Someone actually searched the term “burn a teletubby” and was sent here to my blog. I don’t know what’s crazier…that someone actually searched that phrase, or that they were sent here…appropriately so! 🙂
Musings
God built them that way…
Had I needed any more evidence that men’s less desireable traits were inborn, not learned, my son offered me that evidence this morning.
Mister Baby Boy was sitting on the floor, playing with something or other…when all of a sudden, he lifted one butt cheek, and let one rip that reverberated through the floor boards. Unphased, he lifted and ripped again……and yet again. He then turned and looked at me, with half a grin on his face that said, “Wow…that was cool Mom.” I don’t think it was the dispelling of air that sounded like a foghorn that left me stunned. It was the butt cheek lift! I’ve asked Zan a number of times, “What’s with the lift? Women don’t do that!” And I will say that Mister did not “learn” this behavior at home as that particular behavior is not tolerated in my home. (EW!) So…that brings me to the solid conclusion that God made men that way. Why? Beats me! Perhaps in ancient times, this noisy and rancid dispensation of air kept the wee beasties out of the caves…a protective fog of sorts. “The Lift” must have been a means to direct this acrid air in the direction of the cave opening, to better insure protective qualities. All I know is that I learn something of man’s baser nature everyday from my own sweet darling boy…Today I learned that butt cheek lifts are completely normal. Hunh.
Ramsay, Not Ramsey
Apparently I have been misspelling Mr. Shrew’s name!
For shame!
So, here, I’ll scold myself, Gordon Ramsay style:
“WHAT’S THE MATTA WITH YOU, YOU F-NG DONKEY?! CAUN’T EVEN SPELL A SIMPLE F-NG NAME CORRECTLY? GET YOUR AUSS OUT OF MY F-NG SIGHT! BLOODY HELL!”
Ah, I can see why Shrew loves this guy so much…what girl wouldn’t? 😉
So, I called the cops on my darling husband last night….
He was away, and was supposed to be staying overnight. As I always do when he’s away, I battened down the house….Alarms set? Check. Doors chained? Check. Phone on the bedstand? Check. Knife under my pillow? Check. (Okay, so I don’t sleep with a knife under my pillow, although I’m such a chicken, the thought has crossed my mind.)
So I slept soundly, until suddenly around 4:00 am, I woke up to the shrill screaming of the alarm. It took me to the count of three to register what I was hearing, and of course my irrational mind conjured up the image of a snarling, smelly maniac entering my home to do my family harm. (The rational me may have realized that my darling husband had come home early to surprise me, but rational and half asleep do not go together.) So, yes, I dialed 9-1-1 as I tripped downstairs, armed with nothing but my phone (dangit! I should’ve slept with that knife!) The officer answered before I even hit the bottom of the stairs, and could hear my alarm. He also heard my screech of relief when I saw my husband fumbling with the door chain from the OUTside of the door! After half a dozen questions to assure himself that I was indeed not being held at gunpoint by a snarling maniac, the officer wished me a good evening and assured me that, “That’s what we’re here for, Ma’am.” I was slightly embarrassed, but relief was my top priority.
My husband just shook his head. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me you were coming home?!!!” I asked. His response, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
The Flower
In A New Earth, Eckhart Tolle discusses the flower. He says, “Flowers, more fleeting, more ethereal, and more delicate than the plants out of which they emerged, would become like messengers from another realm, like a bridge between the world of physical forms and the formless. They not only had a scent that was delicate and pleasing to humans, but also brought a fragrance from the realm of spirit.”
I have often thought that my babies were a window into the Presence (as Tolle calls it.) I believe that having come fresh from God, they still retained the memory of pureness from where they came. Which brings me to this.
When my oldest was just two, she toddled over to a tulip that had just come up in the yard. She knelt down and smelled it, looked up at her Daddy with the most angelic peace upon her face and said, “It smells like love!” I was so struck in that moment, never having thought of a flower in those terms before. My husband and I looked at each other, dumbstruck, knowing that we had witnessed a glimpse of that which cannot be described with mere words. My baby had taught me, in that moment, to appreciate the beauty of a flower in a new way, a deeper way, and through her, I had a peek into the realm which time makes us forget.
Reading this book reminded me of that moment, and perhaps validated what I had felt all those years ago.
A Half Hour a Day 