Sunday, April 8, 2012
My sins are nailed to the cross and I bear them no more--or at least until the next time I freak out about something absurd.
I think I won.
At making the damn cutest Easter bird's nest cookies, wrapped in a small celophane bag with a personalized tag. Freaking dominated the seasonal baking--at least that's what my husband told me, when prodded, for 12 hours straight. And certainly there is a crown awaiting me in heaven, for managing to make the death and resurrection of a savior *cute* and yarn-tied.
But then I also ate the 1.5 bags of leftover Cadbury mini eggs (best. candy. eva.), and so I get the distinct impression that I LOST, even after factoring in the bird's nests, AND the way I pulled the cellophane wrapping taut (so as to hold the chocolate eggs in place). Did I mention the coordinated Easter outfits that were prepared? Purchased on SALE, mind you, which is like an extra point on the A.P. exam for making it look like you have your mommy-sh#! together. Honestly, I almost orgasmed right there in The Children's Place, when the flat-front, non-cargo, gray twill shorts were $12; because NO ONE makes traditional, preppy shorts anymore without some kind of logo/skull & crossbone theme, and certainly not for a reasonable, sale price. Easter miracle at the West County Mall--BOOM.
I wish life was judged, constantly, by one's ability to find and purchase holiday outfits, AND make bird's nest cookies--coupled with a knowledge of packaging and embellishments. I would f-ing KILL IT, if life was about wrapping things in cellophane.
This weekend, we went to an annual Easter Egg hunt, which is always AWESOME--except for the part where I watched my 9-year-old be kind of ignored and treated like a third wheel for a good part of the afternoon. It didn't seem to bother her one bit, but it made me crazy to watch her be "tolerated" and continually have to insert herself without reciprocation. I HATE girl drama. I HATE to watch my daughter compete for a friend's attention. I HATE that her idea of friendships are shaped (in some part), by immaturity, amongst girls who don't even REALIZE that they are being exclusive and a bit clique-y. I HATE that G has done this to others, unintentionally (and also out of the exact same immaturity), because she doesn't know how to include two friends who don't know each other very well. I HATE that she didn't just walk away from it all, and do her own thing, or play with her sister, or sit with me so that I could tell her how beautiful and sweet and loyal she is. I HATE that she will grow up thinking that these qualities are dependent upon someone else's ability to notice them in her. I HATE that she doesn't know that her life will be so much fuller and richer, if she isn't trying to prove that she is amazing by hand-tying the yarn on 35 birds nest cookies.
But also, I HATE, that my idea of girls and friendships is that this is going nowhere good, and that it's irredeemable--when G sees a good friend, worth chasing. She doesn't believe that love ISN'T unconditional (yet). I see her walking into heart-break, and she sees only goodness that will come back around, the next time that friend wants her attention and companionship, when she isn't distracted by someone she likes better at the moment. I hate that G is content with the moments that her friends give her; and I am so very bitter over the ones they do not.
I hate that there is a difference between the ways we see and hope for the world.
And on Easter, I am just really thankful that ALL of my baggage is nailed to the cross. Everything that is broken, or terrible, or insecure, or misunderstood. Every bit of girl drama, and image, and the parts of me that think I am really impressing people with the extra effort it takes to hand-craft a nest out of candy melts and chow mein noodles. Do you know that Jesus died on a cross for everything ridiculous, that I turn into the center of my universe? For every act of murder, or warfare, or thievery--there is a woman who brings sin into the world with the simple choice to eat an apple. Or hand-addresses treats to WIN the (imaginary) Easter Housewife Olympics. I am thankful that he redeems all of it--the tears over deformed cake pops, and the attention to absurb details, and the over-spending at Hobby Lobby, and the expectations I have for friendships, and the part of me that still *performs* for others, and the hurt I want to spare my kids, and the bad lessons they will learn, and the terrible examples they will inevitably model for others.
All of it, nailed to the cross. And I bear it no more.
Or at least for a few hours on Easter, until I freak out about how one of the boys is wearing his OLD CROCS to dinner (GASP!), or a kid asks (repeatedly) to watch TV and it makes my eye twitch.
And then I remember it again. All of it. On the cross.
Repeat for a lifetime--or until I meet Jesus face to face, and he personally ushers me into the pearly gates of heaven's Target.