porch, wrapped in fleece throws, sipping coffee early this morning. Such is the month of June in Minnesota. I, in the swing, Ron and Stephie in the rocking chairs, surveying the yard we've been busy fencing and landscaping these past few weeks. A squeaky sound caught our attention. We looked up to see Mimzy, our cat, making running motions against the glass of the picture window with her clawless front paws, hinting at her wish to join us.

"That cat!" I said to Stephie. "Do you know what she did the other day?" We all regarded our furry feline, the perpetually bratty "child" who never ceases to provide us stories to scoff at, with a mix of anticipated amusement and irritation.

"I told Dad that the yard is perfect, now that the gates are in place, for Mimzy to come out and have some recess from the house. Dad expressed his doubts that she would stay in the yard, but I insisted I would watch her. And I did. The first day, she slunk around the entire perimeter of the fence, pausing only to stare wistfully beyond. It was hardly the blissful success story I'd hoped for but I brought her in with me to try again another day. The next day, I took her out again and nearly dropped my iced tea when, within minutes, I looked up to see that fat thing perched on the top rail of the fence about to leap over."

Stephie laughed. For an animal that seems clumsy and day-dreamy most of the time, we have found Mimzy in some pretty ambitious places.

I sipped my coffee and turned my back to the prisoner at the window. "Seriously, is she never happy? First, she has complete run of a climate-controlled, three-story house with two litter boxes that are kept very clean. Food appears magically in her dish whenever she wants it and there are always treats for the asking and fresh water. She has access to the softest beds, the best perches in a dozen window sills, and the comfy couch-backs. She is pampered and brushed and petted and adored. When we notice her desire for more we offer her the yard: Now she has a shady porch with new furniture to lounge upon while she watches birds at the feeders and fountain. There are patches of flowers to hide in, sunny rocks to nap on, and butterflies and bugs galore to chase. But is she satisfied?"

Stephie noted, "She's just like Adam and Eve! She thinks you're holding out on her!"

"YES!" I exclaimed. "Surely there is something more out there beyond the glass window, beyond the picket fence! I saw her as she searched the fence for an opening that first day--she didn't even have a plan, just 'I need to get out of here!' And what is 'out of here?' Why, there's the busy cat-squashing street mere feet away with the squirrel remnants to prove it! And stray dogs that would delight to grab her hairy little body and shake it lifeless--her with not a claw to defend herself! Doesn't that all sound like fun? She's so dumb!"

Yep. It's true that "Curiosity kills the cat." It isn't just human nature to never be content, apparently, it is also feline nature. To be curious without wisdom is dangerous. And that is where we found ourselves this morning--remembering a garden that was not perfect enough. The one thing Adam and Eve were told they could not have was the one thing they felt they must, at all costs, obtain. Oh, how we have hated rules and boundaries ever since! We regard them as awful, restricting, chafing limitations imposed by a joyless, power-hungry Deity. But what if we regarded the Thou Shalt Nots (what we can't have outside the fence) as the Thou Shalts (all that we're allowed INside?)

Thou Shalt: Love God So Much That All Else Pales in Comparison
(Embracing what matters most and will last forever)

-Respect & Honor the Name & Person of God
(Remembering that God is God and you are not)

-Remember to Rest
(Enjoying work without working yourself to death)

-Treasure Thy Parents
(Learning from elders' wisdom and living long enough to have honor returned)

-Protect and Preserve Life
(Giving the weakest and most vulnerable equal safety and value)

-Be Loyal to Thine Own Spouse/Honor the Covenant of Marriage
(Experiencing security in relationships of faithfulness and trust)

-Be Truthful with Thy Neighbors
(Expressing words that have meaning)

-Be Content and Thankful for Everything Thou Hast
(Acknowledging that every need you have will be met)

Oh, to be learn contentment in our own gardens with our own stuff with a God who loves us enough to protect us with limits! We can learn a lot from a cat.

Letters to Heaven

This was a weekend for remembering. And I found myself remembering you, Gram. I went with Dad to the cemetery in Alex because I thought it would be good for me to know where all the family is buried. I have never been a big fan of cemeteries. I feel so out of place there, like an uninvited guest in someone else's yard. This is a place to be reverent, I've been told, and to show respect. I always feel uneasy.

It is a sweltering day, the only relief from the heat a wind that whips against us and bends the flowers low. The cemetery is such a big place and it's easy to get turned around. Grandpa Swartz is buried here, I take note. And near him my uncle Jerry and Aunt Sally. There is the big Sexton stone with your parents' markers beneath. And Grandpa Thompson. And you--Delores Elaine Thompson--these sixteen years since October 1994. Mom and Dad set pots of flowers on all the graves and water them from a metal bucket. You would have smiled to see who all else was along: Kath, and her three sons that you have not met. And Kim and Amy are with me. Remember all the many hours you played with them and let them take pictures of themselves being silly with your camera, all the game shows they watched from your couch, all the treats you indulged them with? They remember. You watched them play with their dolls and laughed at their vivid imaginations. You said, "Someday they'll be mothers...how I wish I could see that. But I won't."

"Oh, SURE you will!" I responded glibly with the naive invincibility of a 30 year-old. I thought I could convince us both that you'd never die.

In 1997 I gave birth to another daughter, Victoria, and she is with us, too. Whenever I say her name I think of your own beloved aunt, Victoria, and her house nearby on Lake Darling. You would have loved this child so much. And little Kim and Amy are mothers now, too--four small children between them running amongst the gravestones, straining to carry a pail full of water. These are my grandchildren. I am a grandmother. I am not "Gram" like you, but I am, "Nema." Having these little people in my life has given me a new perspective I did not have before. There are so many things I wish I could tell you now, so many things I understand that I did not know then: How I want to give them the world. How I want to protect them and worry when they run with sharp sticks. How sad I feel when they are punished even though I know it must be. I want to be the kind of grandmother I had. You were the best. I couldn't wait to tell you things that happened in my day and you had all the time in the world to listen until I ran out of things to say. I've never known anyone who has cheered louder for me or been more interested in the everyday details of my life as you. If I can reflect a small portion of that love to my own grandchildren, I will consider my life a success.

As we step away from your grave site, we pass an obscure marker in the ground almost overgrown with grass. Dad pushes it back with his foot and reads the name, "Angeline." He reminds me that this was your childhood friend who died of cancer at the age of 20. Dad says, "Someone said that you are never really gone until the last person who remembers you dies." Then he adds, "I am probably the last person who remembers Angeline." Except for me, Gram. I remember her. I remember you telling how she had a vision of Jesus coming to her in her pain at the end of her life and how Jesus took the pain but told her he wanted her with him. I remember that story, even though I never knew Angeline. I remember how sad your face was when you talked about the little girl you played with and how old I thought twenty was then and how far away death seemed for all of us.

And now you are not with us. There is just a granite stone marking a place in the grass along with hundreds of others--so many it is hard to find your name. But you are close in my thoughts. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you and miss you. And when I die you will still not be truly gone because my children and their children will remember us still. And we will be together. And all the stories I have saved up to tell you all these years can be told. We will have all the time we need. To remember...

As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field;

the wind blows over it and it is gone,
and its place remembers it no more.

But from everlasting to everlasting the LORD's love is with those who fear him, and his righteousness with their children's children.

Psalm 103:15-17

When You've Only Got a Hundred Years to Live

They were nothing but a couple of kids. He was in the Air Force, stationed in Spain. She was living at the same base, with her sister and brother-in-law, who were part of the same branch of the military. They were married in Gibraltar, by an officiant they did not know, and the people who stood up for them and co-signed their marriage certificate were complete strangers. He was 21, she was barely 18.

I have known these two nearly 49 of those 50 years. But that is not how I remember them.

She was little, but bigger than me. She wore curlers in her hair at night and funny stockings that attached at her thighs with snaps when she went to church. She painted her toes and fingernails, and mine, too--if I would let her. She made amazing Creamed Tuna on Toast and cake with peanut butter frosting. When she spanked me, it didn't really hurt. When she hugged me, I wiggled to get away.

He was a big man; very tall and very dark and very handsome. He had scratchy whiskers on his face, and hands that were permanently stained in the creases with motor oil. He wasn't afraid of anything--not tornadoes or hairy spiders or boogey men. When I had bad dreams at night, I would crawl up between them in bed and burrow under the covers. I liked to sleep with one leg draped over one of their bodies to ensure they didn't sneak away from me in the night. I felt safe and secure because he was brave and armed: He had his .22 in the corner of the closet.

When you're young, the grown-ups make life look easy. They shelter you from the hard things, the illnesses, the bills, the hard decisions. Time flies by with little account, a business is bought, a house is remodeled, a new baby born; you think you have a hundred years to live. Nothing bad can touch you or the ones you love.

When I was eleven, the illusion of my parents' invincibility was crushed. It was in November, the first snow of the year, and my sister and I were at Brenda Barry's birthday party. Our grandpa picked us up and told us that our parents had been in a serious car accident. My world came crashing down in the moment I heard those words. An aunt came from out of state to take care of us during the long weeks that followed. Children weren't allowed to visit hospitals in those days and I worried night and day that I would never see my parents again. After a few weeks, we were granted special permission to visit the hospital in St. Cloud for a few minutes.

She was small and pale in her hospital robe, half her face covered in white bandages. I had been warned not to upset her by crying so I struggled against the lump in my throat. I didn't know him when I entered his room. He was small, too, and very white with dark circles under both eyes. I walked over to the bed where he was lying and didn't speak. I looked at his hands, hoping to find something familiar. They were white, like the rest of him--even his fingernails--like the men who worked at the bank. I learned, in that moment, that my parents were not the strong, indestructible superheroes I thought they were. They were fragile human beings, like me, and bad things could happen to them. For the first time, the world felt very scary.

In 1959, two kids had promised to love and to cherish, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, til death did part. Over the next half century I watched, from my ringside seat as their firstborn while they faithfully lived out those promises. There were hard times for two people who were imperfect and not unusually gifted or strong. But from them I learned that you don't walk away when things are hard. You don't live as though you expect everything in life to go your way. It's not about awards, and honors, possessions or public acclaim. It's about two people who pledge something and mean it. Who keep a promise even when it hurts. Who think of God and family first and give all they have and, having given everything, wish they had more to give.

Mom and Dad, I know today you are looking back and wondering, "Where did the time go? Where did my dark hair go?" Life passes by in a blur of uncertainty and some days it is all we can do just to hang on. But I want to thank you for your sacrifices, your faithfulness, and your love. You have set an example for your children, for your grandchildren, and your great-grandchildren and leave a legacy that will last long after those hundred years are gone. You are still my heroes.

"Grandchildren are the crown of their grandparents and parents are the glory of their children." Proverbs 17:6.

Payback

In 3 decades of parenting which included:
-Nearly 4 years of pregnancy

-20 months of (24 hour) morning sickness.

-28 combined hours of labor

-1 C-section

-7 years of breastfeeding

-12 1/2 years of diapers

-5 rounds of childhood immunizations

-stomach flu, ear infections, colic, pink eye, head lice, chicken pox, pneumonia, bronchitis, fever, diarrhea, bladder infections, constipation, teething, xrays, stitches

-1o0 new baby teeth

-4 trips to the ER

-63 1st Day of School Pictures

-150 Parent/Teacher Conferences

-100+ birthday cakes/parties/sleepovers

-7 new musical instruments

-countless spankings, time-outs, and groundings

-12 years of homeschooling

-15 years of paying private school tuition

-8 years of filling out FAFSA forms

-11 summers of watching swim practice every single day

-20 years of basketball games, swim meets, track meets, wrestling matches, baseball/softball games, volleyball games, soccer games, football games; witnessing firsthand the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat

-more choir, band, and orchestra concerts, parades, speech meets, and plays than I can count

-chaperoning dozens of school field trips

-3 pet dogs, 4 cats, 5 rabbits, 3 parakeets, 3 cockatiels, 5 tanks of tropical fish, multiplying hamsters, turtles and yes, even colonies of ants

-Bible Camp, Swim Camp, Hunting Camp, Band Camp

-40+ Disney movies, watched 20-30 times each

-spelling lists and multiplication flash cards and memory work

-29 years of hiding colored eggs and hanging stockings

-10,595 bedtime prayers

-running behind 5 bicycles as their riders learn to balance

-rollerblades and skinned knees and the hazard of uneven surfaces

-treehouses, couch cushion forts, and tents in the backyard

-thousands of meals and loads of laundry

-gum in hair, on clothes, and also the carpet

-permanent ink on skin, clothes, and also the carpet

-48 family trips to the dentist

-100 loose baby teeth and quarters under pillows

-4 sets of extracted wisdom teeth

-lost pacifiers, lost blankies, lost glasses, lost cell phones, lost keys, lost homework, lost shoes, lost jackets, lost contacts, lost library books, lost gas caps

-sticky fingers, sticky carseats, sticky counters, sticky floors, sticky toilet seats, sticky handles, sticky faucets, sticky faces

-dog hair, cat hair, kids' hair which they cut themselves

-broken toys, broken lights, broken windows, broken glasses, broken dishes, broken curfews, broken fenders, broken hearts

-art lessons, horseback riding lessons, music lessons, gymnastics lessons, dance lessons, voice lessons, swimming lessons, driving lessons, Sunday school lessons, Life lessons

-candy fund-raisers, fruit fund-raisers, frozen food fund-raisers, Girl Scout cookie sales, magazine sales, car washes

-first steps, first words, first haircuts, first crushes, first jobs, first kisses

-high phone bills, high electric bills, high water bills, high gas bills, high grocery bills

-school shopping, food shopping, clothes shopping, car shopping, Christmas shopping

-graduations from preschool, Kindergarten, 6th grade, junior high, high school, and college...

You might wonder, for all the investment, what's in it for me?
Whenever you come home from college, or bring your lovely children to our house...
I am reminded again of the eternal perspective...
That all work is worthwhile, and motherhood returns dividends that have proven to be...
beyond my wildest expectations.

Children are a blessing from the Lord. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.



Excerpts from Psalm 127:3-5

Love at First Bite

In his best-selling book The Five Love Languages, Gary Chapman outlines five ways people communicate and understand love. They are: Words of Affirmation, Acts of Service, Physical Touch, Quality Time, and Gifts. My daughter Amy, however, has identified a sixth love language (or perhaps a new dialect combining several of the above) and it is called simply, "Food."

Those of us fluent in the Food Love Language (FLL), know that food is never really just about food. Food represents so much more--the giving of your creativity and energy, the actual presentation and fulfillment of your most basic physical needs, and then quality time as we eat together. What we want to hear back are Words of Affirmation--not necessarily about how great the food is, though certainly welcomed--but more how much you are enjoying the food and how loved you feel that we are feeding you.

I have blogged endlessly about eating as a child and my rocky beginnings, about feeding animals and the pleasure it brought me. But I really began to notice food when I got married and began making it myself. Early attempts at cooking were disastrous. I remember a whole chicken I roasted upside down that was dry in spots and raw in others. It bled when I tried to carve it and I cried. I had no understanding of how to get multiple dishes done and on the table at the same time. That night we ate potatoes and veggies while we waited for the meat. I also didn't understand portions. I made two gallons of scalloped potatoes for my young husband and myself and was distraught when, after two solid hours in the oven, the potatoes were still crunchy. I threw out more food than we ate in those days--blatantly refusing to consume my mistakes. The one dish I succeeded at was spaghetti, and I made it for every single person who came to my house for two years.

Dating back to earlier times, I have stunning recall of meals I was fed. I remember eating bagels for the first time that friends from New York fed us in Florida in 1983, homemade deep dish pizza at Stan and Cheri Balgaard's in 1985, and roast beef on homemade buns that Charlotte Lueders brought over after the birth of our son in 1987. We were introduced to home canning and brussels sprouts at the Lowe's in Missouri (1986), chicken parmigiana at the Savocas and creamed spinach and hot German potato salad at the Sybesmas in Philly (1995), grilled swordfish at the Sheets' (1988) and homemade egg rolls and jiodza by the Waldrons--missionaries to China--in 1997. My cousin Bill King bought me my first Whopper in Washington in 1979. It was the first time I ever ate tomatoes on a hamburger. And liked it. The first Sunday we visited a brand-new church in Pennsylvania in 1994, the Hackenbergers invited us to their home for sandwiches and they were the best we'd ever eaten because we weren't eating alone. Right here in town our friends, the Moneys, introduced us to wild game and the Abrahams to Indian cuisine. My sister, Kathleen--aka the Soup Fairy, and our pastor, Ned, opened my eyes to the splendor of fresh herbs...and baklava. I could list dozens of friends and relatives who have fed us over the past 30 years and even tell you what was on the menu, in most cases.

Before you scoff--think! Doesn't a sandwich that someone else makes and cuts on the diaganol just taste better? Or coffee that someone else pours? Or even canned soup that someone else heats on the stove? Why is food such an expression of love? I think eating appeals to us all on a very basic level. We eat, at first to survive. But once our lips taste ice cream, it is all over. We continue to eat because we love food. And we love to enjoy the experience with others. It is a social event, a hobby, a way of life. When we feed people, we are tapping into a selfless, nurturing side of ourselves. When we are fed, we feel loved and cared for.

I wish I had been in the wilderness the day that Jesus was confronted with 5000 hungry people. The disciples wanted Jesus to send the crowds away because it was late and the mob was hungry. And Jesus said, "YOU feed them." Feed them! Feed them what? Five loaves and two fish fed 5000 that day with 12 baskets of leftovers. Who was the most amazed when it was over? The crowds who didn't know where the food came from? Or the disciples who knew full well? Five thousand bellies were filled. Five thousand grateful hearts were satisfied. And 12 stunned men who got to witness firsthand the love of God expressed.

My friend, Christie, also fluent in FLL, has told people, "If you want to be in my inner circle, you must let me feed you." I like nothing better than people I love, sitting at my counter or table or on my porch, eating. If I offer you food or drink and you refuse, you offend me. Just know that going in. I will watch you eat. I will listen to what you say and even what you don't say. If you praise the food, I make mental note to prepare it again, only better. If you say nothing, or don't take seconds, I record that as well, and will serve you something different next time. I take notes as you discuss other foods you have eaten--what you liked, what you didn't--and it all goes into a file in my head. If you really want to respond to me in a way that will communicate love, you will say something like this to me:

Me: Stephie, how do you like the egg/ham/cheese croissant sandwich that I made for you on this, your last day home for the summer [before you head off to the godless college cafeteria]?

Stephie: Oh, Mom, this is the best sandwich I have ever eaten in my whole life. You must love me a whole lot.

You see? Wisdom out of the mouth of my own babe.

I made blueberry muffins this morning...now, who can I feed them to?

Frogs, Flowers, and the Frampoline

We just enjoyed a lazy summer afternoon with our three year-old grandson, Cohen. First thing, he and his eleven year-old auntie catch a frog and bring it to show me. I am duly impressed. We get the frog all situated in a habitat in the wading pool before I wander out front to weed my flowers.

"What kind of flower is this?" Cohen asks, leaning over to smell a white blossom.

"It's a daisy," I tell him.

"Oh. It 'mells like cookie dough."

"What kind of flower is this?" he moves down the row planting his little nose in a burst of purple petals.

"That's a petunia," I smile checking to see if the daisy does, in fact, smell like cookie dough. Perhaps...if you use a lot of imagination.

"Oh. This kind 'mells like mustard," he informs me, wrinkling up his nose.

We proceed around the house through the driveway where he discovers some ragged geraniums I had dead-headed earlier from my hanging pots.

"Wow, look at these flowers somebody left on the FLOOR!" he exclaims, gathering the battered bits of red into a bouquet in his chubby hand. "We can use these for the wedding!"

"Who's getting married?" I wonder aloud.

"Victoria." (His young auntie.)

"Who is she marrying?"

"Me," he answers matter-of-factly.

His betrothed is waiting for him on the back porch where she attempts to teach him to play Chutes and Ladders. He is disappointed there are no weapons involved. How can you Shoot Some Ladders without a gun? He doesn't understand taking turns. He just wants to spin the spinner and glide his cardboard guy up and down the ladders and slides. Victoria finally gives up.

"How about we jump," his other aunt, Stephie, suggests.

"Yes!" he shouts. "Let's bounce on the frampoline!"

For lunch Cohen eats half a hamburger patty with no bun, a whole dish of watermelon, two chocolate Snack Pack puddings, a glass of chocolate milk, and two brownies. His Bumpa tries to get him to nap but the only one who falls asleep is Bumpa. Apparently Bumpa failed to ingest a sleep-defying dose of chocolate.

Several hours later, Cohen and his mommy and baby brother leave. Our house is strewn with toys, and an abandoned fort encompasses the entire music room. Both porches and the patio are covered with balls, toy cars and animals, puzzle pieces, books, and games. Something sticky coats the coffee table, along with empty sippy cups and a lone shoe.
.
Sundays might be more restful if you don't have a three year old in your life. But we wouldn't trade this kind of entertainment for anything!