I think He’s doing it again - speaking to me in my dreams. I don’t clearly understand what to do. Please read with a prayerful heart, and tell me what you think. Perhaps I am being too sensitive, or perhaps you may help make things clear for me.
I lay down this afternoon to try to gather up strength before we spend time together tonight as a family. I had two things strongly on my mind before I slept.
The first was prompted by a book I’ve been reading which briefly alluded to the ills and excesses of the gilded age, and the mistreatment of the immigrant and the resulting deadly poverty of many children. The protagonist of the story acknowledges that something must be done, but does not seem to take any direct action so far as I have read.
I was also thinking about my son. I can never explain to anyone what joy fills my heart when I see him. I think about the miserable pregnancy I survived with him, and how he fought for life in the womb - my little survivor. His mere breathing fills me with joy. I fell asleep looking at his pink cheeks softened by sleep, and I felt peaceful.
Immediately upon falling asleep I felt an aggressive seizing of my attention. The dream felt erratic. I was at a hotel with my family, and in a separate room was my friend Cheryti and her family.
My husband moved the refrigerator in our room, and discovered beneath it a large hole leading into another room. I asked him if he felt it was safe to stay there with the hole in our room, and he responded only if you feel comfortable letting the enemy in to kill, steal, and destroy.
We walked down to the lobby to check out and complain, and there was a disturbance. An armed man ran through the hotel lobby, and my children were not near me. I was so afraid I ran out front after my children. I discovered the armed man was holding a gun to one of Cheryti’s children. (I have to stop and say it wasn’t truly one of her five children, but one of the children in her Ohana ministry.)
I began wailing. I chased him down and pulled the child out from his grasp. He began chasing my own children, and as I looked around the parking lot there were children everywhere of every color. They were crying out to me in so many languages I felt dizzy from overstimulation. I understood all of them. They were crying from so many dangers. I began snatching children close to me herding and sheltering them. Then everything began to swirl (I actually think this is because I have a wretched migraine in real life), and a stern almost angry voice commanded “Help the children Dee Dee.”
And then I woke up. All the nerves of my body tingling and hurting, my throat swelling, a migraine oppressing.
Did I push my self too far before sleeping? I am prone to worry. Is God speaking to me?
I prayed and asked God immediately if there was something wrong with Cheryti’s five children, and I felt immediately that he spoke to me no.
I then prayed and asked whether this dream was from him, and I cannot be as certain, but I felt perhaps he said “it is me.”
I then prayed and asked what could this mean? Do you want me to be a foster mother or adoptive mother? And I felt nothing. No voice. No assurance.
And then as I sat and let my nerves (literal nerves not my sensibilities) reset I keep hearing the refrain “speak out for the children.”
I am distressed. I don’t know if this is all in my head. I rather suspect not. But I honestly don’t know what children, and what needs to be said.
Please if you have wise advice, counsel, or interpretation I’d like to hear from you.
My dryer has been acting wonky for about a year now. It started taking 2 sometimes 2.5 cycles for a load of clothes to dry. With four people in the house including a toddler who is part monkey we produce a lot of laundry. When I was sick last week the mountain became quite overwhelming.
BUT! I was struck with a brilliant idea. I will take it all to the laundry mat and finish it all at once!
I reasoned with myself; it can't be as bad as I remember. Surely it doesn't cost that much more than just paying for the water and electricity at home? There may be a bit of lint in the air, but I'm no snob. It would be so nice to have it all done! The children and I need to get out of the house anyway so this will be a fun adventure..
In some languages, adventure is the same word as torture.
I rounded up all the quarters I could find throughout the house, not exempting Sofie's college fund piggy bank. Then I loaded the car with my 8 baskets full of laundry (representing 2-3 washer loads each). Sofie assured me it was the nastiest smell she has ever smelled since the day daddy left milk in the car overnight. I have smelled far worse from her, but I held my tongue. After that, I stopped at the grocery store to get $20 in one dollar bills.
When we arrived at the laundry mat I was thrilled to find it empty! I unloaded the baskets of clothes, and settled the children down with their snacks. An attendant came out of his office and waved hello to me while I changed my dollars into quarters. After filling the first washer with clothes the attendant stepped out of a back room and informed me that their equipment wasn't working after the storms the night before, and that the lights were on because of the back-up generator.
I was tempted to ask why the door was unlocked. I was tempted to ask why the "open" sign was lit up. I was tempted to ask why he didn't stop me while I was unloading my clothes from the car into his building. Ah, but I smarter than to engage incompetent people. I determined that I would not be dissuaded from my task. Onward and upward! I drove to the next city, Waxahachie, and stumbled upon another laundry mat offering "free drying all week." "Wow," I thought. "They've probably hiked up the washing price, but how bad can it be?"
Very bad.
After unloading the car and children into the packed out washateria, I set out my large cup of quarters, singled out a row of 8 washers, poured in my soap, loaded up my clothes, and went to pay. Oh! The machines only take a laundry card. I glanced around and read the giant sign on the wall. "Purchase laundry card here - Free dryers all week." So I walked up to the wall, and read the tiny sign. "Machine only accepts $1 and $5 bills." Hmm. I turned back around to see my children scampering off to the scuzziest looking arcade that was likely covered in more germs than 6 flags over TX. Then a friendly woman tells me "I knew you were going to be upset when you read the sign. I saw you walk in with your cup of quarters."
Can't beat Southern hospitality.
So with all my family's clothes doused in soap and left vulnerable to the charming citizens of Waxahachie I decided to drive to the bank and exchange my quarters for dollars. Bank of America is right around the corner - perfect. Inside I drag the kids covered in lint, old candy bits, and general filth and we approach the counter. "We don't accept change." Excuse me? I'm befuddled. "You don't accept American currency in exchange for American currency?" "No. I'm sorry M'am. We stopped accepting change years ago." By that I can only assume she means I am an idiot for even asking such a lame question. Luckily, Walmart has no such qualms and was happy to exchange my change for a price. Down to $18.75 I rush back to the laundry mat and find that my clothes are safe EXCEPT for the load of reds which I see is now in the possession of a middle-aged woman with a little boy helping her load them into a garbage bag.
"Um, excuse me. Those are my panties you're putting in your bag." I said with as much seriousness as I could muster. "No, they're not." Honestly, I didn't want to get into the specifics. I almost told her how I pulled the tag off that one pair of panties and that's how the hole came to be in the seam, but I just felt SOME THINGS SHOULD STAY PRIVATE. Do I give in and let the lady steal my clothes, or do I bring out the crazy? So I grabbed the bag, and shouted "I'm sure that it gets real confusing up here with so many people washing clothes, but these are all the panties I own in the world and I am not dragging these kids back to the mall to buy panties until I lose at least 50 lbs!" Sigh. I should have told her about the tag.
Finally, all my clothes are being washed. I decide to check on the kids who I've left to a certain sense of Lord of the Flies with all the other children of the laundry mat. I feared for them having been brought up in such a quiet and stable home. As I rounded the corner to the arcade, I found my one year old pinning down a three year old Hispanic girl BY THE NECK, and and dangling what I am assuming was once her lollipop between his teeth. I didn't have to look for my daughter. She bounced up to me and proudly exclaimed for everyone's listening pleasure (she has a way of talking to a whole room all at once) "I got to play the race car game. That boy had a quarter, and he said he'd give it to me if I showed him my boobies." What mother wouldn't be proud?
Doing my best to tie my children to my hips with muttered threats and a leash I fashioned out of a sash, I changed the clothes from the washers to the dryers. Their free dryers. Let me back up and explain that there are at least 100 washing machines in this building, and a mere 20 dryers. Perhaps the dryers hold a bigger capacity you wonder? If ever a place could cure you of optimism. The dryers hold about half the capacity of the washers, and they run in 10 minute increments.
Just to keep things interesting the dryers have this quirk. They're stacked by 2's. So when you open the top dryer, the bottom dryer also stops. This wouldn't be a problem if you put both your loads in at about the same time, or say if your clothes were in both dryers. No. This is survival of the fittest, and 100 washing machines waiting on 20 dryers. As my sanity slowly unraveled I began to flirt with the idea of opening my dryers out of spite.
There was a cute elderly woman who didn't have time to wait on a dryer of her own so she kept opening everyone's dryers and throwing in a stray pair of pants, a sock, a camisole. I got her EEE bra, but who am I to complain?
When finally I'd had enough whining from the kids and other patrons of this fine establishment, I unloaded my 19 loads of semi-wet laundry and humbly packed them into the car. As I was bringing the last load out to my car, my one-year-old son on my hip in a football hold, I was stopped by a woman who said "Awww he's so cute." "Thanks. He's ready to go home." I said trying to excuse myself for not stopping to chat.
"Is he spacious?" She asked me with a big smile. "Spacious? Um. I'm sorry. I don't know what that means." Rolling her eyes, she muttered "Laundry mat people. SPACIOUS MEANS IT HAS A LOT OF SPACE. Is he spacious?"
...
"Do you mean my car?" I asked with bewilderment. "Yes. Is he spacious?" I couldn't even answer the question. I just told her that people don't typically refer to vehicles as "he."
I drove home, windows down, questioning my lot in life, wondering at what point my sanity had dribbled away down the drain. When did I become the idiot that someone talks to slowly and loudly? My thoughts were drowned out by a police siren. The policeman who pulled me over for littering said he figured it was a kid throwing underwear out the car, but either way I needed to put a stop to it. He only gave me a warning. I kind of wish it said "No more underwear out the window." That would be a FB picture for sure.
I came home, and recounted the whole story to my sympathetic husband. He helped me to see that my whole day was spacious. Spacious being one of those special names that people come up with for their children: a combination of special and precious. The laundry-mat is spacious (so is the bank for that matter). I shall never grace it's hallowed walls again. I have learned its timeless message and I shall never forget it - it's always as bad as you remember.
You'll have to jump in the middle of this story. I turned 30 this year. I joined a gym. My friends call it "bringing sexy back."
I'd settle for a lot less.
Every time I go to the gym I do the same thing. I walk into the women's restroom, check to make sure my hair is tied down well and that there is nothing conspicuous on my clothing from 2 grubby children and a messy car, and I weigh in. Then I walk up the stairs and choose a cardio machine to assault for 30 minutes or so.
Last week I arrived at a busy time, and the only machines open were a stair-stepping machine which usually reduces me to a sweating, quivering, crying husk within 5 minutes, and an elliptical sandwiched between a woman with a hacking cough (I have worked out near her a dozen times and always HACK COUGH SPIT) and a man too handsome for his own good.
Anyway, I figured awkward and annoyed had to be better than being carried out to my car on a stretcher. So I wiped down my machine, and pushed Quick Start. "Target Heart Rate" Still pumping. "How much do you weigh?" Nobody's business. "How old are you?" ... Can you believe I looked over my shoulder to see if Mr. Handsome was looking?
29. I typed 29! I may as well be 15 for all the maturity I felt.
I don't know what happened. I stuffed myself into pants that are older than my children and a slightly used tshirt of M's, drove my mom car, wrangled my two wild monkeys into the nursery, faced the humiliation of publicly entering my weight, and then could not bring myself to tell a machine and a random man that I was 30 years old.
As I walked in place for 30 minutes working up a sweat and trying to ignore the ads for pizza delivery flashing across the screens, I contemplated what all this said about me. Am I too old for what little I've accomplished? Am I too concerned with what others think? Maybe not enough?
In a way I felt a solidarity with most other women. I turned 30 with a fair amount of dread and had now taken up lying about it. Perhaps there is a somewhat secret desire to not drop pounds as I work out, but to peel back years of my life.
In any case, I have plenty of time left at the gym to ruminate on my odd behavior.
Say a prayer for the lady with the hacking cough. Seriously. I don't know if my patience will outlast her cough.
