I remember when I was 16, seeing the cover of some magazine that featured Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak.  Actually I don’t really remember if Wozniak was on the cover or not, all I remember is thinking that Steve Jobs is really cute!   I also remember thinking, wow, he’s just a few years older than me, so young to be so rich and successful.  And then, “I wonder if he has a girlfriend…”

Steve never became my real life boyfriend, but he’s always been my pretend techno-geek boyfriend.  I’ve always had a crush on him, I’ve always had a thang for smart geeky guys.

Steve changed the world in many ways, not the least of which, he showed the world that geeks can be hot and that being a geek can be a cool thing.

But the biggest way he changed the world is in how we communicate and stay connected, how we learn and how we process creativity.

When the news broke yesterday that Steve Jobs had died, I read different reports on his life and what various people had to say about him. They talked about all he had accomplished and how he changed the world with his products.  And it’s true, because of the products he envisioned and brought to market, people can do more in less time, be more creative, share more, connect more, learn more.  I am one of those people.

I’ve always been a big fan of the “i” products and recently splurged on an iPad2 for Sean and I.  We love it with a deep intensity and use it all the time.  I have loaded it up with educational games for him and photography and design apps for me and just all kinds of fun and cool stuff.

Last night Sean and I went out for an early dinner at Chili’s.  He confiscated the cardboard coasters off several nearby tables so that we had a deck of about 20.  While we waited for our food we tried stacking the coasters in different configurations to see what kind of load-bearing structures we could make and how much weight they could bear.  Answer:  Triangle structures can bear the weight of a drinking straw – if you hold your breath and no one bumps the table. When we got bored with that, we divided up the coasters.  I asked him spelling and math questions and if he answered right, he got one of my cards; if he answered wrong, I took one of his cards.  Very low tech, but fun for geeky geeks like us and just a tad educational.  But most importantly, we were engaged.

As Sean and I were playing our silly made-up coaster games, I noticed a mom and little girl in the booth across the way.  The mom was staring into her iPhone and the little girl was watching something on her iPad, both bathed in the glow of their devices, a separation of less than two feet, but worlds apart.  I am not making a judgment here, just an observation. I realize there are many many reasons why a mom might need to decompress and veg out and that I have no idea what she’s dealing with.  But I will say that AD and I have taken note of how often we see this when we go out, families out to eat together, but not together – silent and zombie-like, the face and spirit of each lit up by their personal device.

I thought about Steve Jobs and how everyone is talking about how he changed the way we live for the better, that we are better connected than ever.  But, I have to wonder, if perhaps in other ways, we are not changed for the better, if our beloved devices are more of a wedge than a bridge, if we are not more connected than ever, but more disconnected than ever.

What do you think?

* * *
Addendum:  Found this post along the same lines from Jon Acuff who writes Stuff Christians Like: http://www.jonacuff.com/blog/how-to-improve-your-marriage-instantly/

Many many moons ago, when our first set of next door neighbors lived next door (we are now on neighbors #3 which may or may not have something to do with us) they asked me if I would feed their cats while they were in Hawaii.

I said yes because it’s not in my nature to turn down a request for help.  And I thought they meant “feed” the cats.  How hard can it be to walk next door and pour some food in a bowl?  But since I had not owned a cat since I was three, I didn’t understand the full implications — feed the cat is code for change the litter box.

So a day before they were to leave for Hawaii, they called me over for my cat-feeding training.  When she took me to the guest bath off the kitchen, I started to get the idea that maybe this could involve something more than pouring food into a bowl.

“This!” she said waving her hand Vanna-style towards a plastic washtub on the floor, “This is the litter box!” Then she proceeded to instruct me in the fine art of poop scooping.

Although this was not what I thought I had signed up for, I couldn’t exactly back out. I had been duped like a trusting two-year-old.

So about a day after they left, I went over to “feed” the cats.  They (the cats) ran out to greet me.  They were happy to see me and mewed and purred and affectionately rubbed up against me and serpentined between my legs as I tried to walk.  The litter box was not too terribly atrocious in my estimation, so I held my nose and scooped poo, poured some food in their bowl, patted them on their little kitty heads and went on my merry way.  This wasn’t going to be so bad, and bonus – I’ll get a star in my crown.

About a day after that I went back for my second visit.  This time the cats did not come out to greet me but rather cowered in dark corners and hissed at me as I walked past.  I went to the guest bath for the scooping portion of the visit and good glory, I couldn’t believe my eyes.  They had dumped over the litter box, shredded the rug and shower curtain, pee’d all over everything and had apparently made a clumsy attempt at using the toilet paper.  These were some mad cats.  Vindictive too.  Some words immediately sprung to mind, all of them four-letter.  So much for that star in my crown.

I cleaned it up as best I could and took the shower curtain and rug home to wash.  Here’s a tip. If a cat pee’s on something?  Throw it away.  Three washings later and the rug and curtain still smelled like the garbage dump from hell.

For the remainder of my active duty, I ran in and scooped and fed as fast as I could and then ran out before they shredded me.  I was afraid. Very afraid.  They were plotting against me, I could feel it in my bones.

That was about 10 years ago, and memories fade, so when my friend Jennifer asked me to feed her cat while her family went skiing over Christmas, I of course said yes. How hard can it be to feed a cat?

When she called me over to give me feeding instructions and walked me to the laundry room, I had a flashback.

“This!” she said waving her hand Vanna-style, “This is the litter box!”  This was no ordinary litter box. This was the Rolls Royce of litter boxes.  It cleaned itself automatically and had moving parts and sensors.  It was nicer than my car.  And it was idiot proof, or at least it was until I came along.  She said I shouldn’t need to do anything because the box does it all automatically, but if does need to be changed, do this and this and this and put in a tray and then do this.  And at that point, I sort of blanked out in the same way I do when someone starts talking about percentages and fractions and information that I don’t think I need.

So about a day later I went over to feed the cat.  The cat ran out to greet me, mewed, purred and walked between my legs.

On the second visit, the cat hid in a corner and hissed at me as I walked past.  And the Rolls Royce litter box seemed to be on the blink.  So I scooped and said four-letter words in my head and got out of there as fast as I could.

On the third visit, I noticed that when I went in that the door from the house to the garage was open.  No worries, I figured that it popped open when I opened the garage door as sometimes happens at our house.

So I go in and call for the cat, scoop and feed. The cat makes no appearance, but I figure she hates my guts and can’t stand the sight of me. And Jennifer said that she sometimes hides, so I left it at that and went home.

About two hours later, this horrifying thought occurs to me:  What if the door to the garage popped open when I left on the second visit and the cat was not hiding in the house but was in the garage when I arrived?  Since I left the garage door OPEN when I was calling/feeding/scooping, perhaps the cat availed herself of the opportunity to escape the hell that is having me feed her and scoop her poop.

And that horrifying thought was followed by this even more horrifying thought:  I don’t really know what Jennifer’s cat looks like.  Being able to identify Jennifer’s cat was one of those things that fell into the category of “stuff I don’t really need to know”.

And then even more horrifying thoughts followed:  How am I going to find a cat that I can’t identify? What if I find a cat slinking around Jennifer’s house and I force it inside and it’s not even her cat?   And then she comes home to a new cat?

So I go back over to Jennifer’s house to find the cat.  She has most of the doors closed off, so if it is there, it can only be in a few places.  I call and call and call for the cat. I search and search and search every possible place for the cat.  But NO CAT.  So I went home distraught over the fact that my friendship with Jennifer has ended.

As I sat at my desk, trying to order the horrifying thoughts and figure out how I am going to tell Jennifer that I lost her cat, I get an email from her saying how her girls were crying because they really miss the cat.  I had a problem.  A big problem.  And so I did what I always do when I have a problem, I turn to the ultimate problem solver – AD.

AD takes command and control of the situation and launches Operation Find The Cat.  He orders Sean and me to go with him back to Jennifer’s house for a search and rescue.  First we do a reconnaissance of the property, even though we have no idea what the cat looks like.  Our plan is to capture all the cats we can find and then we’ll line them all up and figure out which one is most likely to be Jennifer’s cat.  No cats were found on or near the exterior of the property, so we then systematically search the garage and the inside of the house.

Finally, after 30 minutes of calling and searching, hand-wringing and brow-beating, Sean finds the stupid cat hiding behind the curtains in the guest room.  The cat smirks at me and hisses.  I stick my tongue out at the cat and we leave. I breathe a sigh of relief.  My friendship with Jennifer has been saved.  At least until she reads this.

So while I am perfectly capable of watching your kid while you are gone, please do not ask me to “feed your cat.”

Random, Stray and Otherwise Unassigned Thoughts:

If I could just find the right color of blush I wouldn’t look so washed out.

Someday I will find the “right” haircut and I’ll have fabulous easy to do hair that always looks great.

Jeans are comfortable.

My kid is astonishingly smarter/cuter/funnier than all the other kids.

My seven-year-old will always be the loving, delightful and polite little fella he is today.

My husband forgets to take out the trash on purpose.

If I get it on sale, I’m saving money.

I can still shop in Juniors.

Everyone else has it together/knows what they’re doing.

Fun-sized Snickers are a healthy nutritious snack.

Someday I will get rid of The Mole.

And then I will have a beautiful Southern Living yard.

Coffee counts towards my daily 8-glasses of water because it’s made with water.

That weird smell coming from the sink disposal is probably nothing.

Hi everyone! I’m just going to write some stuff down here, not edit or make the words pretty or tie it up nice and neat at the end or that kind of thing, so go ahead right now and lower your expectations. Okay, just a little lower. There.

Now.

First, thanks so much to all y’all (Texas to English translation: everyone) who noticed my lengthy absence and sent notes and emails inquiring as to my whereabouts and well-being.  That makes my day.

I am well, thank you very much, and I am here. I’ve been keeping myself busy enjoying this last summer with my favorite six-year-old before 1st grade begins. I have this feeling that we are about to step through a door, into another time and space, and I don’t want to forget what it was like to be here, where it is so wonderfully bright and secure and easy. There’s going to be no coming back and visiting this little hollow in time and that’s a shame.

2006, the summer of three.  Oh how I’d like to book a week’s vacation back to three. I’d pay just about anything for a little more of that.

What exactly have we been doing this summer?  We have been swimming. A lot.  Last year, Sean was still not so crazy about the water, still wanted his water wings and preferred the baby pool, which kinda made me a little crazy. I swam when I was three! How dare he not be like me?! This year, he is a fish. Which confirms my theory on parenting: Don’t over-manage — they will walk/talk/potty train/swim/read when they are darn good and ready. Chill out and enjoy your kid exactly where they are. Everyone will be much happier that way.

We also do some school work every day. There. Now you you can tell your kids that you are in fact not the meanest mom ever, Antique Mommy is. Yes, I know, it’s summer, but here’s my deal: I don’t care.   Because I am just mean like that. After Little Dude completes the math and phonics worksheets I give him (which he secretly enjoys, I’m quite sure) and a little reading, he gets 30 minutes of approved-TV time or Angry Birds time when the sun is nigh and land of Texas miserable. If he does it without complaining, he gets 40 minutes. If he tells me I’m the prettiest mom in town, he gets 45 minutes.

What else? We play a lot of Legos, we cook, me make costumes, we make stuff out of boxes, we read, we swim, we make it up as we go along and then we start over the next day. Boring to some, perhaps, but it’s all the ingredients we need for a magical last summer before we walk through the door to 1st grade, maybe one that we’ll remember and long to visit again some day.

What are you doing with your summer?

The other day I was out running errands and I had to stop and put gas in my car.  Filling the tank with gas is not my favorite task, but I’m an independent modern girl and I put gas in my own car.  But honestly?  I’d rather not and am happy to get out of doing it whenever I can. I don’t know why. It just seems to me that the men folk should have to pump the gas, take out the trash, remove the dead geckos from the shower and other duties as assigned. When it comes down to it, I’m old-fashioned.

I see that all the pumping stations are occupied, so I pull up behind my favorite pump and wait for it to become available.  Gas pumps are like bathroom stalls – you have your favorite one, you know you do and why it is your favorite defies explanation, but it is the one you go to when need arises.

So then…

I’m sitting in my car waiting for my pump to become available and I’m taking note of all the stories going on at the gas station this morning.  In particular, I notice this elderly couple get out of their car and make their way around to the pump.  As is sometimes said, if they were moving any slower they woulda been going backwards.

The little Mrs. was apparently the driver.  She is the first to get out of the car. She is dressed very crisply in her lavender stretch pants, matching blouse and never-committed-even-a-venial-sin bright white Keds.  She weighs all of 98-pounds.  I am guessing by the scarf she is wearing tied under her chin that she has recently been to what she would probably term the “beauty parlor” where the “beauty operator” washed and set her hair.  Just so.  I also suppose that her beauty operator is named Velma and has been doing hair since 1949.

At any rate, the elderly lady gets out of her car, makes her way around to the other side of the car where she opens the door and helps an elderly gentleman out of the car. I assume he is her husband. She manages to maneuver him into his walker, the kind with the tennis balls on the front, and together they work their way around the car to the pump.  Together with great time and effort, he puts gas in her car. Because by cracky, as long as that man has breath in his lungs, she will not pump the gas.  Whether is it she who will not pump the gas or he who will have not have his wife pumping gas I can’t quite tell, but I can tell that’s how it is for them.

It was almost painful to watch and part of me wanted to jump out of my car and pump their gas, but I didn’t.  I could have done that small thing for them – easily – but it seemed an intrusion of sorts and in this day of age, they would have probably found it more frightening than helpful. So I sat and watched.

Later, I stopped in at one of my favorite boutiques and purchased a small clock for a gift.  The sales clerk, who appeared to be the same age as my mother, was very kind and helpful. I asked her if the clock had a battery in it. She said that the clock came with a battery but that it was not in the clock. She added that I would have to have my husband put it in when I got home.

I laughed to myself and decided that I would have him do that as soon as he gets back from putting gas in my car.

1. Trying to get a shot of a cardinal. Those little boogers are fast and camera shy. See that little bright red dot? That’s a cardinal.

2. Walking the local nature trail with Sean, pretending to be Lewis to his Clark.

3. Trying to become one with my camera.  My goal this year is to get off green.  As it is now, I have to think really hard about the settings and dials and exposure values and the other technical stuff.

4. Writing up a little story I told  Sean the other night while he was in the bathtub.  At school, they are studying the concept of fantasy versus real and he asked me to tell him a fantasty story,  so I made one up on the spot. He said he really liked it, so I’m going to write and illustrate it and make him a little book.

5. Writing several posts that I can’t seem to get out of my head and into the computer.

6. Making awesome gourmet grilled sandwiches for my husband.  I am the sandwich making queen, always have been. Ask my dad.

7.  Working out a little bit, walking and lifting weights.

8. Playing with Photoshop.

9. Unloading and reloading the dishwasher.  Shouldn’t there be a limit on how many times a week one has to do this task?

10. Drinking entirely too much Bigelow’s Vanilla Caramel tea.

11. Watching the Olympics, critiqueing the figure skating and imagining what it would be like to do some of that trick snowboarding.

12.  Thinking about all the things I should be doing versus all the things that I want to be doing and considering which will add greater value to my life and how much I can get away with.

What are you doing?

Some random thoughts on the importance of learning to work.

* * *

Back in the olden days, many people bore children to help them work the farm. They needed people to work the land to survive, so they bred them.

I recently read an interview with AD’s grandmother who was born in the 1890s.  She talked about how she walked behind a plow and picked cotton when she was seven.  It was harsh, but it had to be done.  She had to help, everyone did, that’s just the way it was.  Probably your grandparents or great grandparents did similar work to help the family keep body and soul together.

Today, children are not expected to walk behind a plow or work in factories.  And that is a good thing. However, in my corner of the world, most children I know are not expected to work at all. They watch TV and play video games and go to lessons while their mothers wait on them hand and foot. And I think that is not so good.

Early on I decided that Sean is not a prince and I would not be his valet.  I decided that he should learn to pick up after himself and to pitch in — to embrace the concept of work.  And I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve got a lot to learn as a parent, but one thing I have observed in my own child is that the first step in training is to establish the expectation.

And so I set about establishing this expectation of work.

When he was around three I showed him how to use the Swiffer mop and how to dust.  He still thinks this is tremendous fun.  I began to teach him how to cook.  When he was four I taught him to set and clear the table. When he was five I taught him how to fold dish towels.  Now that he is almost six, he can fold bath towels fairly well.  I sometimes pay him a penny a towel, sometimes not.

When I tell him what a big help it is to me that he has folded a basket of towels, he beams.  It is a bigger reward than the two dimes I give him.  His new job is to take the trash and recycling out to the garage.  Next year, we’ll start working on laundry.  My dream is that at some point he will be a man who looks around, sees what needs to be done and does it.

My point in saying all this is that sometimes we think that children are too small to help or too small to learn how to contribute, but I don’t think that is true.  It is true that most often it is easier to do something myself rather than to take the time to teach little hands. But oh the reward that comes later for both mother and child is a wonderful thing.

As a not-prince, I have established the expectation that Sean will help me do what needs to be done to make living in this house a pleasant experience — which means if he wants to have a pleasant experience living in this house, he needs to help me do what needs to be done. Sometimes Sean thinks the work is fun and other times he grouses about it. Either way, he knows it is expected and he has to do it.

Some families choose to do chores and I can see that there is value in that.  For me, because I am not great at keeping track of stuff I would just end up paying him for work he didn’t do and that would be bad because you seldom get paid for doing nothing in the real world.

For me,  it works better to hire him for certain jobs, or, if he wants to earn some money, he’ll ask me if I have any work for him to do.  I think it’s good for kids to know they are expected to contribute to the keeping of the house but also to be rewarded for their work once in a while.  There are probably as many ways to balance that as there are families.

If you were to look at the Biblical model, life is six parts work and one part rest. I hope to inspire Sean to strive towards that model.   Work provides purpose and structure and satisfaction.  These things are good.

* * *

He who works his land will have abundant food, but the one who chases fantasies lacks judgment.  ~Proverbs 12:11

I did not have a lot of toys growing up.  I know. Break out the tiny violin.

I had a hand me down Chatty Cathy.  I had some of the lesser Barbies – Midge? The redhead with the questionable reputation whom no one talked about.  Nothing was proven, mostly rumors.  I did have a Chrissy doll that I loved.  I had a Lite Brite that I loved.  My brother had the Spirograph which I coveted.  But among the three of us kids, we didn’t have a lot.

Sean on the other hand.

Like most families in America, our toy box runneth over.

And here is the great irony. Sean plays with about 1^% of the toys he owns. However, he would wail and fuss were I to relocate the other 99^% toys.

The toys that Sean loves most are ones that we have picked up at garage sales or were passed down to us. They are the least complicated, least expensive, require no batteries and have held his interest from ages 2-6 and I expect, into a few more years.  And they are toys that his mommy and daddy love to play with too.

They are:

1) Tinker Toys

2) Leggos

3) Wooden Blocks

4) Plastic toy tools

5) Plastic animals

6) Matchbox cars

7) Play-Doh

Now there is another category of toys that Sean loves, that are not really toys and they are:

1) 6-ft step ladder

2) sheets

3) empty boxes of any size

* * * * *

I’m sure everyone’s Top 10 Toys list looks a little different. If you were going to recommend the top three or four best toys to a new mom,  what would be on your list?

Back when Survivor was a new show, I remember they made a big deal out of the one luxury item each contestant chose to bring with them.

48 seasons later, they either gloss over it or have dispensed with it all together. I don’t really know, because I haven’t watched more than one episode of Survivor in several years.  AD’s luxury item would be Kleenex. He goes no where without a pocket full of Kleenex which are never used for their intended purposes but end up in the dryer all over only the black clothes, never the white.  If I were ever to leave my husband, which I wouldn’t because, let’s be honest, no one else would have me, it would be over his Kleenex abuse.

My one luxury item would be a tablet of paper and a pen.  I never go anywhere without paper and pen because I might need to write something, draw something or do some addition.

Sean is actually the only one of our tribe who stands a chance of winning Survivor.

So the other day when Sean and I were getting ready to leave the house to run errands, I was tickled when he chose to wear pants with pockets which he filled with Kleenex and a t-shirt with a pocket in which he had tucked a tiny notepad and a pen.

Unfortunately none of what you have read heretofore has anything to do with anything hereafter.

So then, as we were on our way to Half Price Books to buy the rest of the Little House series, Sean mentioned that the neighborhood we were driving through looked like Skip and Glenna’s. I said it was indeed their neighborhood and I wondered if they had gotten back from China yet. They are involved in a ministry called Let’s Start Talking where they travel to foreign countries to teach English using the Gospels.  Sean suggested that when they go to China that we should eat with chopsticks the entire time so we can remember they are gone.

I thought that was a terrific idea for a number of reasons. One, eating with such difficulty would help us remember not only the challenges and uncomfortable circumstances our missionaries face so far away from home, but also those for whom finding enough to eat every day is a challenge.  I want Sean to have an awareness that there really are people in this world who go hungry and don’t have enough to eat – something that neither of us know.

After our errands, Sean asked if we could have lunch at Sonic.  He had been an especially delightful errand buddy, so I said yes.

“Great!” he said, “Let’s get a meal with toy so that we can put it in the give away box,” he offered.

“Sean, dude, that is awesome,” I said.  I was proud that he had taken ownership of the concept of charity and thinking of others.

“Unless it’s something really cool, like a disk shooter,” he added.

Here on earth, it’s about progress, not perfection.

And now, here is a little something I made in Photoshop with one or two clicks using a free Photoshop action from PanosFX.

My little boyfriend and errand buddy.

So then, yesterday was Mother’s Day. Or Sunday. Whatever. To me, Mother’s Day ranks right up there with Boxing Day. I can take it or leave it.  I know. In your head right now, you are saying, “What kind of mother doesn’t like Mother’s Day!” Did you think I couldn’t hear that?

Regardless of whatever personal issues I have with the highest of the Hallmark holy days, I am still obligated to participate.  I crumble easily under the weight of societal expectations to buy flowers and cards and to festively order others to “Have a happy (insert occasion) day!” I just go along. I grumble, but I go along.

Texas has been gray and wet for what seems like two years now, but according to the newspapers it has actually only been two weeks.  And yesterday, Mother’s Day, was no different.  So we drove up to Tuna under a gray cloud of drizzly rain to have lunch with Memaw to celebrate Mother’s Day.

When we arrived, we exclaimed “Happy Mother’s Day” in a festive tone and then we sat down to eat too much.  Papa George had fixed us a yummy meal and it was swell all the way around even though I had to do the dishes.

When we got home late in the afternoon, we noticed an odd bright orb in the sky, so we Googled “bright orb in the sky” and we were delightfully surprised to find out that it was the sun. A few little sunbeams and my girlish giddy and glee returned to wash away all my sour feelings surrounding having a national day set aside to honor the fact that I managed to procreate.

A few sunbeams were all it took for Sean too.  He raced into the house and put on his swimming suit.  And when a 38-pound boy wearing a swimming suit, snorkel and mask is standing in your den, the cuteness will short circuit your brain and you will be rendered powerless to do anything other than say “Okay!”  And that’s how we ended up at the swimming pool late in the afternoon on Mother’s Day.

In my opinion, the water in the swimming pool was fuh-reee-zzzzing!  But according to Sean, the water was “refreshant!” Although my research is not scientific, I believe that human children learn to discern uncomfortably cold swimming pool water around the same time they develop sense enough to come in out of the rain. Unlike chickens however, human children will not drown if they look up when it’s raining. This fact, I have proven scientifically. I’m not sure how that relates to anything heretofore.

So, I sat a safe distance from the edge of the pool and its uncomfortably cold water to watch my scrawny little boyfriend jump in and out of the pool about 658 times;  each time crafting a unique approach and/or creative pose for the amusement of his mother.

“Mom!” he shouted as zipped past in a blur, “Memaw’s AND swimming, all in the SAME day! This is the best day EVER!” And then he disappeared into a big splash of chilly water.  My heart was drenched in joy.

So yeah, Mother’s Day was the best day ever.  And so was every day of the last five and a half years.