Philanthropy Thursday

More than 6,000 children lose a parent to AIDS every day.

That's pretty astounding, isn't it. That means in less than two weeks, more children in Africa lose a parent to AIDS than there are people in my town.

I used to think that I would have to wait until my own children were grown or older, before we could do any significant work in Africa. Bob and I both dream of living there one day, having a farm, and traveling the region doing good works. Yeah, yeah, I've seen Out of Africa one too many times. But it's a dream that hasn't died for us in many years.

My sister in-law, a woman of amazing strength and faith, has shown me how I can make a difference right now in the life of a child in Africa. She and my brother in law have had an "adopted" child from Kenya for several years now. It goes far beyond sending in a check to a faceless charitable organization each month and leaving it at that.

Here is an excerpt from a letter sent to my sister in-law and her family from their "son," Ngilimo.

“Dear sponsor T. and T.,
Greeting from your beloved sponsored child. I am fine and hope some to you. I am very happy that you sent me 100 us $ that enable me to buy one padlock, metal box, 1 pair of uniform, one shirt and geometreax set. It also assisted my family with one sheet, 2 kgs of beans, 3 kgs’s sugar, 1 pkt tea leaves, 2 bars soap, 2 tins cooking fat, firestone shoes, 1 pair of tins, tw packets cooking darir (sp?) and one mattress. We thank you and keep praying for you. This year I am in grade 5. Wishing you the best,
Loter Ngilimo

He includes pictures he drew of an oxen, car & barn, and a photo of him and his mom with all of the items they bought.

My sister in law tells me they have received even more sentimental cards from him about how they have helped change his life by sending him to school and providing for extras that he wouldn't normally be able to have. She even sends gifts to him in the mail, and after all these years not one has failed to reach Kenya. On their 'fridge at home is a picture of Ngilimo, and her boys pray for him every night, and they dream of traveling to Kenya one day and seeing him in person.

Don't make me get all Sally Struthers on your ass and post a video of myself crying over these kids. Just go check out this website and see how easy it is to make a difference in the life of a child. We're doing it. My girls have begged me to adopt a 12 and 10 year old, and that is just what we're doing. I'll report back on that next week.

p.s. look what Philanthropy Thursday won ---------------------------------->

The Tenant, Part III

Fortunately for us, our tenant really wants to find a place in town. He is unable/unwilling to get his driver's license, and this prohibits him from living with us. We're country folk, and there is no feasible way for him to commute into town and back without a car; never mind the errands he would need to run now and again.

Of course, this didn't stop him from agreeing to live with us, as I presume he thought I would just cart him around with me and the rest of the kids and make sure he was where he needed to be. Because if you have four kids, what's one more person depending on you, right? Besides, I really needed to give up the bon bons, and in so doing would free up scads of time.

Yesterday, a place near the school opened up with a private room and bath. The principal let me know that a teacher would drive him out and help him transfer his stuff. He seemed apologetic that he had unknowingly saddled us with a man-child who couldn't drive, offering to make us dinner for our troubles. I have to admit, it is a win-win situation. We can act disappointed that he is unable to logistically arrange for living out of town, and we no longer have to deal with basically supporting an exchange student. Now the kids will just see him for dance class and that's just fine with me.

When the kids and I got home, I peeked in the guest house and noticed it was devoid of his stuff; the transfer had gone smoothly. Sigh of relief.

This morning I put Jack down for a nap and went into the guest house to clean up. We have family coming for a visit this week, and I needed to wash the linens and make the place presentable. Everything looked pretty clean, and just needed minimal work. I stripped the bed, then went into the closet for the rest of the linens to take into the house. That's when it struck me. I grabbed my cell phone and called Bob at the office.

"Bob? The cobalt blue sheets are missing."

Two Butt Water Martinis on the Rocks, Please

Take a large, basin-sized martini glass.

Spray the interior with vermouth.

Fill to the rim with Bombay Sapphire gin.

Add three (or twelve, as is my preference) olives.

Now go to the bathroom.

Take a large, ahem, poop.

Wipe mostly clean with some baby wipes.

Sit in your martini glass.

Drink.

Yeah. That's about how I feel when my child hungrily gulps bathwater after a gross diaper change.

Good Cop and Bad Cop Get Away for a Night

As of late, my husband has really stepped up and taken on the role of "bad cop" in our house. I was getting tired of being the parent who had to dish out 99.9% of the negative consequences due to my role as the parent who is with the kids all of the time. I was starting to get jealous of how he could just walk in the door and be so damn popular with all the kids. Each night, shrieks of "Daddddy!" fill the kitchen as he enters the home, and I half-expect to see a cape unfurling in the wind behind him, his fists planted firmly on his hips as he announces in a deep voice that Super Daddy is home and wouldn't these swell children like some candy? It always makes me feel like the shrew in the background, hands also on her hips as she readies herself to shake the wooden spoon at Super Daddy and scold him to not fill the kids up before dinner.

Kids are kids. They don't see that you are the one who gets them fed, takes them places, knows about what is going on in all facets of their lives, and cleans up after them, both literally and metaphorically. Never mind the other little detail involving the Biblical sacrifice of our bodies and minds; that is something they will only ever understand if and when they become parents themselves. Kids just don't think that way. All they see is that we are the ones who enforce homework, who turn the television off and make them clean out the rabbit cage, or who snort in disbelief when they ask if they can go cruise the mall, alone, with some other juvenile delinquents.

Recently I've reached my tipping point. Or as I like to call it, the point where I start seriously researching beach side property in the Bahamas so that I might run away and own my own shrimp shack. Don't look at me that way. I'd still send postcards. And once a year I'd let my family visit and there would be an all-you-can-eat buffet.

In theory, I believe that we shouldn't take our children's behavior personally. I can sometimes live up to my own words, but it's been getting harder and harder, and there have been some huge cracks in my armor. I needed my husband to help me.

He has. In a big way. He's not working such long hours, he's doing a lot more of the driving, and we are dividing and conquering on those days where there are dance lessons, soccer practice, and volleyball. All starting or ending at 5:00. The relief I feel is immeasurable.

This weekend we went on an overnight date. We arranged for some victims good friends to take the kids, and we drove to a resort in the desert. For a blissful time, we were just a couple, just two people who danced under the stars, lingered over an expensive dinner, and didn't worry that someone was going to barge into the bedroom. I had to be peeled away, my arms wrapped around a palm tree, as we readied ourselves to leave.

When we picked up the kids, they were surly over the fact that we hadn't taken them with us. "It's not fair! We are a family! You can't go play without us!" I just smirked. My ten year-old looked at us for a moment.

"Did you and daddy actually swim without us?"

I looked at Bob. He continued loading up the car with their bags, then he simply said, "Marco."

I got into the car.

"Polo."

Ann Coulter: This is Your Mama Calling

Ann Coulter has recently been quoted as asserting that the Jewish people of this world "need perfecting."

Now, that's just silly.

Ann, you need a timeout. You have garnered so much attention from your tantrums that I don't think you remember you can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar, sweetheart. Annie, are you afraid that if you stop screaming and holding your breath and throwing your toys that people will stop listening to you? Are you afraid that you are only getting noticed for being bad? Do you crave the nation's attention, even when you know you're being naughty, because you think that is the only way anyone will listen to you?

You need a hug. You don't need to pander to the base neanderthal part of men to replace your daddy's love. You don't need to be mean to those women who lost their husbands on 9/11 to get back at your mommy.

Shhh. It's okay, Ann. No matter how bad you've been, no matter how sad and angry you are on the inside, you are still a lovable person. Shhhh, now there. It's okay.

Annie, everybody gets older. There is so much more to a person than looks. You can start to let go of that, just a tiny bit, now that you're nearing 50. Come on, let go. There you go, now go get a skirt that's a little longer. You don't need your hair to be bleached to within an inch of its life to be attractive. You can trim all that damage off, keep some of the length, and go for a softer color. It's okay. You're still pretty. Yes, you are. You are a pretty girl, but you need to remember that pretty is as pretty does. In which case, I think you might want to avoid mirrors for a while, until some golden words start coming out of you. There, now child. The universe wants all of its children to be the best they can. Are you trying your best? I know you love God, Ann. Is this what Jesus would do? I want you to pick up your mess and go write a nice letter. Right. Now.

And when tomorrow comes, I want you to open your heart, smile, and treat people the way you have wished to be treated your whole life.

Now scoot.

Philanthropy Thursday

I love jewelry. I love it almost as much as I love skin care products, which is saying quite a bit since I suffer from wrinkle-rexia and refuse to seek treatment. Unless that treatment is a firming/lifting/heat-activated/exfoliating/smoothing serum. That smells like my youth returned.

I live in a delicious part of the country for jewelry. There are all the Native American wares to be had, and you cannot walk through my downtown without throwing a rock and hitting a gallery with handmade jewelry (as opposed to when I lived in the South and you couldn't throw a rock without hitting a Baptist church or a Waffle House. But that is another story).

My good bloggy friend, Bette Jo, has an Etsy shop where she sells her exquisite jewelry. As I type this I am tossing my head around to feel the red coral earrings and turquoise necklace of hers that I am wearing. I wanted to take a picture so you could see what they look like on, but I looked at all the pictures I took and frankly, I do not remember my neck being crepey last week. It is apparently my time as a woman to have a wrinkled neck, and as I have no anti-crepe creams or potions, so you will have to make do with pictures of the jewelry that do not have my neck in them. Oh, wait, that white swan-like thing to the right is my neck. You only think it's a mannequin.

In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, Bette Jo has generously offered to make this Philanthropy Thursday really fun. If you buy any of her creations, she will donate 10% of the proceeds to the Susan G. Komen foundation. Just reference in your purchase "Philanthropy Thursday" and it's done. This generous offer is valid throughout the entire month of October, so any time you shop in her store all month, you're also helping fund research for a cure.

I was amazed at how reasonable her prices were, and you aren't really shopping, you're being philanthropic.

The Tenant, Part II

As you probably know, we have a tenant. A visiting teacher who is teaching a nine week unit of dance to the children where our kids go to school. It's been interesting.

When we agreed to give up our guest house to this young man, we figured that would be it. We would see him around occasionally, and all that would be different is that the kids couldn't play in the guest house until December. We would be nice landlords with noisy kids and a lumbering dog. We would stay out of his way and give him his privacy. And he would give us ours.

The first night I asked Bob if we should invite him in for dinner. He had no food, other than the snacks I had supplied in the mini-fridge for him, and he seemed daunted by the prospect of driving to the grocery store. Bob agreed, but was clearly a little pained. However, his nice guy side won out.

"Would you like to join us for dinner tonight? You must be tired from traveling, and it will save you a trip to the store until the morning."

"Hmmmmm. Is it spicy?" There was a note of concern in his voice.

I was making arroz con pollo, but with a moderate amount of cumin, and it takes a lot of heat for us to call something spicy.

"Not really. Maybe a tiny bit."

He thought. "All right, yes."

Dinner was uneventful, and later that night, as we relaxed on the couch I looked at Bob. "This is going to go well, I just know it." He looked back at me.

"Jen, just remember, he's not our foreign exchange student, and we're not his host family. Okay? He's a grown-up, and he's renting our house. Period."

We both looked up as the kitchen door opened and the teacher walked in.

"What are you two watching?"

As Bob got up he turned to me. "Tenant. He is not going to Disneyland with us. He is not snuggling on the couch," he whispered.
********
In order to get to school, Bob has been leading him in each morning as Bob drives the kids into town. After the first day, when he was lurching along the highway at 42 mph in a 75, it became clear to my husband that he couldn't drive.

"Andrew. Do you know how to drive?"

"Mmmmm. No. I have always had friends take me places."

"Do you have a driver's license? From anywhere?"

"Ah, no."

He has been driving all around in a borrowed Subaru, one lent from the music teacher at my childrens' school. It explains the fact that he can't get the car out of third gear, and his fear of stoplights. At each stoplight they encountered on the way to school, Bob would look in the rear view mirror and see the teacher literally pounding on the steering wheel in frustration.

After speaking to the principal about this, we all decided he might be a lot happier if we could somehow find him a a place in town. He needs to be able to walk places, needs young people around him, and a family of six with a schedule that doesn't include playing Scrabble with the tenant doesn't help things.

Everyone is on the lookout for a place for him, and I was telling this to a girlfriend of mine who owns a gallery in town and knows the place like the back of her hand.

"Tell him he could stay at Charly's, he seems like he would like it there."

So yesterday, while picking up the kids, I went up to the principal. "Hey, I was talking to someone and she thought we should see if Charly's might have a place for him." I was proud of my intel, happy to contribute to the hunt for better lodging.

He looked at me with a funny expression and then said, yeah, maybe Charly's has rooms above it, he would look into it.

Okay, or not.

Come to find out, Charly's is a gay bar.