But it serves no purpose

I got my ears pierced when I was eight years old. It was a rite of passage in our family.

At first I only wore studs, but when I got to high school I started wearing big earrings. I think they’re fun and interesting to look at—and I like how they knock at my neck when I move my head. A few years ago, I bought myself a cheap pair of gold hoops with gray tassels hanging off of them.

Unfortunately, they hung so low that if I wore something with a big collar, they would catch on it and fall out. Usually I’d notice and find the missing earring before it was too late, but a few weeks ago I lost one for good. I put the single earring on my desk.

Today, fifteen seconds after throwing it away, I fished it out of the trash can and put it back.

But I couldn’t really tell you why.

I work hard to keep my house spare and neat. It helps me feel less stressed if my surfaces are clean (besides the refrigerator, inside and out. That’s a losing battle). Random junk usually gets relegated to the trash can or to Goodwill, and almost everything serves a purpose, whether it’s purely aesthetic or intentionally functional.

But this earring does nothing for me.

It doesn’t make me think, or cause me to worry, or spark joy or interest. It just is, and that’s the beauty of it.

I don’t have to think about it, or use it, or worry if it disappears. It is useless.

This doesn’t mean that I’m going to start filling my house with useless things, but I am growing to realize that sometimes it’s okay—for me and for others and even for my items—to just be.

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The sole survivor

This one's for the mothers

No one tells you what it’s actually like to give birth.

Sure, there are plenty of encouraging platitudes—”You’ll do great,” “It’s not that bad,” even, “You won’t even remember the pain.” Some people paint the most realistic picture possible, describing big needles, puddles of blood, and weeks of soreness at every step. Everyone tells their own birth story, hoping somehow to encourage you with tales of their own survival.

But at the end of the day, when the contractions start and your first baby’s arrival is imminent, it doesn’t matter how many birthing classes you went to and how many Lamaze videos you watched: No one can accurately describe the battle of giving birth, and the colossal feelings of victory and delight when the wailing baby appears, wrinkled and grumpy and so, so sweet.

You wish you would have known, but somehow, when it’s your turn to talk about it, your description falls short. You can’t quite figure out how to put the miracle into words. But that’s normal.

Because this is motherhood.

And nothing prepares you for motherhood, because some things are too deep to describe.

Motherhood is showing confidence when you are clueless and terrified.
It is exhibiting strength when you are weak and tired.
It is giving when you wish you could take.
It is stepping back to watch the first steps, the first drive, the first dance.
It is surrendering when you wish you were in control.
It is being kind and gentle and supportive even when you do not understand.

Motherhood is a terrifying miracle, an astounding simplicity, a joyous heartbreak. None of us really knows how to “do mothering well.” We just do the best we can, and ask Jesus to please, please guide and protect our sweet babies through to old age.

To the mothers who have babies,
and to those who have lost them,

To the mothers who have raised their own children,
and to the ones who have loved the children they did not bear,

To the mothers who are doing it all alone,
and the ones who are doing it differently,

To the mothers who have no clue what they’re doing,
and are just hoping to survive the next 24 hours,

To the mothers who are strong, and courageous,
and so, so beautiful—that’s all of them—

This one’s for you.

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I asked Curtis (he’s very wonderful) this week when everything would stop being a novelty with Graham. Maybe someday I won’t be excited to see how he looks with a hair cut, or when he takes a few steps without falling over—but for now, everything is all novelty, and I’m 100% okay with that.

Mental Pool Table

For our date last weekend, we played pool and went to the grocery store—fancy, I know.

The pool table that we play on has seen better days. It primarily serves as a snack table for teenagers, which is obvious to anyone who sees the spill stains, crumbs, and threadbare felt. One leg, missing the small rubber foot that keeps the table level, used to be propped up with a sideways piece of copper pipe (key words: Used to).

But we’re not pool sharks, so the ratty old table isn’t a problem. We don’t play for keeps.

As soon as Curtis (he’s very wonderful) broke the rack on Saturday night, every single ball rolled to the right. We didn’t immediately investigate, but after a few turns of balls constantly rolling only to the right side of the table or into the pockets when they should have stopped inches sooner, it was obvious something was wrong. A thorough evaluation revealed that the copper pipe that used to hold up one of the legs was gone. One corner was a good half-inch lower than the other three, hence, the rolling balls.

Since we’d already sunk most of the balls, we decided to finish the game—but before we played again, we jammed a few rubber disks under the low leg to level the table and save us from all the unfair rolling.

The first game didn’t count, and the second game was a draw. Better luck to one of us next time (me, obviously).

*Here is where I want to put a sentence that connects the physical activity of playing pool to the conceptual analogy of a mental pool table. Unfortunately, no such sentence is coming to mind, so this disclaimer-y explanation will have to do.*

Every one of us plays a perpetual game of pool in our minds.

The table is our worldview, how we solve problems, and the story we tell ourselves about our circumstances.

The balls are our circumstances.

At our mental pool tables, just like in the real-life game of pool, we size up scenarios, form perceptions, and make decisions. We choose what seems best and make shots accordingly.

Sometimes, we make the right choice and sink a ball. Other times, we make the wrong choice and the ball goes skidding across the table, just to bounce into another cushion and eventually roll to a dead stop. Bummer. Better luck next time. Learn from experience.

When your pool table is level, clean, and well cared for, it’s easy to maintain a rational perspective on life and the things that happen to you, for instance:

“I got a flat tire on the way home from work—but I have a well-paying job, a warm house, a family that loves me, good friends, and two dogs that are my best, best buds.”

BUT. When your pool table is unbalanced, hitting one ball into several others often causes all of them to start rolling. This translates to even small obstacles becoming big problems:

“I got a flat tire on the way home from work—and I’ll probably be late for dinner and the food will be cold and I’ll fight about it with my spouse and she’ll make me clean up the dog vomit because she’ll be mad at me for being late. And on top of that, my boss gave me a funny look today and I’m pretty sure he’s going to fire me tomorrow and this is all just too much for me and I think I’ll quit and run away to live in a cardboard box on Lower Wacker because I am ALONE IN THE WORLD and EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE.”

Obviously, this is extreme, but you get the picture. We all react to things based on how we see them—and depending on what condition our mental pool table is in, we have rational or irrational reactions.

When you’re struggling with something and you can’t find a solution, stop looking at the balls (your situation) and study the table (your perspective). Maybe it’s slanted.

It’s always worth re-assessing your perceptions and your problem solving habits before addressing a problem.

I haven’t yet felt a cue for a witty caption—I’m chalking it up to eight solid days of gray skies.

The 4 Types of Baby Talkers

Walking around with a baby is a little bit like walking around with a sign overhead that says, “Talk to me! Really! I’m not crazy!”

Graham hasn’t yet learned the societal dictate of avoiding eye contact (an unfortunate expectation that I’m always trying to buck anyways), so whenever someone is close enough to look at, he looks them right in the eye and studies them seriously.

This makes a few people uncomfortable. They look away, become busy examining their nails, or remember an urgent matter they have to text their childhood best friend about—but it delights most people. Eye contact is an open invitation for conversation, and eye contact from a cute baby (biased) (but true), is the equivalent of donuts on a Saturday morning, or the first warm wind of spring. It’s euphoria.

ANYWAYS. When my baby makes eye contact with someone, he elicits a few very predictable responses.

The Grey Elders. “Hi, bud-dy, can I have a smile?” [Reaches arms out for baby, then immediately has to maneuver baby away from dangling jewelry and glasses.] “Oof, you’re an active one, aren’t you? And so solid.” [Holds baby for a few minutes, usually searches for a chair to rock baby in, then hands baby back. Baby smells faintly of perfume for next several hours.]

The Casual Conversationalist. “Oooo, your eyes are so blue! Hello! Yes, hi there! How are you? What did you do today? Is that your mommy?” [Pushes face up close to baby’s face, repeating one or all of the questions, then waits for sign of acknowledgement.] [Baby usually studies the face for a while, then smiles and presses his head into my shoulder.] [Nothing is more precious/melting than the “Baby Head Press.”]

The Baby Snatchers. “Can I hold the baby?” [I hand the baby over, unless it’s a total stranger like the lady last week. Then I keep the baby and smile and say, “No, that’s okay. He’s fine.”] “Anyways, how are you?” [Baby watches me from this unique vantage point of someone else’s arms. I simultaneously engage in every un-sophisticated form of interaction with baby.]

And best for last.

The Teenagers. “Hi Graham! How are you?” [Pats baby on the back. Asks to hold baby. Plays with baby. Gives baby back to me whenever I ask, or keeps baby until he cries.] Babies love kids, even the mostly-grown-up kids. Graham spends a lot of time with teenagers, and he loves them. [Perhaps one of my favorite “baby and teenager” scenarios is the person who, without fail, comes up to Graham, pats him on the head or holds him, and says, “Child.”]

Babies (when they’re not crying) bring out the best in people.

On a more philosophical day, I’d say it’s because the adult human soul longs for purity and innocence, and babies are the epitome of pure innocence.

On a less philosophical day, I’d say it’s because babies are cute and sweet and charming (especially mine).

Either way, it’s a pleasure and a privilege to raise a baby in a community where he is universally known, loved, and interacted with by every single type of person, even the ones I didn’t mention.

We are blessed.

Graham’s favorite part of watching his daddy coach basketball is EITHER chewing on the candy bar wrapper, OR finding little morsels of popcorn under the benches.

Enter 2022

On this episode of Domestic Delight:

• I learn that refinishing a table in the kitchen is not a good idea. In Curtis’ words (he’s very wonderful), “How is it possible that there’s sanding dust even in the back room?”

• Chicago (puppy, not city) has accidents on the floor once a week—better than 3x vomit in one day? I’m not sure on this one. I might chose vomit that I can avoid over urine that I accidentally step in.

• Graham learns how to stand up, and falls over. And stands up, and falls over, stands up, falls over. Babies are a beautiful example of the resilience of the human spirit. I wrote about this a while ago. It’s one of my favorite things to talk about.

• I lose the baby monitor. Hoping I find it when I find my mind . . . Which means the monitor might be a lost cause.

• We watch the Rocky movies for Friday night pizza/movie the past few weeks. Actual transcript from the Rider Household:
  Anneliese: ”Is this just going to be another movie where he trains the whole movie and then fights Apollo Creed at the end?”
  Curtis: “I mean . . . They are boxing movies. Isn’t that the point?”
  Anneliese: “Oh . . .”

• I get an espresso machine. I will be the first to say I’m not an expert, but I can pull a tolerable shot—andsonowI’mconstantlyovercaffeinatedandmybreathalwayssmellslikecoffeeandI’mamasteratcreatingbloblatteartandeverytimeI’mhomewithCurtisIsay”Doyouwantafancydrink”andofcoursehesaysyesbecauseheisaprinceamongmenandthenwedrinklattesandI’mthefanciesthingeverandmaybesomedayI’llhaveagiganticcaffeinecrashandheadachebutfornowIamastarringonmyownTVshow: Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

• Curtis coaches girl’s middle school basketball, and most days I hear the chorus, “Mrs. Rider, Mrs. Rider, we saw your husband yesterday!” It’s pretty fun. :)

• I learn what the interrobang is. Do YOU know what the interrobang is‽

It’s a new year, and it’s time for New Year’s Resolutions—which, for me, typically prove completely ineffective and become an object of shame by the middle of March. That doesn’t mean I don’t usually make them, but in the past I’ve only ever written them on a scrap of napkin that I inevitably lose before the middle of March (probably why the resolutions fail . . . If you can’t remember something, how can you make sure to do it? Refer to the “Baby monitor” entry above).

SO. This year, I have a few resolutions—very few—and in an effort to remember them/achieve them, I’ll tell you what they are. That way, if I succeed, we can celebrate together. And if I fail, I’ll have some public shame to keep me humble.

Resolve: 2022

• Read through the whole Bible. I did this for many years in a row, but for the past few I fell off the bandwagon. I regret that, so I’m starting in on the habit again.

• Publish the next two Finley Pike books (#2 and #3). Book 2 is already in the editing stage of the Editorial Process, and has a soft drop date of late February. Book 3 is currently just a lot of random notes and ideas.

Those are my two main goals. I have a lot more soft goals, but they’re more about developing habits, and I don’t feel the need to tell you what they are. (Do you really want to know how often I plan to clip my nails?) (Just kidding.) (Now you’re not sure if I’m serious or not, right?)

But I have one big conceptual goal that I’m going to work on, in addition to the nuts and bolts goals

In 2022, I want to practice recognizing the difference between urgent and important.

I learned this distinction from a good friend in high school. In a world of urgent, it’s easy to move the important to the back burner, but it’s often not the right choice. Urgency is necessary where safety and injury are involved—”Put on the brake before you drive the car over the cliff”—but in our culture, it’s a much more popular approach to things that aren’t urgent at all: “Check your social media before you get out of bed in the morning, to see what’s happening in the world.”

Learning to distinguish between the two isn’t popular, but practicing discernment between them leads to becoming the intentional, thoughtful person that I want to be.

So this year, I’m remembering that the loudest voices calling for my attention don’t always need it at that exact moment (besides Graham, I do pay attention to him when he yells).

There it is. Anneliese Rider’s 2022 goals.

Check back next year for completion percentage—with sovereign guidance, lots of caffeine, and deep rings under my eyes, we’ll hit 100%. With or without sanity.

New year, same menfolk.
Alternate caption: Which came first, the sweater or the couch?

A Post-Thanksgiving Email

I sent an email to a friend today, and realized I’d included some noteworthy pieces that might be interesting—or at least entertaining—to more than one person:

For Thanksgiving, we went to PA to visit my sister’s family. My sister had a baby boy two weeks earlier. Graham seemed hulking, comparatively. ;)

Other noteworthy items

- Graham is trying to learn how to crawl, eating solid foods, and keeping us pretty busy with his antics. This weekend we had the first real snow here, and I pulled him around the back yard in a sled. So far, parenting = subjecting the child to my whims. We'll see how long that works well . . . haha

- After an entire autumn with 12 dogs (Our dog, 10 puppies, and a friend’s golden retriever), we are down to just 2 again. Chicago, the puppy, recently chewed up a baby spoon and a baby bowl, and also threw up on the floor three times in a row. I think this is what they call "Domestic Paradise."

- In the fall I started selling things on Facebook Marketplace, and have been utterly delighted by how people will buy anything. Really. Actual words I said to Curtis (he’s very wonderful): “People will pay you for your junk, and then take it away for you.”

- When you go out in public with a baby, everybody talks to you. It’s so fun to have a good reason to interact with people. I love how Graham always brings an automatic smile.

- On the flipside, here are a few things that cause irrational grumpiness: Sleep deprivation. When the baby wakes up from a nap early. When the baby wakes up in the middle of the night. When the baby falls asleep on the way home from anywhere and then can’t sleep for his nap. I underestimated how fixated on sleep I would become as a parent.

That’s all, for now. Oh, and of course, a picture.

Newton’s Fourth Law: Give the baby lots of fun toys, and what does he want to play with? The heat vent.

Finley Pike and the SODD

Today I have two exciting pieces of news:

1. Baby Graham started eating regular food this week!

2. My new book came out today! Please splurge and spend $8 on a copy of Finley Pike and the SODD on Amazon, and help me reach 300 sales in the first 24 hours.

Finley Pike and the SODD

Finley is always in detention, but it’s not only because she hates school. Behind her bad attitude is a lonely girl with a hard home life, looking for something she can control. When Dale invites her to go exploring, they stumble onto a band of robbers, and Finley gets an idea. If they can figure out how to turn them in, maybe her mom will notice her!

But when Finley’s scheme leads to a graveyard at midnight, she wonders if she’ll make it out alive. Even worse—will her mom even realize she’s gone?

Fireworks and Fathers

Our city takes the Fourth of July very seriously. The day’s festivities include a parade that draws an audience of around 4,000 people (twice the population of our town), a party in the park, and of course a grand fireworks display.

The city shoots off the fireworks at the airport, and hundreds of people tailgate in parking lots and by businesses around town to get good seats. As dusk falls, the anticipation grows and people blast off their own fireworks as they wait for the real show to start.

Of course, like good citizens, we partook in all the day’s events, rounding out the evening by parking in the local grocery store parking lot and eating cookies while we waited. When it was finally dark enough, the show started with a grand introduction of dozens of fireworks scattered across the night sky.

Because we were parked across the highway, Graham was fine with the distant rumbling. I’m not sure how well he could see the fireworks, but he looked across the field with rapt attention and wide blue eyes.

Apparently, though, the personal firework shows don’t stop when the town firework show starts—in fact, more begin. As we sat on the hood of the car and watched the horizon, oblivious to what was happening in the parking lot near us, someone lit off a peony (the classic firework) a few cars away. It rocketed into the sky and crashed in a gorgeous explosion of green and purple.

A moment later, Graham’s terrified wail started as a whimper and worked up to a fever pitch. He was not impressed by the proximity of the boom.

Curtis (he’s very wonderful) held onto him tightly, saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay, Graham,” and Graham buried his sweet small face into Curtis’s plaid shirt. With his daddy’s arms wrapped around him, Graham’s tears subsided. For the rest of the fireworks show, Curtis held his hand over Graham’s head, covering his ear every time the parking lot pyromaniacs lit off another blast. He was completely nonplussed by the rest of the display.

Hopefully, Graham didn’t suffer any permanent trauma from his first fireworks show—in fact, hopefully it taught him instead that he is safe and secure in his dad’s arms.

Perhaps the worst-lit selfie ever taken.

Re-entry

Life is full of seasons. Duh. I don’t have to tell you that.

Some seasons are full of the type of day when your head springs off the pillow in the morning, and you sing in the shower, and a long lost rich relative sends you money in the mail, and random strangers smile at you as you skip down the sidewalk bathed in a pool of fresh sunshine.

Other seasons are marked by days when the shower handle breaks off in your hand while the water is stuck on cold, and you discover there’s no milk left after you pour yourself a bowl of cereal, and you get a flat tire on the way to work, and when you finally get there you find out your boss handed out raises while you were gone but you weren’t there so you didn’t get one.

My past year has certainly had both seasons—365 days worth of tears, laughter, and embarrassing experiences.

It’s covered more than 300 early morning alarms, long walks and talks, and dinners that are usually on the go. It’s been enough time to form a handful of good friendships, get a new job, have a new baby (!), go on a tiny vacation, spend time with family, and watch four seasons pass in colorful splendor.

Here’s to another year of seasons, with (hopefully) more blogging to document the days.

Curtis (he’s very wonderful) had to wait 25 years to see the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. Baby Graham got to see it at 23 days old.