Nothing Has Changed

My dad found a Christmas letter dated December 1970. He thought I'd find it interesting and could use it for blog fodder. In the letter, mom wrote an update on each of us kids. I was 8 at the time.

Joanne is a happy 8 year old in the third grade. Joanne especially
loves animals and babies. She was thrilled over winning two blue
ribbons at the fair, one for cookies and one for a knitted pair of
slippers. She enjoys reading, but most of all cooking. She has made
cookies, cakes, pancakes, biscuits and complete dinners. She also
likes to draw and write and asked if she could share one of her poems.

SANTA CLAUS

This is Santa Fellow,
His stomach is like jello,
He is fat and plump,
And can jump, jump, jump,
He's got eight reindeer,
that can even fly over a spear,
I hope he comes this year,
For I want his reindeer. by Joanne

This is me, pretty much 37 years later. I still love babies (animals not so much.) I remember that Christmas. I wanted a real, live baby. When my parents tried to talk me out of it, I wanted a monkey, or kitten. But that was only to take the place of the baby I was afraid I wouldn't get.

I get a thrill out of winning. I enjoy reading and cooking. Actually, I LOVE cooking. (Baking not so much.) Drawing? Hmmm, I doodle. If I'm on the phone on hold, I draw squiggles to pass the time. Writing...well, here I am. Poetry? Yep, I'm still not very good at it.

My dad only sent me this portion of the letter. I wonder if what was said of my siblings holds true today. My parents were 30 and 31 at the time and I'm sure were very busy. I can't wait to read the rest of the letter.

My To-Do List for Today

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

Wordless Wednesday

Guitar Hero Battle
(This one's for you Ann!)

Other random photos from the weekend

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Happy 24th Anniversary to my sweetie!

(I wrote this on our 22nd anniversary. I'm using it again, but adding to it.)

Today, December 29th, Michael and I are celebrating out 24th anniversary. Sometimes our relationship seems so fresh, as if we are still honeymooning. At the same time, I can't remember life without him. I feel like we've finally reached the point in our relationship, that it only gets better with each day. And yes, there are still things I am learning about him, and new things to love about him. So in honor of this special occasion, here are 24 things I appreciate about Michael:

1. His smile. Whether he is smiling at one of the kids, grandson, or me, he has a smile that melts my heart.

2. His sense of humor. It pops up unexpectedly at times, and makes me laugh silly-usually when I am way too serious.

3. His way with finances. He is a genius. How else can you explain how we've managed all these years? When he didn't have a "job" for 2 years, we did great.

4. Along with finances, he is hard-working and creative.

5. Michael is not afraid to take risks.

6. He challenges me. Sometimes it doesn't seem endearing for the moment, but I am a better person for it. The first few years of marriage I was not thankful for this quality, but I am now. And yes, he still finds ways to get me to step out of my comfort zone.

7. I love that he tells me I'm the best thing that ever happened to him.

8. His sense of adventure. (I can't wait to see where it takes us when the kids are grown.)

9. He has learned to validate my feelings and listen. He doesn't try to fix everything for me.

10. The pride and joy in taking Ethan riding on the lawn mower.

11. I love that he is always up for trying new dishes and never criticizes my cooking. He'll try anything once, and if something is really distateful, he will comment, "It wouldn't hurt my feelings if you didn't want to make this one again."

12. Even though he says anything I cook is better than going out to eat, he takes me out anyway, so I get a break from cooking.

13. He will get my car washed and vacuumed, just because he loves me.

14. He never leaves his dirty clothes around. He picks up after himself. (I know women who would kill to have a husband with this quality.)

15. When I need him to run an errand, he does it in a timely fashion. I never have to ask twice.

16. He will admit when he is wrong.

17. He is courageous and will stop to ask for directions.

18. He takes care things I dislike doing, like phone calls, fixing things, etc.

20. I can't believe he tolerates the way I toss and turn in bed to get comfortable, but he never complains.

21. He is neat and tidy, but doesn't give me a hard time for not being so.

22. I so appreciate that his care for me, our children and grandson. His love shines through in all he does. He is my hero.

23. Michael is a loving son. Since moving his mom and dad here, he has shown his devotion as a son.

24. His attention to details-he makes the bed so much nicer than I do.

Happy Birthday Michael!

Today is Michael's birthday. He is 54 years. He surprised me yesterday. I walked into my bedroom and found my clothes neatly folded. Even my socks had been paired together. I honestly did not know how to react or what to say.

I've been doing my own laundry for at least 30 years. I cannot recall a time someone folded my laundry so neatly and laid it on my bed to be put away. Occasionally, one of my kids has hung up a few things that were left in the dryer when they wanted to use it. Or they've tossed my clothes into a basket. But here were my things, very neat and tidy.

Who is this man? At one time in our marriage, I asked him what I could do to make him happy, what things made him feel special. His reply was, "keep my laundry clean, hung, and put away." (His Love Language is Acts of Service.) When I saw he'd folded my laundry, I was thrilled, but felt guilty at the same time. I should have been the one folding his.

Michael is forever showing me unconditional love, the kind the Father has for us. I love him so very much. Happy Birthday Michael!

Away In A Manger

"Away in a manger, no crib for his bed..."

This song is stuck in my head. I don't recall when exactly I learned this tune, but I think I know where. When I was six years old, my family attended a small Baptist church in an equally small town. The children gathered in an upstairs room, for Sunday School, all ages together. There were 10 of us on a good day. We sat in little wooden chairs painted in soft, pastel blues & yellows. Mrs. Noel was our teacher. She also played the piano. Quite possibly, she is the one who taught me the song.

My Sunday School teacher was a lovely lady. I loved her bleached-blond bouffant hair & the tiny, white pearls she wore every Sunday. In my eyes she was beautiful. I was equally impressed with her soprano voice. I wished to be just like her.

After hushing the children, Mrs. Noel would turn towards the piano. Sitting poised upon her swivel stool, she'd majestically sweep her arms out and upward. That was our cue. Feet shuffled, chairs banged, as we sprung to our feet. As quick as lightening, her long fingers pounced upon the ivory keys. Her lovely voice rang out as the piano resounded in a rousing, yet melodic symphony. I was sure we were floating up to heaven as the vibrations rocked the floorboards tickling my feet. We Hallelujahed, sang Deep & Wide. We Burned with Oil, held out our Little Lights as they Shined & never hid them Under the Bushel.

At Christmas, the songs changed. When we sang Away in a Manger, the room became quieter. Even Charles, Mrs. Noel's son stopped poking and pinching. We stood quietly. My eyes were misty as I imagined no crib for his bed, the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay. I was not quite sure what the cows did when they were lowing, and I was amazed that there was no crying from this baby. But how could he be looking down from the sky at my cradle? I was lost in imagination.

I still get lost in the song. It's different now. I think about Mary, sitting in a stable amongst the animals. The odor of manure, mixed with fresh hay fills her nostrils. She lays her newborn baby into an eating trough to sleep. This isn't any baby. It is the son of God. Mary, a teenage girl, sits pondering what has happened. God has spoken to her about this child, conceived while she was a virgin. Did she ever imagine he'd be born in a barn? Did she wonder if he would be a carpenter like Joseph?

I don't know what happened to Mrs. Noel, the Sunday School teacher who I aspired to be like. I am not an accomplished pianist, nor can I sing the notes she did. But I hope I never tire, or lose the wonderment of Christmas or the songs about the birth of Jesus. It is my desire carry her same enthusiasm. I hope to spark the imaginations of others, especially children, so that they too are intrigued and interested in this baby's birth, far away in a manger.

Merry Christmas

My computer has been hijacked. Not sure when I'll be back. Don't have time to delete the hard drive and reinstall everything right now.

Merry Christmas!

Wordless Wednesday

Bah Humbug!

I feel like a Christmas failure. Each year I tell myself I won't procrastinate, I will not be in the stores shopping for gifts the week before Christmas. But that is exactly where I am. But guess what? I figured out why I do this.

I hear tales of others who buy early, wrap early, bake, ship, entertain...and I've thought a time or two, "I could be one of those people." Not. I suppose it is my inner child who likes to play and have fun. Whenever I buy a gift for somone, I am excited to give it. I can't wait. If I purchase presents too early, I will give them early. I bought some presents this week and already gave 4 of them early. Ugh!

Oh, and what child doesn't enjoy stamping and making stencils? Doesn't this look like fun? This is my bathroom rug, a sprinkling of baby powder and a couple of hands. Why do kids love playing in powder so much??? I guess because the mom does things like this. (Dad, I promise my girls will never have a powder war at your house again.)

Please?

I heard commotion in the kitchen. I'd gone grocery shopping, but hadn't put away the dry goods yet. It sounded like Ethan might be helping. I came into the kitchen to find him at the table. A wooden spoon in one hand and brownie mix, bowl, and cake mix, on the table. How could I say no?
















I convinced him we didn't need both boxes, and I helped him choose the brownies.





















Do you think he'd like a kitchen set for Christmas?

 

Thank-you, Thank-you, Thank-you

I need to say thank-you, to two gentlemen. (Or were they?) I don't know who they are or where they came from. I didn't ask their names and barely saw their faces. They appeared within 2 minutes of my car spinning 180 degrees and landing just off the side of the road.

I didn't hit anything, but the car was stuck in the snow. I tried going forward, then back. I was only successful at wedging us deeper in the slush and ice. Hilary looked at me and I at her. I was glad she hadn't been driving. We both reached for our cell phones.

Outside the window, I saw a truck stop on the shoulder of the road. Two men got out. I rolled down the window. Brrr....it was 21 degrees outside. One man asked if we were stuck. The other walked to the rear of the car to take a look. Then without speaking, they backed their truck up next to us, hitched a chain, and pulled us up out of the ditch. I offered my thanks and cash, but they both refused and waved me along, as they placed the tow rope in the back of their pickup truck. Good Samaritans they were, (or were they angels?) Thank-you! Thank-you! Thank-you!

Do you know what the truly amazing part was? Before I left to pick Hilary up from practice, I grabbed a light weight jacket. But before I took another step, the thought hit me, "what if you were in an accident? Take something warmer." I went to the closet and took out my heavy winter coat. I knew Hilary didn't have her coat either, but I remembered hers was in the back of the car. I know, I didn't even get out of the car so why did I need that coat. Plain and simple, I believe that little voice was the Holy Spirit letting me know ahead of time to be prepared. It is God's way of reminding me that when I am attentive to Him, I can rest assured that He knows what is happening even before it happens. Nothing takes Him by surprise. He is right there with me in the blessings and in the hard times.

I am thankful that He speaks to me in His quiet gentle way. All I have to do is listen. Sometimes I wish He'd yell to get my attention. But He doesn't. As I think about that very first Christmas, and the baby Jesus in a manger, I am reminded of the Lord's gentleness. I need to slow myself down, seek Him first, and listen. And I could stand to be a little more gentle myself.

A Christmas Gift

Kindergarten. A delightful time for a child to develop a love for learning. With new experiences unfolding, it's a time for best friends, reading books, recess & riding the bus with classmates. Kindergarten is meant to be a positive time in a child's life. This hasn't been the case for Ethan.

Ethan had a great summer and was making remarkable progress cognitively. We were excited for his Kindergarten experience to begin. He was ready to learn. His excitement at seeing the school bus the first morning was refreshing. A few days into his school year, the joy was gone.

It became painfully obvious that Ethan's teacher was ill-equipped for the job. She had no qualifications to work in Special Education, in fact, this was her first year teaching. At one point, she admitted taking the job in order participate in the "Loan Forgiveness Program," to pay off her student loans.

The class was chaotic. This teacher had no identifiable schedule for the classroom. No routine for the children to learn. One morning she might gather the kids for calendar time, the next day it would thrown in during the last part of the day. Ethan had disturbing behavior changes, along with other very concerning incidents. He came home with handprint bruises on his arm.

Because of his extra needs, Ethan's CNA worked with him at school several days a week, and was there to help him with lunch. She reported serious concerns with classroom activities. The following week, the school stated Ethan's CNA could no longer attend class with him. They also refused to offer him an aide to take over caring for his needs.

I can't tell you how many tears I've shed, or prayers I've prayed over this situation. I went to meetings with my daughter with the principal, school social worker, special education director, therapists, etc. on more than one occasion. It has been a nightmare.

The teacher was fired. A substitute brought into the class. Next, the preschool teacher was brought in as a temporary teacher, while they certified the new teacher. This teacher had been a consultant brought in to assess the situation. She was horrified at what she saw, having been a veteran of special education for 30 years, but recently retired. She took over as the new teacher the first week of December. She lasted 4 days, then resigned. Another substitute is the current teacher. The children in this class have lost the entire semester. Ethan has regressed. He not only missed out on anything productive his first semester of school, he lost more than an entire year of positive progress developmentally, behaviorly and cognitively.

This is unacceptable. I'm proud of my daughter. She has fought for her son, researched, made phone calls, attended meeting after meeting, sought out help from every imaginable place. As a single parent, she doesn't have the option of homeschooling or sending Ethan to a private school. On Thursday, she met once again with a team of "experts." She put together an amazing list of Ethan's needs, where the school has failed, what the law requires and more. She presented her information to all present at the meeting. The superintendant, who last month refused to give Ethan a full time aide, conceded. Ethan is now authorized to attend a private, autistic school-with a one-on-one teacher ratio. We are elated. Ethan has the chance to have a wonderful school experience. In a school that not only understands and accepts his disabilites, but he will attend a school designed spefically to work with his special needs.

What more could I ask for Christmas than this? We've been given a treasured gift for a very cherished child.

Life Is Precious

I wasn't able to attend church yesterday. I was caring for Ethan. He was sick all day Saturday. At 9:00a.m. Sunday, our Pastor sent an email, telling us of the shootings that had occurred on the church property at the YWAM (Youth With A Mission) Base. I'm sure most have heard of it by now, and the other shooting in Colorado Springs at New Life Church later in the day. So before I post anything else today, I will pray. I hope you will too.

My mind is slipping. It makes me afraid. I pride myself on having a very good memory. But this past week, I considered tucking the pride away with the Fall decorations.

The girls wanted to get a Christmas tree to put up, the day after Thanksgiving. Afterall, everyone does it. (Can we say peer pressure?) I was in the midst of a full-blown pity party originating from the wicked side effects of a particular medication. They asked if we could "pulease get a tree and decorate it the next day." Before my brain could process their request, Michael responded, "sure!"

I was shocked. Those words clearly, could not have come from my husband. He was the one who never wanted the tree up early. Once spruce trees begin to dry out, they drop needles like snow in a winter blizzard. Worse than the needle residue is sap dripping from the bark, right into the carpet. Another year, I overfilled the reservoir with water. The lovely metal stand rusted right onto the carpet. I haven't found anyone or anything that gets rust out of carpet. One year I tried to put the tree up while Michael wasn't home. It took 2 hours to saw off the bottom and then didn't fit in the stand. It tipped over 3 times before I finally sat their crying until he came home. It was always an ordeal to get our Christmas tree. Maybe Michael was just kidding about putting it up the next day.

"Really? We can?" The girls were pretty excited. "When can we go pick it up?"

"I can go downstairs now and get it right now if you'd like."

"What, you're going to chop one down for us outside?"

Now it was his turn to look puzzled. "No, I'm going to get the tree we purchased last year. Remember the tree we bought?

I was stunned. No, I was aghast. A fake tree? I never, in my wildest dreams ever, did I want, nor would I have purchased a tree that came in mulitple pieces and smelled of plastic. I honestly did not remember this.

As we talked about it, hints of a memory began to emerge. I remembered the classic procrastination of getting a tree. When we finally went to pick up our fresh Douglas Fir, the lots were empty. There wasn't even the more expensive kind we'd had to purchase because of our late purchasing and the cheaper ones were gone. In all our years, I don't recall seeing nothing left. We drove around town. We hit 3 or 4 empty lots before giving up. Sometime after this, in a dazed state, I was worn down and agreed to getting a faux tree. It was out of necessity. We needed somewhere to place those last minute presents I still needed to buy. But I don't remember buying it. What did the thing look like?

Another fuzzy memory...something about a pre-lit tree. If we were getting an artificial tree, I did not want clear bulbs. That, to me, would be another loss of tradition. We must have multi-color lights. I could not pull up the memory of assembling the tree, decorating it, or taking it down. Had it been that traumatic for me to settle for less than real? Yes, that must be it. And now, we were stuck with this green thing for years to come.

Last Sunday, Michael brought the tree up. The girls assembled it and decorated it all on their own. I admit, it was so much easier than past years. I have to say too, that in its own way, it did look lovely. That night, as I went to unplug the twinkling lights, I stopped to admire its beauty. And without thinking, I instinctively bent down to check the water level, so our tree would stay fresh.

Yesterday I was tired.

Tired of not feeling well.
Tired of having my house undone.
Tired of seeing my Fall decorations and lack of Christmas one.

The solution? Just do it. I figured the first thing on the agenda was to clean. How in the world can one decorate with lovely Christmas decor if it looks like it's mixed with leftover Halloween cobwebs and goo?

I began in the kitchen. After tidying up, I couldn't help but notice the grime on my kitchen cabinets. Each door had a dark area where we grab to open. We do actually have knobs we could use to avoid this, but the original creator placed them at the middle of the door. They might as well be at the very top. Way too much effort to reach for them.

I wanted a quick & easy solution. Mr. Clean's Magic Eraser. It will rub that grime right off, the way a pencil eraser removes pencil marks. I set to work, scrubbing the corners, then wiping down the rest of the doors. This was working better than I expected. The dirt came off pretty fast. I was half-way finished when I looked back to inspect my work. I was a little shocked at what I saw. In the corners of each cabinet door was a very clean spot, with the finish rubbed completely off. Oh my word, this was much more noticeable than the film of dirt. Nice. Why did I start in the Kitchen anyway? It's not like that is where I do most of my decorating. I quickly left the task half finished and moved to a new area.

The entryway. Ah, a nice small I-can-clean-this-in-a-few-minutes place to start. This is where I hang our Advent Calendar and the first part of the house visitors see. Quickly, I vacuumed every place I could, including the roof where cobwebs had dangled. I noticed the light could stand to be cleaned. It is a lovely glass fixture, with glass panels that can be removed for cleaning. Rather than grabbing the windex, I figured I'd take them down and wash them in the sink. They'd be sparkling in no time. Standing on a kitchen chair, I removed them one-by-one. I tried to be very careful, not wanting to ruin another household item. I stepped down, somehow lost my footing, and fell to the floor. This could have been distrous, but I didn't even try to catch myself, I protected the glass with everything I had. They survived unscathed.

I limped around a bit more, but found my body just wasn't cooperating. I gave up and decided I'd better finish my dinner, since we had guests coming. Back in the kitchen, I remembered my earlier mishap. I chose to ignore it and concentrate on putting away the grocery items I'd bought earlier. I carried a case of water bottles downstairs. Once again, my feet gave way to a tumble. Believe it or not, each of the 48 bottles landed unharmed. I left them on the floor and hobbled back upstairs.

Tomorrow is December 1st. It isn't beginning to look like Christmas. I'm still tired, but I've decided:

I kind of like the Fall Colored Decorations.
I kind of like our very well lived in home, even if it is reminiscent of Disneyland's Haunted Mansion.
I appreciate this tired, weak body. It gives me an excuse to sit at the computer, drinking Starbucks, dipping into the bowl of leftover Halloween candy and reading blogs.

"Walkin' around, the Christmas tree,
have a happy holiday..."

Hilary, it isn't "walkin" it's "Rockin' around the Christmas tree."

No way. We always sang "Walkin' around the Christmas tree" while we walked around it.

We weren't walking, we were dancing. We were Rockin'!

That wasn't dancing. We were definitely walking. Are you sure it's Rockin' around? Walking sounds way better.

Thirty-Eight Degrees

Today it was 38 degrees outside. A lady was driving her car, a convertible, with the top down. I surmise that the mechanism must be stuck, poor soul. The wind whips her hair across her face, cold air bites at every turn. I make the same assumption when it's raining, or snowing and I see a driver with his window down. I feel badly that he must suffer the ills of a broken window, allowing the freezing wetness to blow into his vehicle. That is, until I see the glow from his cigarette as he flicks it out the open window. Nope, he has chosen to leave the window open for his own enjoyment. The lady in the convertible? Oh, that was me. As long as it isn't raining or snowing, I crank the top down and let the wind blow. I choose to have the wind toss my hair wildly.

I find it one of life's little pleasures. As I drove to a doctor appointment, I felt healthy & carefree. Driving to pick up yet another prescription, the sun felt warm, in spite of the arctic air. Besides, my car has a heating system. It is akin to sitting in the glow of a fireplace, with the snow outside. It isn't necessary, but it makes one feel warm and cozy.

Seeing Is Believing

Glasses for busy, little boys are hard to find. They are expensive too. Ask my daughter. Ethan's first pair of glasses didn't last long. Once or twice a day, the lenses would pop out. The eye glass shop said there was nothing he could do and suggested a specialist in children's eyewear.

Four hundred dollars later, Ethan had his second pair of glasses: a lovely blue, flexible frame with non-scratch lenses. The clerk assured us of the durability with the guarantee that they could not be broken. If the lenses were scratched or anything went wrong, they would gladly replace them within the year. Their confidence in the frame was a 2 year warranty. I'll admit, they did stand behind their promise. But by the ninth time replacing the glasses, the clerk didn't seem nearly as cheerful.

The difficult part about replacing the glasses is, it takes 7 days. Ethan has to look through huge scratches, or wear misshapen frames until then. This weekend, though, he rendered them unwearable. He spent a day without his glasses. The strain on his eyes caused them to stay crossed most of the day. We set out to find an inexpensive replacement to wear, while waiting for the new ones.

Christina explained the situation to the optician. He smiled and reached for a small pair of glasses. "These are indestructable, built out of titanium-made especially for boys who are tough on glasses. I assure you, if he can bend them, I can put them back to their original shape. Look, they are flexible and nearly impossible to destroy." Christina nearly laughed in his face. She restrained herself and asked, "do you have a replacement guarantee?"

"Oh absolutely! For an additional charge of $30, we guarantee the lenses for a year. But like I said, the frames are indestructable."

"So how many time will you replace them if they do become damaged?"

He stammered a bit. "Well, just once."

Nice.

Over the weekend, we listened to a lot of Christmas music. We laughed a lot, as we found out some members of the family enjoyed different lyrics to the same songs. I wonder how often this happens.

I remember singing, "by the donzer lelight," as the National Anthem was played. I had no idea what it meant-along with much of the rest of it. As a child, hymns sung in church were often imagination stimulators, as I'd try to figure out what in the world I was singing about. Even with the printed words in front of me, I was often clueless.

Just as curious, were the songs we sang in Sunday School.

"This little light of mine. I'm gonna let it shine...hide it under a bushel, no!" I knew all of the hand motions and loved to sing it, but I wondered what kind of a light was I not going to hide? I knew if you put a burning candle under a basket it might start a fire, so I wouldn't do that. But how was I going to keep satan from blowing it out?

Another one was:

"Give me oil in my lamp, keep it burning...keep it burning till the break of day." Then we'd sing Hosanna's. (Another elusive word, that I tried to imagine what hidden meaning there might be.)

"Are you washed, in the blood, in the soul-cleansing blood of the lamb?" I didn't get that one either.

Many of you reading, may have no idea what I'm talking about with regards to the songs-unless you too sang them. Contemporary churches of today don't sing many hymns. But do our children understand the songs of worship? For that matter, do adults?

When we speak about the things of God, do we speak with Christian lingo that leaves others with lots of words in their head, but no clear message? Are we reciting words ourselves, with no real understanding? We hope that those we speak to will "come to salvation, be sanctified & saved." But are we truly presenting a clear, gospel message? Do we even know what "gospel" means?

Just something to think about.
And no, they don't call him Rudolph.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Waiting For Changes

What was I doing baking cookies at 6:00a.m.? This is the time I usually pack lunches and make breakfast. Was it because I had frozen french toast and chocolate chip pancakes to pull out for breakfast, so thought I'd make a nice batch of homemade cookies for lunches? No. It was in response to the child who commented at 10:30 last night that she needed to bring 2 dozen cookies to school today. Another child remembered she was assigned to bring a bag of chips. (Reminder to self, buy another bag of chips for lunches.) Normally, I would have stayed up baking late into the night. But with 3 hours of sleep the night before, my brain fog might cause me to add a bag of prunes instead of chocolate chips. So, like any good mom who rushes to rescue her kid, I made cookies first thing this morning.

So when do kids think ahead about what needs to be done instead of waiting until the last minute? I thought back to when I was in 3rd grade. Yes, back in the dark ages. Back when we walked to school, and truthfully it was uphill both ways. (Sometime I'll get photos and prove it.) We also went home for lunch. The poor souls who had to eat lunch at school walked 1/2 of a mile down the road to the high school. That was the only cafeteria.

Each week it was one child's turn to present a science experiement. I recall when it was my turn. I remembered that morning at school. Upon arriving home for lunch, I mentioned to my mom that I needed a science experiment to take back for that afternoon. After eating a bologna & mustard sandwich, my amazing mom helped me put a project together. Not once, but twice that year. Afterwards, she drove me to back to school, since we'd used the extra 20 minutes it would have taken to walk.

So when do kids plan ahead instead of waiting until the last minute? I've had the privilege of seeing my older ones do just that. They grow up and don't need to be rescued. No more procrastination! So when does it happen? Oh wait, it doesn't happen for everyone. You see, I am one of those kids who still waits until the last minute.

The Next Time

The next time I'm sick:

I won't wait 6 days for the medicine to start working.

I won't wait 6 days for the second medicine to start working.

When the prescription label lists possible side effects as "insomnia," I can be assured of 3-4 hours of sleep a night.

I'll remember that having empty hampers doesn't equate to having clean clothes.

I'll remember that I have a laundry chute where clothes mate and reproduce into an overabundance of very ripe, dirty laundry.

I'll check my calendar for important upcoming events like Thanksgiving.

I won't be grumpy when Michael says I look beautiful, and instead, I'll respond in kind.

Lastly, I will be thankful for my overall good health, my loving husband who is so very encouraging, for the 5 best kids in all the world, the cutest grandson ever, and will focus on how very blessed I am.

Thanksgiving Memories II

I am not a planner by nature. I don't multitask well. (Does anyone?) I tend to deal with today's agenda and worry about tomorrow, well, when it arrives. This approach dictates mandatory last-minute shopping, creative ideas on how-to-quick-thaw a 16 lb. turkey, and wishes of having 3 ovens. For me, these are almost traditions that every year I try to change.

Thanksgiving Eve, after returning from church, I think, "it's time for me to make my pumpkin pies. The first thing I do? Call my mom.

"Hi Mom! What are you up to?"

"I'm baking, sewing, crafting, designing..." It could be just about anything. My mom is always busy.

"Hey, do you have that Pie Crust Delicious recipe? I know you gave it to me last year, and the year before, and maybe I wrote it down somewhere, but could you give it to me again?"

We chat while I gather the ingredients. I ask about her Thanksgiving preparations. It's been a long time since we spent Thanksgiving together. I feel connected, as if we are standing in the same kitchen working together. Giving thanks and gathering with family just go together.

Last year, in my desire to tame my resistant-to-planning nature, I purchased premade crusts. Although they were tasty, as good as home-made, I found them lacking. I missed my mom and her expert advice. My kitchen was much too quiet and empty without my baking partner. Planning ahead is overrated.

This year, I'm not making pies. But come Thanksgiving Eve, I'm calling Mom.

Thanksgiving Memories 2006

Wordless Wednesday

November 14th

Sometimes, I forget birthdays and important dates. But I don't think I will ever forget this one. This is the 6th anniversary of the day I found out I was going to be a grandmother. It was this day that I first began praying for Ethan. None of us knew at the time if he was a boy or girl. We didn't know that he would be a special child, with special needs. We had no idea the joys and heartaches that were waiting. But God did. He knew Ethan would need lots of prayer and planned for it.

Since I began blogging this date has come up before, so instead of coming up with something new, I'm going to share this story again from December of 2 years ago.


UNEXPECTED

Two days ago, I ran into Barnes & Noble for a last minute gift. I was sending out a Christmas package to my parents and it needed to go out that day in order to make it in time for Christmas. But I can't go into a bookstore without stopping in the children's section, or browsing through the clearance books. This day was no different.

I picked up a copy of Billy Crystal's "I Already Know I Love You." I read a page or two, then flipped a few more. Without warning, my eyes began to fill with tears. I blinked to hold them back and felt a stinging sensation. The author described the anticipation of waiting for his grandbaby. He was looking forward to playing peek-a-boo, & taking him to his first ballgame. I turned to the last page.

"I'm going to be your grandpa, and I can hardly wait."



I was not prepared for the intense emotion that swelled inside. I turned the book over. The sticker read $16.95. I can't pay that much for a book right now. But I tucked it under my arm and walked to the counter to pay.

I busied myself with watching shoppers wait in the checkout line. I chuckled to myself when I saw an employee at the front of the line holding a basket. She was offering chocolate candy for all who'd been standing, waiting to pay for their books. (They apparently agree with me, that chocolate should be admistered for stress relief.) As I passed, I accepted her bit of chocolate.

The day was a bit chilly, so I hurried to the car. During my brisk walk, I mentally tried to figure out what else I needed to do after my trip to the post office. I was frustrated. Why did I always and consistently leave things to the last minute? I quickly jumped in the car. While I was pulling out of the parking lot, tears unexpectedly began blurring my vision. I swiped at my eyes with my leather glove. Not very absorbent.

What is wrong with me? I wondered. I do not cry easily. I've never been an overly emotional person. But here I was, crying on the way home after picking up a children's book. I normally analyze things like this. I like to know what exactly triggers such a strong emotion. When I am very busy, or under stress, I can't say that I am always in tune with my feelings. I like to tuck them neatly away, until I have time to sort through and process. I can deal with it and move on. Right then, I didn't have time.

I pulled off my gloves, grabbed a tissue, and dried my eyes. I tried to focus on all of the things I needed to do, but I couldn't distract myself. And what was I going to do with this book anyway? I was going to give it to my husband to give to our grandson for Christmas. The image of the two of them on Michael's riding lawn mower settled into my thoughts. I cried harder.



When our daughter announced her pregnancy, it wasn't at the best of times. She had made a stand of purity and chose not to date in high school. Here she was, at 20, unmarried, telling us the news.

She had friends who told her it wouldn't be convenient to have a child and that she didn't have to. But like me, she values life. She was going to be a mom. Michael and & I were going to be grandparents.

When I arrived home, I picked up my bag of books and went inside. I tried to put the book aside while I packed up the box I needed to ship. I found it hard to function with tears just under the surface, stinging my eyes. I got the book out to present to Michael. I went to him, but found I couldn't speak. I just stood there, holding this book. I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came was tears. I waited. This was too hard. I finally blurted out, "I got this book for you to give to Ethan for Christmas. I know it was dumb, but I did." Hurriedly, I retreated to my room to finish the package.

Why am I such a wreck? I thought back to when my daughter was pregnant. I remembered that although we hadn't anticpated being grandparents yet, I dreamed about spending time with this new little one. I imagined things like baking cookies together, the laughter we'd share. I bought lots of books to read to him. I thought of the times I'd answer his questions of why, and tell him about God who created him. But I never imagined that Ethan might not understand these things, nor that there would be so many unknowns. I didn't think that at age 3 I'd still be waiting to hear him say, "gramma."

Michael came in the room. He wrapped his arms around me and I cried into his shoulder. I told him I didn't know what I was thinking when I picked up the book and that I would take it back to the store. He said no. We sat in silence. Once again I dried my tears. "Do you think I should just give it to him, or what?" He asked. "Aren't you afraid he will ruin the book?" I told him it would be ok. He could sit and read the book to Ethan. It didn't matter that Ethan didn't understand a word of it. The words were still true. We DID wait with much anticipation for his arrival. We did and still do look forward to spending time with him, teaching him new things, sharing and experiencing moments together. It is just different than what we'd imagined.

Veteran's Day

Just wanted to say thank-you to all Veteran's & current military persons. Because of your dedication, hard work, & commitment to serving this nation, I enjoy great personal freedom and liberties I often take for granted. There aren't enough words to adequately express my appreciation. So I will just say thank-you!





(These photos were from 18 months ago, & I believe I posted them before. But I thought they were appropriate to post again. ) It is never too early to teach children about the history of our nation and what our flag represents. We live in "the land of the free and the home of the brave," thanks to the generosity of our Veterans.

And Happy 58th Anniversary to my inlaws, Edwin & Elizabeth!!! (Who, because of his military duties, chose to be married on Veteran's Day.)

It's been a tough week. I hate weeks like this. I feel like I am going through the motions, surviving. It isn't really like living at all. So what is my problem? I have a sinus infection, which makes me very tired and cranky. It causes a fever, which keeps me from sleeping well. Anyone who knows me, knows I need sleep. Without it, well, let's just say I used to be a nice person.

I also cry a lot when I don't get enough sleep. I'm telling you, sleep cures just about anything. (Right Christopher?) I watched this story the other night on our local news.

http://www.9news.com/news/article.aspx?storyid=80451



One of the high schools has a cheerleader on their squad who has Down's Syndrome. She is a cutie for sure. I was impressed. We are in the midst of Cheer competitions. For those not familiar with the sport of cheerleading, they don't just support the football team. They compete with other squads and are judged on how well they execute their routines. The girl's mother didn't expect for her duaghter to perform during these competitions. She knew that if her daughter was off at all, the team would lose points. But her team insisted that she participate with them.



I was at one of those competitions this week. You should have seen the cheers from the crowd when they hoisted their flyer in the air. I couldn't blame the tears on being sick.

Took child to the doctor.

Drove said child to school.

Made soup for same child & 15 girls.

Delivered soup for their enjoyment.

Took self to doctor.

Got prescription for self.

Sat. Too tired to cook dinner.

Waiting to attend child's competition.

Friend phones. Have I made dinner?

She made roast chicken w/peppers, french bread, salad.]

Would I like it?

Friend brings dinner.

And some people don't believe in God.
(Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.Matthew 11:28)

Forty-nine. How did you get that old? That is a lot of years behind you. This is surely a rare age, you know. Don't believe me? It's true. Many make it to 3 or 5 or 20. Others want to know your secret. Happiness? Is that what brings longevity? Love? What is the magic of staying alive this long? Hard work? I'll give you that one.



But I believe the real answer lies in one word. Commitment. Happy 49th anniversary Mom & Dad. Your love, joy, laughter, fun, work ethic, giving, and so much more, have given us kids wonderful lives. Thank-you for never even considering the possibility of tossing in the towel. You have set an amazing example for not only your kids, but grandkids, great-grandkids (you're at 2, in case you'd forgotten,) and for generations to come. You have both given so selflessly to each other and us. I can't wait to celebrate your 50th next year. Let's do it up big! I love you.

I heard the familiar fumbling, rattling of the doorknob, bumps and clunks. The door swung open, banging the wall behind it. Ethan, Christina, and large puppy Dazy had arrived.

I was sitting on the couch. As usual, I waited. After a few moments, I see the little boy face peek around the corner. I probably shouldn't, but I began wildly waving, "Hi Ethan! Come see Gramma!" And as he typically does, he ducked back around the corner. I can hear his little feet pounding down the hall to the bedroom. He isn't really shy, but this is his routine.

I wait. He doesn't come out. Uh, oh...I forgot my part. I knew it was coming, and yet I hadn't remembered. I have a closet in my bedroom, where for years I hid Christmas presents. While out shopping, I almost always come across a little something I know Ethan can't live without. A spiderman shirt, power ranger action figure, or a book about cars. At first I was saving them for an occasion, but Ethan wandered in there one day. Ever since, the first place he goes when he gets here is the closet-looking for a treat.

Earlier in the week, I'd gone to see him and bought him two games. That threw me, & I hadn't purchased anything else. I jumped up from the couch to see what he was doing. If he doesn't find a treat, he makes up his own. A new roll of wrapping paper becomes his sword.

I hear giggling and laughing. I find him on the floor, flipping through the toyrus catalog. I'd pulled it out of the Sunday paper, thinking he might like looking at it. He was enchanted.

"Come show Grandpa what you found." He continued his silly laughter, pointing to various toys. It was a great game. I tried to coax him from the room, but he couldn't be bothered. I went back to the living room to wait, calling to him occasionally. Finally, I hear muffled movement from the hall. I look over to see Ethan crawling on his knees. His hands held the pages open, as he pushed the magazine along the floor, squealing with delight. He must have tried to carry it, but couldn't hold it open and walk too.

We sat together as he pointed out his favorites. What joy it was to see him so contented. You'd think the pictures had come to life watching him touch each one. This was the best present yet, and it was free. His favorite page? It had both spiderman and transformers and with it the cheeriest chuckle I've ever heard.

Just For Fun

Thought I'd post some pictures from Elisabeth's Cheer practice. Yes, this is the girl, who because of her injured back, is supposed to take it easy.



Here's a 4 second video:

Shannon at Rocks In My Dryer had a delightful post about her husband asking for her hand in marriage. Her father's question to his possible son-in-law was amazing. It caused me to ponder once again our role as parents and the heritage we pass to them.

Once-a-year or so, our ethnic heritage comes up for discussion. One kid or another is curious as to their ancestry. Growing up I'd heard about my relatives many times. My mom is 100% English with relatives who remain in Great Britain. My dad's grandparents were immigrants from elsewhere; Germany, Italy, Ireland, & Holland. I am 1/2 English and 1/8 each of the rest.

When my kids ask, I share my mixed half, but Michael's answer for the other half is always "I don't know." When Christopher was in junior high school, we found out Michael's aunt was researching their genealogy, I suggested he email his grandfather and ask about it. The next day we received a very concerned phone call from said grandparent.

I couldn't figure out the nature of his questions, something about our son being confused, and that at his age, shouldn't he know these things. I was a little surprised, since his own son was clueless about his ethnic heritage. Finally he shared the email Christopher had sent and I understood. It was one simple question:

"What gender am I?"

(Poor Christopher, he'll never live this one down.)

"They preached the good news in that city and won a large number of disciples. Then they returned...strengthening the disciples and encouraging them to remain true to the faith." (Acts 14:21-22)


I received a comment from Mylinda the other day, directing me to her blog. I was a little surprised that she'd awarded me the Mathetes award.


"Mathetes" is the Greek word for disciple. The Mathetes Award originated at Management By God and is given to those who exemplify the life of a disciple of Christ by having a heart to share God's Word and further His kingdom by carrying His message to the ends of the earth.





Mylinda is definitely worthy of this award. Check out her blog if you haven't already. And now I must nominate 5 others for this award. I have been reading some newer blogs (or at least new to me,) that I'd like to share.

Kristin at Yankee Mom
Ann at Small Town Life
Julie at Pearls In A Nutshell
truevyne at The True Vine
Pam at Pinnacle, Pitfalls, and Potty chairs
Annie at My Life as Annie & Pray for Izzy

Dan King prayed this prayer over his nominees. I pray the same for mine and for the rest of my fellow bloggers who exemplify the life of a disciple of Christ.

I pray a blessing over the bloggers that receive this award, and ask that the Holy Spirit use them mightily as they share the Word of God with the world around them. May all of their efforts be fruitful, and their words carry the anointing of the Holy Spirit. In Jesus' name, Amen!

Time To Get Serious

Okay, I was hoping to not have to do this. But my boys, the Rockies are down 3 games. They need a little extra encouragment. Bring on the Spartan Cheerleaders!!!