JenHatmaker, Author at Jen Hatmaker

Some Things I Wish Would Go Away

Posted on March 19, 2014 by JenHatmaker

I like to think I’m an easy person, that I can flex and flow. I’m not wound super tight. For example, last week during Spring Break, it occurred to me somewhere around Thursday that none of my children had taken a shower that week. Do you see what I’m saying? I’m chill like that.

But there are a few things that I cannot handle. My threshold has been reached and I could become that crazy person who screams at the Barista because her half-caf is the wrong temperature. High maintenance over-priced hipster coffee is not my issue, but some other things are. I give you a handful of things I wish would go away:

The Frozen Soundtrack

If you have a daughter between the ages of 4-12, I do not even need to explain this. How can I help you understand my despair? Well, perhaps this picture of Remy’s bedroom door that faces our front entry (you’re welcome, guests) will help you understand what we’re dealing with:

Every word to “Let It Go” transcribed, including exclamation marks, all caps, and melodrama.

Now maybe, perhaps, I mean I don’t know but I’m speculating that if it was just listening to “Let it Go” on a continuous loop, I might be able to handle it, but what I am actually hearing is REMY’S rendition of “Let it Go” on a continuous loop, and I love that child within an inch of her life, but she does not have a future in composition. She feels differently about her musical potential and has been asking my friends lately what she had to do to “get on a stage,” to which I whisper under my breath, “Join debate.” Bless. All I’m saying is, if that Frozen CD “gets lost” or “gets scratched” or “get shattered with a hammer,” I expect you to look the other way. I am a woman filled with the power of the Holy Spirit, but this is one area even God’s strength cannot reach.

Loud Phone Talkers in Airports

I’ve been assaulted on my last four or five trips by this breed of person. And reader, I don’t mean the ordinary Mom who is quietly talking to her children before she flies to Minneapolis for a sales conference. I’m talking about the guy with the phone and the decibels and the clear disregard for his fellow airport compatriots and is all so then I was like, listen bro, if I wanted to move to Detroit, I would freaking pack my bags and move to Detroit, I mean, this is my sales territory and if Dennis wants to move in on it, then we can throw down until he steps off. I’ll say that to his face, bro. What a wang nugget!

I feel like I am taking crazy pills.

Dear Loud Phone Talker at Airport Gate, this is a small space. Look at us all in here. It’s basically like we’re sharing a bedroom. We are your roommates quietly doing our homework and reading our textbooks and you are tempting us toward mob violence. We are a peaceful people ordinarily, LPT, but if you don’t stop the piercing noises coming out of your mouth hole, Dennis is going to be the least of your worries. WE will throw down if YOU do not step off, bro. Yes, us, these peace-loving moms and uncles and young children and elderly grandmothers sitting near you. You don’t know what we’re capable of.

Let me tell you something: If airplanes start allowing cell phone service during flights, that is the first clear evidence of end times.

Phones That Cannot Be Dropped

You know what? Hi, Apple. Well aren’t you the cat’s meow. You got us. You got us good. We belong to you. We cannot live without you. Our phones and tablets and computers and apps are all synced, and now we’re locked into your updates and newer versions and latest technology, because OOPS, the old technology doesn’t work anymore and unless you upgrade within six months, your phone will turn to salt like Lot’s Wife.

And about this phone. Any phone that is so precious that it cannot handle one tiny drop on the floor is a menace to society. What do you think we are? A People Who Never Trip, Drop Things, or Bang Into Stuff? You are not a phone for humans; you are a phone for stationary plant life. You are only good for cacti. You are small and slippery. It is your lot in life to fall on floors at which point you shatter right alongside our replacement budget.

I may break you, but you will not break me. Seven weeks and counting with this baby.

You ought to be better than this, man. You are weak. How am I supposed to tweet about the Loud Phone Talker in the Airport now? My right index finger is permanently damaged from your glass shards, and these ten fingers are how I make a living. Thank you very much for ruining my career.

Middle School

I’ve now been in middle school four times and I have two delightful more trips through this quagmire of awkwardness. Hey Middle School Teachers, YOU DESERVE FORTY MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR. Bless it all. These children are all possessed. Reader, tell me there is no worse three-year period in the human experience than 6th-8th grade. It was unquestionably my worst stretch, and now I have one survivor, two soldiers in its trenches, and two more in the innocent, precious world of elementary school still.

I told Sydney (who has struggled and fumbled and tripped all the way through MS), “Baby, these are your worst days. You are horrible, your friends are awful, your body is a nightmare, your brain is impaired, your peers are lunatics and sociopaths, your emotions are a trainwreck, and you are convinced that your parents are hopeless morons. You could be a Prisoner of War and have a better experience than three years of middle school. Just put your head down and get through it. High school is better, college is the best, and then you grow up and pay bills and then you die. I love you. Good talk.”

And I believe you all know Caleb is in sixth grade. Jesus, give us strength, for this one testeth the patience of our wills and I beseech thee to grant him either frontal lobe development to increase his favor or strong legs to outrun us, for thine is the kingdom but as for me and my house, we are not above woe and wrath.

Can you even handle this picture? His cuteness and charm is currently saving his life.

These are my current hot buttons. How about you, Dear One Who Only Has So Much Patience? What are some things you wish would go away?

Technology for Morons

Posted on February 25, 2014 by JenHatmaker

Listen, friends. You know I care about the struggles of this world. I have deep thoughts and big feelings about important issues like orphan care and human trafficking. I realize the world is suffering and we only have so many days on this planet and if we aren’t careful we’ll just waste them all and then die. But I just have to add one more tragedy onto the pile:

Trying to figure out technology by myself.

Is it so much to want to listen to Pandora on my TV while I’m “working” (Facebook, Twitter, articles, blogs, Pinterest, Amazon, and Voxer certainly DO count as work. They take time and energy, which I am expending and thus am working on them. I don’t know why I have to explain this).

The problem is that I am dumb in these areas and Brandon is smart, so he does all this “setting up” and “programming” and “downloading” then he gives me tutorials while I am “working” so its hard to “listen” and plus there are so many buttons and they make me sad. There are usually kids around who are like freakish little technology elves who yank the remote(s) out of my hands and make the music and the shows and the movies magically appear.

But the elves were all at school and Brandon was leading “staff meeting” and wouldn’t answer my text about the Pandora crisis because he is incredibly selfish, and I was left to my own devices, which I’ve tried to explain is always the beginning of bad things.

So I went to my one-stop shop for important news, tutorials, advice, and information: Facebook. “Will Facebook please help me get Pandora to come out of my TV? Because I’m listening to the Ben Howard station on my iPhone speaker and it sounds slightly worse than a radio transmission from a World War 2 plane.” I will sum up the advice I received:

Turn on your Blutooth through your Smart Samsung with the VeVo app and run it through Chromecast (THE BEST!) and pull up the Pandora app on your phone/Direct TV/Apple TV then push the menu button or the Extra Button or the App Store and there you will find the Hub button and also the arrow button to select your device, and additionally the things with the Bluray and Xbox and the HDMI settings. And obviously, if it is FiOS, try widgets (obvs).

Because Jesus is still in the miracle business, I clicked a bunch of buttons and found some special place on the TV to download Pandora and login with our account info. Perhaps you remember me mentioning that Brandon does these things, so all our “account information” is somewhere in his brain. Of course, I sent a second emergency text to access this knowledge, but he was still locked in a quagmire of self-regard with his “work” and ignored me again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, sleep on the couch, man.

So I used my mental powers to imagine what his login choices were. Here is the important place to mention the absolute suckfest it is to use the arrow buttons on your remote to “type” in long bits of information on a virtual keyboard. Let’s see, when I need to use the @ sign or a . or an uppercase letter, I have to click down to access a different screen which is like every fourth letter and then FOR THE LOVE OF TINA TURNER I hit “enter” on the wrong character and have to go to the “delete” key and back up four letters and apparently it is too complicated for the TV to have a “.com” button and would rather us switch screens four times to enter that rarely used bit of information, so it takes me approximately 73 hours to enter Brandon’s email address. (Really, dude? You have to include your first AND last name? Do you know how angry I get every time I have to fill out your long email address on the 983,343 forms I’ve filled out for our children since they were born? Never mind. You don’t even know what I’m talking about. They just magically get enrolled, signed up, sent to camp, sent on field trips, adopted, medically released, educationally assessed, treated, registered, and logged into the system. You may be the Technology Person, but I AM THE FORM FAIRY.)

So because this little game was a GUESSING GAME, after finally entering his email address which required approximately 91 buttons, I tried a password because this man may be a smart about these things but he is a Predictable Password-Picker, so I knew I had three to choose from. But after entering the email and password and hitting “log in,” if it is wrong because some helpless, ignored wife is trying to break into your account, it reverts you back to GROUND ZERO and you have to start over and there was weeping and gnashing of teeth and also curses and damnations.

Of course the correct password was the third one I tried out of three, so I basically turned old and shriveled while hunting and pecking for forever, thinking, you know what? We have figured out how to fuel cars with corn, and we can’t do better than this? Why don’t our TV’s have Siri? Do they hate her? She IS a terrible speller and subpar listener, but I would like to be able to say to my TV, “TV, please figure out how to play my Pandora. Thank you and have a nice day.”

But then a miracle happened. I finally entered the stuff correctly, and Pandora popped up on my TV. It was, certainly, how Peter must have felt when he walked on water. These are identical scenarios. I rescinded all the bad thoughts I’d been directing at Brandon who wasn’t there for me in my time of need and sent him the good news because sometimes I need him to know that I am a Smart Person and Have Useful Skills and Can Do Things:

This reaction was underwhelming. I have to praise my own self with Emojis?
It’s like he doesn’t even understand me.

I see my future as a grandma for whom technology has long outpaced her and it is terrifying, since that is basically who I already am. I will be like my dad who once told me my website “wasn’t on his internet.” My people will make fun of me and text each other the questions I ask and take dibs on who has to help me next time. Brandon already can’t stand me in this department. (You guys, as I type this, my phone is blowing up with all the events and appointments Brandon has been putting into our iCalendar the last 10 minutes. Bless him. How on earth have we stayed married for 20 years? I just fielded a phone call from my dentist about a missed appointment this morning because I lost my paper calendar two weeks ago and have no idea where I am supposed to be for the rest of 2014.)

So as technology marches onward, someday I’ll be that baffled, confused grandma who is a recurring character on “When Parents Text” and Brandon will probably have lost his mind and I will have no music or emails or whatever newfangled thing the young kids will have invented. But you know what?

I made my TV play Pandora LIKE A BOSS today. Don’t cry for me yet, Argentina.

Worst End of School Year Mom Ever

Posted on May 30, 2013June 21, 2023 by JenHatmaker

You know the Beginning of School Enthusiasm? When the pencils are fresh and the notebooks are new and the kids’ backpacks don’t look like they lined the den of a pack of filthy hyenas? Moms, remember how you packed innovative and nutritional lunches and laid clothes out the night before and labeled shelves for each child’s work and school correspondence and completed homework in a timely manner?

I am exactly still like that at the end of school, except the opposite.

We are limping, limping across the finish line, folks. I tapped out somewhere in April and at this point, it is a miracle my kids are still even going to school. I haven’t checked homework folders in three weeks, because, well, I just can’t. Cannot. Can. Not. I can’t look at the homework in the folder. Is there homework in the folder? I don’t even know. Are other moms still looking in the homework folder? I don’t even care.

Last signature: April 26th. I’m good at other things.

I feel like any sort of school energy required at this point is pure oppression, like the universe is trying to destroy me. I’m so tiiiiiiiiired and I have five kids and that is just too many to educate well. I can only handle around two, so I’m going with Sydney and Caleb because they both like to read and the other three are just going to have to enroll in Life Skills Class one day and develop a trade.Yesterday Remy brought her books to me at bedtime – an hour notable for its propensity to incite rage and trauma – and chirped, “We need to read for 20 minutes!” and a little part of my soul died.

“No, we don’t have to read tonight.”
“YES WE DO!!! MRS. BURKE SAID!!! WE HAAAAVE TO!!!”
“We already read.”
“NO WE DIDN’T!!! YOU ARE FAKING ME, MOM?”
“When I talk to you during the day, that’s like reading. You have to listen to the words I am saying and then make sense of them. It’s really hard work for you. It’s called auditory reading. We’ve been practicing all day. I’ll write the minutes down in your log.”

My friend Glennon over at Momastery described nighttime reading like this: “The little one wants to ‘help read’ her book. So, let’s see. It takes her about six minutes to sound out each word, and so if the book is one hundred words, well, I don’t specialize in math but I am telling you that I am stuck in that room FOREVER. It feels like I will be reading that book with Amma until I die.”

UNTIL WE DIE. Children should not be allowed to learn to read until they are already good at it. And why do we have to do this at bedtime when I’m one click away from becoming that scary under-the-bed-mother in “Mama” (GO TO BED OR I AM ACTUALLY GOING TO DIE AND THEN HAUNT YOU FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE AS A TERRIFYING CLOWN). I know having an emerging reader is exciting. Because of the reading! And the literacy! But at the end of the school year, when I’ve logged approximately 688 million hours with such gripping plots like The mother and the brother went to the store, which takes 12 minutes to decode, then I have to look at the ceiling and sing hymns in my brain to get through it.

Then Ben tells me Tuesday that he needs a Ben Franklin costume for the Living History Museum today, and I’m like what fresh hell is this?? I have no idea how I missed the correspondence on this (because I’m not checking backpacks is just a theory), but Brandon is the Costume and Project Parent and I am the Daily Grinder, which is a division of labor we agreed on to ensure our kids actually graduate one day and move out, but he is out of town on a mancation, so this is on me. I cannot even handle signing a folder in late May; a colonial costume is cause for full, unrestrained despair.So Ben went to school like this today, and there is no way this will ever not be a part of his childhood. Please note my scarf hanging out the bottom of his vest, as well as the soccer socks stretched over his Adidas pants. Just whatever, man.

“Mom, I should’ve picked a black character. Like Abraham Lincoln.” Bless it.

My shame was somewhat mitigated when I saw a kid wearing a random t-shirt and jeans with a pair of swim goggles around his neck (Michael Phelps) and another girl with a piece of paper taped to her shirt with her character’s name written in marker. I caught the eyes of their moms and was all solidarity, you guys.Teachers, we need to make a deal that after April testing, we don’t have to do anything else. You don’t. I don’t. I don’t care if you watch movies in class five days a week and take four recesses a day. I mean, Caleb had to bring an About Me poster with five school days left in the year. In September, this might have produced something noteworthy, with pictures perhaps, even some thoughtful components to describe his winning qualities, but as we’ve used up all our bandwidth, we yanked trash out of our actual trash can, glued it to a poster, and called it a day. I am not exaggerating when I tell you this is the very most we can do on May 29th. This is our best work:

Note the caveman labels: DRINK, MOTORCYCLE, GAME, SHOP, FOOD.
End of school hard.

The emails coming in for All Of The Things – class gift, end of year letters, luncheon signup, party supplies, awards ceremonies, pictures for the slide shows, final projects – are like a tsunami of doom. They are endless. I mean, they will never ever end. There is no end of it. I will never finish and turn it all in and get it to the (correct) Room Mom and get it all emailed and I am pretty sure the final week of school will never be over and this is the end for me.Brandon:

“You don’t have to do all that, you know. Just blow it off.”

Me, staring blankly:

“Well, what a lovely thought you’re having there in your brain. How nice for you to be thinking that thought. I want to live in your imaginary world where my failure to do the School Stuff doesn’t mean our kid is the only one not wearing a purple shirt or didn’t have his pictures in the slideshow or didn’t bring in a handmade card for his teacher like every other student. I’ll just ‘blow it off’ and our kids can work it out with their therapists later.”

“Touchy.”

“You don’t even know about all this, man.”

So, Mom out there sending Lunchables with your kid, making her wear shoes with holes because we’re.almost.there, practicing “auditory reading” with your 1st grader, I got your back, sister. We were awesome back in October; don’t you forget that. We used to care, and that counts for something. Next year’s teachers will get a fresher version of us in August, and they won’t even know the levels of suckage we will succumb to by May. Hang in there, Mama. Just a few more days until summer, when approximately 19 minutes into our glorious respite from homework, liberated from the crush of it all, ready to party like it’s 1999, our precious children, having whooped and celebrated and “graduated” and squealed all the way home will announce:

“I’m bored.”

Just in case you think this is “anti-teachers”, you might want to check out what I wrote last month: Dear Teachers Everywhere. TEACHERS RULE. We ALL crossed the finish line together. Cheers!

Quirky

Posted on December 12, 2011 by JenHatmaker

About this time of year, I become terribly enamored with people’s End of Year Lists shared on the interwebs (Top Ten Books I Read in 2011, Top Five Influencers in My Life This Year, Top Twenty Songs that Mattered in 2011). These blogs and articles discuss issues that matter, helping humanity evolve into a kinder, braver species. They give readers edifying information, important thinkers to listen to, profound books to read, noteworthy leaders to follow. These writers take their platforms and use their influence for great good. I admire them so much.

I’m joining their ranks, but with *slightly* less necessary information.

People, I have issues, and I believe it is time to air them. I’ve covered plenty of serious material on this blog, like this and this and this. I might have even tricked some readers into believing I operate only in deep thoughts and serious scholarship. Some of you haven’t recovered from my last post, when my family jumped off Santa’s sleigh and half the world came apart at the seams (let it never be said that I don’t employ a healthy amount of melodrama). So it’s time for some lighter fare, or as one of my commenters said on a previous blog about adoption: “You are the worst writer I’ve ever seen! This is exactly what I would expect from a girl from Texas, land of big hair bows and empty brains.” Good reader, I shall dabble in that of which you speak.

Here’s the deal: I’m plagued by a few idiosyncrasies, certain quirks, if you will. I exhibit some behaviors and tendencies that cause people to say, “Really? Get a grip.” I’m daring to believe there are more of you out there, and hear me say right up front: I expect you to offer some quid pro quo at the end of this little piece, because nothing fuels our eccentricities more than another human saying, “You think that’s weird? I’ve saved all my toenail clippings since 1991.”

So without further ado, I give you: Jen’s Five Top Quirks of 2011 (ok, and forever):

1. I’ve let on that I’m not a hovering Mama. My kids slide down banisters and build skateboard ramps and shoot each other with airsoft guns. I parent this behavior by saying, “Don’t cry about it if you get hurt. Or cry in your room where I can’t hear you.” But I have two issues that make me a candidate for Most Neurotic, Controlling Mom Ever: my kids’ sleep and their body temperature.

Since the day they were born, I’ve been a sleep Nazi. I count their hours. I watch the clock. When someone with credentials said, “Children needed ten hours of sleep at night. Believe me”…I did. I believed. I’m a believer. I enjoy my true comfort zone when they get twelve hours. I spaz out – one might say irrationally – when bedtime boundaries get pushed past my liking: “OHMYWORD. It’s 10:13pm and Gavin is still up. We might as well keep him home tomorrow, because he will not be able to lift his head from exhaustion.” I am a freak about a good night’s sleep. A full freak.

Also? I have a very weird fixation about their body temperature. Are you hot? Are you cold? Are you feeling chilly? Are you overheating? Do you need a coat? Where is your coat? Give me your coat. Are you hot? Take off your undershirt. Do you need some water? Do you need to sit in the shade? Do you need to sit in the sun? Do you have enough blankets? Is this blanket too heavy? If you get hot, push this blanket down. If you get cold, here is an extra blanket. Are you hands cold? Are your feet hot? You need a hat. Put on this hat. You can’t go out if you don’t wear this hat. Take off your hat; it’s too hot outside.

After asking Ben about his heat level 28 times from the sidelines at his soccer game, my friend Tonya was like, “Oh my gosh, Jen! Crazy alert! Leave him alone! You are even freaking me out.” I believe she was one second away from slapping me across the face.

I evidently don’t care a whit about other issues, for example, safety or ingesting poisons. This clearly doesn’t bother me:

“Don’t worry, Babe. The eleven-year-old is in charge.”

My kids could jump from a second-story window onto a mattress below while testing the feasibility of wind-resistant capes/umbrellas, and I believe my only concern would be if they were getting too hot or if was getting too close to bedtime.

2. For nearly my entire adult life, I’ve lived in Austin, “Live Music Capital of the World.” We are chock-full of serious musicians and indy singer-songwriters. We have actual producers and artists in our immediate friend circle. I can listen to interesting, unique, creative music any night of the week at two-dozen different venues. Austin hosts ACL and SXSW, two of the best music festivals in the country. This is a city where musical taste matters and is evaluated as a potential character flaw.

I love Top 40.

Like, love it. The sillier, the boppier, the more likely a twelve-year-old girl will have their poster on her walls, the higher the band is on my Love List. If it’s in Tiger Beat, I’m down. Almost every song I love ends up on a Kidz Bop CD. My musical preferences are fully juvenile and unsophisticated. My friends groove to bands called My Morning Jacket and Fleet Foxes, discussing the genius of the songwriting and creative brilliance. You know what I love? A sixteen-year old covering a Bruno Mars song on American Idol. (My friend Andy is a musician’s musician, and when Brandon mentioned my AI obsession and Andy gave me that look, I yelled at Brandon, “Why did you out me! I want him to take me seriously and now he pities me!”) Sydney, my sixth grader, and I were talking to a friend who casually mentioned Maroon 5 was coming to Austin, and we screamed in unison, “OH MY GAH!!!!”

Yes, I turn the channel when the raunchy fare comes on, and even I cannot listen to K$sha, but Flo Rida? Get in my ears. And don’t mind me while I dance and sing at the top of my lungs. Whatever. This is my jam, keep me partying till the a.m. Yall don’t understand, make me throw my hands in the ayer, ay-ayer, ayer, ay-ayer…

3. This is unfortunate, because I’ve gone and put five kids in this family, but I have a teeny, tiny issue with sound. I call it Noise Pollution, and it makes me a little bit of a crazy person. White, background noise has been known to make me unravel like a lunatic. My family has been carrying on, just going about their business, talking to each other with a show on the TV and living a normal life, when all of a sudden, with no warning or even any red flags indicating an impending meltdown, I’ve flown into their midst like the Wicked Witch snatching remote controls out of hands, turning off every beeping, clicking, humming, buzzing, ticking electronic or instrument offending me, yelling at everyone about appropriate sound levels and demanding to know if they think causing deafness and anxiety in other human beings is acceptable. Usually, six bewildered people look back at me with mouths hanging open, as it might appear the punishment did not fit the crime.

Except that it so did.

The amount of sound trapped in my car between kids + music has actually made me consider sticking knitting needles into my eardrums. Once, the unceasing noise enclosed in the small space of my car pushed me to such despair, I pulled over on the side of I-35, locked my children in the car, walked fifty feet away and sat in the grass bawling, while my kids pressed their faces to the windows mouthing, “MOMMY! MOMMY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MOMMY?!”

I cannot write one word, not one, if there is a single decibel of sound in the room. What? Try a little quiet Adele in the background? Are you trying to sabotage my career? Because that is what would happen. I would start typing song lyrics and lose fifteen minutes thinking about how to kidnap Adele and lock her in my closet and make her sing to me whenever I just feel like rolling in the deep because no one in my house understands me. I need an empty, dead silent house to eek out a ten-word sentence, so when “someone” who lives here with me, who doesn’t go to school and is sometimes home during the day when the quiet space is possible keeps asking me questions like how do you spell in lieu of and did you put that thing in our shared iCalendar and I’m thinking about getting a new tattoo, I might accidentally come freaking unglued and threaten to move into an apartment. (This scenario is hypothetical.) (No it’s not.)

4. I love humor. I love to laugh. I love funny, stupid movies. I love funny people. I love sarcasm and banter. I love witticisms. I love Will Ferrell. I love banal comedy. I am a recent convert to Melissa McCarthy and plan to be her loyal disciple until I die. I believe laughter is the best medicine, and laugh and the world laughs with you, or some such.

But I cannot handle pranks. Can. Not. Even. Handle. Them.

Remember The Tom Green Show and Punk’d and The Jamie Kennedy Experiment? These shows almost put me into a coma. When a bunch of people are in on it, and one person doesn’t know it, and they are forced into an awkward/horrifying/embarrassing/confusing/distressing situation, AND IT IS BEING FILMED, I start praying for the rapture. My anxiety goes straight through the roof. I spontaneously develop hysterical psychosis.

When we were caught in massive delays for our son’s adoption, my friend Missy decided to post a funny Youtube video on my Facebook wall every day until we passed court. It was her Youtube Ministry, and it gave us such gems as this:

This made me happy for like 11 hours.

But a couple of months in, she started posting some prank videos, and they strangely drew no response from me. Finally she was like, What up, Mrs. Ungrateful?? That video was GOLD and you didn’t even comment! And I was all, I JUST CAN’T DO IT, OKAY? *in a small voice*…I couldn’t even watch. Then she was like, you’re weird, weirdo.

So please just note, if you invite me in on a prank, I will be voted Most Likely To Prematurely Yell At The Top Of My Lungs:

It’s not true! She’s not really hurt!
Oh my gosh! It’s not even your real car!
The waiter is an actor!
Don’t cuss! He’s not cheating on you!

I will ruin the prank. Count on it. And if you pull one on me, you’re dead to me.

5. So, I hate good-byes. And not just the legitimate kind like when someone is moving to Boston or going back home after visiting. I just hate them all. I can’t explain this. I am absolutely that person who slips out of a party like a ninja rather than doing a big good-bye scene, which if you’re still with me and on your toes, you might recognize is WAY WORSE. If my purse is in the hostess’s line of vision and Brandon won’t indulge my eccentric exit habits by getting it for me, I will leave it behind and make her put it on her porch where I can retrieve it the next day. I can’t tell you how many texts like these I’ve received:

Hey! Where did you go?
Did you leave?
What happened to you?
Did someone kidnap you? Are you in a trunk?

Even if I am 100% positive that this is the last time I’ll see you for a year, your bags are packed and in your car, which is running, and everyone is buckled in except you, your husband is giving the wrap-it-up gesture, and we’re standing in front of your sold house where the moving van just pulled away to head to your new life in Atlanta, I will say, “Let’s just talk later. I’ll see you before you leave.” I will say this. I will find a way to not have the good-bye moment, even if it is clearly, clearly the good-bye moment.

I can talk in front of 5000 people without so much as twitch, but give me a farewell to navigate and I shut down, a tad bit fixated on just getting away to a safe place where no one is saying the good-bye words and/or watching me say the good-bye words and I’m just nice and happy in my own home, even though Brandon is all, knock it off and stop being rude and just get in there and say good-bye, and I’m like, I DON’T WANT TO AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME. I am like Rain Man and Brandon cannot handle my neuroses:

Charlie: What’s it going to be Ray? What’s it going to be?
Raymond: This is a very dangerous highway.
Charlie: How am I going to get to LA?
Raymond: Course driving your car on this interstate is very dangerous.
Charlie: You want to get off the highway will that make you happy?
Raymond: Yeah.
Charlie: Well, you gotta GET IN THE CAR SO THAT WE CAN GET OFF THE HIGHWAY!
Raymond: Course in 1986, 46,400 male drivers were definitely involved in fatal accidents.

Please someone diagnose what sort of weird social disorder I have.

So there you are, folks, the top five. Please trust me, there are many, many others, some that make even less sense than these. (I didn’t even mention my physical need to use italics and ellipses. I can’t explain my need to emote.) Now your job is to share your “issues,” because I know you people are weirdos. I cannot be the only one.

What are your quirks, tendencies, neuroses, or bizarre fixations? And if you say “my strangest habit is being too kind,” I will delete your response. Fo’ realz. Spill it.

The Christmas Conundrum

Posted on November 29, 2011 by JenHatmaker

When I was in sixth grade, I received two Christmas presents I distinctly remember:

1.) The most coveted, desired beautiful “Forenza” tag on a pair of black leggings with a corresponding purple and black plaid shirt. (The outfit could’ve been anything, as long as it was from The Limited. Outback Red, anyone? Omg. If I could’ve conjured riches back then, I would’ve spent every red cent on OBR.)

2.) A fun, quirky red “football jersey type” sweatshirt.

I loved them both. Loved, loved, loved. I was certain these gifts were my ticket out of Dorkville. The feathered, product-less boy haircut and Bargain Selection glasses would become moot in light of my new, stylish garb. The popular kids would wonder what they ever didn’t see in me. The cute boys I pined over would fight over inviting me to Sadie Hawkins, and they would say things like, “Why haven’t we noticed her before? We’re like Saul after the scales fell from his eyes.” Or at least something very, very similar to that.

Until one very unfortunate eavesdropping session.

Supposed to be in bed but creeping in the hall listening to my parents’ conversation which simply seemed like a naughty, awesome thing to do, I heard my mom say this:

“Her red sweatshirt? I found it at Walmart for $3.00.”

Oh.
No.
She.
Didn’t.

And just like that, the sweatshirt was ruined. In front of my eyes, it lost all its charm and it simply became something a Walmart girl would wear because she couldn’t afford Esprit and her mother refused to buy her Guess jeans. All of a sudden, it communicated: I’m poor. (I was in sixth grade, people. It was a very dramatic time.)

Here’s why I tell you about my persecutions: That is the only thing I remember from Christmas 1985. Not Jesus. Not reverence. Not generosity. Not gratitude. Just a selfish, materialistic reaction because every single gift of mine wasn’t from an overpriced store with a namebrand I could casually brag about wearing. What a brat.

This sort of bull crap is still happening every year.

What happened to Christmas? What on earth happened to it? When did it transform from something simple and beautiful to what it is now? How insiduously did the enemy work to slowly hijack Jesus’ birth and hand it over on a silver platter to Big Marketing, tricking His own followers into financing the confiscation?

We all know it. We all feel it. Every year we bear this tension. Each December, the world feels off kilter. But in the absence of a better plan or an alternative rhythm or – let’s just say it – courage, we feed the machine yet again, giving Jesus lip service while teaching our kids to ask Santa for whatever they want, because, you know, that’s really what Christmas boils down to.

I just cannot take it anymore, yall. I cannot.

What if a bunch of us pulled out of the system? What if we said something very radical and un-American, like: “Our family is going to celebrate Jesus this year in a manner worthy of a humble Savior who was born to two poor teenagers in a barn and yet still managed to rescue humanity.”

I’m going to throw out some ideas for what I hope is a more meaningful Christmas; you may take some and leave some. Good reader, you may take none. Maybe you’ll tweak an idea to fit your family. You might say, “For the love of Baby Jesus! She’s ruining everything! We’ll try one little thing this year, ok?! And then we’ll quit reading her blog.” Here goes:

1.) Because I’m anxious to make enemies and isolate myself from any goodwill you’ve ever felt toward me, let me just start with a biggie: We’ve pulled out of the Santa charade. Our newest kids are 5 and 8, preparing for their first Christmas in America, and we’re just not doing it, yall. Maybe because we’ve spent the last four years trying to unravel the mess we’ve presented to our other kids all these years, but hear me say it: We are giving Christmas back to Jesus. Not a corner of it; all of it.

There is no fake benefactor this year my kids can petition to get more stuff. Because honestly? For a five-year-old, how can Jesus compete with Santa? Our children don’t have spiritual perspective; when faced with the choice of allegiance, they have a baby in a manger, or they can get a jolly, twinkling, flying character who will bring them presents. This is going to be an easy choice for them. My friend Andrew, who identifies himself as a member of the “non-believer corner” put it this way:

I always thought it was strange how Christians will tell me they have this giant and awesome truth they know is true deep in their soul and want to share with me, but when 12/25 comes around they lie to their own progeny because, apparently, that giant, liberating, and awesomely simple truth is somehow just not enough. It may be a good narrative, but it needs a little something to give it some panache.

As importantly, it sets this tone for Christmas: Be good and you’ll get stuff, which becomes so deeply seeded, undoing that position is almost impossible. When we teach our children to understand Christmas through this lens, then tell them at nine-years-old: “Never mind! It’s all fake! Oh, and stop being so selfish because Christmas is about Jesus”…we shouldn’t be surprised when our kids stage a mutiny and ask to move in with Grandma. Young parents, this is so much easier to do right the first time rather than try to undo later. Give your kids the gift of a Christmas obsessed with Jesus – and no other – when they are little, and it will be their truth all their lives. Some practical points:

* When faced with Santa everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, we told our kids the story of the original St. Nicholas from the 3rd century, and his devotion to Jesus and the poor. We explained that Santa is a character based on his life, but one was real and one is pretend. We also told them some children believe Santa is real, and it’s their parents’ job to talk about that with their friends, not theirs. In other words, DON’T BE THAT KID WHO MAKES EVERYONE CRY IN THE MIDDLE OF CLASS. You’re welcome, teachers.

* For the most part, we are not watching TV this month. We’re allowing movies and Netflix, but the less commercials our kids have to digest, the less confusing this month is for them. Um, ditto for all of us. When there are commercials that say, “Hey? You know how to avoid the terrible Disappointed Face when you give your loved one her gift? Buy her a Toyota!”…we have seriously derailed, folks.

* Take a big breath: I got rid of all my Santa paraphernalia this year. No more severed ceramic Santa heads up in here. Try not to flip out. (I am in the “undoing” category I mentioned above. So freaking hard.)

* This is big: I AM NOT JUDGING YOU. If you put carrots on your front lawn for the reindeer and stamp bootprints all over your living room from Santa’s shoes, that is fully your prerogative. You don’t need to hide your Santa wreath when I come over or defend your position to me or anyone. For us, Christmas has gone through four years of reconstruction, each year progressively more simplified. I know God is doing all sorts of different things with different families at different times; everybody be cool.

2.) While you’re stewing over Santa, let’s go ahead and tackle this one: spending. Whatintheworld? We recently watched a video from Christmas 2004 when our kids were six, four, and two. (Sidebar: Those of you with a 6-year-old, thinking he is so big? You will die one hundred thousand deaths in seven years when you look back at videos and realize he was just an infant baby. And then you will cry drippy, sad tears because you’ll realize that when all those old women told you to enjoy early childhood because it will pass so quickly, and you wanted to kick them in the shins, they were right. It is over in a nanosecond and the next thing you know, your “six year old” is texting and getting ready for high school and smells like the inside of a trash can.)

I digress.

When we saw the mountains of presents in front of our P.R.E.S.C.H.O.O.L.E.R.S. and watched them rip through boxes so fast, they had no idea what they even received, I caught Brandon’s eye across the room and mouthed, “We were freaks!” Not to mention all this bounty was brought into a home burgeoning with loot already, so we had to get rid of a bunch of toys just to shoehorn in the new stuff. Kindly note that the recipients of all this commerce couldn’t even wipe their own butts yet.

Insane at best, sacrilegious at worst.

Four years ago, we started this gift-giving policy for each kid: Something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read. That’s it. (This year we are adding something to give, and I’ll talk about that in a minute.) Brandon and I don’t buy for each other, and we draw names with our extended families, so each adult only buys one gift.

Friends and countrymen, we simply need to spend less on ourselves. There are plenty of practical reasons, like debt and financial strain and untold energy and stress. But even if we could afford to spend $500 on every important person in our lives, that sort of egregious consumerism is unbecoming for the Bride of Christ during a season that is supposed to be marked by the worship of Jesus.

We can find alternative rhythms to show each other our love. My mother-in-law is so very, very good at giving meaningful gifts based on making memories together. She takes my kids to plays and museums and day trips. She invites them to her house individually and spends precious time with them. My kids gobble this time with her down. Let’s give the gifts of time and experiences and our creative talents and words this year. They will last long after the electric griddle has been forgotten.

3.) Let’s MAKE DADGUM SURE the products we do buy don’t come to us courtesy of slave labor. Like Ashley Judd said in Call+Response, “I don’t want to wear someone else’s despair. I don’t want to eat someone else’s tragedy.” Our little church has joined the dog fight against human trafficking, and let me tell you something: When I refuse to carefully examine the vendors I buy from because it is inconvenient or overwhelming or I just really want that, I am turning the key that shackles the enslaved hands forced to produce my little goodies. I am as complicit as the abusers who exploit these laborers. And please don’t tell me, “Not buying this one thing produced through a corrupt supply chain isn’t going to make a difference.” All that means is I don’t care. If it was our children forced to work relentlessly in bondage, we would we hope and pray rich consumers across the world would battle that injustice by directing their consumer dollar with purpose, communicating to capitalistic opportunists “NO WE WILL NOT.” We will call unethical business leaders to task with our words, our votes, and our money.

So many fantastic resources to help us become responsible consumers, calling vendors to reform and repentence using the language they truly understand…lack of profits:

* Download the Free2Work app, which allows you to scan barcodes and find out if that product is made responsibly or by slave labor.

* New to this conversation? Learn from our friends at Not For Sale. They are LEGIT.

* Need convincing? Download this Slavery Footprint and see where you land: “How many slaves work for you?” (Holy moly.)

* Know the top products made by slave labor, so you can be extra diligent on who you purchase them from. Careful…some of your faves are on the list (coffee, chocolate, cotton, sugar).

* Learn trusted vendors and stick with them, even if they cost more. We will not finance the slave industry because we are addicted to artificially low prices made possible by not paying the labor force.

4.) On the other hand, we can do so much good with our dollar! I think about the Acts 4 church, redistributing their resources “to anyone who had need.” Such beauty. We can direct our Christmas dollar in two ways for great good:

Buying Products with a Conscience

These products range from beautiful artisan crafts made by former sex slaves or recipients of microloans; they include companies who use profits for international justice or employ vulnerable workers. Fabulously, these options are legion, and you don’t have to look hard to find them. I’ll include a few, then hopefully readers will add to the list of responsible vendors in the comment section:

www.cometogethertrading.com
www.redearthtradingco.com
www.furnacehillscoffee.com/index
www.preemptivelove.org
www.noondaycollection.com
www.bethejoy.com
www.goodnewsgoods.com
www.theopenarmsshop.com
www.commonthreadz.org
www.globalgirlfriend.com
www.3seams.com
www.ravenandlily.com
www.tradeasone.com
www.thehungersite.org
www.funkyfishdesigns.com

Giving

The second stream we can choose to float down this Christmas is out from underneath the consumer umbrella altogether (mixed metaphors, anyone?), and it is simply sharing our resources with those who need intervention to break the cycles of poverty and despair. This year, we are giving each of our children $100 to spend on the vulnerable. This is part of their Christmas present, because as you and I know, it just feels so awesome to be a part of Jesus’ redemptive story. We will give them some options, and they can distribute their money however they want. Here are some trusted, responsible organizations to partner with, donating in increments as low as $10:

www.IJM.org/GiftsofFreedom
www.worldvision.org
www.mercycorps.org
www.miraclefoundation.org

5.) Finally (and all the readers breathed a sigh of relief), instead of just pulling old habits off the shelf and leaving a vacuum of void and guilt, let’s replace American practices with – and I mean this in the most sincerest sense – Christian practices. Let’s fill our homes with Jesus and find ways to worship Him with our little families every day this month. Let’s join the Advent Conspiracy, daring to believe that Christmas can still change the world. May beautiful words fill our houses; lyrics like Come and behold him, born the the King of angels. As much as possible, let’s mute the competing chatter trying so hard to invade our spaces; turning it down, turning it off. Celebrate Advent with your kids with diligence and anticipation. We ordered a fun version of the Advent Calendar, and each night the kids open a new envelope full of Scriptures and family activities. (Tonight we are reading about Jesus, the Light of the World, talking about what being a light in the darkness means, then playing flashlight tag. Yes, I’m sure someone will get hurt.)

Believers, let’s do beautiful things together this month like serve and share and spend time with one another. Let’s invite the loneliest people we know into our homes and show them Jesus. How about we make lovely food together, then share it. Parents, talk about Jesus’ impending birthday like it is the most precious, thrilling, miraculous moment you have ever heard of in your life. Can we be brave enough to say “enough” to any further ruination of Jesus’ day? Can we risk difficult conversations with grandparents and friends and our own children, understanding that Jesus called it the narrow way for a reason, and he wasn’t kidding when he said few would find it? Let’s listen to divergent thinkers and spiritual leaders who are courageously leading us in the ways of Jesus this December, helping us resist consumerism and selfishness and giving voice to our radical thoughts and inner tension.

Despite what your mother might say when you tell her you’re scaling back this year, I am not trying to ruin your Christmas. On the contrary. I’m dying to rediscover what is simple and magnificent about the Savior of the World coming to earth, putting on flesh and saving my life. I so want my kids to marvel that Jesus came, just like God said he would, and he split history in two, forever transforming the concepts of hope and peace and salvation. And I just feel like when I create a season revolving around wish lists, frenzy, and alternate characters of honor, my kids will never understand any of this.

And neither will I.

Together, we have the opportunity to show a watching world something truly hopeful and sincerely beautiful this Christmas. We can live alternative rhythms in front of people, showing them something better than stress and spending and tension and exhaustion. We can raise children who understand exactly why the songwriter wrote: Oh come let us adore Him. We can partner with Jesus and bring good news to the nations yet again, fighting injustices and carrying hope to the ends of the earth through something as simple as sharing our money. Most importantly, we can render to Jesus the reverence he is owed, pushing all substitutions to the side and making our homes holy ground. This is why (from my favorite singular lyric in any hymn ever):

Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Til He appeared and the soul felt it’s worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…

The weary world rejoices indeed. Thank you, Jesus, Lord at thy birth. Joy to the world.

Readers, how do you give Christmas to Jesus? What alternate rhythms have you established? What vendors do you love to support? And if you find yourself disagreeing, I welcome your comments as well. This is a worthy conversation and I’m just glad we’re talking about it.

Pretty People

Posted on June 28, 2011 by JenHatmaker

I know everyone always says Ethiopians are beautiful, but let me tell you something: Ethiopians are beautiful. Like, so-beautiful-I-can’t-quit-staring-at-you beautiful. Ethiopians hit the genetic jackpot with features unique to this world. Now that I know them, I could spot them anywhere: lean bodies, high, wide forehead, pronounced cheekbones, almond shaped eyes, a creamy, chocolate-milk-colored skin tone – almost Indian in complexion. Their skin looks like chocolate butter. It appears the entire country invested in rhinoplasty, so exquisite are their noses.

The women are so gorgeous, it’s almost ridiculous. Most pull their hair straight back, giving their stunning faces center stage. I gape at them in utter appreciation and a moderate-to-high amount of envy. It’s all I can do not to kiss their high cheekbones, or at the very least ask to stroll down the street holding their hand and laughing like their other girlfriends are getting to do. I want them to love me like I love them, but I’m just an awkward white girl wearing a Freebirds t-shirt.

Most of the young Ethiopian guys are strikingly good-looking. Like cover-of-a-magazine-Taye-Diggs good-looking. They wouldn’t last a nanosecond on Match.com. The cutest ones are tall and lean with that crazy pretty Ethiopian face. They have a casual fashion sensibility, pulling off faded jeans and t-shirts like African Matthew McHonaheys. I particularly like the longer hair dreadlocked into three-inch coils sticking straight out from their heads. I cannot wait to do Ben’s hair like this. Brandon likes buzz cuts. He says we’re going to fight about this. I’m prepared to die on this hill.

Americans are a complete smorgasbord of races and features. There is no “American look.” Sure, we have our own beauty, but we are completely indistinct, a result of centuries of melding and crossbreeding. Ethiopians are completely homogeneous. Everyone in Ethiopia is totally Ethiopian, except visiting white people who stand out like a donkey-drawn cart on a freeway. I spent most of my time in Africa feeling unexotic and stared at.

But here is the good news: I get two beautiful Ethiopians in my very own family, and one day they will give me grandbabies. BOOYAH.

Author: JenHatmaker