...and the Creek Don't Rise

So, How's Your Summer Been...

2011-06-21T11:28:00.000-07:00

Hello to my once faithful readers who must have assumed my untimely death, because surely I have no other excuse not to have blogged since May 2010! Apologies, apologies, dear readers. I have no excuses, so I will not insult you with "I'm so busy...My life is crazy...I'm homeschooling three kids now...blah, blah, blah." You've heard it all before (except that homeschooling thing). You know I am a fickle blogger at best, so I say "Love me for who I am and don't expect anything else from me!" Okay, now I sound all 1970s Love Story and "Love means never having to say I'm sorry" and that is SO not where I am right now.

Where am I, you ask (besides residing in my usual place called Crazy Town)? I am in the middle of what I am dubbing "The Summer of Exegesis." I'm calling it that because I like the word; it's new to me. It means "an explanation or a critical interpretation of a text." (If you already knew that, you are smarter than me and I admire your vocabulary prowess!) I also like that it has Jesus in it, as in ex*uh*Jesus. But it's also a fairly accurate name for my summer. I am knee-deep in Lutheran Doctrine, Theology, Hermeneutics, and basically all those other Latiny terms that mean, "What do I believe, and why do I believe it?" Lovely readers I am "full to bursting" with everything I am trying to cram into my brain right now about theology. I know I've come to this Lutheran doctrinal party a little late, having been a Lutheran almost 17 years now, but I am now completely fascinated with it all. Really. Fascinated.

Lutherans know what they know and know why they know it. This makes them confident (some might say cocky) about what they know. Funny thing is I am married to one of the most confident men on the planet. He knows what he knows and knows why he knows it and that is that. If he had not been baptized into the LCMS, he would certainly have had to seek it out. (For the uninitiated, LCMS means Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, which basically means real confessional Lutherans, as opposed to the kind that say they are Lutheran, but do all manner of things that are un-Lutheran, which I am very sure IS a real word.)

Back to "My Summer of Cramming My Brain Full of Theological Teachings and Wonders." I've been doing this by reading some great blogs here, here and here, watching some funny, satirical, and yes, instructional videos, and hearing some great, albeit really crazy in delivery - not doctrine - sermons, and taking a Sunday School class that's using Lutheranism 101 as a starting text. There is so much out there and so much to learn I'm ashamed I haven't taken the time or interest to learn it before.

You could say I sort of fell into the Lutheran church, as in I met a boy, fell in love, he had a great church, and the rest as they say... But that wouldn't exactly be accurate. I was looking for something different than the Southern Baptist Church I'd been brought up in. I'd been told one too many times that I was going to Hell for questioning beliefs and asking, "Where do you find that in the Bible?", and I'd decided I'd had enough of that. (No offense to all my Baptist peeps out there. You know I love you!) Although I didn't much care for church, I still believed that Jesus was the Way, the Truth, and the Life, so I knew I needed to go to church, but I wasn't really looking.

In fact, I wasn't going to church at all. Now, back to that boy I met. We'd been dating for a few months and I said, "Hey, I really want to start going to church again, since I've been a totally lapsed Baptist the whole time I've been in college. My roommates and I visited the Presbyterian Church, but I really don't think a PC(USA) church is for me, so..." And he said something like "Church sounds good. I should start going again, too. You want to go to a Lutheran Church with me?" And seeing as how I was totally crazy in love with him already and would have quoted Ruth to him about 'going where he wenteth', I said "Sure, I'd love to." And off we went.

*As an aside, I had never even heard of Lutheran before I met my hubby. Remember, I was a smalltown, East Tennessee girl. The first time he told me he was a Lutheran, I said a silent prayer that went something like, "Please, God, let that be normal Christian." And then I asked him, "Is that like a normal Protestant church?", which I thought sounded better than, "Is that real Christian or something weird?" And then he of course rolled off the couch laughing at me. In my defense, I knew that Martin Luther had started the Reformation, I just didn't know there was a church named for him. And I figured just because it was named for him, didn't mean the church was still a traditional Christian church, remember that other type of Lutheran I mentioned?*

What this story illustrates is that God, in his divine mercy, saved me from my ridiculous self. I do NOT recommend falling in love with someone about whose theology you know nothing. I'm fairly certain it smacks of great sin! Did I mention God had mercy on me? I'm so thankful my hubby was raised by godly parents who took him to church every week and raised him "in the way he should go." As parents we are already praying for the future spouses of our children, and of course we hope those spouses are Lutheran, or at least very close to it!

So why all the interest in doctrine now after having joined the church, been married in it and having baptized three babies in it? Well, it all comes down to homeschooling.

I haven't posted a thing on here about homeschooling, but we have recently finished our first year of homeschooling using the classical method. What's the classical method you ask? Well, that depends on who you ask. For me, it's teaching my children like children were taught for hundreds of years before the invention of public school. It is heavy on English grammar and writing, Latin, the Great Books, science and math and all of it wrapped in a Biblical worldview.

That last part about the Biblical worldview is where all this theology comes in. As much as I have come to love the LCMS, it is not exactly homeschool friendly. It doesn't publish homeschool curricula, and since it's not a huge denomination, there are not individual LCMSers out there publishing curricula either. So, that means I've been using books which have a slightly different theological slant to teach my children. Therefore, I've had to read them, figure out what we believe that is different, and then explain that to my children. It's a little daunting. Most of it is obvious - infant baptism, which Lutherans believe in, versus believer's baptism, which Evangelicals believe in. But other differences aren't so easy to spot and taken all together, they could really change how my children view Law and Gospel. And that I don't want to mess up. So I'm praying for grace and asking God to give me wisdom and discernment, and then I'm studying everything I can, so I don't mess it up. Now you know the reason for the "Summer of Studying All Things Lutheran."

And I think my children have noticed. How could they not with me watching animated videos with computer generated voices and a pastor on Youtube who has samarai swords as his background? And I don't know if it's because of some things they've heard or if it's just because of their ages, but I'm starting to get some hard questions. The one I got yesterday was "Mommy, why in the Bible did God's people lie?" And believe you me, my middle child will not let you off with "Sin" as an easy answer. No siree, that one is quite the deep thinker herself, so I started explaining to her that we are saints and sinners, which thankfully we had just covered in my Sunday School class, so it was all still fresh, but I'll leave that Q&A session for another post...

Water, water, everywhere and all the spores did stink...

2010-05-09T18:33:00.000-07:00

... Water, water everywhere nor any for my sink.

Okay, so that's not exactly how Coleridge put it, but that's pretty much the reality around here. I live just south of Nashville, so to say things have been a little crazy around here this week would be the understatement of the century, or five centuries, as it were. For those of you who don't know -- because there've been a few other things going on in the news like an oil spill and an attempted terrorist attack -- we had a 500-year flood here, or possibly even a thousand year flood. Who even knew those existed?

Although my family was not personally flooded, the entire Middle Tennessee Region has been affected. The roads near my home were very scary for awhile, both front entrances to my subdivision were impassable, and you couldn't get north to Nashville or to the west, either. But that was small potatoes compared to other areas of town.

Almost every Nashvillian I know (and yes, those of us in the 'burbs still consider ourselves Nashvillians) watched the news last weekend, first with slight amusement or irritation, then with curiosity, then with dread, and finally fear as the rain continued to pour.

We watched a portable building from a Christian school float down the interstate, break apart, and go under a bridge. That happened about 7 miles from my house.

We saw our beloved Opryland Hotel fill up with 6 feet of water, ruining the beautiful gardens where we take our children to have their Christmas pictures made. We saw our new symphony hall fill with water and lose its custom-made pipe organ and two concert pianos. Yes, there is more than just country music around here.

But we also saw the Grand Old Opry and the Country Music Hall of Fame fall victim to the same flood. Thankfully, the Hall of Fame sustained damage only in the basement and re-opened mid-week. The Grand Old Opry's building was devastated, but it has returned to its roots and is playing once again at the Ryman.

Our Titan's stadium and our Predator's arena were both full of water as well. Even our beloved Vanderbilt Children's Hospital flooded and those poor, sick children were moved to higher floors as a precaution, but no child was injured. Praise God.

This storm did not care about race or creed, rich or poor, famous or folk, it hit us all. Country stars lost their road equipment, and regular Joe's lost their homes.

It's been hard to take a deep breath around here this week. Everything about this week has had me out of my comfort zone. And coincidentally, I've been thinking about my "comfort zone" a lot these last few weeks. The lovely, talented, did I mention beautiful?, ladies over at Five Full Plates have been challenging everyone to get out of their comfort zones, but I'm pretty sure this is not what they had in mind.

Be that as it may, I'm out. I've been out since Saturday afternoon around the time my husband dropped off our 3-year-old at a birthday party, and then spent 30 minutes trying to get himself and our other two children home through a flash flood that we didn't realize was happening, and then had to wonder for two hours if we'd be able to pick her up, or if she'd have to stay the night with her friend. Praise God there was a break in the rain and the waters receded enough for him to go get her and bring her home.

But what about consciously getting myself out of my comfort zone? Well, I did that too. I lived up to my state and Alma Mater's moniker, and I Volunteered. I've never volunteered during a crisis, and I'll admit it's a little intimidating. I've always wanted to help during things like a tornado clean up, but you always here warnings to stay away. I'd never bothered before to figure out how to become all official-like and get on the scene. But just a day after the flood, my pastor sent an e-mail saying that one of our sister churches that's in one of the hardest hit areas of town was asking for volunteers. It also happens to be the church my husband grew up in, and that's when I knew what I had to do.

So, I posted on Facebook that I was going, and I asked for someone to take my 3-year-old for the day. I know, how tacky is that!?! But I didn't think I could help with her along, and I really wanted to help. I also really wanted someone to go with me. Right away my friend said she'd take my daughter, but no one offered to go with me. Fear, trepidation, discomfort, they all set in. Was I really going off to this church, where I knew exactly two people, to help all by myself? Uh, yes.

When I got there I took a deep breath, got out of my minivan and started unpacking stacks of unused boxes my husband had given to me. A couple of people came over immediately to help, and then I walked in the door, dropped off my stack of boxes, walked up to the one person in the room I knew who also happened to be in charge, and said, "Hi. Remember me? I'm Jeff's wife. How can I help?" And just as easy as that, she put me to work.

So what did I do? I delivered meals to the volunteers who were helping people in an area of town that looks like something from a Hollywood disaster movie.

I went to the Community Center to gather information for the victims about FEMA and the Humane Society and where to get rides for the elderly and how to get help if you lost your medication.

And I bought more supplies and delivered boxes, and I even got a FREAKIN' TETANUS shot while I was at the Community Center before I realized I'd only be delivering lunches and supplies and not actually working amongst the tetanus germs. And for that poor decision I spent a couple of afternoons this week in bed with a fever and chills from a reaction to the shot, which meant I also couldn't give blood, which was the one out-of-my-comfort-zone challenges I had promised to do. Fail this time, but not off the hook for next time.

So what did I learn from being out of my comfort zone? A few things. It doesn't matter if you're the volunteer ripping out drywall, the one delivering lunches to the ones ripping it out, or the one taking care of small children so others can go rip stuff out, you are needed and you are appreciated and you are part of the overall Relief Effort, and God bless you for doing it.

I also learned that as long as you are volunteering with a trusted organization such as the Red Cross, a church, civic group or company that is volunteering, you can get on site without being hassled. The police are only worried about keeping criminals and Looky-Lou's out, they are not trying to keep out people who actually want to help.

Another valuable thing I've learned from the flood? We waste a ton of water in our daily lives. We're voluntarily rationing our water right now, and you can get by with so much less than you think you need. Did you know that you don't actually have to flush the toilet every single time you use it? You can actually wait and flush every third time you use it. Also, you don't need to take 15 minute showers every day (but HAVE MERCY you will miss them!) In fact, you don't even need to shower every day or shave your legs for that matter. You can even go a week without submerging your children in water and just washing them off with a wet wash cloth. Did you know this? I certainly didn't (except for the part about the kids). Heaven help me, I'm not even in the same sniffing distance of my comfort zone at this point!

Another challenge I had planned to do before the Great Flood of 2010 was to help raise money for a water well in Africa. Due to the circumstances here right now, I'm going to put that challenge on the back burner. But I know that I will never again take for granted the pure, clean water that runs out of my tap any time I turn it on. I knew that millions around the world live without access to safe drinking water, but I've never known the fear of that until now. Although we still have safe water right now, the danger is that if we don't conserve we could run out.

I also learned that floods stink, literally and figuratively. Everything that the water touches has to be ripped out, ripped up and thrown away. All drywall, carpet, insulation, hardwood, everything but the studs. If not, it will mold and mildew and stink so bad and be full of so much bacteria, you couldn't possibly ever live there again.

And insurance companies don't pay for any of it, unless you have flood insurance, which hardly anybody does. So that means I also learned that the good people of Middle Tennessee are going to need outside help whether we like it or not. And we're just not used to that.

Because what I didn't learn was that good ol' boys will navigate dangerous flood waters in aluminum boats during raging thunderstorms to pull strangers out of their homes before the "rescuers" even show up on the scene. And that good Samaritans will pull into a stranger's driveway to see what they need and then go to the store and get it. And that Stars will come out shining to raise millions of dollars for Average Joe's that live in their community. And that not every area of the country will loot and take advantage of one another when the going gets tough.

I didn't learn all those things, because I already knew all those things...I've lived here for 14 years. Another thing I already knew? I live in the greatest town in the greatest country on earth, and I want to live here until I'm old and gray and I want to see my children's children raise their children here, and when I die, I want to be buried about a mile down the road. Yep, that's something I already knew.

And in case you are wondering, I've been thinking about the name of my blog this week, too. Seems a little apropos, doesn't it? The creek really did rise this week, but the Good Lord was willin' to keep me here writing. And I will be here writing, albeit sporadically, until He isn't -- willing that is. Please say a prayer for Nashville tonight. We could use it.

The fox and the hound

2010-04-21T07:19:00.000-07:00

We have a new puppy. She is a yorkie-shih tzu mix which means she is three pounds of puppy breath and sweetness and light. The children love her. I mean REALLY love her, as in I am afraid at any moment my littlest one might actually love her to DEATH. I have found my girls playing tug of war with her, each claiming it was their turn to hold her. The "Wrath of Mommy" came out over that, so now they just whine and cry over her and tattle on each other for holding her too much and generally make me wonder "Why on God's Green Earth did we decide to get another dog, because heaven knows I DO NOT NEED ANOTHER CHILD!"

Then she comes up and licks my face and breathes her sweet puppy breath on me, and I snatch her up and carry her out of the room just to make sure she is safe, not because she is my favorite at the moment. *cough*

My son doesn't fight over her. Instead, he announces at dinner, "I don't mean to offend anybody, but I just want you to know that I am the puppy's favorite" and he is serious as a heart attack which makes me cough to cover my laugh and turn my head so as not to hurt his feelings, because as we all know I am obviously her favorite.

The kids have been asking for a dog for about a year. Our last dog had to be put to sleep about two years ago, and I wasn't ready for another one until now. As soon as my mother heard, she promptly got us a puppy and brought her to us. Then she insisted on us naming her right away as she is want to do. I took three days to name my first child after he was born, so I like a little time to think about these things, but my mother and my children weren't having any part of it.

They were throwing names at me left and right, and Daisy was one of them. I didn't think it fit her, because it reminds me of a cow and she is all of three pounds. Then Maggie came up and we liked it and even used it for a few hours, but then I thought of my new friend named Maggie and knew that could become awkward. Our last dog was named Briley and I have a friend with a daughter named Briley, and it always felt weird yelling at my dog when her daughter was over and Lord knows I can't have a dog I can't yell at.

So due to the circumstances, Maggie had to go. My mother brought Daisy back up which made me think of Maisy which I really like. I had wanted to name our new puppy something all literary and cool, but with the girls calling out names like Princess and Ariel, and my son insisting that he was going to call her Maggie no matter what, and my mother throwing out Kaisy in addition to Maisy (what?), and my husband giving me the gimlet eye which said, "We aren't naming her anything weird," I was at a complete loss for anything literary. Then I remembered one of my favorite authors has a daughter named Maisy, and I decided that made the name literary enough. So, Maisy it was. (And yes, I do know that both Maggie and Daisy would have both paid homage to great literary characters, but they just didn't work for me.)

Now Maisy has settled into that warm and fuzzy place in all of our hearts, and she only goes off to far corners of the house to poop on rare occasions and doesn't chew on too many barbie legs or human shoes, so she is fitting in nicely. And she has even started sleeping through the night, except for last night when she pawed my forehead and chewed my hair all night, and I thought I would have to banish her to her crate for ever and ever, amen, but we are going to assume that was just an off night for her due to a crazy schedule.

Actually, not that this has anything to do with my ultimate point, because I do have one of those, but having a tiny puppy is really like having an infant again, which is why it took me two years to get another dog. When you have an actual infant, people expect you to go through the day with slits for eyes and don't expect you to be able to hold an intelligent conversation. When you have a puppy, you are expected to get out of your pajamas before 2 o'clock in the afternoon and also go on with your life as if nothing is wrong, despite the fact that you are only getting about five hours of sleep a night. I'm pretty sure we need to form a grassroots organization to correct this societal misconception. Getting up in the middle of the night with a baby causes the same sleep depravity whether or not the baby is an actual human infant. 'Nuf said.

So, the other morning Mr. Engineer took Maisy out around 5 am to do her business. She ran towards the woods in our backyard to do her first business, then she came back and ran up the hill just in front of the woods to do her other business. Right about then my husband saw a red fox on the other side of the small strip of woods between our house and our neighbor's, and he was pretty sure the fox wasn't there to play. Being the brave and loyal Eagle Scout that he is, Mr. Engineer charged up the hill towards the fox right about the time the hair on Maisy's neck stood up and she realized that she might become someone else's breakfast and took off high tailing it for the house.

The fox knew the jig was up and took off for other small innocent creatures, while Maisy came in the house and immediately threw up on Mr. Engineer's foot. Personally, I think that last part shows why I am her favorite. She ran from danger and just the thought of it was more than her intestines could handle, so she got the shakes and threw up. I know exactly how she feels.

I was very impressed with my husband for having even seen the fox. My eyes would have been slit open just enough to see if she was actually pottying, and she would have been carried off to the the fox's den before I could have screamed (which is probably what I would have done had I seen said fox stalking our sweet puppy.)

Mr. Engineer assures me I would have done the same thing. I appreciate his belief in me, and it is a sound belief where his ACTUAL children that I birthed are concerned. Had any of the three of them been on the hill in danger of a fox, I would have charged the hill and done what I had to do to save them. I would have charged the hill had it been a coyote, which are said to roam this area, and would have choked it with my bare hands had it been necessary.

But for the dog? I'm really not so sure. If it had been a coyote, I might have screamed, turned tail to run, and sent up a prayer for sweet Maisey. A fox, I would have screamed and probably scared it off. But a chipmunk? Well, I'm pretty sure I could have taken a chipmunk. Heck, I'm pretty sure Maisy could go toe-to-toe with a chipmunk. And if you're wondering what the heck a chipmunk has to do with anything, well you should head over and take a gander at Five Full Plates... (That's for you, Gray.)

Mary, Mary Quite Contrary...

2010-04-10T16:00:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those beautiful spring days that you dream about after you've been snowed in for five days with your children and you've made enough hot chocolate to float the Spanish Armada. The high was in the low 70s with a slight breeze to keep the sun from feeling hot. The cherry trees and Bradford pears are in bloom and the sky was the perfect shade of blue. It couldn't have been prettier. I think I could live this day for 3/4ths of the year, and I'd be happy. Assuming of course the pollen miraculously went away while the flowers were still in bloom. The other days could be one month of temps hot enough to swim, one and half months of glorious fall foliage and half of month for winter where it could snow for one week and keep us snowed in for four days. Um, that would be if I was in charge of the weather, but alas I am not...

Anyway, as I said, today was perfection. It wast the perfect day for selling lemonade with the Girl Scouts at our little town's annual Spring festival. It was the perfect day to walk home from the festival -- even though there are no sidewalks and we were 'afeared' for our lives while crossing the bridge. But most of all, it was the perfect day for gardening.

I don't think I've ever mentioned my relationship with gardening here at The Creek. I came to flower gardening a little late in life compared to some and a little early compared to others. Although I grew up in the South, I did not have a magnolia and gardenia mother. Gardening was not about growing flowers -- it was about growing food. And that was my Daddy's job. The son of a farmer, the man had a penchant for throwing seeds in the ground, tending them and then enjoying the literal fruits of his labor. You need some half-runner and silver queen (that's green beans and the best white corn you've ever tasted for the uninitiated)? My Daddy was your man. When I was a child he kept a garden that put all other gardens to shame. You would have thought we were feeding a small Amish community with the garden we had in our backyard, but that's how Daddy liked it.

*I am using the past tense here, because nowadays my Daddy does not put out a garden, because it might interfere with his retirement and his golf game, never mind that we're in a recession and his poor grandchildren could use some free organic vegetables that had been grown with his tender loving care. Okay, I don't know why I'm going on like this. It's not like either of my parents even knows what a blog is, much less reads it. But maybe one of my cousins will pass along the message.*

One of my earliest memories is digging in the garden in the potato patch. I think I was about three or four years old. It may not be a memory, so much as it is an actual picture I have of my 3-year-old dirt-covered self sitting in the dirt digging up spuds. Another fond memory I have is of my mother cooking dinner and asking me to go get the potatoes. And she didn't mean out of the pantry. She meant out of the ground. So, I would dutifully run down our backyard to the very bottom of our garden, grab a potato plant with my hand and pull. Then I'd go hose them off and take them inside to Mom. My favorite were new potatoes, the ones that were small and round and perfect. We also grew black-eyed peas, okra, tomatoes, corn, strawberries, squash, green beans and few melons every now and again. And by "we" I really mean, my Daddy. Of course my brother and I did string up a few beans, hoe a few weeds and water a few rows, but the real work was all Daddy.

Now come pickin' time, it was a whole other ballgame. I have picked, strung, and snapped green beans until I thought my fingers would bleed and I have hulled bowl after merciless bowl of black-eyed peas. A year or two ago we were at our friends' house and while they were fixing dinner, the husband grabbed the corn and started shucking it over the kitchen sink. He laughed and said I'd probably never shucked corn. I let him know real quick that I'd shucked corn for dinner just about every summer night of my childhood. And there were even some nights were the only thing we'd eat would be corn. Mmmm, I can just taste that Silver Queen now.

My point (I do usually get around to those sooner or later, don't I?) is that I grew up thinking vegetable gardens were necessary, and flower gardens were not. Flowers are pretty to look at and all, but they've never put food on the table, now have they?

Fast forward to my blissful mid-twenties or "the BC years" as I like to call them, Before Children, and I got bit by the flower garden bug. As soon as we moved into our little cracker box of a first house in a shady historic area of town, I just had to plant flowers. The most beautiful blue hydrangea bush you have ever seen grew right beside the front porch stairs. One look at that baby and I knew flowers were what I wanted, what my little house and my soul needed. I immersed myself in gardening like any good, er obsessive, student would.

I read everything there was to read about gardening in the shade. You see, we had dappled shade, light shade and deep shade to work with, so I scrounged up every shade plant known to grow in the Mid-South region. The Southern Living Gardening book became my flower bible. I knew every plant by its common name, as well as its Latin name. Even my mother-in-law, a flower gardener from way back, was impressed with my knowledge. She added to my collections and gave me much needed advice. Mr. Engineer and I planted with abandon. We went mostly for perennials, but threw in some annuals for color as well. We had heated debates over the size and shape of flower beds. He wanted 90 degree angles; I wanted meandering curves. We compromised with precise curves at exact intervals. Life was good. Life in our backyard and by the front porch was beautiful. Then something more beautiful than any flower I'd ever known came along, my first baby.

And then I gave up gardening. My husband tended what we'd already established and my mother-in-law continued to bring transplanted flowers from her garden and take transplants from my garden, but I would just point and make suggestions while blissfully holding my sweet baby boy. Fast-forward almost two years and we moved to a new town that was just perfect, except our house was in full sun. Not just sun, but blazing sun, Tennessee in August and not a piece of shade to be found except in the wood line behind our house sun. When Springtime rolled around and we were ready to plant, I had a 2 1/2 year old and was ready to pop with our next child, and I didn't know Jack Sprat about gardening in the sun.

All those years I had coveted a plot of ground to put some showy full-sun flowers in were coming back to haunt me. And with a brain so pregnant that all it could think about was, "I'm pregnant. How am I going to take care of two babies? I'm really huge. Is that ice cream mint chocolate chip, yummy. I'm so swollen. How many more weeks can I do this!?!" planting flowers was the least of my worries. Fast forward seven more years and another child to boot, and you can probably guess that I'm still not versed in growing flowers in the sun.

Yes, we've added a couple of perennial beds and changed some things in the front bed, but we still aren't the experts we once were. Oh, Mr. Engineer would probably beg to differ, and he'd be right. I'm not the expert I used to be, and that's okay with me, sort of. I still love watching things grow, I just don't love planning it and executing it and taking care of it as much as I used to. Maybe I'm just too busy growing and "training up" other, more important things.

So nowadays when I say "we" were gardening today, what I really mean is I was pointing at places where Mr. Engineer could put the daylillies he had just divided, and he was digging holes. We also planned an oak leaf hydrangea garden in the back where Mr. Engineer could plant the offshoots he'd just dug up from the side bed. There was no major planning session, no Round-Upping of the soil and waiting a couple weeks, just him asking, "Where you want me to put 'em? How about here and here?" And me saying, "That's good, and maybe one over here?"

We've come a long way from our master-planning days. Will the hydrangea transplants make it in the rocky soil among the weed? Who knows? And who really cares? They were free, they were there, and we had the time so we planted them. Will Mr. Engineer dig out the weeds and mulch it when he gets a chance? You can bet on it. Will we turn that rocky ugly part of our yard into a beautiful garden like we've talked about for the last seven years? I don't know, but we did take a babystep in that direction today.

So yes, "we" did garden today, and for now I really like the way "we" did it. It left me free to run in the house and check on the eggs I was boiling to make tuna salad for lunch, and to answer my 3-year-old's questions and to wander back out and point some more. My nails aren't traumatized like they were 10 years ago, and I only miss playing in the dirt a little. But every now and then I do have to rip a dandelion out of the flower beds. It's an old habit that's hard to break. And I'm sure Mr. Engineer is grateful, right? He can't do it all around here, now can he?

A place for baseball belts, and baseball belts in their place!

2010-03-17T09:11:00.000-07:00

I found my son's baseball belt just a few minutes ago. Yep, it was in the corner of the bathroom downstairs, just in the sort of place my husband suggested it might be last night while helping my son get ready for practice at the last minute. I heard him say something like, "I just saw it the other day where it wasn't supposed to be. It's probably wherever you took it off when you got home the other day. Go look in the bathrooms."

Now these few short sentences sum up our entire family dynamic. Mr. Engineer, aka Captain Trash, is frustrated with the rest of his family's lack of engineeriness (that is so a word) and our inability to find a "place for everything and everything...blah, blah, blah." While our 9-year-old son, aka The One Whose Head Resides in the Clouds, is assuring us that there is no such thing as a baseball belt, so he couldn't possibly have lost one. And I am thinking, "Oh yeah, I saw that belt in a strange place, too. It's probably in the bathroom downstairs and I should go -- look, something shiny!" While our girls are downstairs coloring on paper with markers on the one patch of carpet that doesn't look as if it has been herded over by muddy elephants. Yep, that's us.

I have told you before about my stellar housekeeping skills, and I am sure you must be bored of it by now, but there's a reason I've brought this dead horse up to beat again. A lovely author whose blog I follow, Joshilyn Jackson, and four of her just as lovely friends are running a Spring Cleaning contest over at Five Full Plates. No, there is no fabulous Dyson vacuum cleaner up for grabs. The only thing you'll be getting out of this contest is bragging rights and possibly a freshly cleaned house. The first contest they did was a 10-week weight loss challenge that I failed at, but at the same time won. The goal was to lose 10 pounds in 10 weeks. I lost about 6 pounds, so technically I failed. But, I started actually and truly exercising at least once a week and at least thinking about what I shoved in my pie hole before I shoved it and am now healthier and my jeans are too big, so that is totally a win for me. I am sure it will be the same with this contest. If I just manage to get one closet cleaned and make a dent in my bonus room, it will be an EPIC WIN for me. I may, if I get up the nerve, post before and after pictures. Do not hold your breath.

Now I did not see any rules posted for this contest, except for the fact that we are in no uncertain terms not to mention the Flylady to her ever, so I am so totally going to cheat. I have a friend who has recently become a professional organizer, and I plan to call her. Yes, I have used organizers in the past and my house still looks like a pack of hoarders up and moved in, but like the Apostle Paul, I will press on through my failures! Speaking of Paul, after the last few months of the metaphorical cleaning I've been doing in my life, I should feel refreshed in doing just housecleaning. (That was last week's post, and I am just too lazy to make another link to myself.)

Anyway, have I mentioned I broke down and got myself a cleaning lady that comes every two weeks? Now some of you are probably giving me the evil eye right now wondering why I'm complaining about a dirty house when I have a house cleaner, but friends the cleaning lady brings out a whole other can of worms, and she certainly doesn't help with the underlying whole organization thing. I finally hired her because I didn't want my wonderful, awesome, did I mention hot? husband leaving me with three children clinging to my Depression-era skirts, because my house occasionally looks ready to be condemned. (Am I the only one now singing "You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille..."?)

God bless Mr. Engineer's heart, he loves a freshly scrubbed and organized house, and I am genetically unable to make a house either sparkly or organized, so I decided to cut out lattes that come in cups with a pretty green logo and stay out of the fabric and craft stores for a while and get myself some shiny and sparkly. The problem is, I hired the sparkly before I hired the organization. Now I spend every Wednesday marshaling the troops to "pick up all the crap off the floor, because the cleaning lady is coming tomorrow!" And then I spend an inordinate amount of time running around and trying to put things up and generally working myself into a tizzy, just so my toilets and sinks will shine like the stars every other week and my lovely cherry desk will reflect my surprised face when I look at it. What's that you say? You can see your reflection in your desk!?! Why yes, I did. So that means that all of the papers that had been piled on my desk for the last three, four, five? years, are now in boxes residing beside my desk. Yep, you heard me. She cleaned off my desk. (Insert mild expletive here.)

This, of course, had to happen right before tax time, which is my absolute favorite time to be married to Mr. Engineer. This is when he starts asking me dreadful, hateful, nasty questions such as "Where are the receipts for the inventory you bought? And where are your receipts for what you sold? And how about those sales tax forms that show you paid your taxes this year? You did pay your sales tax this year, right?" And this is where my heart feels all panicky in my too-small chest and my armpits start to sweat, and I try really hard not to shout, "How the *&^% should I know? And LEAVE ME ALONE!" I refrain from shouting this because I know that he is only doing our family a favor by keeping the IRS off our backs, and seriously, I should know these things. I am a grownup, and I have had this embroidery business for at least 4 or 5 years now, and I know that the Tax Man cometh every April. I should really know where all that crap is. And I usually have a vague idea of where it is piled up on my desk, written on backs of envelopes and folded and put in the special "tax" places on my desk. But remember, I hired out some sparkly and shiny, and that is what I got. I just didn't realize I'd get a big freaking headache to go along with it.

Anyway, the whole point of this rambling post is that I'm trying to get this pit I call a house in order, because I've got some things I'd like to do that require a little organization. My goal is to tackle some particularly nasty organizational task every week for four weeks. Anyone willing to join me? I meant join me in organizing your own house, not coming over to help in mind. But if you are up for that sort of thing, I certainly won't stop you. Just bring some water, flashlights and emergency food packs. Who knows how long we'll be buried in my closets...

Back, ahem, again...

2010-03-09T08:59:00.001-08:00

Hi old friends, did you miss me?

"Who are you?" you say. "We do not know you. Who could you possibly be, calling us friends?"

Aww now, don't be that way. I know I up and left on a three-month hiatus without so much as a "see you later" but I didn't mean to.

*Looks at freshly painted hot pink toenails, chagrinned*

Forgive me? Please? Pretty please with sprinkles on top? What about if I pinky swear and spit and promise never to do it again? Okay? Thanks! You guys are the best. And I am so sorry that some of you (make that two of you) have been checking back every few days to see if I had showed back up again. And I hadn't. I don't even know what to tell you. It's not as if my life has been any busier than normal the last few months, other than the holidays of course, which are busy for everybody. After the holidays it might not even have been as busy as usual. (Like my stellar sentence structure, there? I know that's why you've been coming back day after day looking for me.)

I guess you could just say I've been in a place. I've been doing lots of looking in and trying to figure things out in my life. I've been doing a Bible study these past few months on abiding, based on John 15:1-5. It's the "vine" analogy on how Jesus is the vine, God is the vinedresser, and we are the branches who are unable to accomplish anything apart from him. He says that the branches that do nothing will be cut off and those that bear a little fruit will be pruned, so they will bear more fruit.

Pruning, it's not something I've thought about much, and frankly, it's not very fun to think about. I feel like my eyes have been opened to all the pruning that is necessary in my life, and have mercy! It is not a pretty picture. Literally, in a span of a week or two God showed me every thing in my life that needed to be cut away -- every sort of sin and wrong-thinking (I'm sure that's a word) that needed to be taken care of. It was tough. I asked him, in a respectful way of course, did He really have to show me every single thing that was wrong with me in one week?

Apparently, yes. It was an ordeal just to "see" it all, much less try to deal with it. But there you have it. Now that I know better, I must do better. And it's not all that easy, but I'm getting there, and I know I will be much better for it in the end. I've made some progress in some areas, and not so much in others. But suffice it to say, that's one of the reasons I've been busy.

Another reason is guilt! After feeling guilty about not posting for a while, and then thinking of things I could post, but not getting around to it, and then feeling more guilt, I didn't feel like writing because I felt guilty. How ridiculous is that! It's not like you people (all three or four, okay seven of you) are paying me to write this. These are just the ramblings in my head that I feel the crazy need to let spill out onto the screen for all the world to see. I'm not trying for the Pulitzer here. Heck, I'm not even trying to get paid, so why on Earth should I feel guilty? It's ridiculous. But, guilt is just a part of who I am.

Also, this blog thing is time consuming. I write and write, and then revise and revise, and then write some more which is ludicrous, too. (See above note about the Pulitzer and payment.) Dear readers, you all know that once upon a time I was a writer, and I do have a degree in communications which should prove that I am somewhat familiar with the rules of grammar and even the AP stylebook, and if I can't follow those rules and guidelines flawlessly at every sitting, it's because my brain has turned mushy after reading Green Eggs and Ham and watching Dora the Explorer for the last nine years!

I know -- and I hope by now that you know -- that I have a decent understanding of grammar, and a not-too-shoddy way with words, and if that doesn't come out in every single blog post I write, the world will not come to an end, right? Mind you, this is coming from the woman who will edit an e-mail reply for 20 minutes before sending it back to a friend.

*Hi, my name is Lori, and I'm an editing addict.*

But no more! I think I'll use this to blog to work my steps and get over it. In fact, I may only read through my posts three or four times before posting which would be a major step. Because, my theory is that if it takes me less than an hour to write and edit a post, then maybe I'll write one more than every three months.

And let's face it. I edit endlessly to look more clever and smart and pretty and likeable, or something like that. It's the people pleaser in me. I want you all to like me, really like me and not just me, but my writing -- especially my writing -- which is something else I probably need to work out in therapy. But sense some of you have been kind enough to call and say, "Hey, when are you ever going to blog again, because dang it, I miss it!" then I should realize at least two of you do really like me, so I should just get over myself and write and not work myself up so much. So that's what I've decided to do. I'm done trying so hard, okay? You'll still like me, right? *Okay, so I'm still working on that one.*

And last but not least, I'm going to try really, really, REALLY hard not to write massively long blogs. *Don't laugh! I heard you laughing.* Seriously, it has occured to me that maybe, just maybe, if I don't write several thousand words at one sitting, I might just want to sit down and write more often? Makes sense, huh?

I also want a prettier, fancier blog, and I basically want to be the Pioneer Woman, but I don't see that happening any time soon, so you'll just have to live with my new color...white! It's so original, don't you think? And you can also look for a crafty blog coming from me soon. Yes, I can hear you thinking, "She can't keep up with one blog, so why would she write two?" In the real world I know that this makes no sense, but in the world inside my head, it makes perfect sense. Scary, huh? Just be glad you don't live there.

Did I mention it feels great to be back? Thanks for waiting on me.

Author Meet Fail -- Or, how I didn't meet the Pioneer Woman when she came to town.

2009-12-09T07:12:00.000-08:00

I had plans, dear readers, big plans. Last night I was going to meet one of my heroes of the blogosphere, Ree Drummond, aka Pioneer Woman. You've heard me 'talk' about Pioneer woman on here before. She is one of the best known bloggers on the 'net, so if you haven't read her blog, you should. She makes me want to chuck it all and move to a big ranch and homeschool my four kids and live with my cowboy husband. *Yes, I realize I only have three kids and my husband is an engineer, but we could adopt and he could be a cowboy, he's very talented like that.*

Anyway, Pioneer Woman was coming to Davis-Kidd Booksellers in Nashville last night, and I wasn't going to miss her. I had it all planned -- or at least I thought I did. I told my hubby *Oh, That reminds me, I really need a better blog name for him. Pioneer Woman calls her hubby Marlboro Man, because he's a cowboy. I could call mine Engineer man, but that conjures up images of glasses and pocket protectors, and he is much more yummy than that. I could always call him Country Boy, but that brings up Bubbas and chewing tobacky and that won't do either. He's a country boy in the sense that he's not afraid of hard work and can do just about anything, and he likes the pace of life to be a little slower, and he loves a good 4-wheeler ride, too. Southern Gentleman might work. Yes ma'am and no ma'am are a regular part of his vocabulary, and ladies, if we were out to dinner with you, and you left the table and came back, he would stand up for you. Oh yes he would. Ooh, and then there's my favorite, Eagle Scout. That name might describe him better than any other moniker I could come up with. He's all the things a good scout is, trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent, but that makes him sound a little too goody-goody, and he's not that either. Since all those names together describe him but are too cumbersome to type, I guess hubby will have to suffice for now. You thought this was a post about Pioneer Woman, didn't you? I'm tricky that way. Anyway, back to the story.)

I told my hubby that I was going to go see Pioneer Woman on Monday night. He said, "That's great, but you know we have Cub Scout Pack meeting, right?" Grrr. No, of course I didn't know that, because I don't think of things like that when I am planning getaways for myself. In my head I know that Pack Meeting is the second Tuesday of every month, but that doesn't always translate to me thinking about it. Plus, last night still felt like the first Tuesday of the month, because it was the 8th and December started on Tuesday. Grrr.

So, plan B. I'll get a babysitter. No problem, right? It's worth it. Well, turns out my college age babysitter is much more responsible than I was at 19. She had a final today and thought it best to stay home last night to study. What was that all about? I'm not sure. I usually started studying for a final around 10:30 the night before, and she would have been home around 8:30, which would have given her plenty of time, but to each his own.

Then I come up with a brilliant idea -- I'll take my girls. You see Pioneer Woman loves kids. And she takes pictures at all of her signings and puts some of the people up on her blog. Have you seen my children? They are beautiful if I do say so myself, and I also have a secret weapon for my girls -- pink cowboy boots. *I just heard an audible gasp from some of you who've known me for a long time. Yes, my girls have boots and yes, I know you wouldn't expect that of me. My mother-in-law bought them on sale, and they are the cutest things you've ever seen.* I was going to put my 3-year-old in her brown and pink twirl skirt and her pink cowboy boots and take her with me. Anyone who says she wouldn't have made the blog in that outfit has obviously never seen her in it. She is too cute, and her 6-year-old sister, well she is a beauty. My girls were going to be famous!

So what happened you ask? Life happened, that's what. We got home from mother's day out and the 3-year-old was in a mood. There is no nap at MDO and by 2:15 when we get home, it's too late to take one. So, we made cookies. Oh, and did I mention the rain? It rained all day long here. Nasty cold rain with nasty cold wind thrown in for good measure. I'm sure Pioneer Woman thinks Nashville is just delightful. The rain had actually slacked off for a little while in the afternoon until right before my older two got off the bus. I missed the knock at the door at first and when my son started pounding on the door and I opened it, it was pouring big fat cold drops of rain. So, I got to hear him belly ache about the rain and getting soaked for 5 minutes until I could yell, "Cookies, fresh hot cookies!" and then all was better.

So, at this point I'm still a little hopeful. Cookies have improved every one's mood and my husband will be home soon, and I'll still make it out of here on time, right? Wrong. After relaxing with cookies and milk and playing a little around the house, my son starts on his homework. Remember, he has a Pack Meeting and has to get it done before he can go. Can I just say that getting him to do homework after being in school all day is like pulling teeth? He is so smart that when he applies himself, it takes all of five minutes. It's just the "applying" part that he can't seem to get past.

I'm busy doing dishes and trying to get some laundry done when he asks me two easy questions as part of his homework. "Name two inventions that have occurred in your lifetime and tell what life was like before and after the inventions." Well, how easy could that be, computer and cell phone. I talk a little about the changes and then I word my responses in easy, short, complete sentences, so all he has to do is dictate. So that's what he does, right? Ha. When I finally get done with laundry and look at his homework he has written about three words down in each of the boxes. His homework looks like some sort of cryptic code. I explain to him that three word responses are unacceptable, and of course he has a minor breakdown. Fifteen minutes later when I am still trying to get him to write complete sentences, my hubby gets home. He, of course, is justifiably unhappy that homework is not down because, say it with me now, "He has a pack meeting to go to!"

Then there's a little thing called dinner I forgot to deal with. Actually, that is untrue. I had baked cookies earlier, and frankly, I can bake or I can cook in one day, I cannot do both. So, it was Spaghetti O's for the kids, leftover Mexican for hubby and cereal for me. Oh, and did I mention the meltdown that my 3-year-old had in the bathroom? She was screaming at the top of her lungs in the bathroom, so I run in to see the problem. She is jerking at her skirt and crying, so I assume she can't get the skirt down and has to potty badly, so I jerk it down and plop her on the toilet. Actually, I try to plop her on the toilet and she clings to me like a spider monkey. My brain does not process this, because I am imagining a puddle on the floor and there is so much screaming going on I can't think. So, I remove her clinging limbs from my body and plop her forcefully on the potty. Five minutes of screaming and crying later, I figure out she needed help getting the skirt up and not down, because she had already pottied. I try to discuss the benefit of using words versus screaming to get what she needs, but fifteen minutes later she is still crying for Daddy and I am holding her in my lap. Then, of course, she tries to fall asleep.

I'll admit it was at this point when I had a crying toddler in my arms, a third grader who was not doing his homework, a first grader who had not read me her book, and a husband who was wondering what was for dinner that I realize meeting the Pioneer Woman was not going to happen. I was in the middle of a train wreck, albeit a familiar trainwreck, at home and the thought of slogging through the rain with a crying preschooler during rush hour to Green Hills, which has the worst traffic this side of Atlanta, was more than I could take.

Yes I felt guilty and worried that Pioneer Woman would not get a good reception from the good people of Nashville due to the inclement weather, but I should not have fretted. I read a blog this morning that said she was there signing books until after midnight. She greets each person and actually talks to them -- she doesn't just sign their book and shove them on. So, Pioneer Woman is awesome and I missed her, but I think she'll understand. She's a mother of four after all, and sometimes being a mom means giving up what you want to do to do the things you should do -- like hold screaming preschoolers who are clinging to you like a spider monkey. Yep, it's a glamorous life I live her in the 'Ville.

Lies, D@$% Lies, and 9-year-olds

2009-12-03T17:14:00.000-08:00

I had planned to blog about our sweet little town's Christmas Tree Lighting the other night and include some anecdotes about me and my inability to estimate crowd size and how during our premarital counseling this led to a very interesting discussion with me, my husband and our pastor. Instead, I will now be discussing lies. Grrr...

I read a blogger the other day who said her tween daughter has turned into an habitual liar and she thinks this is normal behavior for tweens. As the mother of a 9-year-old who is starting to bend the truth like Bekham, I am dismayed. Really, it's going to get worse? GAH!

This week has been a bad week for lies. The other day my precious son who just a few years ago was toddling up to me to give me a kiss on my knee, came bounding in the door, looked me almost straight in the eye (I still have about 4 inches on him) showed me a picture and said, "Look what me and my friend drew." It was a picture of a person on a motorcycle. It looked to me as if it had been traced, but whatever. I think it rated an "Oh, that's nice" response from me. Then he started prattling on about how he only "drew" half of it, but it still counted because he and his friend did it together and isn't that great. "Yeah, okay, good." And in my head I'm thinking about dinner, and my van that was in the shop, and the Christmas Tree lighting we had to go to, and the friend's child who was at my house upstairs playing with my 3-year-old. But some synapse in the back of my brain was firing and thinking, "What's the deal with the picture?" I figured it had been "traced," so not technically "drawn" so that's why he was acting weird and moved on.

The rest of the night was a whirlwind of picking up my van, getting Sonic for dinner and running back out to the Tree Lighting. As we walk in the door with Sonic in our hands, my precious son looks at the picture that had been discarded on the table and bursts out with "I didn't really draw that!" What? What exactly are you talking about? The truth -- or something possibly resembling the truth -- comes out after many different versions to finally be that he found the picture discarded under a cafeteria table and then he took it and colored it. There was no drawing on his part, and since he found it on the floor, it was not done by his friend. It was only colored by him.

Okay, really? You really chose to lie about something that stupid and insignificant? I just can't wrap my brain around that. Did he think he'd get in trouble for picking someone else's trash up off the floor and keeping it? Did he think he needed to impress me by saying he had drawn it himself. He's a pretty good artist in his own right, and I am usually impressed by the work he does. I mean, I get lying to cover your assets -- we've all done that -- but lying about stupid crap makes me crazy. Is he lying because he's scared of getting in trouble? Is he lying to get attention? Is he lying because he thinks its fun, and he's going to end up in prison one day for his con-artist ways? Gah! I can't figure it out.

In our house lying in a capital offense -- okay, obviously I don't mean that literally, but it is a serious crime. If you fess up to something you've done without lying about it, more often than not you will not be punished. But lie to me or your daddy, and it will not be pretty. Our son is very aware of our views on lying. So why does he doe it? I asked him why he lied and he flipped out. He knew what was coming, and he started backpedalling and justifying as hard as he could. "It was just something stupid! Why does it even matter? It could have been my friend who drew it, you don't know who threw it away. It was only a half-lie, which shouldn't even count!" Just imagine a boy almost my size throwing him self on the ground crying and pitching a fit and you get the picture. It was ugly, but I stood my ground.

So why is lying such a big deal? Because as Christians, Jeff and I know that Satan is the father of all lies. And we cannot allow our children to become habitual liars. *Some of my liberal readers (you know who you are) just flipped out that I referred to Satan. Yes, I do believe in an actual Satan and an actual Hell, and I'm happy to talk to you about it at our next get together.*

So what's a mom to do? I mean after I threaten to beat him if he doesn't quit throwing a hissy fit over the punishment that hasn't even been decided on yet? Oh yeah, I make him look up and write five Bible verses about lying and actions. *Okay, now some of my Christian readers just flipped out that I am using copy work from the Bible as punishment.* I'll admit that the first time I heard this suggestion, I didn't like it. I thought, "It will make my kids hate the Bible if I use it as punishment." But then one night I was out of ideas for a MAJOR violation that had occurred, so I used it. And it worked. He was truly sorry for his actions. More contrite than I had every seen him. And really, the word "discipline" comes from the word "disciple," which means to teach, so what better tool to learn from than scripture. The Bible has lots to say about lying, which brings me to this...

I am a liar. Wow, that seems so harsh, written down on the page in black and white, as it were. But it's true. Readers, you can call it hyperbole (which I love to call it, because it is such a fun word and so apropos of me) or exaggeration or just plain stretching the truth, but I do it all the time. Now flat out to your face lying? I don't usually do that, probably because a.) it's wrong and b.) I stink at it. Can't lie to save my life. Look totally guilty and usually start giggling from nerves over the fact that I am LYING LIKE A DOG to somebody. But stretch the truth -- I do it all the time. "I've got a million things to do today... It must have been 110 degrees in there... I was too sick to get out of bed... Yes, Santa does deliver presents to little boys and girls all over the world in one night." Yep, I'm a liar. So how can I come down so hard on my son, if I'm guilty of the same sin? I don't know, maybe that's why I'm harder on him. But I know I can't just let it slide.

Tonight, it was a lie about homework. He said he'd studied his spelling. I told him to study some more (he forgot his homework twice this week, so I figured he could use the practice). He said he accidentally threw the list in the trash when he cleaned out his folder. Well, I knew he had cleaned out his folder before starting his homework, so obviously he hadn't studied. ARGH!!! Now, I didn't just have the lost spelling list to deal with (I made him dig through the trash to find it -- to no avail) I also had the lying to deal with. Didn't we just go through the lying thing two nights ago? So, more verses. This time instead of five verses, which was pretty light weight, I had him copy each of those five verses five times a piece exactly as they are written. (He tends to shorten and paraphrase.) It took a good 30-45 minutes, instead of the 10 it took the other day. I wanted him to realize that doing the homework he didn't want to do would have taken 10 minutes. Lying over doing the homework and having to suffer the consequences, 45 minutes. No comparison. Don't lie and life will be easier.

So maybe that will sink in a little more. Or maybe, if lying really does get worse as they get towards the teen years, maybe he'll just have a large chunk of the Bible memorized by the time he's 14. I guess there's always that...

Is this thing on?

2009-11-16T07:36:00.000-08:00

I started writing this little blog a few months ago just to stretch my writing muscles again and see if I rememberd how to turn a phrase. And over that time, I've collected a few loyal readers, probably 10 in all, and a few casual readers from Facebook and my small town. And out of the dozen or so who do read my blog, I'm probably related to a quarter of you. I am not complaining -- just the opposite. I am thankful that anyone reads my blog. I haven't done any of those things that "they" tell you to do to get my blog noticed. I've been pretty happy to just exist over here in my little corner and hear from a few of my Facebook friends every now and then about how much they loved my last post.

When I hear that someone likes a post of mine, it is exhilarating. Of course it's also terrifying, because when I am writing I don't always remember that this is not a "private" blog and that really anybody in the world who knew how to find it could read it. When my hubby's grandmother commented the other day, I did a double take. My first thought, was "Oh my word, I hope I didn't write anything inappropriate." My second thought was, "Wow! I can't believe 'Granny B' reads my blog."

My own parents do not read my blog, much less my grandfather. My father uses e-mail and checks out the latest trends in golf equipment on the internet, but he's not really one to read a blog. And my mother, well, she won't even turn a computer on, much less get on it to read a blog. She feels her life is complete without a computer. I know, that's crazy, right? I can't imagine life without one, but to each his own. She's assured me that if I were to print it out and send it to her via the U.S. Post Office, she would read it. And I've assured her that won't be happening while I have three children at home, and we're both okay with that. Maybe I should just e-mail it to Daddy and make him print it out and have her read it. But then I would have to stop talking about my mother, and that wouldn't be fun at all. Just kidding. Well, sort of.

So, my hubby, a few cousins, some friends from Facebook and residents of the 'Ville read it, but that's about it. But yesterday, I am pretty sure I got my first honest-to-goodness comment from a random stranger here at the Creek. It is embarrassing to know how excited I got. Really. I mean, I know that I have readers because you tell me you read me when we are at places like Halloween parties, but not a lot of you comment. That's okay dear beloved readers, I am not trying to guilt you into commenting on my blog. No. Really. I'm not. It's just that The Pioneer Woman gets oh, I don't know, 1,500 comments on her blog daily, so I'm feeling a little insecure.

Now I realize that comparing myself to the "Queen of Blogging" is probably not an accurate yardstick, or healthy, or any of those things, but for those of you who've been reading me for more than five minutes, you know that I enjoy making myself a little crazy.

Have you read the Pioneer Woman's blog? You should. She is awesome. She makes me want to chuck it all and go live on a ranch with my four children and cowboy husband and homeschool and take never-ending pictures of cows and cowboys on horses, all while I am riding a horse. Oh, what's that you say? I don't have a cowboy husband and I only have three children, and I like having pizza delivered to my house (since I couldn't get it delivered the first 18 years of my life), and I love Tennessee and never want to live anywhere else, and besides, I tend to fall off horses, just ask my cousins Lisa & Jessica? Oh yeah? Well, you've obviously never read the Pioneer Woman.

So, I know I don't have the power to make you want to move to another part of the country and take up ranching, but apparently I do have the power to make at least one person surf in from the blogosphere and like my blog enough to comment on it. And today, that's enough for me. I may not get 1,500 comments on my post about my dog, but by golly Stephanie from Momma's Soapbox, found me somehow, read me and made a comment that said she liked me, she really liked me. Well, not in so many words, but I know how to interpret these things. Keep reading and posting, loyal readers, keep reading and posting (and you could always tell your friends, too.)

Failing with Aplomb -- Apparently it's just part of my personality.

2009-11-13T07:18:00.000-08:00

Dear readers, I know it's cliched and reeks of martyrish? martyresque? martyrdom? (you know what I mean) behavior and all that, but sometimes I do wonder why I even try. Yes, I know this is the mantra of many a mother out there, but seriously I just need to expect failure in certain areas.

Remember those personality tests I've been taking? Well, one of the things I've learned is that in addition to my lovely traits such as being bubbly, charismatic, outgoing, compassionate, easygoing, persuasive (shall I go on?), I can also be disorganized, easily distracted, self-indulgent, undisciplined, lacking in follow through and undependable meeting deadlines (Enough already! My ego cannot take it.)

Actually, it's a big fat lie to say I've just figured this out about myself. The fact is, I've known it for years. Maybe I'm just now old enough to embrace all the parts of my personality, work with who I am and what I want to be, and not sign up for things that aren't a good fit for me, like say, anything having to do with details or organization. Okay, I'm good with being the big picture person who comes up with the creative ideas that I need others to implement. We all play our roles.

But, what does one do when she's the mother of three and is responsible for eleventy-hundred* details in her children's lives, but she has issues with disorganization and follow through? She tries, dear readers, she really does, but as you can imagine, she fails quite often and sometimes quite spectacularly. Like, say, when the school has a Veteran's Day program that requires her child to wear particular articles of clothing.

A month ago the kind music teachers at our school let us know there would be a Veteran's Day program at school this year. Now, unlike many areas of the country, Veteran's Day is a big deal in our little town. There is a parade, there is a breakfast honoring our Vets, there is a program at school. That's how we roll here in the 'Ville, and we love it. Two years ago the Veteran's Day program from our school was held at a mega church in the town next to us and our sweet little elementary-aged cherubs sang with that church's symphony, and there were pictures of all the Vets that the children were related to on-screen, along with their branch of service and what war they fought in. There was even a picture of a British soldier who is related to a family at our school, and we all thought it was wonderful. Yes, we even recognize our Allies on Veteran's Day here in the 'Ville. And let me tell you, that night there was not a dry eye in the house. Not one!

So, this year's program was not quite that elaborate (I'm pretty sure the music teacher can only do that once every 5 years or so, because it was a production!), but it was still important nonetheless. A month before the program we were told that our patriotic children had to wear navy pants and either a white or red shirt. Nothing fancy. In this economy, they didn't want any one worrying about having to buy extra special clothes, just basic solids from your drawer.

Well, since my 9-year-old has grown more than three inches since the summer, he did not have any navy pants that fit, so it was off to the store for me. I didn't mind at all. He needed some new church pants. Now, you've got to realize that going to the store ONE WHOLE MONTH EARLY, is amazing, unbelievable, absolutely fantastic for me. I do not shop a month early for things such as this. I usually go out the night before and run all over town crying tears of panic, because I can't find pants in the right size. That's how I roll. But alas, dear readers, I have determined to add "margin" to my life to help tamp the crazies down just a little, because there is no reason for me to be crazy if I just plan ahead -- or so I tell myself.

So, off to the Target to buy pants. Precious son tries them on and for some reason these size 10 pants are 4 inches too long on my gangly son who is only about 4 or 5 inches shorter than me. Wow, wasn't expecting that. Guess I have to take those back. But I hate taking stuff back to Target since they've become the receipt Nazis, and they try to guilt me into using a credit card to purchase things, so they can keep up with my receipts (since I can't), when I much prefer using my cash envelopes, thank you very much. So, two weeks later (still two weeks ahead of the game) I take them back and buy a pair of 8s. They look like big 8s, so I think they will fit. A week or so later, I remember to try them on my son. As I am sliding on pants that now look overly big, I spot the H next to the size 8. Yep, I bought the size 8 husky pants. Crap, I say (or something like that), I have to go back to Target and return something AGAIN! Oh well, I can do it.

I remember to take back pants the day before the dress rehearsal and exchange them for regular 8s. I just know these will fit, right? I mean, the 10s were 4 inches too long, surely the 8s will be just right. I remember to try them on my precious first born that night after he got home from Scouts. Too small. As in, he would have gone all day without using the bathroom, so he wouldn't have had to button them again small. But, God bless my boy, he was thrilled to have them. They were, after all, the blue pants he had to wear to school for the dress rehearsal the next day.

It is now 8:30 at night, my husband is out of town, and my son's pants, the pants he has to wear the next day, do not fit. Yes, he could have squeezed into them for two days, but then he would have never worn them again, and I'm not throwing $15 bucks down the drain! So what do I do? Go to good ol' Facebook wherein a flurry of messages begins with my school mom friends, and I find out that very dark jeans are acceptable. SCORE!!!

Next morning I tell my son to wear his dark jeans and red shirt, wherein he has a meltdown. Complete and total. He is slightly hysterical in telling me that Mrs. H said "No jeans!" So I tell him that I will go the Wal Marts just up the road and find him a pair that fits and will bring it to him at school before the program. "NO!" he screams, and tells me he is not allowed to change his pants, only his shirt at school. So, being the awesome mom that I am who handles fits such as these in a mature and loving manner, I tell him he can wear his dark jeans or no pants to school. It is totally up to him. I'm sure you're surprised to hear he wore the jeans.

So, true to my word, I run out to the Wal Marts and find a pair that really look like they will fit. My Mom and Dad get to town, and Mom and I go to the program while Dad keeps Little Bit at home. I take the pants. My Mom, being the awesome "I" personality like me says, "Don't worry about it. He's fine now. It'll be too much hassle." Seeing half of the other kids wearing track pants and green t-shirts to the dress rehearsal, I agree. This, I will find out later, was a mistake.

After the performance I go see him and tell him how proud I am and what an awesome job he did and maybe -- just maybe -- he should sing when he is up on stage doing his synchronized flag waving routine with the blue plates, and we all go home happy.

Now, my Mom and Dad have come into town because I cannot go to the actual program Thursday night. When I say "can't go" what I actually mean is "don't want to go." You see, there is this awesome thing called Christmas Village going on, and I am part of the group that puts it on. For the last 13 years, I have volunteered at the show and have even served on the board pre-children. I get a free ticket to Sneak-A-Peek every year, which is the pre-show where they sell wine and lovely ladies shop and there are no strollers or crying babies or people I want to put the smack-down on because they've snatched up the last of whatever I was just looking at.

Sneak-A-Peek is one of my favorite events of the year. And when the school sent out an e-mail concerned about fitting everyone into our tiny gym for the performance, and added a performance, and split people up into alphabetical order to decide when they could see said performance, and even asked parents to come during the day to dress rehearsal instead of the performance if they could, I figured I was golden. Mom and I would go to the rehearsal, dad would take son to performance while mom babysat girls, and I would go shopping. Fool-proof plan, right? Not exactly.

I ran around yesterday afternoon getting ready. I washed red shirt and new navy pants (which fit) and got them ready for the performance. I even got the basketball outfit ready for his practice that was after the performance. I ordered pizza for my precious angel son to eat an hour and 15 minutes before the performance, and I got ready to leave. I told precious angel son that his clothes were on his bed, ready and waiting. I said this to him while he and my father were watching the Golf Channel. I made precious angel son look at me and respond that, yes ma'am, he understood that his performance clothes and basketball clothes were on the bed ready and waiting for him when he needed them. I gave my mom, who was downstairs, directions for my girls and then headed off to get Amy to go shopping.

It was awesome, it was blissful, it was all that was good about Sneak-A-Peek. Amy drank wine and handled me talking to every other person in the crowd with grace. She just left me to go shop, and then I called her to find her. It worked really well. We should do it again next year, Amy.

So, I return home triumphant from my shopping excursion at almost 11. My mom tells me that my son didn't go to basketball practice after the performance because he was tired, and I could care less. Don't blame him. Didn't really expect him to, but I got him prepared anyway, because I am an awesome mom. I ask my mother if dad liked the performance and if he could see him. I was a little worried he wouldn't be able to see his grandson in the sea of faces, because I had forgotten to tell him where said grandson was going to be standing. Mom said that Daddy had no trouble at all seeing him, because he said, "He was the only one in a blue shirt."

What? Wait. What was that? I thought you said blue shirt. (Internal dialogue: "Don't panic and don't yell at your mother, because you have a tendency to yell at your mother, and it's not what nice grown-up, 36-year-old women should do to the mother they really adore.) That can't be right, because he had to wear a red shirt, remember? I put his long-sleeved RED shirt and navy pants out on the bed for him. Mom gets that completely innocent and puzzled look on her face and says, "Well, you know, I wondered if that was what he was supposed to wear."

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!!! I scamper up to my son's room and the performance outfit was still right there on his bed undisturbed, and the blue graphic ringer t-shirt he wore to school that has some sort of gas station-type logo on it is crumpled on the floor. Yes, my son wore a graphic t-shirt to the Veteran's Day program at school where everyone I know saw him, seeing as how he stands head and shoulders above the rest of his classmates, and you apparently couldn't miss him BECAUSE HE HAD A BLUE SHIRT ON. My mom did say he remembered his patriotic scarf and had it wrapped around his neck, so it sort of hid the logo. Well, I guess I should be thankful for small favors. All I can say is, "Epic Failure."

Now, I realize dear readers, that wearing the wrong thing to a school program is not, in the grand scheme of things, a big deal. It's just that this is so classic for me and my family it is painful. My son is walking through life with his head so far up in the clouds that I'm surprised he remembers to eat. He is an awesome kid, and I love every inch of him, but he is so much like me it makes me a little crazy. And please don't get me started on the mother I love who would help me kill anyone who hurt my children and hide the bodies. All I can say is I didn't fall far from her "oblivious to details" tree. When she saw the other kids at dress rehearsal in inappropriate clothing, she assumed the blue shirt he had on was fine. And my Daddy, who I love and adore, is not one to notice things like clothes, unless of course you are wearing something showing too much skin or that makes you look hideous, and then he is the first to comment. Needless to say, it was the perfect storm for not getting to the program with the right clothes on. And yes, I totally blame myself. I should have put them on him myself before leaving, but I didn't want pizza sauce all over them.

So that's why, dear readers, I give up. I'm just not worrying about things like dress codes and appropriate attire anymore, because obviously it is an exercise in futility, and I just refuse to beat my head against that brick wall anymore. And next year I'm making Amy drive to Sneak-A-Peek, so I can drink lots of wine so that when I get home to my next failure, it won't matter quite as much. By the way, my friend Lori reminded me on Facebook that only the 3rd-5th grade parents were there, so technically the whole school did not see my epic failure last night. Again, thank goodness for small favors.

* Eleventy-hundred is a real number and it means a whole lot.

Sanguine with a Side of Crazy

2009-11-10T10:11:00.000-08:00

I just spent the last two and a half hours filling out my PLACE questionnaire. What is a PLACE questionnaire, you say? Let me tell you. It's one of those tests that is supposed to tell you what your personality is, what your spiritual gifts are, what your passions are and where exactly you should be involved in ministry. Those are all the things it is supposed to tell me. What it in fact told me is that my special brand of mental illness is as alive and well as I thought it was.

Is is just me, or are the tests really, really hard. I mean, the test at the eye doctor is bad enough. Bless Dr. Katsaitis' heart, she asks a simple question, "Is your vision better with one or two?" And I remain silent while she flips back and forth calmly saying, one or two. I tell her that I can't pass this test, and she laughs at me, because I AM CRAZY, and assures me in her delightful Greek accent that there is no way to fail this test, because there is no wrong answer. But dear reader, you and I both know that there is a wrong answer and when I pick it I will spend the next year with a prescription that is just off enough to make me squint at anything not one foot from my face.

She goes through this routine every year and just calmly flips back and forth until I sort of squint and guess, and we finally narrow it down to a pair of contacts I can drive in, but will still spend the next year giving myself more wrinkles from all the squinting. At my last appointment I told her that I thought I must have diabetes or a brain tumour, because I just can't freaking see without squinting. Needless to say, she took extra time with me and figured out that I have such a mild case of astigmatism that she can't correct it without over correcting it, because that would be worse than me squinting. Yay for me! My vision stinks, but at least I am not crazy and don't have a brain tumor -- that I know of.

So, dear readers, if you think I get crazy over, "one or two," imagine how crazy I get over personality tests. I hate them. I can never answer them correctly. I know there is a right answer for me, but for the life of me I can't figure it out. I so over think these things it is not even funny. When it asks me to pick the answer that is most typical for me, that makes me want to break out in hysterical cackles. Typical for me? Those words don't really go together. I read the question and remember my reaction to said question in third grade, high school, college, when I was working, when I had my first baby, and then last week when we all had the flu, and I just can't figure out what typical for me is. Honestly, these tests make me want to let somebody saw off the top of my head, root around in there to find the "right" answer and pull it out. That seems like it would be easier and less painful.

I also tend to take these tests knowing what other people think about me. I know most people think I am this big extrovert that loves people and flourishes around large groups, but there are secretly times that I do not want to be around people, and all I want to do is lay on my couch and watch TV or knit or eat candy and not have to talk to anyone (especially anyone under 18) for about three days. So, how exactly am I supposed to answer that question about "loves being the center of attention"? Well, sometimes yes, and sometimes no. And the older I get, the more I am starting not to like people. Is there a question on there about becoming my mother? Because, dear reader, I know exactly how to answer that one!

Okay, and just to add insult to injury, it's not just difficult for me because I can't figure out how to answer. It's also difficult, because I know exactly where my weaknesses are and it points them all out with a flashing, fluorescent arrow. My personal favorite was this one, "In your life, do you: a.) not follow-through and have problems with over committing, b.) are organized and are perfect, c.) are methodical and are perfect, or d.) are unorganized and lack discipline?" Oh dear readers, this one made me laugh out loud. How do you decide if your "suckage" areas are more in the A category or D category *Okay, maybe B and C weren't worded exactly that way, but you know what they meant. You are either A.) organized, detail-oriented and good or B.) unorganized, slothful and bad.

So, what did I do? Called my husband, who's working in a plant in Missouri, to say, "Hey honey, which do I suck at more, not following through and over committing, or being unorganized and undisciplined." To which he laughed and answered, "yes." *Don't worry, I wasn't offended. I really called him so I could laugh, because I knew what the answer would be, because it is true, a little ego bruising, but no less true.

Moving right along, we now get into the spiritual gifts assessment. For those of you unfamiliar with this, it is an assessment a Christian can do to figure out what spiritual gifts you've received through the Holy Spirit. I'm actually excited about this part. I've never formally done a study on this, so I'm curious to find out what my gifts are and how that translates into my life. And no fears, says the questionnaire, no one has all the gifts and everyone has some of the gifts. It also reinforces the idea that no one gift is better than the others. There is a passage in 1 Corinthians 12 that talks about gifts and relates them to body parts. I like this part, "The eye cannot say to the hand, 'I don't need you!' And the head cannot say to the feet, 'I don't need you!' On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor." This passage tamps down my special brand of crazy just a little bit. When you are poor at follow-through, organization and discipline, it's nice to know that you are still needed.

So, these questions were based on a 5 point scale, and it warned to try to avoid answer 3 (sometimes) which we all know is the cop-out answer. I ended up with five of them at about the same score, and I'm just not sure I answered right. One of my gifts is prophecy. Who knew? Not me. I guess I'll figure out exactly what that means tomorrow. I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean that I will be seeing any burning bushes in the dessert or get thrown into a lion's den. Please don't misunderstand -- I am not mocking here. I'm just curious about it, because I surely don't feel like a prophet.

In fact, these tests make me feel so insecure and inadequate that I want to go bury my head under my pillow and not do anything, because I realize I stink at so much! But, I really, really, tried to answer honestly. Some where easy to answer honestly. Take for instance this one: "If your church needs someone to host members of a youth group traveling through the area, do you volunteer first?" This I can answer without hesitation, "No, never!" Yes, I can make people feel welcome who visit church with a handshake and smile, but I know I do not have the gift of hospitality, because that would require people spending the night, which would require me cleaning my house and cooking, and dear readers, do we really need to discuss all that again?

There were more questions that were easy to answer, such as "Do you enjoy working with numbers or data and turning into manageable whatever, shmermer, shmermer..." I didn't even read the rest of those questions and gleefully answered, "never," delighting in the fact that I know God did not give me those particular gifts.

No, the hard questions were ones about helping other people, needy people. Sometimes I feel like helping, and sometimes I don't. I think it really depends on my mood and who they are, but that seems harsh to me and not very Christian at all. And it certainly doesn't seem like the answer a little girl raised to be a Southern lady would think, but that's the honest truth. Sometimes I don't want to deal with needy people. Okay, ouch, I figured that one out.

I also figured out that I don't like to do menial tasks, and I don't like to work without getting credit. Wow, I was being painfully honest, because it sounds like what I found out about myself was this, "Look at me, yeah, me over here! I'll help out with your ministry if I can get a little credit and feel good about myself." Yep, apparently that's the bad part of me. I'll let you know what I find out tomorrow and next week about the good part -- especially if it makes me sound better than the narcissistic, selfish person I sound like right now. Well, at least I should get some points for being honest.

Shut the Front Door, and Other Expletives

2009-11-02T12:07:00.000-08:00

We were watching "Castle" on TV the other night. If you haven't seen it, it's about a male crime writer who shadows a female detective for inspiration on a new series of crime novels he is writing. It could be boring or predictable, but we think it's pretty funny -- corny, but clever and funny. The best part about it? It's not missing a moral compass, which is more than I can say for a lot of shows these days.

Anyway, Beckett, the woman detective, hears something that surprises her, and she says, "Shut the Front Door." Now, while her lips were forming the words "front door" my eyes boggled out of my head and all I could think of was, "I can't believe she is going to say the 'F' word during prime time TV on ABC." I was so relieved when she said, "Shut the Front Door" that I laughed out loud, and it has now become one of my favorite expressions. It's fun to say, and it is SO not offensive, which is more than I can say for a lot of things I have heard and read lately.

I'm not saying I am a prude when it comes to language. Some would even say I have a mild case of the potty mouth. I have been known to say bad things when large objects are dropped onto my smallish toes, or to let a bad word slip when I am angry/stressed/in a hurry/feel like it *cough.* And I've even been known to use a very bad word after a couple of drinks when talking with girlfriends about something that perturbed me to the extreme. *Those of you who were there, shut it! Yes, I know I have changed your view of me forever, and for that I apologize. But it was bound to happen sooner or later. I am not perfect and not really all that prim and proper, although I know at least one of you thought I was.*

My point is that in most cases and in most places, I can be trusted to use pretty good language -- including very good grammar, if I do say so myself. Or if I do slip, it's not going to be something you find offensive in the extreme. I think there is a time and place for everything and that includes language. I've already told you how I feel about using offensive language in writing, some times it's necessary. Yes, even on this blog it might be necessary to use a word that some find offensive from time to time, although I would give fair warning for anyone who might be offended.

However, I can't say the same for some of the other blogs I have been reading lately. I was clicking through reading some blogs last night that were linked to some of my favorite writers, and I found one that was intriguing. It was about raising children, imagine that. While scrolling along reading her latest post, out of nowhere comes the "F" word. Really? I thought. Was that necessary or appropriate? Hmmm, maybe she was having a bad day. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. Then I read a few more posts down the page and there it was again. Wow, I'm thinking, you needed to use the "F" word to describe your child's sports practice? But I think the kicker was the fact that she had compared her child to a completely benign inanimate object early in the post and was afraid her readers would judge her for that. I just kept wondering, who are the readers who are offended that you compared your sick child to something like a rock, but aren't offended by the liberal use of the "F" word.

Okay, I get the fact that a lot of bloggers are concerned about honesty. They want you to know they are just "keepin' it real." They want you to see their real lives and not some Stepford version of it. I get that. I really do. I don't want to write about sunshine and puppies and rainbows all the time, either. I think that would be dishonest. I write about my life, which includes the good, the bad and the ugly.

In the spirit of honesty, I am not afraid to tell you that I am a yeller, and I have often yelled at my precious children, especially during that particularly bad week of the month. I have a temper, and I don't like that about myself. Not. One. Bit. So, I am doing something about it. I am praying every day, studying scripture, holding myself accountable with my Bible study friends, and trying desperately with the help of God not to be the mom that yells all the time, forever and ever, AMEN! I know I'm not the only one who struggles with this, so if my telling you that I lose it and yell at my kids can help you realize you aren't the only one and that spurs you on to do something about, then I don't mind being honest. But dropping the "F" bomb liberally throughout my blog, or worse, saying GD this or GD that just to try to make a point, well I don't think that's being honest. I just think that is offensive. So, if that's you "just keepin' it real," I'd rather not read you. Thanks.

Okay, so maybe I should rethink the whole me not "being prim and proper" thing. Maybe I am more of my mother than I realize. Now there's a woman who takes offense to bad language! But, that's a post for another day.

My Dream of Being a Writer

2009-10-30T07:30:00.000-07:00

Okay, so this isn't some blog post about me waxing nostalgic over the fact that I've wanted to be a writer since I was a wee little girl growing up in Sulphur Springs, Tennessee. No, it's much more literal than that.

Last night I dreamed that I was watching a movie, but that I was actually in the movie, too. You know how that works in dreams, right? Anyway, I remember thinking, "Oh, this must be the new Twilight movie, but why is there no Edward or Bella or Jacob?" Then I realized that House from t.v was in the movie with me and he wasn't limping. Hmmm? And then we were being chased through a parking garage that turned into an old building that a church was using. So naturally House and I decided to hide in a classroom where a little old lady was teaching Sunday School. But she was just pretending; she was being chased, too. It was all very exciting *you can tell, can't you?* and the story was exciting and moving along at a breakneck pace and that's when I realized, this was no Twilight. This was not a book that had been turned into a movie, this was my story. This was my book that I was waiting to write and since I already knew the story, all I had to do was write it down. And then I remember thinking that my story was going to be so big it would be the next "Twilight" and that I was going o be as famous as Stephenie Meyer. And then I actually worried about whether or not I wanted to be famous in my dream.

Then I woke up and laughed and laughed. It was funny on so many levels. I literally had a dream that I would write a book that would be as popular as Twilight. Well, you know what they say about dreaming big. *For those of you who have missed out on the sensation that is the Twilight series, that is akin to saying I was going to be as popular as Stephen King or JK Rowling or fill in the blank with your choice of filthy rich and famous authors.*

So, the part about being a rich and famous author was ludicrous. I really do not want to be famous. I think it's overrated, and I would worry about stalkers trying to get my children, because I like to have totally random things to worry about when I run out of real things to worry about. But it's the exhilarating part about writing a book that I am trying to hold on to. I may have mentioned on here that I started toying with writing a book this summer. I love the opening three pages, which I think are really good, but I don't know where to go from here. To be honest, I'm scared. Scared that I can't tell a story from start to finish. Or, at least that I can't tell a "good" story from start to finish. What if I fail? What if I can't finish it? Or worse, what if I finish it and it's embarrassing and no one will be honest and tell me, but having read it they think my writing is pathetic. *Again, I like to have random things to worry about.*

If I hadn't mentioned it before, I am a perfectionist who manifests as a procrastinator. If I can't do something perfect, I don't bother to do it at all. Or, I wait until the very last second to do it, so if it isn't perfect, I can always tell myself that if I'd only started sooneer I would have done much better. Yes, I know this is my special brand of mental illness at its best, but I just can't seem to stop it. I've done this my entire life.

But writing is one of those things that has always come easy to me. I used to start an English paper at one or two in the morning, pull an all-nighter, and turn it in literally hot off the wordprocessor at 8 am and still get an A or at least a B+. But I am tired of my special brand of crazy. I want to be a normal writer person who writes every day whether it's good or bad and then after working hard and struggling through, has something to go back and edit. And then after more blood, sweat and tears in the editing department, she finally produces something worth reading. But I can't seem to get past the "I'm so scared of failing part" to get to the "put my seat in the chair and not get up until I've written something part." So I think maybe my dream was telling me that way down deep in my writer soul I do have a story worth writing and that all I need to do is let go and write it. *Although I am really hoping that the actual book has no chased into the Sunday School room scene in it.*

So here I go again, trying to get psyched up to write something worth reading. And then what do I do instead of writing on my book? I tell you guys about it. Hey, I've got to start somewhere, right? And don't worry, one day when I'm as popular as Stephenie Meyer I'll remember my first dearest readers. *Oh, excuse me. I think I just nodded off again.*

Gone, but (apparently) not forgotten!

2009-10-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

For those of you following my blog, you may have noticed I've been quiet lately. Very quiet. As in, I haven't posted in about a month and a half. "What's that all about?" you may be asking yourself. One of you was even sweet enough to call me and ask. (Sorry I haven't gotten back to you yet. I just got home last night.)

Why am I not writing? Lots of reasons I guess. I've thought of a few blog post ideas over the last few weeks and thought about sitting down to write them, but just haven't had the time? energy? enthusiasm for it? Not sure, really. I think I've just been busy. And tired. And not really in the mood.

Remember when I told you my house wants a divorce? Well, I decided that unless I want my husband to want a divorce too, maybe I better actually start doing something about it. So, I've been trying to work more diligently on the house. I like the results, but I'm not so crazy about the effort it takes -- just keeping it real over here at the creek. But honestly, I can't say that's the main reason for not writing.

I've also started a new Bible study this fall. I haven't done a daytime Bible study since Larsen was six months old, and I feel my life and family have suffered because of it. I'm not the greatest at keeping up with the work, but it does change my mindset, which is good for everyone around me. What does that have to do with writing? Well, nothing really. It's just one more thing on my plate.

I've also been 'working' on some things I don't really like about my personality and I've found that I'm just the tinsiest bit selfish. *I hear your loud protesting, but really, it's okay. The truth hurts sometimes.* Basically I've found my attitude at times to be the same as my children's, "I want to do what I want to do, when I want to do it." And sadly, when you're a grownup and have three children, a husband and other responsibilities, this is not a life plan that will work. Shocking, isn't it? So, I'm trying to work on that too, which means I can't always do what I want to do when I want to do it, i.e. blogging.

And I'm also just the tinsiest bit tired. I hate to even write that -- it sounds like such a cop-out -- but have mercy! My life just makes me tired. I don't manage my time effectively, so I stay up too late to try to accomplish too many things and then I'm tired the next day, which makes me cranky and running behind, so I don't get the things done that I need to get done, bah! It's a never ending cycle. If I could just get my backside in the bed before 10 pm, maybe I could get my life together. Why does this feel like such a pipe dream?

So judging from my blathering on, today was probably not the day to write this, because really my life is very good, just busy. And I think I'm just feeling a little blah today. I've been sick and have had sick kids since Sunday. It's also my firstborn's birthday and I think that's making me feel a little blah, too. You know "they" say that boys start separating from their mothers around age 10, and even though it's a necessary process for them to start associating more with dad than mom, it's "painful for mom." I think my now 9-year-old may be starting the separation process a little soon. He was sweet and pitiful while he was sick, so now I guess he feels the need to show me his tough side. Not sure I'm liking that so much.

So, yeah. I've been busy and tired and sick, and sick and tired, so I haven't been writing. And yeah, maybe today wasn't the day to climb back up on that particular horse, but I've got to start somewhere, right? And really, I didn't want Jenn thinking I'd suffered a horrible fate. To those of you who missed me, thanks. I'm sure you don't anymore. *grin*

"Count Your Blessings...

2009-09-29T11:27:00.000-07:00

Name them one by one," (all together now) "Count your many blessings see what God has done." For those of you not raised in the old-school Southern Baptist tradition, you probably have no idea what I was singing. For those of you who were, you can thank me for putting that brain worm into your head later.

Even if you've never heard the song, you know the message. In this life we all have troubles, but we also all have blessings. I spent yesterday at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital with my six-year-old daughter who had to have surgery. So today, dear readers, today I am counting my blessings.

My daughter has come to an age where I feel like I should no longer freely share her medical issues with every person I meet. If you've known me for any length of time, however, you probably know all about them. But since they are a little embarrassing for her, I feel like I should no longer tell all her business. Suffice it to say, we were there for a minor procedure to try and help with a "quality of life" issue for her.

She has had several procedures at Vanderbilt through the years, and if I know anything at all, I know this: there is always someone who has a problem bigger than yours, ALWAYS. One of her doctors shares a waiting room with the Neurology Department. If you are ever having a bad day, dear reader, I suggest you head on over to the Vanderbilt Children's Hospital Neurology Department waiting room. It will humble you. It will make you ashamed of complaining about your problems. It will make you thankful for the problems you have if that means you don't have to have those other BIG, LIFE-ALTERING problems.

Yesterday her procedure lasted for about 45 minutes, so of course we were there for six hours counting pre-op, post-op and simply waiting our turn through the cases that had gotten backlogged. When I saw her surgeon before her case, I could tell he was a little weary. He said that he had just gotten in the night before from doing several days of surgery in Guatemala with a medical missions group. He had not fully recovered, yet. Oh he was in fine condition to do her surgery, I just mean he was still shell-shocked from being home. I could tell he was still counting all of our collective blessings and that he was thankful for the facility, equipment, medicine, and staff he had to work with -- so was I.

He told me that he did surgery 14 hours a day for four days and there were will still hundreds of patients waiting. He figures there are 11 surgeons in Nashville who can handle pediatric urology cases for a population that is around one million. (This includes adults and children, not just children, but since Vanderbilt has a larger scope than just Nashville, we'll call it a million.) The entire country of Guatemala has (I believe he said) 14 million, seven million of whom are children. And I'm pretty sure he said there are 16 surgeons for those seven million children.

This is not the venue to debate socialized medicine, but I will tell you, dear readers, it scares me to death. I am sure that my daughter would not be able to have a surgery in July and then another one in September if we lived in a country with socialized medicine. I know that medical costs are astronomical for those who do not have good insurance, and I do know that many things about our system need fixing. I know for a fact we spent $5,000 on one test this year for our daughter that was a CYA test. There was probably about a one percent chance she had an issue with her spine, but her surgeon had to order the test. If he hadn't have ordered the test, and ten years later we figured out she did fall into that one percent, we could have sued him. This is madness and it needs to be fixed. But, my prayer is that we do not scrap the good things about our system -- the excellent surgeons and hospitals like those at Vanderbilt -- while we try to fix what is broken. 'Nuf said.

I have a deep respect and fondness for my daughter's surgeon. He has been an excellent doctor for her and is a good man. I truly feel that God has guided his hands while he has operated on her. And the fact that he was doing medical missions does not surprise me. Although my daughter's case is not what I would call complex, there is no easy fix. She is missing some muscle in her body due to a birth defect, and her surgeon, not being God, cannot make muscle. So, he's doing what he can to help fill in the gaps. This is the second time he has done this procedure, but this time he did something a little different to see if it would work better. Today I am finding the results are not great. Last time we saw very good results in the days after the procedure, but after about two weeks, things went back to the way they were before. So maybe this time the results will be mediocre in the short term, but remain steady. That would be progress.

So part of me wants to cry and wants to yell and wants to rail against the fact that six years later we are still dealing with this same issue. The other part of me remembers the mom who was in the waiting room with me waiting for her 17-month-old baby to come out of a one-hour surgery, five hours later. We had a language barrier, but I caught the gist of what she was there for. A week ago her daughter had had an organ transplant from her brother. At first I thought it was the kidney, but now I think it may be the liver? It wasn't working yet, but the doctor said he was giving it a little more time. The night before, a line (I'm guessing to put medicine in) had broken inside her daughter and she was supposed to be in surgery for one hour to fix it. Five hours later, her mother was still waiting. I saw her after I had gotten Langley out of post-operative care. She was crying and distraught and going into the PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit) where the sickest of children are brought. I knew that we couldn't communicate well enough to ask her what was wrong, so I just told her that I would pray for her and her precious Amelia, and thankfully she understood.

So yeah, Langley's procedure may not have worked as well as I'd hoped. And yes as the Psalmist says, I will continue to "wait on the Lord." But I am waiting on a quality of life issue -- not a life-or-death issue -- of that I am well aware. So yeah, today I'm content to wait. And while I wait, you can find me over here counting my blessings.

Book Signings and SEX

2009-09-25T07:02:00.000-07:00

Warning: The S*E*X word will be used and briefly talked about in this post. Not in graphic or personal detail, dear readers, but if you are squeamish, look away. You have been forewarned!

So most nights are pretty routine. I cook (or fix) something for dinner, make sure my son does his homework no matter how much he gripes, and run around like a headless chicken trying to get to my three children to football/cheerleading/Cub Scouts/Girl Scouts/fill in the blank with any number of activity choices.

But last night, dear readers, I actually got to feel like a real 'literary' adult. I went to a book signing with one of my favorite authors, Diana Gabaldon. I've been reading her now for a little over 13 years. I'm pretty sure I found out about her the summer I got married and devoured two or three of her five pound books shortly there after. In fact, I remember waiting for eight hours for the movers to show up while I was reading one the books in her Outlander series. Although irritated at their not showing, I was not in the least upset about getting to read all day long! And as luck would have it, a month or two after we moved to Nashville I found out she was coming to Green Hills to do a book signing. Since I didn't have children to worry about and had a husband who worked late quite a bit, I was there early and got a seat up towards the front on a lovely wooden bench. She spoke and did a reading and I just loved her in a very, "oh, she's a great storyteller, and wow isn't she so interesting, and oh my, she's a published author and oh so famous" sort of way.

Contrast this to last night. I had to cook dinner before 5:00, when I had to pick up my son from performing arts club, then get all three of them back home, fed and properly attired for football/cheerleading practice at 6:00. My husband, who is working on a project north of town, had to slog through rush hour traffic to try to get home in time for said practice and for me to make it to Green Hills by 6:30. This was the plan, but as I'm sure you all can guess, it wasn't quite executed. I got my kids ready, but not myself. My hubby got home about 5 minutes after 6:00 (when they were supposed to be at practice), and I still didn't have my books rounded up for her to sign. I made it out of the house at 6:13, only to have to return at 6:16 to get my camera. Needless to say, I showed up about 10 minutes before she spoke at 7:00 and got a really crappy seat in the back.

Just to set the stage, this woman has a cult-like following now. It wasn't no 1996, that's for sure. People came out of the woodwork (some of them came out of some very strange woodwork) to see her. I sat in front of a woman who had brought her six-year-old son with her. I found this mildly interesting at the time because Diana is far from a children's author. In fact, she is the opposite of a children's author. If you have not read her, dear readers, she has what one might call "a gift" for sex scenes. I'm not saying they are graphic, but they are, hmmm, how shall I put it? Vivid, descriptive, erotic? Yep, that about sums it up. Anyway, when I saw her back in '96, she told us that husbands of her readers fall into two camps, a.) they hate her because their wife gets a new book and disappears for a week to read all leventy-hundred pages of it and ignores him, or b.) they love her because they never get as much sex as when their wife is reading her books.

Needless to say, a children's author she is not. So, she talked for about 20 minutes, telling us how she wrote her first "practice" book (which is Outlander) that was not going to be read by anyone when she was 35 and was working two jobs and had three kids under six. *Okay, now I feel like a slug, and I can never use the "I have small children at home" excuse again.* And then she answered our questions. I asked her what time of day she wrote since she did have three small children, and she was just lovely and very encouraging to me and I felt so special until some crazy lady interupted her to ask another question while she was still answering mine, rude! And then she began her reading.

Well, I knew as soon as Claire (the main character) saw Jamie (her husband, the other main character) taking his spring bath in a creek and she followed him up a path in the mountains what was, er, coming AND I WANTED TO DIE!!! In my brain I am scream whispering the whole time, "She is not reading a sex scene. She is not. She can't be. We're in a book store. In public. IN THE SOUTH! She's going to stop before things go too far and not read an actual SEX SCENE in public." But oh, dear readers, she pretty much did. They didn't do 'the deed,' but Claire was doing something worse to Jamie than the actual deed when it comes to reading it outloud!

And here's the kicker. Remember, there was A SIX-YEAR-OLD LITTLE BOY SITTING DIRECLTY BEHIND ME! I promise you it was all I could do not to turn around, clamp my hands over his pretty little ears and sing the Lalala's to him myself. His momma was all ga ga and fainting over being in the same room with Diana, so I'm pretty sure she didn't have the good sense to do it herself. Did I mention I wanted to die from embarrassment. Even if the little boy had not been there -- and in her defense, there is no way she could have seen him in the way back sitting behind all the grown ups -- I think I would have been embarrassed.

Now don't get me wrong, dear readers, I am working on a book, and I am sure there will be a S*E*X scene or two in there. And frankly, I think there is nothing wrong with me reading or writing about "naughty married people stuff" as Joshilyn Jackson, another of my favorite authors, calls her sex scenes. But I cannot ever even fathom reading it outloud to a group at the Green Hills Mall where unsuspecting patrons are eating dinner at the cafe' next to us, unless I was drunk. And frankly I think an author showing up to a book signing intoxicated would be bad form.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe my Southern Baptist Roots are showing, but Have Mercy!

I might be falling in love

2009-09-18T06:21:00.000-07:00

I am contemplating an affair. No dear readers, not THAT kind of affair. I'm contemplating cheating on a relationship that has been around much longer than my marriage -- my relationship with hot tea.

I've been faithful to tea since I was but a tween. It probably began when the Japanese restaurant moved to the town we frequented when I was about 12. They served hot green tea in cute little cups with no handles that I slurped up with abandon. It moved to steeping Lipton tea bags in hot water at home when I was a teen. Then in college on a class trip off campus to watch an international video that never materialized due to technical difficulties, I met Earl. Since we were meeting off campus and many professors were attending, we lowly college students were treated to a bagels and muffins breakfast complete with coffee and tea. My dear, sweet, precious friend Mary was there and offered me some Earl Grey. "What's that?" I asked genuinely ignorant. Being the sweet, precious friend she was, she tried to hide her shock and embarrassment for me and replied sweetly, "It's a kind of hot tea."

*Dear readers, have I mentioned that I grew up in a little town in East Tennessee that was "Country" with a capital "C"? Yes, I have mentioned this more than once? Oh, okay. Just wanted you to know.* Growing up in my house if you asked for some tea, you got a big old glass of iced tea that was so sweet your teeth would ache. My whole family loves iced tea. But hot tea? My parents still wonder why on earth you would want to ruin tea by drinking it hot and putting milk in it for goodness sakes. Needless to say, my knowledge of tea (and pretty much anything culinary that could not be eaten at a 'meat and three') was limited.

Trying to shake off my embarrassment, I agreed to give Earl a try. And we've been together ever since. Earl is my go-to guy. Yes, I love a good strong black tea in the morning such as English or Irish Breakfast, but at "tea time" in the afternoon an hour before my kids get off the bus and while my little one is still napping, give me a big old cup of Earl to drink with any carbohydrate, and I am a happy woman. If that carb happens to be freshly baked scones or little tea sandwiches, I am in heaven on earth!

My love of tea and "tea time" runs deep, so I am sure that Earl and his fellow teas will be a part of my life forever. But even though I love Earl, I'm having a hard time remaining faithful. I've started a flirtation with Lattes. *Everybody is drinking lattes, you say? I'm about 10 years late to this party, you say? Yes, dear readers I know. I am slow to change and have not wanted to jump on the java bandwagon. But have mercy, I cannot seem to help myself.*

I mentioned earlier that I have never been a coffee fan. I blame my mother. (Love you mom!) My mother is one of those women who drinks a scalding hot cup of coffee in the middle of a heat wave in July. To say she is a coffee addict would be a gross understatement. Coffee is not a drink to her, it is a way of life. And frankly, her coffee way of life is a slow one. I cannot count the number of dinners I endured as a child where I had to "sit still" while mom drank her after-dinner coffee. Then there were the afternoons she would spend at Miss Jane's house, the two of them drinking cup after cup of coffee while I was sent to another room "to play." I associate coffee with my mother so much so that one of my fondest pictures of her was taken at Miss Jane's house with a cup of coffee in hand.

So to me coffee was a stinky drink that was so much a part of my mother that I could never consider it to be part of me. Or if it was going to be part of me, it would be me when I was "old" and a mother. When I went off to college, I was told that after the first semester I would love both beer and coffee. While I did acquire a taste for a good margarita and vodka mixed with any fruit juice (in moderation, of course!), I never did acquire a taste for coffee. I got my caffeine from hot tea and iced cold Coca-Cola.

Even when Starbucks hit the scene in the South, I could not be swayed. Spend five bucks on coffee? Are you crazy? I'll pass on the grande mocha locha soy chai whatever it is you are serving at Starbucks and go with the $1.50 32 oz. Coke from McD's. But then Sonic started making lattes for $2.50 and gave a few of them away for free in the beginning. One of my first attempts at drinking coffee was basically a coffee milkshake from Sonic. After drinking two or three of those in one week while my husband was working out of town for the entire summer, I realized that if I kept it up, I'd weigh 300+ pounds when he got home and that probably wasn't a good idea.

So I moved on to Sonic's iced lattes, and every now and then a hot latte. Besides the chocolate and caramel syrup and whipped cream that make it so heavenly, I think what I love most is the JOLT of caffeine that I get. Having been a Coke and tea drinker my whole life, I am just not used to the massive amount of pep I get from the caffeine in a latte. It is amazing. It makes me feel like I can accomplish twice as much in my day. Why oh why haven't I been drinking this stuff for years! *Hi, my name is Lori, and I'm a caffeine addict.*

So I've been drinking an occasional latte at Sonic and yes, even Starbucks, for the last year or so. But on Wednesday, I took the plunge into real coffee. I went to my Bible study in the pouring rain and then sat shivering in the big air conditioned room like a drowned rat. The lovely ladies sponsoring this study had muffins and sweet bread and coffee for us all. I was freezing and a cup of hot anything sounded good. I contemplated drinking this "regular" coffee and then noticed they had hazelnut and regular creamer. I poured half a cup of coffee and then dumped in almost as much of both creamers. And it was drinkable, almost even good. Good enough in fact for me to drink two more cups. Did I mention I was wet and freezing? So now I realize that given enough creamer and sugar, I can even drink "regular" coffee.

The funny thing about my coffee drinking is that I still don't have to reconcile the fact that "I am becoming my mother." My mother, the woman who has coffee running through her veins, hates all things latte and Starbucksy. She thinks Starbucks makes the worst coffee on the planet. To her it is entirely too strong and she will drink her plain McD's coffee with a splash of milk, thank you very much. I find this comforting. Coffee is and always will be my mother's drink, not mine. But lattes, or a facsimile thereof, I think I'm falling love.

My Fiction Writing Career Part Deaux -- Or, why I stopped writing in the first place.

2009-08-28T09:49:00.000-07:00

So, I'm trying my hand at fiction. Don't know what I'm doing, seeing as how I've never done this before, unless you count the short stories my friends and I wrote in seventh grade about the new boys we had crushes on, which I certainly do not.

Since I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to fiction, I thought I'd take a class. I went to a free class given by a self-published author at a nearby library. The author had written six or seven books that she had published herself. I was duly impressed. She gave us a formula for writing books. (I like knowing the rules, I just don't always choose to follow them.) She, being the Type-A teacherly person that she is, was emphatic that her method would work for everybody. It was kind of a mix of "outline, make notes and have all your stuff together at hand" and "put your butt in your seat and your fingers on your keyboard every day and write at least four pages a day and do not move from said chair until it is done." That's one way of doing it. Probably a fairly good way of doing it, too.

But silly Type-A people, don't you know that the rest of us live a life you could never imagine? We do not put our notes in one place -- we write one set in a steno pad that sits next to the stove, one on the back of an envelope we found in the car while stopped at a red light, and several in scattered notebooks around the house that may or may not still have our son's name on them. *Oh, you other Type-Messy people don't do this? That's just me? Oh, I can see why...now*

Needless to say, my ways are not her ways. And yes, my ways cause me lots of stress, and it would certainly be better if I broke down and got my proverbial "stuff" together and got organized. Yes it would. It'd also be nice if my six-year-old could sprinkle herself with fairy dust and take off into the air and fly like she keeps wishing for, but that's not going to happen any time soon either.

So, back to the keeping notes in my 8-year-old's notebooks. I don't actually do that. I've taken notes in notebooks that were formerly his. Yes, technically they have his name on them, but that's just because when I bought his supplies last year I accidentally wrote his name on about eight notebooks and I think he only used four. And yes, one of these notebooks has about three pages of his scribbles in them, but the rest of the used pages have things like to-do lists for Girl Scouts and other stuff from my life. He has not used these in months, and I need them, so that means they no longer belong to him.

Now that that's clear, let me tell you about my wonder boy. He will be nine in October. He started third grade two weeks ago. He read the first two Harry Potter books over the summer. I don't know exactly what level he is reading on (I seem to be the only parent on the planet whose child's teacher last year did not tell her her child's reading level, or maybe she did and I lost it. That is a distinct possibility.) but I'm guessing it's slightly above third grade, probably around eighth.

Anywho, I was writing away on my just-another-coming-of-age-in-the-South story, trying to figure out how to e-mail it from the laptop since my e-mail is on the desktop, and my son comes up behind me. I did not realize he was looking, or I would have closed the file. This story has exactly two "bad" words in it, one is a place where every child knows the devil lives and the other is a bad word for a girl/woman that rhymes with witch. These are fairly run of the mill, nothing to get excited over kind of words if you are an adult reading fiction. An 8-year-old reading fiction is another story.

Him: Oooh, you said a bad word mom.
Me: What? What are you doing? Are you reading that? That is none of your business. And I didn't say the bad word, my character did.
Him: What?
Me: I'm writing a short story, and my character said it in the story, and it's not for you to read. It's for adults. Aren't you supposed to be doing your homework?
Him: But why does your story have bad words in it?
Me: It has exactly two bad words in it, and it is for adults, not kids, and it is none of your business really, and I don't appreciate you reading my things, and exactly why aren't you doing your homework right now?

*Playing the homework card really helps in these situations.*

Argh! This is why I have never kept a diary. This is why I have not written since seventh grade. Oh, if I'd kept writing bad fiction back then, maybe I'd know what I was doing by now, but my mother found my short stories back then. I was as innocent as they come in seventh grade, although I did know the basics about "The Birds and the Bees," but I made the mistake of wondering, WONDERING, about S*E*X and why people would want to do that and then was WONDERING about kissing and other silly, innocent seventh-grade-crush stuff and my mother FREAKED OUT! Now, I'm not saying as a mom that she wasn't entitled a freak out moment. I'm sure I will freak out about S*E*X with my children, and what they are thinking about and when, but it scarred me. Not about sex, about writing. I figured if anybody could read what I was MAKING UP and NOT REALLY THINKING ABOUT WANTING TO DO IN REAL LIFE, EWWW! and judge it, and I could GET IN TROUBLE FOR IT, then I really ought not be doing it. So that pretty much ended my interest in a career in fiction.

Fast forward 20 years, (okay 25 if I'm being honest) and it's happening again. A family member is reading my writing without my permission and making judgements and I hate it. It is more a feeling of my right not to be read until I am ready being violated than worrying about what he was thinking or reading. The story he was reading was about a sixth grader and, except for one minor part, I would have no problem with him reading it by himself. The other minor part I would let him read while I explained it, so he'd understand. And the bad words, although shocking to see in print, are nothing worse than what he has heard slip from my lips on more than one occasion. *I am not perfect! Quit judging me!*

Oh, and back to those notebooks. He found one of his, er my, notebooks that same day that had a few questions in it. I'm also working on another novel where the protagonist gets pregnant her senior year in college while living on her sorority's dorm floor. He did not read about this! I needed to research what would happen to her. So I wrote these questions to remind myself: "What happens if you get pregnant in a sorority? Do you get kicked out? Do you get kicked off the floor?"

Him: What did you write in my notebook? (a little shrill in tone)
Me: (To self, "$#@%, he's found the questions. Seriously, what is wrong with me!?! Why can't I put my crap back where it belongs. I am the world's worst mother!") What? Those are questions for a story I am writing. What are you doing looking in my notebook reading my things? (a little shrill myself)
Him: It's my notebook.
Me: That is not your notebook. It only has your name on it, because I messed up and wrote it on there last year.
Him: But look, I wrote on a couple of pages.
Me: You haven't used that in months, and I needed a notebook. It has lots of lists and notes and things I need in there and what are you doing reading that notebook when you should be doing your homework!?!

Now, looking back over the actual questions and not the meaning they held for me, I could have handled this differently. There was no need to panic, because they really aren't that bad. I'm sure he was confused, but at least they didn't say what I was thinking, "What happens if you get pregnant in college by your jerk of a boyfriend you shouldn't have been in love with and who now won't marry you, and then you lose your housing and end up on your own and you are told by more than one friend to get an abortion, but you soldier on and decide to have it without the help of the 'father' and your 'friends' and you manage to somehow make a good life for yourself anyway?" No the questions, thankfully, did not say all that. They didn't even say you got pregnant when you were not married. I could have played them off, but instead I went for changing the subject and bringing up the unfinished homework, which is guaranteed to cause him to scramble since he is not one to sit down and dutifully do homework.

Yes one day, dear reader, I will get my proverbial crap together and keep my notes and computer files where they belong, and I will write a book that is well received by critics and the public alike, and then I will have to deal with my mother and my oldest child reading it and being upset that their daughter/mother writes about such things as, oh I don't know, life? But for now, I'm getting the Sharpie out and plastering my name across every notebook in the house and then hiding them in my room. Maybe that will serve as a deterrent.

Wherein I open a can of worms

2009-08-27T07:31:00.000-07:00

I have issues with the Girl Scouts. There, I've said it. Seeing as how I am a card-carrying member of the Girl Scouts -- a Daisy Leader no less -- I am sure they are going to knock on my door any minute and kick me out. I don't have issues with my local Girl Scout peeps -- I love them -- I just have issues with the national organziation. I'd probably be just fine and even forget they exist on a national level, if they didn't keep sending me these darn catalogs reminding me that I really don't like them very much. Argh!

A little background. I'm married to an Eagle Scout. My third grader is in his third year of Cub Scouts and my husband, the Eagle Scout, is his den leader. It would not be a stretch to say, "I love the Cub/Boy Scouts." I love that my son promises every week to do his duty to God and country and to help other people and to obey the law of the pack (follow directions from the leader and be a good Cub Scout). I love the values he's learning, and I love that he will get a pocketknife and learn how to use it safely this year. Seeing as how my brother got his first B.B. gun and a course in hunter safety at age 7, a pocketknife at 9 that comes with safety instructions is not cause for alarm for me.

Back to Girl Scouts (hereby known as G.S.) I thought long and hard about letting my daughter join G.S. I researched the organization, and frankly what I found I did not like. I knew they had kicked God out a while back. (He now has an * beside His name.) They bowed to secular pressure. I get it. They aren't the first organization, and sadly won't be the last, that goes along to get along. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

Dropping their Christian Heritage is just one of the things I found about the national G.S. organization that I do not like. Since this post is about making hard decisions as a parent and not about politics, I will not get into all of the things I don't like. You can always Google it youself. Suffice it to say that as a whole, the national G.S. organization is very liberal, and I am not. In fact, I am pretty conservative.

So, here's the hard questions I faced, "Do I let my child be part of a group that doesn't share our family's values?" Or, "Do I disappoint my daughter and make her miss out on an opportunity to grow and learn with other girls her age." Yes, I realize there was another option. I could have started a "Christian-based" scouting group for my daughter and this would have solved my dilemma. There is a great one out there that is not yet in my community. To start the group here would have taken countless hours and support from a local church and many volunteers. I researched it and prayed about it and decided it just wasn't the time for me to do it. It would have taken time away from my family and away from any other volunteer activity I might want to do, and frankly, I didn't have the energy. But I do admit that every time I read about it, I wish my daughter was a part of it instead of G.S.

My mother had the same dilemma when I was growing up. She chose not to let me join Brownies, because she did not agree with the leader's morals and values. (This was before the organization as a whole became really liberal.) Lets just say the leader wasn't the type of woman my mother wanted me spending time with. I was a little bit upset with my mom because I was missing out, and I thought she was being judgemental -- she told me why I couldn't join. But I was also relieved. She wasn't like any of the other moms I knew and her brashness made me nervous. When I was older, my mom told me that she had tried to see if I could be in another troop, but there wasn't one. She decided that it was better for me to miss out on that opportunity than to let me be influenced by a woman who did not share her values. As a mom now, I really respect her decision.

But the situation with my daughter is a little different. She was desperate to be a scout. Remember the Eagle Scout dad and Cub Scout brother? So I really felt that it wouldn't be fair to keep her from being a scout. But obviously I was concerned about what she would be learning in scouts. So what's a mom to do? Why, volunteer to co-lead the group of course.

So now I'm the crazy mother of three co-leading 13 girls in a G.S. troop, and I really like it when I'm not worn out by it. I am not only shaping my daughter's values, I'm helping shape those of 12 other little girls and that's a responsibility I take seriously. And the good thing about G.S. in my small town is that the other leaders are awesome women who love the girls and whose values match my own. And when you lead a G.S. troop, you can kind of make it whatever you want. So right now, I'm taking what I think is good about G.S. and leaving the rest. My troop is made up of first graders, so as long as we have a snack and play a game, they are pretty happy. But we're also learning about virtues like honesty, kindness, helpfulness, being responsible for what we say and do, using resources wisely and being a sister to every Girl Scout, which is the really good part of Girl Scouts.

I'm pretty sure that other hard decisions I'll have to make for my children won't turn out with every body being happy, if tired, but this one did. So I'll chalk this up as a success and keep nurturing (and yes sheltering) my daughter as long as I can.

Suzie Q. Homemaker ain't got nothin' on me!

2009-08-25T12:35:00.000-07:00

If you know me, or if you've read more than one entry of my blog, you probably know that Suzie Q. Homemaker I am not. In fact, I am not crazy about the title homemaker (you can read about that here), but not for any PC reason. It's because I feel like I am crappy at making a home and if that is my title, I am afraid I might be failing miserably. Cooking and cleaning just aren't my thing.

However, I must have been bitten by the Suzie Homemaker bug this week, because last night I bit the bullet and cooked an actual meal from scratch *I can hear your oohs and ahhs from here* much to my children's chagrin. There was broccoli involved. My kids think there should never be broccoli involved in dinner, and they weep and wail and gnash their teeth accordingly when there is. Even this could not put me off my Suzie Q. Homemaker kick this week. This morning after the older two went out the door on their merry way to the bus stop, I browned up a pot roast -- using an apron and everything -- and threw it in the crock pot to cook. Nothing makes me feel more like Suzie Q. Homemaker than cooking while wearing an apron, except maybe sewing.

When it comes to sewing, I am a total throw back. Suzie Q. Homemaker's sewing skills ain't got nothin' on me. My mother is still confused by this turn of events. I am the girl who swore off HomeEc class, because by golly I was going to be a successful business woman, and I didn't need to learn "stupid, old-fashioned stuff" like cooking and sewing to do that. Seeing as how my mother barely made it through HomeEc herself, I don't think she batted an eye over my protest. Fast forward more years than I care to count, and here I am a bonafide sewing addict.

For every special occasion my children partake in, a special outfit must be made. First day of first grade? Let mommy make you a skirt with an attached apron out of Dick and Jane and coordinating polka dot fabric. Birthday girl turning three? Let me make a jumper with an appliqued giraffe holding three balloons for our zoo party theme. Earned a co-lead role in the first grade play? Let mommy make you and your co-lead matching shark costumes. Yes, I may be up until 2 a.m. the night before putting in buttonholes and finishing up hems, and I may look like a glassy-eyed loon taking their pictures at the event, but by golly my kids look good in their custom outfits! Dear readers, I have one thing to say for myself, "Hi, my name is Lori, and I'm a sewing addict."

One mom I know says she thinks that stay-at-home moms who sew for their kids do so for one main reason, recognition. I'm inclined to agree. When strangers come up to you at Disney World and ask you where on earth you got the precious Minnie Mouse t-shirt dress with the embroidered Minnie Mouse head on it, you can smile demurely and say, "Oh, you mean my daughters' dresses? Well, actually I made those." To which said stranger will ooh and ahh and tell you how talented you are. Or her husband will ask your husband in the men's room, no less, "Where did you get your daughter's dress? My wife would love one of those for our daughter." And your husband will smile and proudly say, "My wife makes them," and then he'll tell you that next time you should make up a bunch to bring to Disney to sell and thus pay for the trip. To which you will reply, "Uh, no thanks. I'm pretty sure you go to Disney jail if I you do that."

It's sad, but true, that when you put your heart and soul, as well as every moment of your day, into raising your kids, and you don't get a yearly review or end up with a glowing article about your mothering skills in the paper, all you want is a little recognition. For me, that recognition comes from sewing. (And now from writing again thanks to you, my dear readers, who comment on my blog!) Of course compliments on what nice manners your children have are even nicer than those on your sewing skills, but really, how often does that happen?

So yes, I do love the recognition I get from sewing, but I'm pretty sure that it runs deeper than that. There is something soothing about taking a piece of fabric, a pattern and an idea, and making it into something my daughters can wear. (I would make things for my 8-year-old son, but he isn't that interested in the things I make anymore. Can't say I blame him. I don't make graphic tees and cargo shorts.) Sewing is a creative process that has tangible, wearable results.

My love of sewing also comes from the relationships it has brought me. I love to sew in a group, and I love to talk sewing. I love to look at fabric and discuss patterns and bounce ideas off a friend. I love to get e-mails from Amy saying, "How cute is this!?!" and "We need to make that!" It's creativity with a little help from your friends, which might be the very best kind.

The height of this creativity amongst friends comes at my semi-annual (sometimes quarterlyish) sewing weekend. I, and several of my sewing friends, head out of town to a beautiful retreat that one of the friend's father-in-law owns. And we sew. For two and a half days and we LOVE it! Okay, so we've sort of incorporated a movie/wine drinking portion into Friday night, which means I don't sew once the wine flows, because my personal motto is "Just Say No to Drinking and Sewing." I have a hard enough time making my seams straight without the influence of alcohol.

But after Friday night, it is down to business for all of us. There are Easter outfits, a ball gown (Now that was an interesting weekend. Missy's husband will never give her that much lead time on a black-tie event again!), back-to-school, and Christmas items being made. The projects are as varied as the women making them. If I'm lucky I can embroider some items for a friend, while she puts some buttonholes in one of my garments. I hate buttonholes. Or, I can get their advice on what to do with a yard of funky fabric I picked up for a song. I can borrow patterns, suggest ideas on what they are making, and laugh and stay up far too late in the night trying to get one more ruffle on one more pant leg.

It is good times indeed, and I will relish these weekends while they last. I am sure our days of sewing for our children are numbered. One day far too soon they will look at us and say "I don't want to wear that," and we will have to face the fact that they are too old to wear what we make them. But for now, we sew on. And maybe after the children's garments are done, we'll take up home dec sewing. Or maybe start a movie/wine drinking club. I won't worry about that now. I don't have time. I need to get my fabric and patterns ready for the weekend. Can't wait to see you Friday, girls!

A Dizzy Confused State of Mind

2009-08-24T06:31:00.000-07:00

Merriam-Webster's dictionary defines vertigo as: a.) a sensation of motion in which the individual or the individual's surroundings seem to whirl dizzily b.) a dizzy confused state of mind. I define mild vertigo as that feeling you get when you've had one too many cocktails and you need just a teensy bit of help walking straight.

You don't even want to hear about moderate to severe vertigo. Let's just say it resembles the feeling you might get after drinking all night at a band party in college (not that I would know, I'm just speculating here). Or it could also be described as that feeling you get after riding one of those cups and saucers rides at Disney, or one of those rides at the fair that uses centrifugal force to keep you slammed back against the back of the ride so you don't go flying off into space. Anyway you slice it, it is NOT GOOD.

However, vertigo doesn't just come after drinking one too many cocktails with the girls and having an overall good time, or after making a very poor decision to climb up on that ride at the fair. No, for me vertigo comes with sinus problems, or after a week or two of not getting enough sleep, or when I move my head a certain way, or do something stupid like get on a kiddy ride at the fair, or just whenever the heck it wants to show up and leave me feeling slightly drunk (without the benefit of cocktails) and just a tad bit cranky for three to four days, before it decides to slink off and invade some other poor unsuspecting soul's brain.

I've been diagnosed with sinus issues. I've been diagnosed with Benign Positional Vertigo. I've even been diagnosed with Meniere's Disease (which I am pretty sure that I do not have, seeing as how I do not have horrible, debilitating, life-altering vertigo that some people have, God bless them.) So basically, they don't know why I have vertigo, nor do they know how to stop it. It's not a huge deal, since I only get it a few times a year. But while it's here rolling around in my brain, I feel icky and out of sorts, like I'm going to fall down every time I bend down to tie somebody's shoe. I hate icky and out of sorts.

The doctor who diagnosed me with Meniere's said that I should go on a low-salt diet, because Meniere's (which I'm convinced I do not have) may or may not be caused by excess fluid in the inner ear somewhere and going on a low-salt diet may or may not help it. Okay? When I told the doctor that a low-salt diet sounded like a lot of work for something that may or may not help. He said it wasn't hard at all and that I would probably lose 10 pounds and love it, and he just knew that I wouldn't want to take a water pill every day (all said while he was walking out the door of the exam room).

Well, lets just refer to him as Dr. Lying McLiar and go to his house and see what his salt intake is, because I guarantee you it is four times what he told me I should consume. Anyone ever tried low-salt ketchup? It's disgusting. And how would he know whether or not I want to take medicine without actually asking me? And couldn't I just take the water pill when I feel the vertigo coming on? As far as the comment about my weight goes, bite me! My completely average weight for my height is none of his Ear, Nose and Throat business.

Did I mention there really is no good medicine for vertigo? There is an anti-dizzy medicine which I think is basically Benadryl, and the only way it works is to knock you flat on your back asleep, so you don't feel the dizzy. Exactly how am I supposed to take care of three kids when I am prostrate in the bed? The other option is the "water pill" which Dr. Lying McLiar thinks I don't want to take, and I'm not convinced would work anyway. (Don't worry. If I want to take the water pill, I can certainly get it. I know of a Dr. Feelgood that would prescribe it and also any other drug I might think I need. Scary! But that is a post for a day called "Never" because I really do not want to get sued.)

I am currently having a bought of vertigo, and I'm a little Cranky McCranky myself. But I'm guessing you already knew that by now, right? Grrrr!

Captain Trash Strikes Again

2009-08-21T18:44:00.000-07:00

There is a superhero that lives at my house. No, he is not able to leap tall buildings in a single bound or bend steel with his bare hands. His singular ability is to throw things away. He is, dun, dun, dun ... Captain Trash.

Jeff earned this moniker at some point when Whitson was in Kindergarten. I would go through our son's school folder and admire his daily work. Later that night when he would want to show his daddy his handy work, but he wouldn't be able to find it. "Where could it be?" he wondered. Oh no. He left it on the counter, so that must mean that Captain Trash had been there. Captain Trash tends to strike around 5:30 at our house. After the blur of kids coming to hug daddy and then running of from whence they came, Captain Trash sneaks into the pantry to eat a handful of Doritos and then throws away everything on the counter but the large pile of mail (the one thing I would like to see gone) away. Gone for good.

I think he gave himself the name after the kids started protesting. The kids would come crying to me wondering where their drawings of mermaid princesses and flying spacemen had gone, and I would send them straight to their father. He would admit, unashamedly, that he had thrown it all away. There were tears. There were protests. All to no avail. Now when the kids ask me, I turn it around and ask them who they think threw it away. They mutter a little disgustedly under their breath, "Captain Trash."

Dear reader, in case you've never been to my house, let me tell you my not-so-secret secret. My house is a cluttered mess. I am the "Queen of Clutter." It is my ministry. I make others feel better about their homes. There are probably 500 sheets of paper sitting atop my desk (as well as some yarn, lip balm, pictures, a book and a camera) as I type this. I am not known for my cleaning prowess or organizational skills. Having a cluttered house bothers me, but obviously not enough for me to have done anything about it. My husband, on the other hand, hates it. He would love to have an organized house and he does little things, like throw papers away, to make a dent in the clutter. I understand this. I can't say as I blame him, but sometimes it is quite annoying.

For instance, the kids will pull out an assignment to show to him and he will look at it, smile and throw it into the trash can while they are still standing there with proud little smiles on their face. I thought everyone knew that you had to wait until they were out of the room and then hide that crap in the trash can underneath the coffee filter. I do not need to keep every sheet they bring home from school. I keep the art projects and toss the rest -- but not in front of them! Have I mentioned that my husband has many, many strong suits? Sadly, tact is not among them. He sees no problem with throwing things away in front of the person who created it, including me. (He also sees no problem with stopping me in the middle of a story that I am feverishly telling him to ask me a completely non-related question, but alas that is a topic for another day.)

But it's not just the kids who suffer. He has no problem with throwing my things away. Important things. Things like Sunday School lessons. This, of course, is partially my fault. If I would find a place to put important things and then actually put them there, this would not be a problem. However, we've been married for 13 years, and I have been leaving important papers lying around (where I know they are) the whole time we've been married. We are still having a "debate" over whose fault it is that the S.S. lessons were thrown away. I brought the lessons home from church in Langley's church bag. I knew where they were, so I didn't remove them. I figured they were safe from Capt. Trash in there. But on the following Friday, I needed said bag for another reason. I was in a super hurry, so I took out all of the papers put them on the spot in my kitchen where my purse lives. (Okay, so it's on the ground in a corner, but that is where my purse lives, as well as other important things that I take in and out of the house every day. It's lived their for seven years and he knows it. Don't Judge Me!)

When I got home, I plopped my purse down on top of them, knowing where they were and planning to look at them later. The next day when we were getting ready to study the Sunday School lessons, I go over to where I keep my purse and lo and behold, they are gone. To the dump. Apparently while Captain Trash was rounding up all the trash in the house, he walked by my purse, saw the offending papers, put them into the kitchen trash without looking at them, and then took them off to the dump.

Yes, I understand that technically they were on the floor, but they were underneath, and obviously WITH, my purse. This was not my fault. But he was ticked -- at me! It was as if I had picked up the S.S. lessons and tossed them in the trash. "They were in a pile" he said, "on the floor!" "They were with my purse!" I said. Maybe to him they looked like trash, but to me they were one with my purse, which is the most important thing I own and he knows it!

Oh, aren't we a pair? Opposites most certainly attract. I'm convinced that God loves me enough to have sent my wonderful husband to me, so that I would be happy and not end up living in squalor. However, it can be maddening. Since I am also the kind of girl who writes things like important phone numbers that can never be found again on backs of envelopes, these things are routinely thrown away as well. I find his throwing out paper as maddening as he finds me piling it up. So I guess we're even. So, why bring the whole Captain Trash thing up tonight? Because he struck again.

I have a friend who needs #6 plastic to make shrinky dinks. Apparently you don't have to buy the expensive stuff, you can make your own. Who knew? Anyway, I was keeping some blueberry containers for her. They were in the fridge with a few berries left. Afraid that Captain Trash would get to them first, I cleaned them out, put them in a plastic bag and put them on top of my purse so I would remember to take them to her. I didn't see her at Open House, so I brought them back in the house and put them on top of my purse again. I specifically tied them up in a Kroger plastic bag to keep Captain Trash from seeing them. I almost put a note on them saying, "Hands Off Captain Trash," but alas, I could not find the "sticky" tape that my children thieved from my desk. When I couldn't find the containers this evening, I hoped for the best.

Me: Honey, you didn't happen to see some blueberry containers that I washed and dried and put in a plastic bag did you?"

Captain Trash: Yep, their gone. I threw them away.

That's when I started to get irritated at being married to a super hero. We never argue over normal things like in-laws, money or how to raise the kids. We argue over the dirty house, our busy schedules and Captain Trash throwing things away that do not belong to him.

Me: WHAT!?! I was saving those which is why I specifically tied them up in a bag where you couldn't see them and put them on top of MY PURSE.

Captain Trash: Well, their gone now.

Me: But I was saving those for someone. Why would you throw them away. They were in a bag. ON MY PURSE!

CT: Looked like trash to me. If it looks like trash, I'm going to throw it away.

And it went on like that for a few more minutes until our three-year-old told us to "stop fighting and be nice." Properly chagrined, I came downstairs to write. I fuss. I fume. I get over it. And Captain Trash lives to fight paper another day. He never apologizes by the way. Captain Trash is, after all, a super hero who is obviously saving us all from death by paper. Who knew living with a super hero could be such a pain in the arse!

*Update, Captain Trash went diving in the kitchen trash and found the containers, so my friend will get her plastic after all. He did ask, however, why she needed my trash. Does that matter? I was saving it! It was tied up in a bag NEXT TO MY PURSE! I am, however, pacified. Captain Trash is not evil, just misguided. And yes, you don't need to remind me that if I just got my self together, this would not be a problem. Why are you perfect people reading my blog anyway?

*Update #2, Captain Trash read and approved this blog entry. He also laughed so hard he had tears coming out of his eyes, so all is good. It did, however, spur him on to tackle the pile of mail. I will now hear questions about what we need to keep for the next hour. Careful what you wish for!

Yes, no, maybe? What day is it?

2009-08-20T08:20:00.000-07:00

What do parenting books, classes and seminars teach above all else? Consistency. Why then, dear reader, if I know the answer to all of my parenting problems, why for the love of my children can't I be consistent?

I don't think I am the only parent on the planet with this issue. In fact I know I'm not. I live with a parent who seems to have the same issue. So my poor children have something all the books, classes and seminars say is completely detrimental to their health and well-being, inconsistent parents. *Sorry honey, not trying to throw you under the bus or anything, I'm just saying...*

My latest inconsistency occurred over the last two mornings. Mrs. B, my son's third grade teacher, requests the kids bring a "healthy" snack every day. Since it is listed on their homework assignment, my son is being vigilant about it. Now the problem comes in when his idea of "healthy" and my idea of "healthy" collide. I, for one, consider fruit snacks to be little gummy piles of sugar dressed up in the shape of a fruit. He, on the other hand, considers them to be fruit. It says so right there on the pouch, "fruit snacks." So, there was an incident yesterday morning over our differing views of "healthy." Thirty seconds before heading out for the bus, he was lobbying for fruit snacks. I said "it's an apple or nothing buddy," and he begrudgingly put it in his bag and stomped off to the bus without a backwards look.

*Now, I hear you all talking amongst yourselves. Why does she buy fruit snacks if she thinks they are pseudo candy, and why does she wait until thirty seconds before the bus comes to discuss healthy snack options? Well, all I can say is that you perfect parents don't need to be reading my blog, so there!*

Back to the snack, this morning we dealt with it about 3 minutes before the bus came. *See, I'm making progress.* I asked if he had eaten his apple at school yesterday, and he assured me he had. Then I ran through options in my head. I didn't want to force the apple issue two days in a row, because I thought that would be cruel. And I couldn't deal with Mrs. B getting to know the real me this early in the year by seeing him eat a peanut butter sandwich on a hot dog bun, because I am out of real bread. So what did I do? Why, I let him take the fruit snacks of course. Mother of the year I am not.

Just to explain myself, I was thinking, 'Okay, he ate the apple like I asked him to yesterday, so I will let him have a semi-candy snack today. Besides, the teacher can't complain, right? It says "fruit snacks" right there on the package, doesn't it?' I don't think letting him have a pouch of fruit snacks one day a week is an awful thing to do, especially since he ate his apple yesterday. He assures me that half his class last year brought Oreos for their "healthy" snack, and he was the only poor sucker with an apple. It wouldn't surprise me to learn this was at least half true. But, in his mind today I am sure he was thinking, 'My mom is crazy. Some days fruit snacks are bad and some days they are good. What the heck? I better just grab them and run before she changes her mind.' I didn't exactly give him my reasons for letting him have the fruit snacks today versus yesterday. They had a bus to catch, remember?

So obviously consistency is one of those things I struggle with. I try, I really do, but sometimes it's just not easy to be consistent. In fact, I think it's one of the hardest things you can do as a parent. I've thought about praying for it, but I think it would be a little like praying for patience. Don't pray for it unless you want God to give you a reason to have to be consistent over and over again with your children, and frankly I don't know if I could handle that right now. So instead, I pray that God will help me show them love, mercy and grace, which seems to work better for me.

And God gave me a big opportunity to show him all three on Sunday night. My 8-year-old laid-back son threw a flat-out-throw-down-on-the-floor-crying-kicking hissy fit. I hadn't seen one of those out of him in years. He was overtired, overwhelmed and OVER IT! He was supposed to help do a "five minute tidy," but he decided to drag around and let his sisters do the heavy lifting. His discipline was to be sent to bed 30 minutes early. It was a teaching moment. If you don't do your chores at night, you don't get to play. You go straight to bed. Well, that's when the fireworks began. Now normally throwing a fit because you have just received some discipline would result in punishment. I try to discipline (teach), instead of punishing, but as with everything else, I'm not always consistent. As sometimes there is certainly a need for punishment. Anyway, I directed him to his bathroom to brush his teeth and then straight to his bed. By the time we got upstairs he was hysterical and promising to do better and begging for a second chance.

I left his room to give him some space and when he calmed down to a sort of hiccuppy snivel, I went back in. That's when I decided a new approach was necessary. I knew punishment at this point would be inappropriate. I sat on his bed, held him in my arms (not an easy chore when he is only five or six inches shorter than me) and prayed over him. I used to do this almost every night when he was little, but it's been a while. I asked God to give him comfort and to help him calm down. Then I asked God to help him obey his parents, so he would live a good, long life. (The first commandment with a promise. Gotta love that!) He calmed down while I prayed and then he went to bed peacefully and agreed he would do better the next time he was asked to help around the house.

So, I was inconsistent. I completely let him out of his chores and chose to give him a little mercy and grace. It had been a really long weekend that we had overbooked for our kids, and he was just done. I knew he didn't need my usual reaction. I knew that would just escalate things to an even bigger blowout. So, I gave him what I thought he needed. Should I react that way every time he refused to do chores? Absolutely not. He'd take advantage of it in a heartbeat. But does being inconsistent that one time make me a good parent? I don't know. I do know that in this case I did the best possible thing for him and consistent or not, that makes me feel good.

Long hair? Short hair? It's a hairy question.

2009-08-18T07:49:00.000-07:00

I have what most people would consider "good hair." Not to brag or anything, but it's always been sort of my trademark. After a few unfortunate years in elementary school that included Dorothy Hamill cuts and later Toni Girl home perms which made me resemble a dirty blond Annie, my hair finally came into its own in middle and high school.

Growing up in East Tennessee, big hair was all the rage and I had it, in spades. By my junior year, my hair was set in a spiral perm and reached down to the middle of my back and up several inches off my head. It was very "big" hair. Don't believe me? Check out the pictures a friend from high school just posted today on my Facebook page. *I told you so.*

I kept my long, curly hair into college, but by the time my junior year rolled around, I needed a change -- both literally and figuratively. I started by straightening my hair and getting bangs, but it just looked stringy. So, I decided I needed to cut it, really cut it, but my boyfriend of three years forbade me to cut it. So, I cut the hair, cut out the boyfriend, and felt freer than I had in years. Cutting my hair was cathartic. Short hair was my symbol of freedom and independence. I started out with a slightly-shorter-than-shoulder-length bob and didn't stop until it was above my ears a few months later. I felt a little like Sampson in reverse. My hair, which had had always been my source of power, was gone, but I felt more powerful than ever before.

It's not surprising that it was in this phase that I met my husband. At that point my was cut in a stacked bob an inch or two above my chin. It was shorter than it had been since I was in the first grade. The girl he met was not the girl I had been for several years. I was then, and am still, grateful that he fell in love with me when I had very short hair. He didn't know about my long, beautiful locks; he just knew about me.

Fast forward 15 years and three kids later, and I still have pretty good hair. It has gotten wavier with each child, and if I let it dry on its own, I resemble the lead singer of an 80s hair band, but it fixes up nice. My dilemma now is different. I kept my hair just at or above my collar for a good 10 or 12 years after Jeff and I met. It wasn't fussy, and it was just a little sassy -- kind of like me. But for the last few years, I've been letting it grow out. It now resides below my collar bone, which is "long" for me.

What started as a necessity after having a third child, has become a way of life. With an infant and two small children, I couldn't get to the salon very often, so I let it grow. It's now at a length where I can pull it back in a pony tail when I don't have time to fix it. I also don't have to wash it every day like I do when I have short hair, so that's also plus. Sounds perfect, right? Well, sort of.

The problem is I can't decide what is me anymore. Is this long, wavy hair that takes an inordinate amount of time to blow out when I do wash it "who I am," or is my short sassy hair "who I am"? Also, and this might be the bigger question, is there a deadline for long hair? More than one friend has told me that you can't have long hair after a certain age. But they, of course, don't know what that age is, so they are holding on tight to their long hair for as long as they can. So is that what I am doing? Holding on to longer hair to try to hold on to my youth? Or maybe with my longer hair I'm just making a desperate attempt to look like every sexy actress I see on TV. Doesn't long hair equal sexy hair? It's all so, existential. And it makes me tired just thinking about it.

My husband is no help. He says it doesn't matter to him how I wear my hair, and he thinks it looks fine short or long. I realize, from experience, that is an excellent answer from an excellent man, but I could use a little help over here. I don't know what I want, so couldn't he just tell me what he wants and I'll go with that?

Maybe I'm just tired of all the decisions I have to make in my life, and I'd like someone to make this one for me. Obviously he can't tell me how to wear my hair to make me feel like me, only I can do that. But for some unknown reason, I am incapable of doing that at the moment. So, my hair's long and getting longer (and bigger) by default. I guess like in so many other areas of my life, no decision has become my decision. So maybe my long hair is making me feel like me and maybe that's the problem. Maybe it's time for me to take my power back. I guess I'll just have to see.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year -- Or not

2009-08-13T11:47:00.000-07:00

It's back to school time, which usually finds me and my husband gleefully singing, "It's the most wonderful time of the year!" to our 8-year-old's supreme annoyance. He gets insulted; we stifle our giggles. And when that glorious second day of school arrives and they head out to the bus stop, I suppress the urge to throw open the back door and in my best Mel Gibson voice yell, "FREEDOM!"

Usually, that is.

This year it's different. In mid-July the week before our vacation, I was desperate for school to start. Even on vacation with three kids I was ready for school to start back. Then we got home and they went to my in-laws for five days and came home and all the sudden my feelings changed. Suddenly I wasn't ready for school to start. There was so much I wanted to do this summer that we didn't do. It suddenly felt like summer wasn't long enough.

For a mother who is known for her lack of sentimentality, I am not sure what is wrong with me. School started yesterday and I am a sniveling mess! I don't know if it is that my oldest is in third grade now, which all of you parents of older elementary students know is a "whole other ballgame." Or if it's that my sweet middle child who still says things like "lickted" instead of "licked" and "crash can" instead of "trash can" is starting first grade, and I know by the end of the year those sweet, sweet words will be gone forever. Or if it's that my just-turned-three-year-old daughter looks at least four and some of my favorite styles are starting to look too babyish on her. Or if, and this is probably the case, it's the unfortunate case that back-to-school collided with hormones for me this week and it has sent me into an emotional tailspin.

Laugh at me if you must, but it is as if I just woke up and realized they are growing up and I am missing it. I am so busy carting children from one activity to another, fixing *somewhat* healthy things for them to eat, throwing them into the bath, and then washing grass-stained clothing, that I am missing their childhood, because I have children! My not-yet-nine-year-old son is only about six inches shorter than I am. Time is not long that I will be taller than all of my children. My six-year-old daughter is becoming this beautiful, social creature who lives a life completely outside of mine during the day and then doesn't really share it all with me when she gets home. And my three-year-old has started saying just this week, mind you, "duh, mom." Don't worry, dear reader, I'm putting Miss Sassafras's attitude on ice, but the point is she is no longer giving me three-year-old attitude; she's trying to give me "big kid" attitude. It's all very disconcerting.

As a mother I am very aware that my ultimate goal is to work myself out of a job. In 18 years, I can only hope that I am not needed for all the things I am now. I want my children to be independent and capable enough to do their own laundry and cook their own *healthy* meals, and go to class on their own and do their homework on their own, and even make money on their own (at least on a part-time basis) and yes, live on their own. But it's all going by so fast. I heard a dad on the radio just yesterday say, "How can the days take so long and the years go by so fast?" I don't know! I just hope (and pray) that I am getting in all the important things -- not just more trips to the zoo or "summer learning," but love and laughter and family and Godly teaching and all those things that they will carry with them for the rest of their lives.

Okay, I know I'm a sniveling wreck -- who is now openly crying as I write this -- but it will pass and I will forget to think about it. Instead, I will think of laundry and cheer practice and football games and homework and school forms. But the next time I have a really long day, I'll try to think of how fast the years go by and hold my children close to me and drink them in, if only for a few moments.

*Now go snivel amongst yourselves.*

Where to next?

2009-08-09T09:10:00.000-07:00

Now that mommycation is coming to an end and we've already been on a family vacation, I'm ready for my favorite vacation of all -- the couple vacation. I love to go on vacation with just me and my hubby. Granted, it doesn't happen very often, but it's been four years since we went somewhere nice -- an Alaskan cruise -- and we are ready to go again. We love our children dearly, but we also love each other and like to spend time together with just the two of us. I personally believe one of the best gifts you can give your child is a strong relationship with their father (or mother if you happen to be a father reading this blog). And where better to make your relationship stronger than on a fabulous vacation!

I was talking to an older woman I know at a meeting the other night. She became a mother later in life (at least later than the majority of us do) and her only child is getting ready to head off to college. I asked how she was feeling about him leaving in a few weeks, and she said she and her husband were thinking of moving to the college town for the next four years to be with their son. Dear reader, I am ashamed to say I have an extremely poor poker face. I'm sure the shock and awe of her statement registered on my face. I practically shouted "Oh no, you don't want to do that do you?" and then realizing that might sound rude, I mumbled something about college being a time for children to spread their wings and find their place in the world, or something else straight out of a Hallmark card.

But then she something even more shocking than her previous statement. She said that her son wanted them to move and that since his birth they had never been anywhere without him. *What!?! Come again? What was that last thing you just said? I'm sorry it sounded like you said YOU HAD NEVER BEEN ANYWHERE IN 18 YEARS WITHOUT YOUR SON. I'm sure that's not what you said, right? Because that would be just crazy, right? Because I know that if I had never been anywhere with my husband alone in 18 years I would be certifiable. You're kidding, right? You're just trying to make me feel bad, aren't you? You big kidder you. Right? No? Okay.*

I admit I am often struck dumb -- not mute, just dumb -- when others' life choices are so completely different than mine. Instead of saying something noncommittal or smiling and taking a swig of my iced tea, I instead say something that could be considered offensive. In my defense, I don't think it is a judgement on my part, I just think it's that I can't wrap my brain around certain things. So, I begin to ask questions. Lots of questions. Questions that I am sure imply that I think the person is crazy. I don't necessarily think they are crazy, I just can't understand why on earth they would make that choice. Alright, now it's sounding more and more like I'm being judgemental. I can live with that, because some choices are just crazy , and I shouldn't be expected to act like they aren't, right? Okay, I know I should reserve judgement and learn to keep my opinions to myself, but it's been 36 years and there is no sign of that particular personality trait letting up.

So I say to her, "Really? Never? You've never gone anywhere without him." And she said, "No, it was just too much fun to have him with us, so we never wanted to go anywhere without him." Well, that's kind of nice. I guess. Totally unrealistic in my house, but sweet nonetheless, right? Okay, maybe not. Is he going to be able to function on his own in college? Does he know how to make his own decisions? Is he going to move in with you when he gets married and just bring his wife and family on in? At this point my mind is just reeling!

I'm reminded of another woman who I overheard talking with my friend. When my friend asked her to a movie the following week, she said she probably wouldn't be able to go because, "my family kind of breathes in and out together." I'm pretty sure my eyes bugged out of my head, and I immediately felt short of breath.

I've said it before, and I will say it again, "I love my children!" I would take a bullet for my children or jump in front of a speeding car for them. But for the love of all that is good in this world, I need a break from them to be by myself. And, I need a break from them to be with my husband. Both of these women were much older than I was when they had children. Maybe I would feel differently if I'd had this grand life before having kids. I don't know. But I do know that I am a much better mother when I am away from my children for a few days and I'm allowed to miss them. And I do know I am a much better wife when I am allowed to enjoy my husband's company for a few days without little people interrupting. Where do I think we'll go? Who knows. I've been begging to go to Charleston and/or Savannah for the past 13years since we got married, but it's never happened. And frankly, I don't expect it to any time soon. At this point I would settle for a B&B on Monteagle. I'm sure we'll only be able to sneak away for a few days, but wherever we go, it will be wonderful.

But right now, I'm going to go meet my kids. They've been gone for four days and I'm so ready to see them I'm going to meet my husband on his way home with them at Khol's to go shoe shopping. And to fully understand that statement, you'll have to read my last post.

New colors

2009-08-07T09:58:00.001-07:00

Got tired of the tan/brown and decided to go with pink. I love pink! But if you hate it and won't ever read me again because of it, let me know. We can compromise. In fact, I'm thinking of moving over to WordPress and maybe getting a specially-designed fancy blog, but I'll be sure to let you know. Thank you -- all 10 of you -- for reading my blog!

Mommycation, here I come!

2009-08-06T13:59:00.000-07:00

Well, I've finally gotten over the family vacation we took last week. I'm not sure if it's the shlepping three kids and all their flotsam and jetsum to the pool and beach, or if it's the shlepping three kids to a zoo when it's 95 degrees with 99 percent humidity, or maybe it's the shlepping three kids to a kid's museum and then chasing them around for five hours, or if I'm really honest it might be the staying up until 2 am to finish one of five novels I read during the week, but whatever it is, vacations WEAR ME OUT!!!

I've been back since Saturday night, and I'm just now getting over exhausted. I went to church Sunday and felt like a zombie. And then for reasons only known to the good Lord himself, I tried to take three children to buy school supplies and shop for back-to-school shoes. I'm pretty sure I should be committed to the closest looney bin with a spot available for a "masochistic mother." We made it through Walgreens without much incident -- that is if you don't consider me yelling at my children at least 14 different times, "Put the toys down and stop throwing things! Mommy is trying to shop for school supplies!" an incident.

Have I mentioned that sometimes I don't like myself very much when I'm in public with my children. Sometimes I think I sound stark-raving mad. I'm sure every person in the store thinks I am "mean mommy," and I don't blame them. I feel like "mean mommy." But alas, that is a post for a different day.

Because I was not done with the pain and punishment to myself, I decided to jet on over to the mall to shop for shoes. Here's just a little background info to show you, dear reader, the lunacy of this particular decision. For reasons unbeknownst to me, my children lose their minds upon entering a shoe store. The girls run to their section and proceed to try on red, glittery Dorothy shoes, jelly shoes, high heel shoes or (fill in the blank with inappropriate 6 and 3-year-old footwear that I am no going to buy), while my son proceeds to hide and proclaim, "I don't need shoes. The shoes I have are fine," even though his big toe is literally sticking out of the side of his blown-out Croc. At first I try to find shoes for them to try on that won't lead to a fight. Then I just try to get them to actually try them on, and finally after many minutes have gone by and the staff has asked me more than once if everything is okay, I end up cramming their feet back into the shoes they wore into the store, jerking up their little hands, and hauling them out the door all the while internally proclaiming, "I will never do this again." Shoe shopping is so bad that even my sainted mother-in-law was overcome by it last year when three adults tried to help three children find shoes. It is a job that no adult in my family wants to tackle without backup.

But for some reason I thought this time would be different. I had a coupon, by golly, and I was going to use it. Dear reader, after hearing about past excursions to the shoe store with three children, it should come as no surprise that this one went poorly. Let's just say no shoes were purchased and when we got home around two that afternoon, I was ready for a pitcher of margaritas! Now don't get all concerned and call DCS, I said I wanted to throw back some margaritas. I didn't say I actually did. There is far too much alcoholism in my family for me to drink when I feel stressed. That's what chocolate is for!

Needless to say, I did nothing on Tuesday except take the kids to football and cheer practice. Oh, I haven't mentioned that our 8-year-old son will be playing football this year and our 6-year-old daughter will be cheering for him? Well, I'm sure you'll be hearing about that very soon when the season gets up and running.

But Wednesday, glorious Wednesday, finally rolled around and I scrambled to get three children out the door to *cue the Hallelujah chorus* Nena & Papa's House. God bless my in-laws! They usually take my children for several days each summer and give me a mommycation. For the stay-at-home moms out there reading this, you understand that when you stay at home with your kids and then you go on vacation with your kids it is not a vacation, it is, as on of my friends calls it, "a change of location." And therefore it is usually harder to deal with your kids, because you do not have all of the things you usually use to distract them at home. So, I'm of the firm belief that the only vacation I get is when my children are gone and I am home -- or I'm sipping tropical drinks poolside -- a girl can dream, right?

*If you are a "working mom" and you agree with my views about kids and vacation, I'm fine with that. We can go somewhere and sip little tropical drinks together poolside while our in-laws or husbands take care of the kids. I'm not exclusionary.*

So, my mommycation has begun, and since I am so late writing this, it is almost over! I have basically done nothing, except of course shopped for school supplies and a few back-to-school clothes. In fact, today starts our tax-free holiday in Tennessee, so I'm going out for more clothes. I have felt a little twinge of guilt for not having done much of anything but shopping and relaxing and reading blogs and Facebooking, but with the way my fall is shaping up already, I figure I need some calm around here before the storm.

Maybe I'll clean out the kids closets like I hope to do. Maybe I'll get some sewing done for my daughters' first-day-of-school outfits. Or maybe, I'll just sit on my fanny and do nothing. It'm MY vacation after all, and I can do what I want. Right? Right!

A rose by any other name...

2009-07-24T08:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was talking to two friends about the fact that I needed to spend today getting myself and my three kids packed for our trip to the beach tomorrow. I'm not supposed to be spending it reading blogs and writing my own, but that's just how I roll! Nothing like packing at the last minute.

The subject of packing for husbands came up. One friend said she did not do anything to get her husband ready for a trip, because they are both veteran travellers for work, and it would be counter-productive for her to pack for him. Makes perfect sense to me. However, I mentioned that my mother had packed for my father, a retired salesman, for just about every weekly trip he had taken in 30 years, which I think is ridiculous (sorry, Daddy!). My friend said, "Yeah, but she was a housewife, right?" To which I said the thing that got me thinking, "No, actually she worked. But, I'm a housewife, and I don't pack for my husband." What? As soon as I said that word, I was uncomfortable. Did I really use that word, housewife? I am married with three children and do not do work that brings in a paycheck, but I do not consider myself a housewife.

When I was a new mother, a friend who was a few years older than me told me that she did not like the term "housewife," because she was married to a man, not a house. I've never forgotten that, and I am truly thankful not to be married to my house. If I was married to my house, it would be demanding a divorce right now. I do not love it and show it the respect it rightly deserves. I ignore it and let it sit in its own dust and clutter and turn a blind eye while I blithely type away on the computer. I have not fancied my house up in pretty paint and curtains, nor have I put paintings or objects of art throughout its rooms, so I'm pretty sure it hates me for that. I am a very bad wife to my house, so needless to say, I do not use that term.

Now let me say something about my friend lest anyone be confused. She respects my position as a "non-paid" mom, and she would never say anything to hurt my feelings. I am sure she used the term "housewife" because she was referring to our mothers' generation and that was the term that they used. This post is not about political correctness. I hate the "word police." We have enough problems in the world without people getting offended for other people. Most people who are up on their "PC" horses are completely disingenuous, and they make me crazy! 'Nuff said.

So, back to my real question. What do I call me? If I don't even know what to call myself, how can I expect others to know what to call me? Some of the titles I have used are stay-at-home mom, which is okay, but doesn't exactly fill the bill. I do stay home to take care of my children, but I also drive kids all over creation and do a lot more than take care of children. I've also used homemaker, but that one makes me nervous. If I am a home maker, what sort of home am I making? Is it a pleasant home? Is it a clean home? Is it a home that is good for my husband, children and myself? I want to break out in hives when I start thinking too much about that, probably because I feel convicted about not being such a great homemaker (see house wanting a divorce above).

Yes, I've heard the titles such as domestic engineer or Mom on Call (okay, my kids are already way too entitled already. There is no way I am giving myself a name that suggests I am at their beck and call!) I even Googled titles for stay-at-home moms and found a Washington Post contest to come up with a new name. I didn't really like the contest, because it was based on political correctness, but I was down-right offended by some of the comments. Lil_Husky suggested that women like me should be called MoochiMoms. Lil_Husky, you are an idiot. Working moms and dads pay someone to take care of their children, but since I do that for my children without getting paid, you think I am mooching off my husband? If I died tomorrow, he would have to pay someone to take care of them, so what exactly is the problem with THEIR OWN MOTHER taking care of them FOR NO PAY? Lil_Husky, I will not waste my outrage on you. I am sure that you are unsightly, have body odor, and no wife or children, therefore you hate women and are bitter. Or even worse, you are one of those husbands who has his wife on an "allowance" of $50 a week for all household expenses whether she needs that much or not. Or worse yet, you are forcing her to work a job she hates when all she really wants to do is be home with her children. *Note to self, do not read comments from idiots.*

The biggest part of my naming problem is that mom is not the only role I play in life. I have many roles: wife, daughter, sister, unpaid writer, Girl Scout leader, school volunteer, embroiderer (for which I do get paid, but it is a pittance and as my husband would say, "If if costs you money, it is a hobby, not a job.") Not to mention the more existential roles I play: child of God, friend, role model, citizen of a small town, the state of Tennessee, the United States, the World (I'm feeling a flashback from 12th grade English and "Our Town"). This list could get quite long. So tell me, why does my title have to do with whether or not I make money. Or, whether or not I am a mother or wife? I know this is a much debated question about sense of self and worth and all that jazz, and I also know that I may not ever be able to answer it in a satisfactory way.

But, I think I have come up with a new title that encompasses all of the roles I play. The next time someone asks me what I do, I think I will reply, "I am a Lori. It's very demanding work, but quite fulfilling, too." At least that is what I am going to call myself until I hit the best-seller list, and then I'll just call myself a best-selling author. I rather like the ring of that.

*In case you are curious, the reason I do not pack for my husband, even though I am a Lori, is that he does not want me to. I tried to pack for him when we first got married, because I thought it was a "wifey" thing to do. (See story about my mother above.) He thanked me very much and then proceeded to ask me 42 questions about what I had packed and ended up taking everything out and re-doing it himself. Now I just make sure he has clean clothes and put some underwear and undershirts on the bed next to his suitcase and let him pick the rest himself. He is really the most efficient man I know. He can pack for a week in about 10 minutes and not forget anything and have exactly what he needs. I am in awe of his packing prowess. I, on the other hand, take forever, forget highly important things like contact solution or underwear, and am still packing after he has loaded the entire car and is honking outside for me and yelling, "come on!" But, maybe that's because by the time I get ready to pack for myself, I have already packed for three other people and my brain has shut down. Speaking of which, time to go and pack. This time is going to be different!

You decide

2009-07-21T19:21:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about this post since last week. Yes, originally I was going to post three or four times a week, but life and my three children and more life and minor surgery for my daughter and my nephew coming for a week of rock band camp and football camp for my son and did I mention life? have gotten in the way. So, here I am a week later finally writing this post.

My favorite southern author, Joshilyn Jackson, had a meme on her blog last week. Don't know what a meme is? Neither did I, so I Googled it. I had kind of figured it out from the context -- I'm smart like that -- but wanted to be sure. According to Wikipedia, a meme is basically a question posed and answered by a blogger who asks other bloggers to answer the same question, and it sort of becomes viral from there.

So, here's the question: What famous person do you resemble? Just so you know, I love to play along with these sorts of question/answer games. I fill out all those personal quizzes on Facebook and love to look at friends' answers. However, on this one I am stumped. I know I have been told once or twice that I look like someone famous. I think I remember someone saying Annie Potts. What? But usually it's more along the lines of, "Wow, you look just like my old neighbor." Or, "You look like a girl I knew in high school." You get the picture.

I'm kind of your basic girl-next-door type (yes, technically it's woman, but I still like to think of myself as young). Personally, I think it's kind of hard to judge our own outward appearance without prejudice. I see every pore, line, freckle (which will soon have to be called age spots) extra five or more pounds, stretch marks, under eye bags, etc. on my body. I know that I am not beautiful (although my children tell me I am, God bless their pea-pickin' little hearts!) but I think of myself as attractive. I have good hair (when I take the time to fix it), fairly striking eyes, and a pretty smile. I'm not the kind of girl that turns a lot of heads, but I did manage to catch my husband's eye (and then flirt with him for half a semester from across the room in human sexuality class before he finally asked me out, but that is a blog for another day), and he is quite the catch, if I do say so myself. And you can see both of us for yourself from our picture. Sorry, couldn't find one of me alone. It was either the two of us or me and the kids, so I opted for him. Not sure that I want to put the kiddos on here just yet.

I've read other bloggers who say they are average looking and they think that is why they aren't told they look like someone famous. That makes a lot of sense to me. Most of us aren't Hollywood types. Although there are a lot of character actors out there who aren't either. So, I've been thinking a lot this week on looks and beauty and what makes us look like other people -- is it our features or something more, like maybe our essence? And, what makes a person attractive or unattractive? And why don't any of my children really look like me, since I am the one who carried them in my big, fat, swollen belly for nine months!?! Oops, there goes my stream-of-consciousness thinking again.

Anyway, I've gotten way more involved in this post than I ever expected -- that's what happens when I think on things for a whole week. So, since I don't have a clue what famous person I look like, I'll let you tell me. As I am wont to tell my children, "Be nice!" If you tell me I look like some punk rocker or a man, I will blacklist you from this blog! (Don't know if I can really do that, but I'll figure out something.) Realistically, I'm expecting to hear that I look like an old friend of yours.

My Special Kind of Southern Angst

2009-07-14T08:48:00.001-07:00

I was reading book blogs, instead of doing the hundred or so other things I said I would do today, when I came upon a reading contest. For those of you who don't know, I am a voracious reader. I consume books. I read books like I swim: head down, hard as I can go, only coming up now and again for a large breath of air before plunging in again. I love the written word. My eyes are incapable of being still when in the presence of words. I'm the kind of person you will catch reading the back of the cereal box if there is nothing else to read. I understand completely why Jefferson wrote, "I cannot live without books."

Being the competitive person that I am, I also love a contest. I have already earned my book light from the Nashville Public Library Contest this summer and that only took about two weeks. All you had to do was read four books. But this new contest I found is a little different. Not only must you read three books, you must blog about them, too. How exciting! I can combine two of my passions: reading and writing. And better yet, it's not just any fiction. It has to be Southern fiction, because it is a Southern Reading Challenge. Be still my heart! If reading is my passion, reading Southern fiction is my reading heart's greatest joy.

I think my love of Southern fiction was probably born from angst over my Southern identity. I was born in Tampa, Florida and lived about thirty minutes from the city in Valrico. We lived at the end of a dirt road where the Bookmobile would come to visit. Our seven acres were surrounded by 250 acres of pasture and our backyard wandered off into the woods. My brother had a B.B. gun at age 7 and a pellet gun at age 9 or 10 by which time he was proficient hunting small woodland creatures.

My father was born in the mountains of Western, North Carolina. Although he moved to Florida at the age of 11, he remains to this day very much a Southern mountain man. My mother, a Florida native, spent her first years in the country in a little town called Seffner and spent her summers at her grandmother's house in Dothan, Alabama. Although the big city of Tampa was only a half an hour away, we were very much a small-town Southern family.

In 1979 at the age of six, we moved to a little town in East Tennessee called Sulphur Springs, where I was immediately cast as the outsider. One of the things I remember most was a few years after moving there a boy in my class commented on my accent and my home state and came to the conclusion that I was a Yankee. I may have been just young at the time, but I knew what a yankee was and I knew I wasn't one. I was from Florida -- not the North. (I realize that parts of Florida are now merely retirement communities for the Northeast, but not the part I was from in 1979.) I credit that one statement by some long-forgotten boy for the beginning of my Southern identity angst. My mother, who had been made fun of for her country accent when she moved into town as a child, had developed impeccable grammar. My brother and I were always corrected when we spoke with poor grammar in our home. So, here I was the kid with the 'funny' accent using correct grammar in a little school in East Tennessee being called a yankee. I knew it was untrue, but it cut me to the quick. Somehow I was not as Southern as the rest of them.

As I grew older and learned what "Southern" meant to the rest of the country, my angst grew. I lived in the foothills in East Tennessee, not the Delta in Mississippi. I developed a country twang for an accent, not a lovely drawl. I lived in a small house on an acre surrounded by cow fields, not down a long drive flanked with live oaks. I was much more likely to end up at a NASCAR race than at the Kentucky Derby, and the only thing being added to a Coke at my Souhtern Baptist house was ice cubes, not bourbon. I loved growing up in my beloved South, but I just never felt Southern enough.

Fast forward to 1994 at the University of Tennessee, where as a junior I was looking for a good literature class to satisfy my soul, as well as an elective requirement. My sorority sister Renee told me about a class she was taking called Contemporary Southern Fiction. It wasn't on the schedule; you had to have the professor's permission to take it. She recommended I show up and see if he would let me add it. When I walked into the small conference room that first day little did I know that an important part of my life would never be the same.

Dr. Jack Reese, who had served as chancellor of UT for more than 16 years, had stepped down a few years prior to return to the classroom. When you've been chancellor, you pretty much get to run your classroom any way you choose. Just thinking about this man and the fact that he no longer inhabits this earth, brings tears to my eyes. He was dear and lovely and funny and erudite and there will never be another one like him. *drying eyes now*

Needless to say I was honored when Dr. Reese allowed me to join his class. There were 10 or 12 of us who met around a conference table next door to his office. His syllabus was two inches thick and 15 years and several moves later it is sitting in my lap as I type this. We read 12 novels and many essays and short stories that semester, which were broken up into topics imporant in the South. And for every section we covered, we watched a relevant Southern movie. The topics covered were: Coming of Age in the Modern South, Social Classes: Redneck to Aristocrat; Race and Civil Rights; The Southern Woman; A Sense of Family; Politics and Politicians; Religion; King Football and Other Sports; Getting Older; and Southern Music: Country and Blues.

That semester Dr. Reese introduced me to Eudora Welty and Peter Taylor, Kaye Gibbons and Lee Smith, Robert Penn Warren and Harry Crews, Wilma Dykeman and Josephine Humphries, Clyde Edgerton and Earnest Gaines, Walker Percy and Bobbie Ann Mason. But more than that, he introduced me to the beauty that is Southern Literature. This is not to say that I had not read Southern authors before -- of course I had -- but my eyes had not been opened to the genre of Southern Literature and the importantance of "place" in fiction and from what angst Southern literature comes. I had not experienced the many different places in the South from which literature springs. Yes, the South is magnolias and mint juleps and live oaks and such, but it is also mountains and backroads and places that inhabit my childhood and places that I pray to God I, and my children, never have to see.

You want a short story about a Southern family that you will never forget? Read Eudora Welty's "Why I Live at the P.O." You want a Southern gothic novel that will disturb you to the bone? Read Harry Crew's "Feast of Snakes." You want a strong mountain woman who will stir your soul? Read Lee Smith's "Fair and Tender Ladies." Would you like to understand the hold that football has over those of us in the South? Read H.G. Bissinger's "Friday Night Lights: A Town, A Team, and A Dream." You want to read about a Southern grandmother who reminds you of your own? Read Clyde Edgerton's "Walking Across Egypt." How about a modern-day mother whose plight might hit a little close to home? Read Josephine Humphries, "Dreams of Sleep."

In Jack Reese's Contemporary Southern Fiction class I developed a passion for Southern fiction and the Southern writer that I hope never wains. Oh, I read and re-read Jane Austen and other British authors on a regular basis, as well as bestselling authors and up and coming authors, and even forgettable "Chick Lit" at the beach, but I always come home, back to my South. And I'm always looking for new authors to add to his list. If Dr. Reese were alive and teaching today, I think Joshilyn Jackson would be on his syllabus. She is currently my favorite Southern author and has a voice you need to hear. In fact, I'll probably be blogging about one of her books here. You can expect to read posts about three diffenent Southern authors in the coming month. Hope you will enjoy. I know I will.

MJ and the madness

2009-07-08T06:55:00.000-07:00

I have not watched any of the coverage about Michael Jackson in the past few days, because I have been busy doing real-world things such as camping with the family for four days over the holiday and taking my daughter to have a planned out-patient procedure on Monday. And frankly yesterday I was just so worn out from worrying about her and her recovery, that I could not bear the thought of listening to all the blather.

However, I did hear on the radio yesterday a quote by the Rev. Al Sharpton to MJs kids. He said, "There was nothing weird about your Daddy," and then he said something along the lines of the only thing weird was the stuff he had to deal with or some other such nonsense. I'm thankful I was just pulling out of my driveway, or I may have run off the road. Nothing weird!?!

I find it very irritating that when some people die all of their bad traits/decisions/actions seem to be immediately erased from the collective consciousness and all that is remembered is the "good." This man was a train wreck! Whether the train wreck was his own fault or whether it was caused by his overbearing father and crazy childhood really does not matter. If you look up 'weird' in the dictionary, MJs face would be staring back at you.

Now being the good Southern girl that I am, manners dictate that you do not throw a person under the bus at his own funeral. You say a few "bless his hearts" and everybody gets the picture. Here are just a few examples of what the Rev. Al could have said to MJs kids, "Your father loved you very much," or "Your father was an incredible entertainer," or "Your father was an amazingly talented man who will be missed by many." All of these statements are true and kind about said crazy man.

The ridiculousness of this quote reminds me of another ridiculous quote a friend of mine posted on Facebook. It was from The Tennessean (the Nashville paper) over the weekend about Steve McNair, the former Titan's quarterback who was found shot to death with his mistress. The quote was from a fan who said, "Anyone can get famous. But it takes a genuinely moral person to be a leader." Really? The married father of four was found shot to death WITH HIS 20-YEAR-OLD MISTRESS, and the Tennessean chooses to run a quote that calls him a moral person? My friend wondered if that was really the best quote they could get or had they not interviewed enough people. I'm wondering if they were trying to be ironic.

Don't get me wrong. I think Steve McNair had some amazing qualities. He was very generous to his mother and the Nashville community. He set up a foundation that helped disadvantaged children and also raised a ton of money and supplies for Katrina victims in Mississippi. He was a truly amazing athlete who took us to our only Super Bowl. I am a fan of his and am deeply saddened by his death -- and disappointed by his affair. I know that we all sin and fall short of God's grace, so I am not judging him. However, I think it is painfully obvious now that we do not need to say things like he was a 'moral' leader just because he is gone. That is like saying MJ was not weird just because he is dead. Maybe we should say "if you can't say anything nice -- and true -- after a person's death, don't say anything at all."

Just between you and me

2009-06-30T07:56:00.000-07:00

Let's face it. In our society moms are not honest with each other. This has led to many a mother feeling that she is the only one in the world who is not crazy about dirty diapers and being spit up on and having her three-year-old wake her up three times in the same night needing to go potty. Why don't we call it like it is and say sometimes being a mother stinks. (I'm trying to keep the language here fairly clean.)

Your own mother will look you straight in the eye and tell you things like, "I was only in labor for a few hours, and then I don't know, I pushed a few times and you came out. It really wasn't that bad." What she will fail to tell you was that it was 1973, back in the good old days when women were knocked unconscious to have a baby, so of course it is not bad when you are UNCONSCIOUS and having a baby.

The other thing she will tell you is that she loved being a mother and that is was the most fulfilling thing she ever did and that you need to enjoy it because it just goes by so quickly! Well now that it's been almost 20 years since she had a child at home, it was a wonderful thing to raise children. It's easy to forget the nagging, whining, crying, suck-the-life-right-out-of-you behavior of three children at home all day every day in the summer.

God gives us the grace to forget is all I can say to that. When it comes to our moms, they've forgotten all the mind-numbing daily tasks involved in being a mother, and all they can remember are the sweet, angel things we did as children, not the staight from Hades behavior we sometimes exhibited. So I don't really blame our mothers for lying to us, because they really aren't. They are suffering from selective amnesia.

As for moms my age, I think some of them are out and out liars. When I was a relatively new mom, I had a friend from another town call me up to commiserate. Her son was challenging. He was the colicky type that didn't sleep well, fussed all the time and was downright difficult to deal with. She was having trouble adjusting and was fairly sure she would be the mother of an only child. My first child, on the other hand, was a little piece of heaven sent wrapped up in a blue blanket. He never cried, slept like a champ and adjusted well to any and all new situations. (Don't hate me! I have three kids, and I assure you my last one made up for it.)

Even though my son was the easiest baby ever born, I still had moments that I hated motherhood. I was not crazy about giving up my entire life just to be mom to this child. When you stay home with your child, everything you do is dictated by a little tyrant. They cry and scream to get their way and up until they are a certain age, you just have to accept that. It can be a hard adjustment.

Well, I was honest with my friend and made my usual snide remarks about the glories of motherhood. She told me that she liked calling me because I was honest and made her feel sane. (If you hadn't noticed, mythical reader, my ministry in life is to make other people feel a little less crazy. You're welcome!) Apparently her mommy friends in her town were not honest and were in the business of making other moms feel bad about themselves. One mom at her mommy group told her something along the lines of "I've loved every moment I've ever had with my children." Well, I laughed out loud and told my friend that woman was either a.) a bold-faced liar, b.) on so many "happy pills" that she didn't even know she had children, or c.) was crazy as a loon and her children would grow up warped. I don't care if you are a saint from heaven, there are days when you DO NOT LIKE BEING A MOTHER!!!!

That is not to say that you do not love your children. I would jump in front of a: dump truck, great white shark, terrorist machete, (fill in the blank with your favorite morbid death scene) to save my children. I love them with a crazy all-consuming love that makes me want to smash in the face of a snotty six-year-old little girl who has just hurt my six-year-old baby girl's feelings. Do not doubt for a moment, mythical reader, that I LOVE MY CHILDREN! However, there are days that I can not stand to be in the same room with them or even hear their whiney little voices in another room. This is the dichotomy that is motherhood.

I think sometimes mothers lie to each other because we are scared. We are afraid that if we don't love everything about being a mommy there is something wrong with us. And if, God forbid, another mom were to find out this horrible truth, she would certainly call DCS to have our children permanently removed from our homes. I had a mom tell me one time that she couldn't spank her son, because she was afraid she would lose her mind and beat him -- that's honest. It took me aback, because she is one of the sweetest, kindest women I know, but I completely understood. Kids can make you crazy, and it's easy to lose your cool. Good for her that she knows her limits, so she doesn't put herself in that situation. I think even more of her now than I used to, because I know she's not some Stepford mommy. It's nice to know she is normal like me. But it takes guts to admit that to another mom.

What got me on my soapbox about motherhood is a "conversation" I had with a friend on Facebook. She's pregnant with number three and it is not all butterflies and unicorns, and I think she feels a little guilty about it. Well, I was perfectly honest with her and let her know that I wasn't even the least bit happy about being pregnant with number three until about the sixth month. I mean truly, most women do not like being pregnant. It is not all "brown paper packages tied up with string." It is hemorrhoids and heartburn and insomnia and a few of my other not-so-favorite things.

When people would comment about my third pregnancy and I would give them my lackluster response, they would then ask if it was planned. To which I would say, "Yes, just not well thought out." I had two small children at home and a husband who was out of town working, and it was awful. I felt overwhelmed by the two children I had. What on earth was I going to do with a third? At six months pregnant I realized that I was going to have another baby whether I liked it or not (okay, so I was a little slow on the uptake). I decided the only choice I had was to get happy about it, so I did. And when she was born I thought she was all sweetness and light and one of the most beautiful babies I'd ever seen -- the other two being her siblings. She recenlty turned three and has developed the new habit of screaming at the top of her lungs to try to get what she wants, which makes me contemplate burying her in the backyard until she grows out of it. Just kidding! (It's called hyperbole, mythical reader, look it up.)

My point is that all moms have days when they don't like their children and they don't like being a mom. Quit lying about it! You are making other moms feel bad and that is not nice. This is me now stepping down from my soapbox. Thanks for listening!

*Disclaimer: If you have any thoughts of hurting yourself or your baby shortly after giving birth or adopting a baby, or you can not stop continually crying, CALL YOUR DOCTOR, because that is not normal and you should not be miserable and she will give you something to make it better!

Tales from Old-School Third Grade

2009-06-26T08:19:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday I forgot to pick up my sweet, precious, beloved, 8-year-old son, and my friend's two children, from camp at their elementary school. There are no excuses. My friend called me at 2:00 to see if I could pick up her son. I said "sure" and "why don't I get your daughter for you, too?" She was appreciative and assumed they were in responsible hands. She may have assumed wrong.

I had 45 minutes to get some things done, so I threw in some laundry and did a few dishes and then sat down at the computer to check on Facebook. Oh Facebook, you black hole of my time, you stealer of all free minutes, why can't I quit you!?! Is it obvious by now, mythical reader, that the next time I looked at the clock - yes, that would be the little clock at the bottom right-hand side of my computer - it was 3:15? Three-freakin'-fifteen! I was supposed to pick them up at 2:50.

It took me about a half a second to process the fact that my son AND TWO OTHER CHILDREN WHO I AM ALSO RESPONSIBLE FOR had been waiting in line for 25 minutes at school, yet I was still sitting at my desk. I called the office and practically yelled at the secretary "I'M-ON-MY-WAY-I'M-SO-SORRY-PLEASE-TELL-THEM-I'LL-BE-RIGHT-THERE!" and then hung up the phone. Not two seconds later it rang and from the number I could tell it was Mrs. "B", who is in charge of the camp, calling to see if I was dead or in a ditch, because that is the only excuse for not picking up your children, right? So, I grabbed the phone and blurted out, "I'M-SO-SORRY-I-LOST-TRACK-OF-TIME-I-JUST-CALLED-THE-OFFICE-TO-TELL-THEM-AND-I'LL-BE-THERE-IN-JUST-A-MINUTE!" Before I could slam the phone down and take off out the door, she told me to calm down and don't wreck on the way and that she wasn't going anywhere.

Have I mentioned, mythical reader, that I live in the very best small town in the country? Well, I do. The county just built us a brand-new elementary school with all the best that technology has to offer, but we still have our same small-town teachers who love our children and the same small-town kids who all know each other, and I absolutely, positively can't imagine my children going to school anywhere else, forever and ever amen!

Well, after pulling up to the school and hearing my son proclaim with dramatic flair, "I can't believe you forgot us!", I got out of the car to apologize to Mrs. "B". She just laughed it off and said she told them she was going to take them home with her and serve frog legs and onions for dinner, which I thought was hysterical. 'Weird' food is one thing that makes my easygoing oldest child lose his mind. But just imagining her taking them home, reminded me of a story. And if you've know me for more than five minutes, mythical reader, you know I love telling stories.

Back in the early 80's when I was a third grader in another small town at another small school, I had Mrs. "W" for a teacher. Mrs. "W" was a great teacher. She did tell us one time after a music assembly that "rock-n-roll music" could change the rhythm of our hearts and that when we got to high school our friends might try to put drugs in our food at the cafeteria, so we should never take our eyes off our food. But other than that one side-trip to crazy town, she was a fabulous teacher.

When it was time to learn our multiplication tables, she came up with a contest. This was no ordinary contest. This was the contest to end all contests. Being the competitive little thing that I was (am), I was determined to win. It came down to the wire. Sarah "C" and Amy "M" and I were neck and neck and were all ready to say our last multiplication table on the same day. Mrs. "W" decided that the only fair way to determine the winner was to let us all say the last table that day, and if we all got it right, it would be a tie. As I'm sure you can imagine, it was a three-way tie. For our prize, we got to go see a movie with Mrs. "W" and her family on a Saturday and then go out to eat pizza. But wait, that's not all. We also got to go home with her to spend the night at her house. And as if that wasn't enough, we also got to, wait for it ... GO TO THE FIRST UNITED METHODIST CHURCH WITH HER ON SUNDAY MORNING!!! We thought it was the greatest prize EVER!

Yes, I hear you peoople at the ACLU going into apoplexy as I type, and I say "kiss it," because those were the good ol' days! It was wonderful. There are three things that I remember most about that weekend. One was that I got into the backseat of the wrong non-descript white sedan after we had eaten pizza and was momentarily horrified. The second was that I was so nervous about going to Mrs. "W"s church, because I was a good Southern Baptist girl, and I thought there might be kneeling or praying outloud involved at the Methodist church, and I didn't know what to do about that. I don't remember much about the service, so it must have been fine. The last thing I remember about that strange, wonderful weekend was fixing my hair in the bathroom in the morning before church.

At 8 years old in the third grade I curled my hair with a curling iron about every day. (I think I just remembered a hideous Toni home perm that my mother gave me that year that was growing out. Oh, I think I might need me some therapy now.) Anyway, Mrs. "W"s daughter was a few years older than we were and she was amazed that we were fixing our own hair, because her mother was still fixing her hair for her. I remember wondering why on earth she didn't do it herself. And once her mother saw us (I'm pretty sure Sarah was curling her own hair, too) she decided her daughter was plenty old enough to fix her own hair.

Looking back I'm not sure what shocks me most, that a teacher would let students spend the night with her, or that 8-year-old little girls could be trusted with HOT CURLING IRONS to fix their own hair. (The church part doesn't really shock me, because truly when you live in the Buckle of the Bible Belt in 1983 and you've invited your students to spend the night with you on a Saturday night, what else are you going to do with them on Sunday morning but take them to church?) Yes, I think remembering that curling iron is the kicker for me. It makes me realize that I am way too overprotective of my children. I am so afraid of them getting hurt, I don't let them touch anything. I'm sure that my 8-year-old has never cut anything with a knife. And the thought of him using any implement - even a brush - to fix his hair is ludicrous. He wets it a little so it doesn't stick up, but he surely doesn't brush it. (But that is probably a girl vs. boy thing, rather than a capability thing.) Good grief, I'm fairly certain my father was using large, sharp, rusty farm equipment at the age of 8, so I think I can now entrust my son with a butter knife. Actually, he will earn his whittling chip in Cub Scouts this year, so I think that is a step in the right direction.

Don't worry, mythical reader, I'm not planning on handing over sharp/hot/rusty implements to my children and setting them free, but I think it's high time I started entrusting them with more responsibility. I don't expect my oldest to go out and plow the field, but seeing that he can reach level 42 on his favorite Wii game, I think opening the washer, throwing in some clothes and soap and pushing the on button is not above his capability level. I guess we'll see. I'm so glad I was reminiscing about how things were "back in the day," and I'm sure my children will be thrilled with their new responsibilities. And to think, it's all because I was irresponsible about picking up my child at school. Ironic, huh?

The Good Lord willing

2009-06-23T10:26:00.000-07:00

and the Creek Don't Rise...

If you are from the South, chances are you've heard this phrase a time or two. I can remember growing up hearing a little old lady making plans, "The Good Lord willing I'll see you at lunch on Friday." I wondered what on earth she was talking about. What did the Good Lord have to do with lunch on Friday? Why would He care if she went to lunch or not? Later when I heard the creek part thrown in a time or two, I really got to thinking. Why would the creek rise, and where is this mysterious creek that that has a mind of its own, and what on earth does it have to do with anything?

Have I mentioned I was a very literal child? Now that I'm a little older, I've come to understand this phrase better than I ever imagined. Being the mother of three young children, every plan I make seems to have an air of "if the creek don't rise" to it.

Friend: "Why don't you guys come over for a playdate next week."
Me: "Sounds great" (assuming of course that no one catches the swine flu, breaks a leg, or develops whooping cough).

Husband: "Let's go to the beach at the end of July."
Me: "Sure!" (unless of course the car breaks down, or the downstairs air conditioning unit finally gives out.)

Don't get me wrong. I am not a pessimist. In fact, I've always been fairly entrenched in the optimists' camp. But, mythical reader, let's be honest. Sometimes the Good Lord is not willing and sometimes the creek does rise, and who am I to say it should be any different. Husbands go out of town for work unexpectedly; children break out in hives for no apparent reason; and babysitters cancel. So, sometimes it's just easier not to make plans lest someone be disappointed. But for me, not making plans because they may be broken has become an excuse, a cop out.

I've been telling myself for years that I should write a blog. In a former life I was a writer (that would be the life I lived pre-children, not an actual previous life for those of you now concerned about the state of my soul.) But every time I would think about finally writing a blog, I'd get swept up in the rising tide: "When do I have time to write?" "My kids will never leave me alone long enough to write." "It's so noisy in hear I can't string two words together, much less two paragraphs."

But what I have finally come to realize is that being a writer isn't just about writing words on paper and having them published. Being a writer is who I am. Even though I haven't been published in years, that doesn't mean I haven't been writing. Even with the screaming, whining, crying and fussing that three children can produce, I've been composing articles, essays, newsletters, blog posts, etc. in my head for years, and it is time, mythical reader, to let them out.

So, I'm making plans. The Good Lord willing, I am going to write! (And I think it might actually be part of His plan, so here I go). I'll admit I'm a little nervous. It's been a while since I've had an audience. It's also been a while since I've had a deadline that did not include turning in permission slips to school. My plan is to write frequently, even though I have three kids who will yell, whine and screech to get my attention while I write. (There's that creek again! You never know when it's going to rear its ugly head.)

My thought is that maybe if I do start writing again (outside of my head, that is) I will feel a little more like myself, a grown-up, accomplished woman, and not just like my kids' mom. Please don't misunderstand. I love being my kids' mom, but what I don't love is overhearing my son say, "my dad's an engineer, but my mom's just a mom." (That could be a whole blog post in and of itself, but we'll just leave it at "it bothers me" for now.) I think maybe it's time for me to be more than "just a mom" to keep from going completely insane! So, read me if you want or don't. I don't care (actually I care way more than I should, mythical reader, but I'm trying to be blase' about the whole thing). I'll be posting here either way.