Kid Nation

As some of you may have heard, child abuse is running rampant on the television network CBS. Or, at least that is what we are told. Adding to my ginormous list of regularly watched shows, the new controversial hit Kid Nation has begun to climb the rankings.

The gyst of the show is a modified "Lord of the Flies" scenario in which 40 children, ages 8 to 15 are dropped off in the middle of the desert with the mandate to build a town of their own. They are given a ghost town, a warm, yet hands-off adult host, and daily tips as to how to coordinate this new civilization.

I have no idea how the producers pulled off such a bold legal maneuvering, but they somehow got the courts to agree to let them make millions off a social experiment with minors. And the television it has produced is, in a word, awesome.

In the first couple of days, life was chaos. The kids ran wild, soon succombing to the pressures of starvation and thusly beginning their work.

What has fascinated me about this show is the way that these kids have semingly replicated adult society. They chip in to wash dishes, create new recipes. Kids with certain gifts rise to challenge and cover for the inadequacies of the others. In fact, now that I think about it, they function better than adults.

One episode shocked me and in some ways rang quite true. Every three days the kids are brought togther in their teams and compete with each other for a better class rank than the others. If all the teams complete the challenge within a given amount of time, the whole town is given a choice of two rewards. Needless to say, when you bring a bunch of starving who are desparate for a bit of fun - they work hard. In this particular challenge, the choice of the two rewards were either to turn the town into a giant miniature golf course (hey, an accidental oxymoron - yeah!) or a small collection of religious texts. Almost to a kid, they chose the library.

Why do you think this is?

Behold - The End is Nigh

Well, there is no doubt that Jesse is correct when he highlights how differently we approach deadlines. This is not news to either of us (we were, after all, friends long before we were spouses), and it can't be too suprising to any of our good friends or (especially!) our families. After all, these penchants for neurotically preparing for stressful events (that would be me) or cavalierly procrastinating to acknowledge said event (that would Jess) developed long ago. In my parents' boxes of photos, there's a picture I particularly love. It's taken in the kitchen of our Garden Grove house on the morning I would attend first grade for the very first time. My hair is curled, my dress is on (which had been chosen carefully the night before), and my shoes are tied. I am sitting on a kitchen chair, feet dangling because they don't quite reach the floor. I am concentrating intently - on the clock mounted above the door to the garage. Willing that second hand to move a little quicker. Everything is ready. Just waiting for the time to be right. I was seven.

Now I am thirty-one and feeling the impulse to behave according to my nature. Is this the biological clock everyone speaks of? This instinct to begin the (sometimes painful) transition from adolescent to adult? That is the conversation that sparked Jesse's eschatalogical musings below - I looked around at the soda cans and discarded Taco Bell bags on the coffee table and thought, "If my son had walked away and left this here, he'd be in big trouble. Maybe it's time that we start living out the rules we intend to teach this kid." Of course, because I'm six months pregnant and the mood swings are like riding the Dragon Swing at Knott's Berry Farm, this very rational and mature idea came out in a combination of righteous indignation and snivelling tears. I'd feel bad for Jesse, except that this potent combination seems to be awfully effective in driving home my point to someone so inclined towards a laissez faire attitude. Needless to say, communication was had, plans were inacted, and our house has never been so orderly!

And it's a good thing, too, because our latest trip to the doctor for an echo cardiogram (clean bill of health on little Malott's heart! hooray!) brought the...interesting? information that "this kid has a huuuge head. No, really. Like Sputnik - spherical yet pointy in parts." Joking aside, his head (which is how they measure a baby's development in the womb) is like two weeks ahead of schedule. Yikes! Our January 17th due date might be closer to January 4th, according to the specialist we saw. So, maybe these little preparations, transitioning us slowly into honest-to-goodness-adults, are a good idea - the end of adolescence might be closer than we thought!

Last Days

Those of you who have kids have already experienced the eschatological nature of pre-childbirth. As most of you know, I am a theo-nerd from way back and have a particular penchant for "last days" theology.

Usually, at night Marilee and I have the chance to debrief the day (you know, the boring stuff) and digest what new tidbits have developed in our winsome little lives. A couple of nights ago, the tiny tidbits morphed into a huge huddle on the topic of "pre-child preparatory philosophy." That of course is the pretentious phrase I created for grandness sake, but it essentially boils down to this: Marilee believes that she needs these last few months to establish routines and disciplines in her life so that she is properly prepared and ready for motherhood. Jesse sees these last few months as a hoorah to the days when you could still go to movies, go out with friends and most especially play Halo into all hours of the night. These philosophies have really followed us throughout our lives. Marilee has always been the responsible one - running home immediately after the first day of class just to get a start on that exciting "build-a-molecule" project. Jesse spent the first day in class calculating the latest possible time when he would have to turn in assignments. Marilee attended all her classes in college. Jesse went to take the tests. Marilee planned out their wedding months in advance with an "all-possible-scenarios" approach. Jesse helped plan the wedding... but still asked if Vegas wasn't perhaps a wiser option.

So as you can see, we have different philosophies about responsibility and preparation. So, here we sit in the "last days" before the coming of the child and attempt to grasp the apocalyptic nature of the event. We've been told that the literal emerging of the child is something from the Book of Revelation and that after this annunciation we can expect great transformation in our lives to come. So when Marilee asks me if I am really ready for all this transformation, I responded with the same phrase I have used for my entire life, "Desperation produces inspiration." She has a plan of attack. She has studied, researched, established her schedule, even begun practicing good family procedures without the family. She is ready and knows from experience that preparation is the best way to not fail. I, however, have gotten by on sheer luck (code for God had grace on my sorry butt).

I must admit to you all that I am afraid - afraid that I will never figure out how to comfort Jude (that's his name this week) when he's upset. I'm terrified that all my foibles will somehow manifest themselves into the personality of this little person. Will he be as reckless and irresponsible as me? Will he never learn from advice and only from mistakes? Will he have a secret addiction to Wienerschnitzel chili-cheese dogs? These are all questions that can only be answered through experience.

I prayed this morning that like my eschatology, I would place my faith for Jude in the fact that God will have the final say and his grace will overwhelm the errors of the many.

Still, I look forward to late night chili-dog runs (not in the bathroom way) with the boy.

Little Chucks

Many of you know that Jesse and I met thirteen years ago (wow!), when he chose my blue Converse tennis shoe from a box of shoes on the first evening of our freshman year at Whitworth College. I'd left one of my suitcases at home, and ended up tying on my old navy chucks (complete with Micky Mouse bow-biters) with the hope that no one at the semi-formal dinner would notice my very casual footwear. Of course, as soon as I reached the first-floor lounge, I was told to put my shoe in a box. The boys upstairs would choose a shoe and come, like Prince Charming I suppose, seeking its match. While I'll admit to preferring even this dirty pair of tennis shoes to the stuffy pumps, how lucky am I that Jesse did too?

To propose, Jesse recreated that first meeting, so it seemed only fitting that for our wedding, my mom and grandmother decorated a white pair of Con's, and I eschewed the typical, blister-inducing formal wear most brides suffer. Somehow those quirky shoes summed up so much for us and our journey from friends to soul-mates.

This week we had a wonderful visit with our dear friend Marshall, who brought with him a wonderful gift for Baby Malott - a little pair of chucks. How cute are these? How appropriate that this child begin thus decked out? So little...so cute.

Belly Update - Look Out Below!

I am very popular these days at work. All the students run up to hug me and tell me how cute it is...that I look like a balloon. They don't say that, but it's what they mean. And who doesn't like balloons, after all? I know I associate them with parties - especially birthday parties, and (as many of you know so well) I adore birthdays.

Balloons are usually bright, festive colors. As a child, I always looked with longing at the large mylar balloons that float happily over the check-out at the grocery store. It didn't matter that it wasn't my birthday or I didn't need to 'Get Well' - they were balloons, and I would have happily left the store with one. Balloon animals are good, too. Somehow talented clowns at carnivals or waiters at restaurants have the talent to make those long, skinny balloons screech their way into unexpectedly familiar shapes. On my first date (which was my sixteenth birthday), my date and I ate dinner across the table from one another with a huge heart-shaped balloon-hat bridging the table, linking our heads. Embarassing, but fun. Two years ago, my roommates at Bread Loaf covered my bed with balloons for my birthday - balloons that miraculously lasted the rest of the summer, tangible reminders of friendship and love.

Becoming a walking balloon is somehow different. Still festive, I suppose, as my growing belly is a constant reminder that our family too is growing. But it's rather disconcerting to see a bit less of one's feet each day. My students have to carefully stowe their backpacks behind their chairs - no chance to trip over what I can't see, that way. As someone who's never really had to work at being slim, it's mostly my sense of self that is in flux. Not as a matter of vanity, really - I don't find my new, balloon shape hideous! It's just one's sense of self in space that must be reconsidered - the very sense that Gnarls Malott (just kidding!) is developing about this time, as he starts to find his cozy home a bit more snug.

Jess and I recently oohed and aahed through "In the Womb" (a show on the Discovery Channel), which explained that as the baby enters the third trimester, he begins to develop a sense of himself in space. Without sight, he starts to understand where he sits in relation to the walls of the placenta. Plus, about now his senses become linked to his brain, allowing him to become more aware of the world around him: hearing and feeling with me as I go through my day. So my sense of how much space I take up seems to grow as my son's does. It seems that part of the joys of motherhood is making space in the world for one's child, beginning with the balloon-like expansion of one's waist-line. This is one balloon that won't be floating anywhere!

Faith & Culture... In My Dreams?

I am a dreamer... literally. Since childhood I have experienced the wildest dreams while sleeping and at times lived them out. My poor wife has been the unwilling victim of these wild dreams. One time while living at Fuller Seminary, I experienced a very vivid "waking nightmare". Somehow, I imagined that the point of a laser scope was targeting our bed. I immediately grabbed Marilee, threw her off the bed while madly yelling, "Sniper, sniper, 10 o' clock!" I leapt on top of her body to protect her from the ensuing sniper fire, all the while oblivious to her yelling, "Get off me, you're asleep."

So, as you can see, my dreams play very active roles in my life and my life in them.

Last night, I had another dream. Many times, in order to shut off my brain, I will fall asleep to an old television episode or movie that I have seen many times. This time I dreamt that I had fallen asleep to an old Jesus film. Yet somehow, I entered the life of the movie and became Jesus' 13th disciple. We would walk around and heal people and cast out demons - you know, regular everyday stuff.

Here's the twist: Jesus and the disciples were played by the cast members of "The Office". Steve Carrell played Jesus - he had a beard in this movie. And the personality of each disciple was characterized by who they played on "The Office". I think I remember Peter being Dwight Schrute, pompous, outspoken, and obnoxious. John was played by Jim Halpert, easygoing and providing a running commentary on the rest of the group. Unlike real life, I remained pretty silent through the whole movie.

When I woke this morning two thoughts presented themselves to me. First, "Wow, I watch a lot of T.V." and second, "Can I ever escape the struggle between faith and culture?"

I'll finish this tomorrow after I get some sleep - maybe I'll have a sequel tonight.