Dear Minecraft, This is NOT a Love Letter

Dear Minecraft,

This is not a love letter.  This is a not hate letter.  This is a "if I have to listen to one more story about Minecraft from my eight year old, I am going to lose my ever-lovin' mind" letter.  I do hope you understand.

You see, here's how my day goes.  Let's say it's a school day.  I get everyone up and fed and dressed. There are four of them so I feel pretty accomplished by the time we tumble into the minivan.  The very second the car is in motion, it begins. See, my son is a smart kid and he knows he has a captive audience.  I can't do anything else while I'm driving except listen.

So, Minecraft peeps, I listen.

And I listen.

And I listen.

Here's what it sounds like:

"Mom, something-stuff-something-Creeper-other stuff-and still more.  Right?"

"Um . . . ."  That's me. I'm normally able to make words and sentences but at the moment, I can't.  You know why?  I understand none of his words.  Not one.

He continues, not at all concerned about my confused expression. "Then, more stuff--blah-blah--Steve--more words--still more and more stuff and more stuff.  I'm in survival mode."

"Me too, kid.  Me too," I reply back.

And from the peanut gallery, my two year old daughter pipes in with, "It's Minecrap.  It's Minecrap."  Her words.  Not mine, I swear.

I won't bore you with the rest of the conversation.  Mostly because I can't put it into words.

I see the educational value in Minecraft.  It's like virtual Legos. Players can build dwellings and grow plants and spawn spiders.  This virtual world is all theirs, right down to the names they give the items in their world. It helps them to stretch their math and engineering skills as well as their creativity.

It's good stuff.  It's great stuff.  It's just that I can't hear about it one more time.

A year and a half ago, when my son discovered Minecraft, he was initially frustrated.  He started coming to me and asking me to help him.  To me!  So, I had a decision to make.  Do I learn how to "do Minecraft" or not?  Did I really want to become the "do it for me" Minecraft person in our house?

Please hear my loud and resounding "NO!"

When his father and I couldn't much help, he turned to the only place he knew could--YouTube.  And that's where we met the Minecraft YouTube guy.  I don't know his name but I do know his voice.  I hear it in my dreams.  He's yelling at me a lot.  He always seems to be yelling.  But I will say this, over the last year, my son has become quite competent in Minecraft.  He struggled and got annoyed and frustrated but, and maybe this makes me sound like the big meanie mom I am often called, I liked that.  He figured out how to do it on his own and that gave him a sense of ownership and pride. That's pretty sweet.

It's just that if I hear one more play by play (or should I say block by block?) I am literally going to lose my mind.  My mind is already in limited supply.  Remember, four kids.

So, Minecraft developers, on your next update, please consider the rest of us who suffer through agonizing daily Minecraft reports.  Please consider those of us who make appropriate encouraging noises at appropriate times and still have no idea what's being said.  Please consider us.  

Thank you so much for your time and consideration.  May I leave you with a small suggestion? Perhaps you should consider creating a Minecraft version for adults in which the blocks are made of chocolate and the person that builds the biggest wine bottle reigns supreme?  Now, that's a version of Minecraft I could get behind.

Sincerely and neither fully in love or hate, but a little bit of both,

That-Kid-Who-Plays-Mindcraft's Mom

The Picture in the Church Directory

A few months ago, a very sweet woman at our church found me after the service one Sunday. "Sharon, we're putting together a new church directory for the spring."

I winced on the inside.  The church directory is a pictorial directory.  You know, like with pictures.  Like with pictures of your whole family smiling at the same time and looking at the camera at the same time.  For our family, that's like seeing a unicorn, flying pigs, and a purple squirrel at the same time.  Impossible.

A few years ago, our church went with a photography company to take the photos and compile the directory.  For some reason, the photographer was determined to get good pictures of our family.  He must have heard about our two kiddos with autism because he was prepared (um, kind of?).  He may have been a bit too optimistic about his skills as a photographer.  I think our family broke him. Gideon spilled water down the front of him. Daniel refused to cooperate, and instead, he lay down on the ground and activated his "spaghetti arms" when we tried to get him back up. I had to stop twice to feed a very tiny Katherine. At least one boy escaped three different times, plus the torture of individual pictures of each child. We spent more than 45 minutes taking some pretty terrible photos.

The best photo the whole bunch?  Only one kid was actually looking at the camera, two were smiling, and, the best worst part, one of the boys was clearly scratching his crotch at the time.

The photographer tried to sell us this picture.  "You'll laugh at this ten years from now."

Hmmm? And in the ensuing ten years, before it's funny, I can hang this 16x20 portrait on the wall in my living room and stare at my son scratching his crotch every minute of my life? Sounds great.

You can probably see why "It's time for a new church directory" aren't my favorite words.

"Don't worry," the sweet lady at church said.  "You can provide your own picture this time."

That's not so bad, I thought.

"In fact," she went on.  "I have this one I found on Facebook.  Will this work?"  I'm certain she showed me the photo and I'm sure I cringed.  "If you have another one, just get it to me soon."

I probably agree wholeheartedly and added "Find new family photo for church directory" to my mental to-do list and then ten seconds later forgot about directories and family photos and to-do lists because I live on caffeine and three brain cells and prayer.

Friends, the new church directories are here. The same church directory that each family in our church will receive, the same church directory given to new members.  Here's our entry:

 I'll pause for a moment to give you some time to really take it in.

Go ahead, laugh. I know you want to.  In fact, here's a better picture of that picture so you can really get the full effect.

As hilariously bad this photo is, it's the perfect representation of our family.  First, there's me.  I am clearly in the act of doing something "mom-like," most likely whisper-yelling at a kid to "Look at the camera!"  I have Gideon in a headlock so he can't run off and he's not looking at the camera because, well, why would he?  Daniel is front and center, holding Gideon's hand and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Anywhere.  Carl is smiling (probably because he's only wrestling one child and I'm wrestling three.  Hmmmm?).  He does have a two-handed death grip on Katherine, who is also not looking at the camera and gnawing on a finger.

And Ben?  Where's Ben?

There he is.  You might have missed him since he's squished behind Gideon and Daniel and only one eye and half his face is showing. Miracle of miracles, he's smiling and looking at the camera . . . sort of.

This, folks, this, right here, is my family.

I kind of love that this picture in our church directory.  I kind of love that every time someone looks us up, they'll know immediately who we are.  I kind of love that most of the people in our family can't fake a smile and that means, when you get a smile, it's real and it means something.

And I really love that every time I see that picture in our church directory, I have to laugh.  These are my people, for better or for worse, smiles or no smiles, warts and all.

I think that's pretty awesome.

A New Way to Do New Math

Ah, homework, how I hate thee.  I think I hate it more than my kids do.  I balk and put it off.  "Oh. we'll do it after dinner."  The kids are happy to agree.  And then after dinner, it's sort of forgotten about until the next morning when we are racing around to get ready and pack lunches and find shoes and brush teeth.  Plenty of time to add in a full page of math problems.  More than enough time to read a story about George Washington and answer a question or three.  No problem.

Wrong.

The worst of the worst homework is math homework.  I think I'm a (fairly) competent, fully functioning adult.  I have a college degree.  I even graduated with honors (a completely useless fact, especially since I lose brain cells each time I give birth).

And yet . . . and yet . . . this math homework. Remember when math homework in the third grade was to memorize your multiplication facts so that you could kick everyone's butt when you played "Around the World?"

Those days are long gone.  Here's what the new math sounds like:

Directions: Please do this 15-step math problem.  You have a quarter inch of space to do it in.  Write an accompanying essay on how you solved this problem; use pie charts, diagrams, and number graphs whenever possible.  Repeat for questions 1-10. Remember to ask your parents to help you and then tell them they're doing it wrong. Bonus points if you make them feel like an idiot.

Listen up, Moms. Tonight I came up with a new way to do this new math.  It is the answer to all your cries to heaven to make the math homework go away in just three easy steps. 

You. Are. Welcome.

1) You need the proper supplies:

2) Every time one of the following is said (by you or your child), take a healthy sip of wine:

"I hate homework."
"That's not how you do it."
"I hate math."
"Why does the kid in this math problem have such a weird name?"
"I don't know."
"I don't care what the answer is."
"Why can't your father help you with your homework?"
"I can't find my pencil."

3)  Who cares?  I can't really remember if we finished the assignment or not.  I was, however, very relaxed and happy.

Three easy steps.  You got this, Moms!

*Note to self: Get more wine before picking the kids up from school tomorrow.