1) Take Hilary to School for her trip to Florida
2) Remove Christmas CD from alarm clock
3) Replace CD in alarm clock with gentle, soothing, easy-to-wake-to music
4) Forget the rest of the list. I'm afraid I'm going to sit here all day wishing I was on my way to Florida with Hilary. I so wanted to go with her and her team. They are off to the National Dance Competition. Hilary actually wanted me to go. In a year or two, if they go again, she may feel differently. I may have missed my chance.
Sigh.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Grace
Christina had a dentist appointment today. She needed $600 of out-of-pocket work done. When the dentist came in, she explained that she couldn't afford to have it all, so only wanted the one tooth fixed.
The dentist told her, "that's ok. God told me to do the work for free. I'm not going to charge you for anything. I've learned that when God speaks, I need to obey what he says."
God's amazing grace.
Now if all of us would listen when God speaks and obey, imagine how pleasant life could be.
The dentist told her, "that's ok. God told me to do the work for free. I'm not going to charge you for anything. I've learned that when God speaks, I need to obey what he says."
God's amazing grace.
Now if all of us would listen when God speaks and obey, imagine how pleasant life could be.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
What Would You Do?
Hilary came home from a basketball game and was upset. I won't bore you with the petty details of what transpires between girls sometimes. But prior to the game, one of her classmates slapped her across the face. Honestly, I was shocked. I have never in my life slapped anyone, ever. Nor have I ever been slapped. Is this normal? It certainly isn't in my circle of life.
In this day of zero tolerance of violence/harrassment in schools, what would you do? Rather than get in a scuffle, Hilary chose to walk away. She did tell her coach, who said she'd speak with the other coach about the girl's behavior. That was Friday and as far as I know, nothing happened.
My mother's heart wants to call the principal and ask what course of action should be taken. I also thought about calling the parents. But maybe this is normal behavior in the girl's home. Maybe she is slapped by her parents and so it was a "natural" reaction for her to do the same. I feel that a slap to one's face is not only painful, but humiliating-especially when performed in front of others.
Hilary was upset, but didn't want to make a big deal out of it. She wanted to let her coach deal with it. So do I just let it go?
In this day of zero tolerance of violence/harrassment in schools, what would you do? Rather than get in a scuffle, Hilary chose to walk away. She did tell her coach, who said she'd speak with the other coach about the girl's behavior. That was Friday and as far as I know, nothing happened.
My mother's heart wants to call the principal and ask what course of action should be taken. I also thought about calling the parents. But maybe this is normal behavior in the girl's home. Maybe she is slapped by her parents and so it was a "natural" reaction for her to do the same. I feel that a slap to one's face is not only painful, but humiliating-especially when performed in front of others.
Hilary was upset, but didn't want to make a big deal out of it. She wanted to let her coach deal with it. So do I just let it go?
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Ann at Small Town Life tagged me for this meme.
The rules for this meme are:
(1) Link to the person that tagged you.
(2) Post the rules on your blog.
(3) Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
(4) Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
(5) Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Here are mine:
1. I prefer to eat with plastic forks and spoons. I love ice cream, but I'd rather not eat it, if I have to use a metal utensil. (I think this originated from having silver teeth.)
2. I quit drinking coffee once for 2 years. I liked it black. I always had a fresh pot brewed. I drank 2 or more pots a day. After a time change, in the spring, I thought I could go back to drinking coffee without becoming addicted. I drank it with cream and sugar to ensure I wouldn't drink more than one cup. Now I rarely drink it black. I never make a second pot, but I've been known to frequent Starbucks later in the day. My love/hate relationship with coffee. Can't live with it, can't live without it.
3. I still want a houseful of kids.
4. I love to sing and dance, but don't do either well. I'm learning country line dancing and am having a blast.
5. I own 6 pairs of cowboy boots.
6. I once had a boa constrictor snake as a pet, and lost it at my mom's house. (She later found it crawling under the kitchen table.)
(I forgot to tag others, so I'm editing this.) Dot-since I want to see you post more, Shel & Mylinda- because I don't know any weird things about you, Lisa,-who always has interesting things happen, Kristin-because I don't recall seeing a meme on her blog ever, & lastly anyone else who wants to play along.
The rules for this meme are:
(1) Link to the person that tagged you.
(2) Post the rules on your blog.
(3) Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
(4) Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
(5) Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Here are mine:
1. I prefer to eat with plastic forks and spoons. I love ice cream, but I'd rather not eat it, if I have to use a metal utensil. (I think this originated from having silver teeth.)
2. I quit drinking coffee once for 2 years. I liked it black. I always had a fresh pot brewed. I drank 2 or more pots a day. After a time change, in the spring, I thought I could go back to drinking coffee without becoming addicted. I drank it with cream and sugar to ensure I wouldn't drink more than one cup. Now I rarely drink it black. I never make a second pot, but I've been known to frequent Starbucks later in the day. My love/hate relationship with coffee. Can't live with it, can't live without it.
3. I still want a houseful of kids.
4. I love to sing and dance, but don't do either well. I'm learning country line dancing and am having a blast.
5. I own 6 pairs of cowboy boots.
6. I once had a boa constrictor snake as a pet, and lost it at my mom's house. (She later found it crawling under the kitchen table.)
(I forgot to tag others, so I'm editing this.) Dot-since I want to see you post more, Shel & Mylinda- because I don't know any weird things about you, Lisa,-who always has interesting things happen, Kristin-because I don't recall seeing a meme on her blog ever, & lastly anyone else who wants to play along.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Phones
I have a phone that sits beside my bed, but I'm not sure why. A couple of years ago, I turned the ringer off. It was summer, and I was tired of it ringing after I'd gone to bed. I didn't want it to startle me out of my Saturday morning sleeping in sessions either. Truthfully, the handset doesn't even work. The caller ID does. But the glowing light that comes on is not enough to awaken me from my sleep. Why do I keep it there? I figure if it rings and I need to answer it quickly, the speaker phone does work. I could answer it.
On Wednesday, I was up as usual making lunches. The phone rang. It was 6:12 a.m. Nobody calls that early. The caller ID said the name of the closest hospital. It was my mother-in-law. Michael's dad had been taken by ambulance to the hospital at 5:00a.m. He'd had a heart attack. I told her Michael would be there right away.
After hanging up, I scrolled through the caller ID. Sure enough. There were 2 calls just before 5, and a message blinking on the machine. A lot of good that phone in the bedroom does.
The sad part? My father-in-law asked us last week if we had a phone in our bedroom, "just in case" he needed to call in the middle of the night. I assured him we did. I mentally made a note that I should turn on the ringer. Afterall, my teens no longer receive late night calls. Well, actually they do. But nobody calls the house anymore. Everyone has a cell phone. But I forgot.
The ringer is on now. My father-in-law is doing better. His heart attack was mild, and he should be coming home today. Unlike my kids, I am not keeping my cell phone beside my bed. Text messages startle me out of sleep too.
On Wednesday, I was up as usual making lunches. The phone rang. It was 6:12 a.m. Nobody calls that early. The caller ID said the name of the closest hospital. It was my mother-in-law. Michael's dad had been taken by ambulance to the hospital at 5:00a.m. He'd had a heart attack. I told her Michael would be there right away.
After hanging up, I scrolled through the caller ID. Sure enough. There were 2 calls just before 5, and a message blinking on the machine. A lot of good that phone in the bedroom does.
The sad part? My father-in-law asked us last week if we had a phone in our bedroom, "just in case" he needed to call in the middle of the night. I assured him we did. I mentally made a note that I should turn on the ringer. Afterall, my teens no longer receive late night calls. Well, actually they do. But nobody calls the house anymore. Everyone has a cell phone. But I forgot.
The ringer is on now. My father-in-law is doing better. His heart attack was mild, and he should be coming home today. Unlike my kids, I am not keeping my cell phone beside my bed. Text messages startle me out of sleep too.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Fill 'Er Up
Growing up, I loved riding in the front seat of our station wagon. Mom would pull into a service station when she needed gas. To get to the pump, she had to run over a rubber hose. As each tire went over it, a ding would signal the attendant that he had a customer. A uniformed man, wearing a cap, would run-walk to mom's side of the car. She'd roll her window down. Around and around her arm would go to get the window half-way open.
"What can I do for you, Ma'am?"
"Fill 'er up with regular." (Regular was leaded gas back then.) He'd tip his hat as he turned. Clank, clunk. He'd start the tank filling, then pull a rag out of his back pocket and wash the windows. I enjoyed watching the squeegie swipe across in front of me, leaving a crystal clear windshield. As he leaned over, I'd check the name tag on his front pocket. Bob, Jim, Bill, or Joe. Did every gas station attendant have a short name? I wanted to see how a long name could be squeezed in that small space. But it never happened. Four letters was the max.
If I happened to be sitting in the back, with my sister Laurie, we'd flip around in our seats to watch the back window. Sometimes we climbed over. It was easy, as it was back before seat belts. As the attendant finished up, Laurie and I would take off our thongs. (Flip flops, for the current generation.) This part was most fun sitting on the long bench seat together. Turning our rubber thongs over, they became pedals. We would pretend to drive.
We had to take turns, as we each needed 3-one for the gas, one for the brake, and one for the clutch. When it wasn't your turn, you only had a gas peddle. Holding our arms out in front of us, we'd grasp our imaginary steering wheels. Back and forth, back and forth. (Before power steering, there was a lot more movement.) We had to shift, let off the gas, push the clutch and yet still keep one hand on the back and forth motion. Corners were fun too. Around and around, hand over hand. The steering wheel actually circled around several times to make a tight turn. Lean way over while turning (did we take corners fast?) then we let the wheel slide around back to the proper place. After every corner, we swapped peddles. Driving was fun back then. Gas stations were equally amusing. We could bounce along in the care for hours. Road trips were quite entertaining with the freedom of movement in those old station wagons.
I know why families had more kids years ago. It wasn't that they lacked birth control information. It was the lack of power windows in station wagons. A kid was necessary for every window crank. But it also gave each of us a sense of importance. I knew I had a responsibility for rolling up the window when it was too windy, or rolling it down if it was too warm. Laurie and I also believed that if our mom ever got sick, we could certainly take over the driving. We'd certainly perfected out form.
Kids today miss out on so much. Riding in the car is no longer an adventure. They are helplessly strapped in place. They can't reach the button to unroll a window. Most can't even open the car door because of child locks. At the gas station, everyone pumps his own gas. Without that short little name on a uniformed shirt, it no longer looks like an important job.
"What can I do for you, Ma'am?"
"Fill 'er up with regular." (Regular was leaded gas back then.) He'd tip his hat as he turned. Clank, clunk. He'd start the tank filling, then pull a rag out of his back pocket and wash the windows. I enjoyed watching the squeegie swipe across in front of me, leaving a crystal clear windshield. As he leaned over, I'd check the name tag on his front pocket. Bob, Jim, Bill, or Joe. Did every gas station attendant have a short name? I wanted to see how a long name could be squeezed in that small space. But it never happened. Four letters was the max.
If I happened to be sitting in the back, with my sister Laurie, we'd flip around in our seats to watch the back window. Sometimes we climbed over. It was easy, as it was back before seat belts. As the attendant finished up, Laurie and I would take off our thongs. (Flip flops, for the current generation.) This part was most fun sitting on the long bench seat together. Turning our rubber thongs over, they became pedals. We would pretend to drive.
We had to take turns, as we each needed 3-one for the gas, one for the brake, and one for the clutch. When it wasn't your turn, you only had a gas peddle. Holding our arms out in front of us, we'd grasp our imaginary steering wheels. Back and forth, back and forth. (Before power steering, there was a lot more movement.) We had to shift, let off the gas, push the clutch and yet still keep one hand on the back and forth motion. Corners were fun too. Around and around, hand over hand. The steering wheel actually circled around several times to make a tight turn. Lean way over while turning (did we take corners fast?) then we let the wheel slide around back to the proper place. After every corner, we swapped peddles. Driving was fun back then. Gas stations were equally amusing. We could bounce along in the care for hours. Road trips were quite entertaining with the freedom of movement in those old station wagons.
I know why families had more kids years ago. It wasn't that they lacked birth control information. It was the lack of power windows in station wagons. A kid was necessary for every window crank. But it also gave each of us a sense of importance. I knew I had a responsibility for rolling up the window when it was too windy, or rolling it down if it was too warm. Laurie and I also believed that if our mom ever got sick, we could certainly take over the driving. We'd certainly perfected out form.
Kids today miss out on so much. Riding in the car is no longer an adventure. They are helplessly strapped in place. They can't reach the button to unroll a window. Most can't even open the car door because of child locks. At the gas station, everyone pumps his own gas. Without that short little name on a uniformed shirt, it no longer looks like an important job.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Embarrassed
As I was typing away at a post, I came across something. What do you call these?
Growing up, my dad referred to these as "thongs." That was back when ladies undergarments were proper, nice and comfy. Panties, underwear, unmentionables, but not thongs. And there was no such monstrosity as a piece of fabric that wedged in the crack of your badonkadonk. (According to the urban dictionary, a badonkadonk is "an extremely curvaceous female behind. Women who possess this feature usually have a small waist that violently explodes into a round and juicy posterior. Other characteristics would be moderately wide hips and a large amount of booty cleavage.")
Back to the original question: thongs, zories, flip-flops...what are these? Michael and I had a discussion about this. I explained that while they are thongs to my dad, mom has always referred to them as goyheads. He had never heard this. He asked his own parents if they'd ever heard the term. Nope. I was sure my mom had NOT made this up. I googled it. Can you believe there wasn't a single entry. I was confused. I wondered if I could possibly be spelling it wrong. I went to the knowledgable wikipedia site. No where to be found. I searched on flip flops. I read through it. Contained in the definition, were the names from various countries that the footwear is known by. Lo and behold, under the U.S. was the word "go-aheads." Oh my goodness! Is that what my mother has been saying all of these years???? Or did we not understand her and said goy-heads and then she started calling them that?
I have a friend who says "birfday." I assume at some point one of her 7 children couldn't pronounce birthday and said "birfday" and it stuck. Is that possibly where I got "goy-heads?" Or does my mom really and truly say "go-aheads" and I've always missed it?
I'll never be able to call them "go-aheads" or "goy heads". I'm going with my dad and calling them thongs. I hope that doesn't end up embarrassing me too.
Growing up, my dad referred to these as "thongs." That was back when ladies undergarments were proper, nice and comfy. Panties, underwear, unmentionables, but not thongs. And there was no such monstrosity as a piece of fabric that wedged in the crack of your badonkadonk. (According to the urban dictionary, a badonkadonk is "an extremely curvaceous female behind. Women who possess this feature usually have a small waist that violently explodes into a round and juicy posterior. Other characteristics would be moderately wide hips and a large amount of booty cleavage.")
Back to the original question: thongs, zories, flip-flops...what are these? Michael and I had a discussion about this. I explained that while they are thongs to my dad, mom has always referred to them as goyheads. He had never heard this. He asked his own parents if they'd ever heard the term. Nope. I was sure my mom had NOT made this up. I googled it. Can you believe there wasn't a single entry. I was confused. I wondered if I could possibly be spelling it wrong. I went to the knowledgable wikipedia site. No where to be found. I searched on flip flops. I read through it. Contained in the definition, were the names from various countries that the footwear is known by. Lo and behold, under the U.S. was the word "go-aheads." Oh my goodness! Is that what my mother has been saying all of these years???? Or did we not understand her and said goy-heads and then she started calling them that?
I have a friend who says "birfday." I assume at some point one of her 7 children couldn't pronounce birthday and said "birfday" and it stuck. Is that possibly where I got "goy-heads?" Or does my mom really and truly say "go-aheads" and I've always missed it?
I'll never be able to call them "go-aheads" or "goy heads". I'm going with my dad and calling them thongs. I hope that doesn't end up embarrassing me too.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Following Directions?
Didn't I write a post about following directions?
Tonight I noticed my antibiotics on the counter. I take them at night to avoid stomach distress. My doctor had presribed a longer than average dosage, but it seemed like I'd been taking them a long time. I should be close to finishing. I poured the contents into my hand. I counted. Sixteen capsules left. How could that be? I was certain she'd prescribed a two week dosage of pills.
Sure enough. She had. I somehow misread the directions. It read 1 capsule TWICE a day, not the once a day I'd been taking them. No wonder this sinus infection is still with me.
It really is important to read and follow directions.
Tonight I noticed my antibiotics on the counter. I take them at night to avoid stomach distress. My doctor had presribed a longer than average dosage, but it seemed like I'd been taking them a long time. I should be close to finishing. I poured the contents into my hand. I counted. Sixteen capsules left. How could that be? I was certain she'd prescribed a two week dosage of pills.
Sure enough. She had. I somehow misread the directions. It read 1 capsule TWICE a day, not the once a day I'd been taking them. No wonder this sinus infection is still with me.
It really is important to read and follow directions.
Silly Kids
This probably won't mean much to most, as there are a lot of inside jokes. (For example: once-a-day or so, Michael, while sitting in his recliner says, "who wants to be my best friend?" His motive? He wants one of the kids to run downstairs to get him a diet pepsi. Whoever is willing is surely his best friend.)
My girls were being silly yesterday while watching the football game. They took a notepad and passed it back and forth, each taking a turn writing a line. This is what they come up with:
My girls were being silly yesterday while watching the football game. They took a notepad and passed it back and forth, each taking a turn writing a line. This is what they come up with:
Dad
Oh my papa, oh so good to me
Cracking jokes, he's so silly.
Always making the family laugh
And he's great at doing math.
He's the best dad ever
He really is so clever
Broken hearts he will mend
Always looking for a best friend.
He's as funny as can be
He'd love you to get him a diet pepsi.
But when you see his face scrunch like it do
Cover your ears before he shouts Ah-Choo!
Every night he sits in his chair
He complains he's hot just like a bear,
He rips off his socks and pulls up his pants
Never will you see him do his silly dance.
He's a pretty great dad
And a super fun lad.
Even when his feet get super duper hot
We still love him, he's the only one we got.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Follow Directions?
I've always enjoyed cooking, but baking not so much. Only occasionally, when cooking a new recipe does it turn out less than edible. Most of the time at least one person at the table enjoys the meal. (The person most appreciative is Michael.) With my baking attempts, I have regular flops . My oldest doesn't understand how that happens. She said to me, "mom, how can you fail if you follow the recipe?" Ah, therein lies the problem.
With cooking, I rarely follow a recipe exactly. I suppose it is based on my personal preferences. I adjust ingredients to my liking. Don't like Rosemary? Omit. What? No garlic, how can a main dish survive without it? I'm finding out that in baking recipes aren't very forgiving. They allow very little room for creativity.
Over the weekend, 15 minutes before walking out the door to meet family for dinner, I decide to throw in a batch of cookies. Darn! I forgot to buy oatmeal again. Let's see...a quick cookie...not in the mood for chocolate chip...peanut butter! Mmmmm...one of my favorites. The problem is, I haven't found a tried and true recipe yet. I have a file of new ones to try. I quick printed one off the computer and actually followed the recipe as I didn't have much time to question if it sounded right to me.
Michael was a little perturbed that I would attempt this when he had his coat on, ready to walk out the door. (Have I ever mentioned I don't like being early and having to wait?) I had Elisabeth stir the ingredients, while I ran and changed my shirt. I put the dough in the refrigerator to bake when we came home. I was so proud of myself. This is exactly what the recipe called for. Chill before baking. (Another step I rarely folow.)
After a nice dinner out, I invited everyone back to my home for fresh baked cookies. Ones not yet baked. They obliged. I raced home, rolled the cookies, dipped a fork in sugar and pressed down on the little balls. They looked delightful. I popped them in the oven and waited for the sweet, melt-in-your-mouth confections to bake. But when the timer went off, I was more than disappointed. Out came a thin, rectangular, flat, greasy mess. The cookies had completely melted together. There was no distinguishing of individual cookies.
Confession: I had added an extra egg, and a bit of flour. Lately, I've had problems with flat cookies. I fixed it once by adding extra flour and an extra egg. But that shouldn't have caused even flatter cookies. With the remaining dough, I added a full cup of flour, some chocolate chips and tried again. I was about to throw the massive mess away, but my sister-in-law wanted to taste to see if it was edible. After pulling a piece off and chewing, she asked if I'd used too much butter. Horrified at the grease running off her hand, I looked at the recipe. After the 4th time declaring I had followed the recipe exactly, I realized that instead of 1/2 a cup of butter, I'd used 1 full cup. That wasn't really my fault. I didn't do it purposely. Did the recipe really say low-fat peanut butter and low-fat margarine??? Okay, so an extra egg, extra flour, extra butter instead of low-fat margarine, and I didn't use low fat peanut butter, should that have ruined an entire batch of cookies?
Is it any wonder I hate baking?
(Forgive the typos, grammatical errors, and such in my posts of . I've had a sinus infection since November causing dizziness, headaches and other pleasantries. If I take the time to proofread & edit I'll never post.) Christopher, feel free to point them out, it keeps me humble.
With cooking, I rarely follow a recipe exactly. I suppose it is based on my personal preferences. I adjust ingredients to my liking. Don't like Rosemary? Omit. What? No garlic, how can a main dish survive without it? I'm finding out that in baking recipes aren't very forgiving. They allow very little room for creativity.
Over the weekend, 15 minutes before walking out the door to meet family for dinner, I decide to throw in a batch of cookies. Darn! I forgot to buy oatmeal again. Let's see...a quick cookie...not in the mood for chocolate chip...peanut butter! Mmmmm...one of my favorites. The problem is, I haven't found a tried and true recipe yet. I have a file of new ones to try. I quick printed one off the computer and actually followed the recipe as I didn't have much time to question if it sounded right to me.
Michael was a little perturbed that I would attempt this when he had his coat on, ready to walk out the door. (Have I ever mentioned I don't like being early and having to wait?) I had Elisabeth stir the ingredients, while I ran and changed my shirt. I put the dough in the refrigerator to bake when we came home. I was so proud of myself. This is exactly what the recipe called for. Chill before baking. (Another step I rarely folow.)
After a nice dinner out, I invited everyone back to my home for fresh baked cookies. Ones not yet baked. They obliged. I raced home, rolled the cookies, dipped a fork in sugar and pressed down on the little balls. They looked delightful. I popped them in the oven and waited for the sweet, melt-in-your-mouth confections to bake. But when the timer went off, I was more than disappointed. Out came a thin, rectangular, flat, greasy mess. The cookies had completely melted together. There was no distinguishing of individual cookies.
Confession: I had added an extra egg, and a bit of flour. Lately, I've had problems with flat cookies. I fixed it once by adding extra flour and an extra egg. But that shouldn't have caused even flatter cookies. With the remaining dough, I added a full cup of flour, some chocolate chips and tried again. I was about to throw the massive mess away, but my sister-in-law wanted to taste to see if it was edible. After pulling a piece off and chewing, she asked if I'd used too much butter. Horrified at the grease running off her hand, I looked at the recipe. After the 4th time declaring I had followed the recipe exactly, I realized that instead of 1/2 a cup of butter, I'd used 1 full cup. That wasn't really my fault. I didn't do it purposely. Did the recipe really say low-fat peanut butter and low-fat margarine??? Okay, so an extra egg, extra flour, extra butter instead of low-fat margarine, and I didn't use low fat peanut butter, should that have ruined an entire batch of cookies?
Is it any wonder I hate baking?
(Forgive the typos, grammatical errors, and such in my posts of . I've had a sinus infection since November causing dizziness, headaches and other pleasantries. If I take the time to proofread & edit I'll never post.) Christopher, feel free to point them out, it keeps me humble.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
School
It was hard to send my kids back to school after Christmas break. I truly love staying up late and sleeping late. At the end of the first day, my girls came home exhausted. I knew the transition for Hilary would be tricky, she was up until after 1 a.m. the day before. I was surprised Sarabeth was struggling.
"I couldn't sleep last night. I don't know what was wrong. I felt like I was back in elementary school. I'm 18 years old, I wasn't stressed like back then, I was actually excited to go back." Her words took me back.
When Sarabeth was little, I hated sending the kids back to school after Christmas break, summer, spring break, even a long weekend. It wasn't because I wanted to sleep later. It was the hurt in my heart at seeing them leave. It was especially hard on Sarabeth.
In the car on the way to school, I would pray-both outloud and silently. Elisabeth would often chatter about an upcoming event or sing to herself. She would try to engage Sarabeth in conversation. I could hardly look over, for fear of her reaction. I didn't want to see the sadness in her eyes. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to reassure her, everything would be fine. But I knew her too well. It took more than a day to adjust to change, yes, even the change of the routine of a weekend.
After parking, we'd walk to where the children were lining by classrooms. Hugs and kisses to Elisabeth as she'd take her place in line. I'd try to get Sarabeth in line, but she'd insist on walking with me to take Hilary to hers. We'd stand next to her line, her hand in mine. We both knew the exact timing the prolonging had to end. An extended embrace, I'd pull her hands from around me and hold onto them for a second. A kiss, words of encouragement and then I had to look into those blue-green eyes. That was the hardest part. She didn't have to say it, but her eyes pleaded, "please take me home. I don't want to be here." She gripped my hands tighter, but would not look away. The familiar lump formed in my throat. I didn't want to look away. I wanted to whisk her back to the car. I wanted my little girl happy. I wanted to see her smile. I didn't want her to see me cry. But she'd never turn her eyes away until I did. One last squeeze, and I'd turn my back on her.
I watched from the car. Sarabeth's long hair, cascaded down her back in soft curls. The sides were pulled neatly up with a big bow. She stood unnaturally stiff, her dalmation backpack lost its cheeriness as it perched over her shoulders. The teacher came out and the class began to file into the building. I continued to watch, hoping she wouldn't look back. She looked like a soldier, marching to battle. Her hair didn't swing. Her curls didn't bounce the way they should. A happy child's hair just does that, it is the bounce in their steps. Sarabeth's hair never moved.
I'd like to say this only happened a few times, but that would be an understatement. This went on for years, and years. The backpack changed, her hairstyle changed, her brother began driving her to school, but the look in her eyes never did change. The pleading words of here eyes that begged me not make her go were always there. As she walked away, her hair stayed still.
Next fall, I will take Sarabeth to college. All I want is to see joy in her eyes, and as she walks, I want to see bouncing curls.
"I couldn't sleep last night. I don't know what was wrong. I felt like I was back in elementary school. I'm 18 years old, I wasn't stressed like back then, I was actually excited to go back." Her words took me back.
When Sarabeth was little, I hated sending the kids back to school after Christmas break, summer, spring break, even a long weekend. It wasn't because I wanted to sleep later. It was the hurt in my heart at seeing them leave. It was especially hard on Sarabeth.
In the car on the way to school, I would pray-both outloud and silently. Elisabeth would often chatter about an upcoming event or sing to herself. She would try to engage Sarabeth in conversation. I could hardly look over, for fear of her reaction. I didn't want to see the sadness in her eyes. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to reassure her, everything would be fine. But I knew her too well. It took more than a day to adjust to change, yes, even the change of the routine of a weekend.
After parking, we'd walk to where the children were lining by classrooms. Hugs and kisses to Elisabeth as she'd take her place in line. I'd try to get Sarabeth in line, but she'd insist on walking with me to take Hilary to hers. We'd stand next to her line, her hand in mine. We both knew the exact timing the prolonging had to end. An extended embrace, I'd pull her hands from around me and hold onto them for a second. A kiss, words of encouragement and then I had to look into those blue-green eyes. That was the hardest part. She didn't have to say it, but her eyes pleaded, "please take me home. I don't want to be here." She gripped my hands tighter, but would not look away. The familiar lump formed in my throat. I didn't want to look away. I wanted to whisk her back to the car. I wanted my little girl happy. I wanted to see her smile. I didn't want her to see me cry. But she'd never turn her eyes away until I did. One last squeeze, and I'd turn my back on her.
I watched from the car. Sarabeth's long hair, cascaded down her back in soft curls. The sides were pulled neatly up with a big bow. She stood unnaturally stiff, her dalmation backpack lost its cheeriness as it perched over her shoulders. The teacher came out and the class began to file into the building. I continued to watch, hoping she wouldn't look back. She looked like a soldier, marching to battle. Her hair didn't swing. Her curls didn't bounce the way they should. A happy child's hair just does that, it is the bounce in their steps. Sarabeth's hair never moved.
I'd like to say this only happened a few times, but that would be an understatement. This went on for years, and years. The backpack changed, her hairstyle changed, her brother began driving her to school, but the look in her eyes never did change. The pleading words of here eyes that begged me not make her go were always there. As she walked away, her hair stayed still.
Next fall, I will take Sarabeth to college. All I want is to see joy in her eyes, and as she walks, I want to see bouncing curls.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
The internet has certainly changed my world, how about you? It began with email, and the ease at connecting with family and friends with quick notes. Later, I found a kinship with other moms through message boards. We developed relationships, prayed for one another, laughed, cried, and celebrated occasions together. Then the world of blogging opened up to me yet another opportunity to meet new friends and peek into their lives. In spite of all we communicate across the lines of the internet, these people would be strangers if passed on the street. I find that amazing. We share intimate things through the typing of our fingers with folks we've never seen face-to-face.
I've had a few exceptions. I've met 2 fellow bloggers in person. One is a very chic and cool lady who lives Under the Laundry Pile (where she hides from her 7 kids.) The other is mopsy at Lifenut who is clever and witty as she shares the adventures of life with 6 kids.
Last night was yet another fun meeting. An internet friend I came to know, from a message board, allowed her daughter and friend to drive across country and stay two with my family. I did have a short phone conversation with their mom before they left. She couldn't believe I didn't have a southern accent, as she was sure I was from the South. (Even though she knows I grew up in Arizona and now live in Colorado.) I expected to hear a frazzled woman on the other end of the line, but instead she was a confident, articulate lady who didn't sound at all like the home of chaos she often describes. One of these days, I will convince her to blog and you all can meet her too. (Did I mention she has 13 kids?)
For now, I'm going to go enjoy my house guests for the short time they are here.
I've had a few exceptions. I've met 2 fellow bloggers in person. One is a very chic and cool lady who lives Under the Laundry Pile (where she hides from her 7 kids.) The other is mopsy at Lifenut who is clever and witty as she shares the adventures of life with 6 kids.
Last night was yet another fun meeting. An internet friend I came to know, from a message board, allowed her daughter and friend to drive across country and stay two with my family. I did have a short phone conversation with their mom before they left. She couldn't believe I didn't have a southern accent, as she was sure I was from the South. (Even though she knows I grew up in Arizona and now live in Colorado.) I expected to hear a frazzled woman on the other end of the line, but instead she was a confident, articulate lady who didn't sound at all like the home of chaos she often describes. One of these days, I will convince her to blog and you all can meet her too. (Did I mention she has 13 kids?)
For now, I'm going to go enjoy my house guests for the short time they are here.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Make A Wish
Elisabeth's friend, Brian, works for a Porsche dealer. He mentioned one day that Make-A-Wish brought a car in for work. The crew was working hard to finish it for Christmas.
Do you remember my post about Hilary being asked to the Homecoming dance by David, a charming, young man? David has Cystic Fibrosis. His uncle donated an older, non-running porsche to Make-A-Wish Foundation to be restored. At 16 years old, this would be a dream come true for David.
As Brian shared details of the car with Elisabeth, it didn't take long to figure out this was the car for David. Hilary and Elisabeth enjoyed keeping the secret of the car's progress. Here is a photo of David and Brian showing their support for Hilary's Pom competition. It was taken in early December, before we found out about the car.
The car wasn't finished in time for Christmas. But a week later, David's mom called. She wanted Hilary to join in the surprise for David. She took Hilary and a few of David's friends to carstar to reveal the wish.
What an exciting day! Many people are involved in making a wish come true. My mom has volunteered countless hours of her time and talents to help create wishes for kids. This is the first time I've actually known someone who received a wish. May the joy of giving to others continue. Every time this car pulls up in front of my house, I will be reminded that I too have time, talents, and finances I can give so others will be blessed.
Do you remember my post about Hilary being asked to the Homecoming dance by David, a charming, young man? David has Cystic Fibrosis. His uncle donated an older, non-running porsche to Make-A-Wish Foundation to be restored. At 16 years old, this would be a dream come true for David.
As Brian shared details of the car with Elisabeth, it didn't take long to figure out this was the car for David. Hilary and Elisabeth enjoyed keeping the secret of the car's progress. Here is a photo of David and Brian showing their support for Hilary's Pom competition. It was taken in early December, before we found out about the car.
The car wasn't finished in time for Christmas. But a week later, David's mom called. She wanted Hilary to join in the surprise for David. She took Hilary and a few of David's friends to carstar to reveal the wish.
What an exciting day! Many people are involved in making a wish come true. My mom has volunteered countless hours of her time and talents to help create wishes for kids. This is the first time I've actually known someone who received a wish. May the joy of giving to others continue. Every time this car pulls up in front of my house, I will be reminded that I too have time, talents, and finances I can give so others will be blessed.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Don't Mess with PMS
I was not a nice person yesterday. As I stood arguing with the meat manager at our local supermarket, in the back of my mind I kept thinking, "Mr., I am really not in the mood for your bad attitude. Besides, you do not know who or what you are up against. Don't mess with PMS." I noticed the way some meat was marked and packaged and it struck me as false advertising, or at least misleading. The manager happened to be standing there, and I mentioned it to him. He over-reacted and became extremely defensive, talking a mile a minute. It triggered something in me.
I calmly explained my side again and he argued back that in reality what they were advertising was technically correct. I continued to point out that it was very misleading and felt they were taking advantage of the consumer. Normally, the store has excellent customer service. I've complained to the produce manager when something wasn't right, and he did everything he could to make it right. I've had the same experience in the bakery, deli, pharmacy, floral dept., etc. I am careful to not only take the time to complain, but also to compliment and acknowledge when I receive excellent service, help or whatever positive thing I can point out.
This man reacted in a very negative way, on a day when I just was NOT in the mood. I was so agitated, I forgot most of what else I needed on my shopping list. I wandered over to the produce department. I really wanted to go back to the meat manager and say something like, "I'll bet normally you are a nice person." Or, "You must be having a bad day, as I'm sure that you really want to be a nicer person." But I didn't. I also wanted to slap 1 of the butchers who interjected his comments while the manager and I were arguing. When I told Michael about it later, he agreed the guy was hitting on me.
Thankfully, I didn't say the things I wanted to do, nor was I physically aggressive. I was disappointed in myself for getting caught up emotionally and not handling it better. Maybe to avoid future issues such as this I'm going to have a button made to wear on certain days: Don't Mess With PMS.
I calmly explained my side again and he argued back that in reality what they were advertising was technically correct. I continued to point out that it was very misleading and felt they were taking advantage of the consumer. Normally, the store has excellent customer service. I've complained to the produce manager when something wasn't right, and he did everything he could to make it right. I've had the same experience in the bakery, deli, pharmacy, floral dept., etc. I am careful to not only take the time to complain, but also to compliment and acknowledge when I receive excellent service, help or whatever positive thing I can point out.
This man reacted in a very negative way, on a day when I just was NOT in the mood. I was so agitated, I forgot most of what else I needed on my shopping list. I wandered over to the produce department. I really wanted to go back to the meat manager and say something like, "I'll bet normally you are a nice person." Or, "You must be having a bad day, as I'm sure that you really want to be a nicer person." But I didn't. I also wanted to slap 1 of the butchers who interjected his comments while the manager and I were arguing. When I told Michael about it later, he agreed the guy was hitting on me.
Thankfully, I didn't say the things I wanted to do, nor was I physically aggressive. I was disappointed in myself for getting caught up emotionally and not handling it better. Maybe to avoid future issues such as this I'm going to have a button made to wear on certain days: Don't Mess With PMS.
Is it really over?
Sigh. Christmas break officially ended today. (I don't care that other's call it "Winter Break." It was definitely Christmas here.) I was up early making lunches, cooking breakfast, and trying to keep my eyes open. I said good-bye to my fellow guitar heroes as they walked out the door wearing backpacks instead of a guitar. It was still dark outside.
This isn't anything like reality TV.
This isn't anything like reality TV.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Have you played the game where you try to find the differences in 2 pictures? Because of the way these 2 photos were taken you don't get the exact angle. Besides the orientation, do you notice any obvious differences?
1. The candles, one has them, one doesn't.
2. The figures on the left appear to be smooth in appearance, while the right are mottled. (Must have been poor lighting.)
3. Hmmm...the photo on the right seems to be a little different in the fact that the baby Jesus is surrounded by all men. There isn't a mother to be found. (No, Mary does NOT have a beard.)
My mom sent me this advent wreath for Christmas. I found it very curious. Was it a mistake? I admit, I wondered if this was a new rendition of the Nativity with Larry, Joseph, and the 3 wisemen. It had to be a mistake, but why didn't someone notice when it was fitted into its styrofoam carton?
It just isn't right.
1. The candles, one has them, one doesn't.
2. The figures on the left appear to be smooth in appearance, while the right are mottled. (Must have been poor lighting.)
3. Hmmm...the photo on the right seems to be a little different in the fact that the baby Jesus is surrounded by all men. There isn't a mother to be found. (No, Mary does NOT have a beard.)
My mom sent me this advent wreath for Christmas. I found it very curious. Was it a mistake? I admit, I wondered if this was a new rendition of the Nativity with Larry, Joseph, and the 3 wisemen. It had to be a mistake, but why didn't someone notice when it was fitted into its styrofoam carton?
It just isn't right.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Wiiiii
Oh my, where have I been? Since the kids have been on break from school, I've taken a break from...well, just about everything. What have I been doing? I hate to admit it, but I've been playing a LOT of Guitar Hero III on the new Wii system. Did I mention a lot? On New Year's Eve we got together with Michael's cousin. Terry has been diagnosed with, well, I am not even sure he has a positive diagnosis yet. I set up a blog for them here. Anyway, we were discussing what we'd been up to when I was ratted out as to what I'd been doing. Hilary went so far as to say that we had this conversation, that I don't really recall. This is what she said:
"Yes, mom has been playing Guitar Hero a lot. We can hardly play at all. I woke up yesterday morning and there’s mom battling it out with the guitar. I asked her if I could play. You know what her response was??? 'Why don't you go get some breakfast or take a shower or something.' Seriously, that is what she told me."
Really, I don't remember this conversation.
Sigh. I think I'm addicted.
"Yes, mom has been playing Guitar Hero a lot. We can hardly play at all. I woke up yesterday morning and there’s mom battling it out with the guitar. I asked her if I could play. You know what her response was??? 'Why don't you go get some breakfast or take a shower or something.' Seriously, that is what she told me."
Really, I don't remember this conversation.
Sigh. I think I'm addicted.
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