Always right

I am somewhat fascinated that no one is ever wrong. At least to them. Anyone who dares criticize or disagrees? Also wrong! Amazing!

An example:

Today at school, a teacher insisted that her students (intermediate grade level) did not under any circumstances need to know about ancient Rome or Mesopotamia. She felt like Abraham Lincoln was plenty. Why bog down curriculum with classical topics? The school, in her opinion (opinion? it's not fact?), needed to shake loose of the classical curriculum. I am sure she confided in me because she was pretty sure I would agree. (Nope. I *want* my kids to learn about ancient Rome.) Although I didn't speak up, it disturbed me a bit. What would be wrong with a grade schooler learning about the establishment of civilization?

Another school-related example: Last year, some parents got upset about a "joke" in the yearbook. The two ladies who put the yearbook together did a lovely job, but they let that joke stay in. In fact, they approved on the grounds that it was funny. The parents put the principal in the middle. These teachers were fuming. How dare anyone question their judgment?

Question their judgment ... familiar theme ...

New example, same idea: Yesterday, I got into a little bit of a (how do I put this politely?) disagreement with my foster son's case worker tonight. I do not see her point of view; she definitely does not see mine. The topic is irrelevant. Suffice it to say, she is right. I am right. Wait a second ... we can't disagree and both be right!

I read recently on some education site somewhere that we study math and science topics that we will never use because it is part of the human quest for truth. (I read education sites because I have an EdM in progress that I am 95% done with but will probably never finish due to inertia. I am interested in education but hope to never end up in a classroom again. Long story.)

That word -- TRUTH -- ate at me, slowly but surely. What is truth? Do I always know the truth? (Obviously not!) Do I always want the truth? (Honestly, um, *cough*, no, I don't.) Then why on earth do I act like I'm always right?

Perhaps this is cultural. We all think we're right -- all the time. We can never stop to see another person's ideas as valid. And saying, "You're right," or "I'm sorry" is seemingly impossible. But did you ever notice that when that rare gem of a soul admits his faults, agrees with others, and occasionally changes his mind, he seems charming and humble? We like it when others can admit fault, a flaw in logic, or a malformed philosophy. They seem intellectually honest -- like they really do take the scientific method seriously enough to allow their conclusions to change when the data is challenged.

I refer here not to yes-men who go along with whatever to please or avoid an argument. I am describing the truly intelligent, honest, and humble among us who can say, "I never thought of it that way," or, "You really have a point there."

If we love to hear such from others, why don't we ever employ such comments ourselves? Perhaps we never have the opportunity, since we're so consistently correct. It's hard to admit you're wrong when you're never wrong.

Which is my point.

If you are reading this and finding yourself recalling multiple times that you have put yourself in someone else's place, seen it from another point of view, considered the adversary's perspective, or just plain said you're sorry, then please let me know -- I want to be your friend. Your humility is a gift, and I would love to learn from it, as I find identifying my own errors much more challenging than identifying those of others.

I come by it honestly; being right is the American way.

My new diet

I have tried them all: Weight Watchers, Covert Bailey, Bob Greene, Body for Life, and my personal favourite, Atkins.

[Allow me to digress momentarily about Atkins. I *love* this diet. When I am calorie-conscious and keep to to less than 1500 kCal, I lose weight like crazy, all the while enjoying eggs, cream in my coffee, etc. This carnivore doesn't care about not having dessert!]

One thing about almost every diet I've ever been on is that it seems contrary to God's plan. Two eggs a week, no red meat, drink this shake . . . Is this really what God wants our diet to look like? As much as I love the Atkins diet, I find it hard to believe I'm meant to forego fruit but Splenda and sugar alcohol is okay. Come on!

So this week, I'm starting something new in my house: The God's Plan Diet. We'll be eating fruit, veggies (cooked and raw), cheese, all the eggs we want, lots of nuts, honey, red meat, fish, and chicken. We'll be steering clear of white flour, refined sugar, and processed foods like velveeta. We'll be utilizing the crock pot, getting back to basics, baking bread again, and enjoying more natural cuisine.

I need to lose some weight. (Some is my code word for a lot.) So, while my kids are drinking whole milk and wolfing down peanuts, I'll be keeping track of portion sizes, calorie counts (sort of), and training myself to be satisfied with enough.

This whole plan, of course, means the Great Divorce from diet coke. I've heard rumours of people not surviving such traumas; I can only hope my beefy constitution can live through the transition.

Who is the patron saint of giving up soda?

Mambo

I have been playing with a content managment system called Mambo. It is quite excellent. My "playground" sites are:

www.mindtoolstech.com
www.karimatthews.com
www.smswestville.k12.il.us/sms/

Mambo allows us to separate content from design. I can change the look of a website in a flash without changing a word or worrying about copying and pasting text from file to file. I love it!

For more information on Mambo Open Source, check out:

www.mambosolutions.com
www.mambohut.com
www.mamboserver.com
www.mamboportal.com

If you are into web design or development, give it a try. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

"Visits"

My 2 1/2 year old foster son has gone for "visits" with his birth-mom the last two days. He always comes home sugared up, trinkets in hand. Yesterday, f.s. came home with a balloon. Upon seeing such a treasure, my birth son, 18 days f.s.'s senior, said that next time, HE'LL be going on a visit. Hmm, smart kid.

Yesterday, he came home with a dirty diaper. Today, his diaper was so soaking wet, he wet through his shorts. He was changed just an hour earlier, right before he walked out the door to go to the visit. What are they giving him to drink? One has to wonder -- that's a lot of fluid. Are these DCFS workers sure that the birth mom is the only one who needs supervision here?

It stands to reason. I talked to the new case worker yesterday. This is the third case worker I've dealt with in the last six months. I told her that I wished the birth mom would relinquish her rights, so he can live in a friendly, warm, stable, 2 parent home with siblings and love and opportunity. The case worker admonished me: We cannot compare the situations!

Well, why not? I stomp my foot in disgust. I am so sick of the injustice of it all. He spent the first two years of life neglected in two different foster homes. He came to me at 23 months with practically no vocabulary, totally unresponsive, eating crayons, scared of swings and slides. What did those other people do, leave him in a crib all day with a bottle of milk? That's the way he acts. Case workers don't seem to care about such "little" trespasses against a totally innocent child. He's one of the *lucky* ones, they say. He'll turn out all right. He wasn't beaten; he's not having cigarettes put out on his arms. So we'll not worry.

No! No! No! It IS something to worry about. It's heartbreaking and sad and miserable and pathetic. I want to adopt him and then promptly divorce DCFS.

Funny, I wrote something similar on this topic yesterday, but it never did post. I lost the whole thing. Maybe that was God's way of telling me not to badmouth DCFS and Catholic Charities. Keep it under wraps. Keep it private. Shhh. Don't tell anyone the foster system is a damn disaster. Don't tell anyone that kids would be better off in orphanages. It's a secret.

Yeah, right.

In the meantime, I have to remember the veracity of that song: God is in control. All I can do while I wait for his mom to either get better or have her rights terminated is pray, pray, pray. Pray, yes, and do my best to prepare him for the day he leaves me, be that sooner or later. Oh dear God, let is be later -- much later.

Soundtrack

For me, music is not just a puzzle piece -- it's the mat and the glue that keep the puzzle stable and hold it together. I am one of those people that has minimal musical talent but always has music playing in my head. When I hear songs that were popular or well-liked, it takes me back to that era. Of course, I only remember the good parts of the past and black out the less-than-savory details. Don't we all?

This is more than just a list of favourite songs -- there is a story and significance behind each entry on my list. It would take an eternity to write that out, and it wouldn't be that interesting to anyone else. Do you remember any of these?

Moon River - from Breakfast at Tiffany's
On the Willows - Godspell
Out of My Head - Fastball
Love Song - Tesla
Thunderoad - Bruce Springsteen (though the spelling of the song title has always bugged me)
Blue - The Jayhawks
Sir Duke - Stevie Wonder
Summer Highland Falls - Billy Joel
Ave Maria - Schubert
Fuggi, Fuggi, Fuggi - New World Renaissance
Higher Ground, as performed by the Blind Boys of Alabama
Nothing Else Matters - Metallica
Khe Sanh - Cold Chisel
I Wish You Were There - REO Speedwagon
Let the River Run - Carly Simon
Every Morning - Sugar Ray

It was fun (mostly) to think about where and what I was doing when these songs permeated my movements and being. Some, not so fun: Every Morning by Sugar Ray was the last song I heard on the radio before Bruce told me my dad was dead. Every time I hear it, I'm right back there in my red VW, singing along, looking forward to a trip back to the hospital to see him again, hold his hand, read him the paper. He was gone, suddenly, too soon. And lucky me, Sugar Ray marks the sad, sacred moment. Isn't it ironic?

I will add eventually to this anemic, incomplete list. Comment or mail me and tell me about your soundtrack: karisue@gmail.com

How I quit smoking

Though I don't often apply my willpower, I am pretty good at setting goals and accomplishing them. When I put my mind to it, I'm good at things like losing weight, cleaning the whole house at one time, that kind of thing.

This is what I do: Choose the right thing now, giving myself permission to choose wrong later. Example: Instead of saying, I'll start dieting on Monday, better have that last donut today, I instead ditch the donut today, reminding myself that donuts exist everyday, and I can have one on Monday if I so choose. Works like a charm.

So when it was time to quit smoking, I tossed my pack and thought, I'll just not smoke today. If I want one tomorrow, I can have one. Then, the next day, I would work on just getting through the day, knowing that I can always go buy more when I am tired of being a non-smoker. Before long, months had passed without so much as one drag.

Have I been perfect? Goodness no. I have probably bummed a total of 10 cigs since I quit being a regular smoker. Every time I have one, I can't believe how gross it is. I have discovered that I can't recapture who I was at 25 (thinner, single, more fun, carefree, reckless even?) by acting like I did when I was 25. At the time, I felt like Audrey Hepburn, but no longer. I don't count these smoking excursions as "cheating" because I never vowed to myself to quit for good -- I just quit for the day and see how long I can keep the streak up.

They say it take 21 days to make a habit. (Who figures that stuff out?) You can get through that 21 days pretty easily if you take it one day a time -- five minutes at a time, if need be. Good luck fortifying your new good habits!

In the world, not of it

St. Paul made tents. I fix computers. And write stuff. And raise children. And keep a house clean (sort of). St. Paul wrote, too. And dealt with myriad communities that probably acted not unlike children. Wasn't he notorious for cleaning house, so to speak? Hmm, we have a lot in common.

Except for one substantive thing: St. Paul, at least in my imaginings, exuded holiness. He might have been rough around the edges, but his personality must have had liberal doses of piety in the mix.

Not me. I would love to be gentle, glowing, walking on a cloud, shifting through life on an angel wing and a prayer, smiling peacefully all the while. Unfortunately, reality and personality seem to have limited my success at this.

Perhaps, though, one of my problems is preoccupation. Was St. Paul preoccupied with the art of tentmaking? Did he subscribe to all the tentmaking magazines and go to canvas-sewing seminars? Somehow I doubt it.

Again, St. Paul and I diverge. I spend countless hours focused on the art of copywriting (I think that's what I want to be when I grow up: a freelance writer), studying commodities trading for the farm (December '05 corn closed at 2.38 today - a lousy price), and researching the latest computer issues. Why spend all that time focused on something other than being a christian, a wife, a mother, and homemaker?

The shallow answer is that I want -desperately- to ensure comfort in the future, for my children and myself alike. And by future, I mean I want to be able to pay my electric bill next month, buy Christmas presents next year, subsidize a college education for 3 boys who will be there before I know it, and pay my property taxes when I'm 80 without having to having to be a Walmart greeter.

Pressure to achieve success is overwhelming. I want to be successful. This in itself does not present problems on its own -- it's the definition of success that throws the rod. We are expected to provide for our children -- and I want to do that. But where do we stop? Could I comfortably run a household on $20K a year? $50K? $100K? And what does comfortable mean, anyway?

When St. Paul made his tents, I'd imagine his goals were simple: To pay his own way, keep food on the proverbial table, maintain a good reputation, remain self-sufficient, and evangelize to "clients." I doubt St. Paul would approve of Ebay searches for "Prada" -- his money was assuredly spent on the necessities and the surplus donated.

For those of us who want to strive for holiness, but have our intentions divided among familial, professional, civic, and Godly concerns, how do we set limits on ourselves, so that our efforts, spending, and preoccupation with financial comfort don't bleed over the edge? Will silk curtains and a new tile kitchen floor hinder my spiritual life? Should I keep the floor and window treatments I have and donate the excess money to the poor?

I don't know, and I'm not sure that I'll draw any solid conclusions soon, short of divine intervention during the discernement process. I just hope I don't trick myself into self-soothing justification for irresponsible spending. St. Paul, tentmaker and man in the world but not of it, pray for us, that we may find the line God has drawn in the sand.

How computer literate are you?

Vote at:

www.mindtoolstech.com

Golem

In Jewish lore hides a fascinating story of the golem, a monster of sorts that rabbis can raise up from the dust to protect the Jews. (It makes for a lovely childrens' book, entitled GOLEM, but David Wisniewski -- it is a Caldecott winner.)

Today on FoxNews are several sad reports of Jews in Gaza who feel betrayed by the Israeli government as they are forced to withdraw. This, after so many years of violence and bloodshed.

I wonder what would happen if the Jews could call up a Golem today. How would a modern Golem change the face of a turbulent, dark stage that shadows us all?