Bedtime for Bonzos

This weekend, we inherited two kids for a night - a 7yr old girl and a 9 yr old boy. Before I go any further, I really do need to say that these kids are awesome - truly hilarious, wide-open, entertaining offspring of two of the coolest people in our church.

But they're still kids, and that's a fish I'm just not ready to fry.

It was really fun being parents for a night, until bedtime. We finally started wrapping up "Shrek 2" on Xbox around 10:30, and then trudged upstairs, where G timed them each brushing their teeth for a full 2 minutes. Then, into pjs for the girl (the boy just crawled - well, jumped - into bed fully clothed) and lights out.

Too dark. Fortunately, I come from a long line of night-lighters, and I have several miniature plug-in lightbulbs for just such an occasion. Better? Good.

After lying in my own bed for approximately 1.5 minutes, I hear a very unnerving crash in the other room, and then, pitter-patter, knock-knock-kncok. "Hey, Rachel, look what I found!"

I should say that the stuffed animal that she found was not the first thing she discovered that night that I had forgotten about - earlier she found our candy basket. Yep. Sugar + Children + Darkness = not much sleeping for Rachel.

A half-hour later, I busted up the giggle-fest - "I know that the only way that y'all will calm down is if a grown-up is in here with you, so I'll lay here on the floor until you fall asleep."

"I'm not sleepy."
"Okay, then count to 100."
"I have the hiccups."
"Okay, then hold your breath."
"It's not working."
"I'm done counting - now what?"

Alright. I seem to remember several chapters of The Chronicles of Narnia doing the trick for me when I was younger. Except my parents were way too smart to let me find the candy basket an hour before bedtime.

After 3 chapters with Lucy, Edmund, Susan, Peter and Mr. Tumnus, they were finally drowsy enough for me to go back to my bed. I have no idea what time they fell asleep, but they were all in their places with bright shiny faces the next morning at 7:30. Playing Xbox. Probably re-discovering the candy basket.

I have a lot to learn...

Somebody else's Scarecrow

I consider myself a fairly unselfish person, generally. However, every now and then my narcissism jumps up and bites me in the tushy. These are the moments when I realize that my whole outlook on life centers around my story. Just such a moment happened the other day.

After a year of fighting through a pretty grueling residency with 5 fellow chaplains, we were saying our goodbyes. We cried, we laughed, we promised to write. I was walking to my car with one colleague who is especially dear to me, since we not only went through the residency together, but we did an internship two years ago. For anyone who has taken a unit of CPE, you understand the underlying meaning when I say, "We took CPE together." It means we cried, we laughed, we grieved, we celebrated. It is an experience that can make or break a relationship, and often those who have gone through the soul-searching are bonded with a special tie that comes from being in the proverbial trenches together.

As we were saying goodbye to each other, she stopped and said, "This is the hardest goodbye - what can I say to you? It's like on the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy had to say goodbye to the Scarcrow. You've been with me since the beginning."

As sweet as that sentiment is, in that moment, my first thought was, "Hmm - I thought I was Dorothy." It was a little reality check to realize that I am someone else's Scarecrow. I guess, in a way, we are all actors in each other's stories. Who's the main character? I suppose it's all in the camera angle.