I Stand Corrected or Birthing Revisited

After I posted Birthing, I received an email. It was from my dad. It speaks for itself:

I read your blog for today. I hate to have to tell you this, but your
memory is not a whole lot better than mine. I told your mom what
your blog was about concerning the births and she said I needed to let you know that you have some of the details mixed up.

Greg definitely had bigger shoulders than his head, but the water
didn't break until right before his birth. Since it was Christmas day and Dr. Payne was at home enjoying a family get together when they called him to the hospital in the early evening, he forgot to change shoes and he was wearing a brand new pair of shoes. When the water broke, Dr. Payne jumped back as it burst with a gush and the water poured over the table and off onto the floor and on his brand new pair of shoes. He was hoping that it didn't ruin the new shoes.

The out of body experience came when Laurie was born. The water breaking thing was when you were born. So, all four births had some element of surprise and significance.

The night before you were born we went to the drive-in movie. Carolyn and Greg went to sleep in the back of the car and we watched the movie. We got out of the movie and I looked at the gas gauge on the car and said I better get some gas. Only problem was, I spent my last bit of cash for the movie and those were the days before bank cards and ATM's. Plus, I didn't have any credit to get a gas credit card. So, buying gas would have to wait until after the bank opened and I could get some cash. I made the comment, “I sure hope that baby isn't born tonight.”

Your mom said I didn't need to worry about that. Well, sometime during the night, your mom got up for Greg and in so doing, her water broke. She woke me up and told me what happened. I said, oh great and we have to drive clear in to Phoenix this time, instead of Mesa Southside Hospital where Greg was born. The distance was a lot farther and I wasn't sure we had enough gas to make it. I called a friend and got him out of bed and he came down and took us to the hospital while his wife took care of Greg and Carolyn. Even at that, we just barely made it in time. By the time I completed all the check-in paper work and got back to the OB area, they said you had been born. Wow!!

I stand corrected.

Spring Break In Pictures

(Due to my continued battle with this illness, I didn't get photos of everyone.) I did, however, enjoy every minute of having all of my kids here and Ethan too.


Guitar Heroes




Boys & Computers




Mmmmm...Popcycles!



Denver Nuggets Game

Making & Eating Brownies
(My apologies to my 3 kids who didn't make it any photos, and for not getting any Dance, Dance, Revolution Pics.)

Birthing

I've been reading Jenni's birth stories. If you are like me, watch birth stories on t.v., share your own, enjoy hearing the intimate details of birth once not even allowed to be witnessed by dads, you gotta check on Jenni's blog (that is, if you haven't already.) She is close to delivering her 12th child and is in the process of regaling us with every birth story until the last, which will no doubt be in real time.

There is something about the miracle of birth, but equally amazing is the heroics of every mom who has ever born a child. Does any pregnant woman really believe it will be as painful as others describe? So far, I have yet to meet one who could have imagined what the birth experience would really entail. No matter how many televised births seen, or girlfriend stories she has heard, it seems giving birth is a unique experience. Why shouldn't it be? Every child is uniquely individual, shouldn't their birth be too?

As a little girl, I listened to my mom share her stories. It seemed like she always began with my brothers birth. He wasn't the oldest, but his birth must have been the most dramatic. She'd begin with a phrase about her water breaking before they left for the hospital. This always intrigued me. I envisioned a water pipe in the laundry room spewing water everywhere. I wondered why she never mentioned when they cleaned all that water up or what happened. I was left to imagine my dad fixing the pipe later, after the birth of my brother.

His birth was most certainly a sensational event. His shoulders were larger than his head, causing him to get stuck in the birth canal. In a flurry of activity, the doctors put my mom our with some sort of gas, and they must have lost her on the table. She had an experience at that time that she didn't share with everyone. It can be described as a classic out-of-body, or near-death experience. Thankfully, my brother was delivered and my mom brought back to life too.

Her first birth was equally amazing. My oldest sister was born 2 1/2 month premature. According to my dad, he went to church the day after her birth. It was Father's Day and the asked all of the dads to stand. When my dad stood, his friends told him he wasn't really a father yet and to sit back down. He had the opportunity to share that he indeed was a father. Carolyn was born at a state-of-the art hospital where they were trying new therapies with preemies. My sister ended up being the youngest preemie to survive at that time.

My birth, being the 3rd child, sounded not-quite-so-exciting. It was a very quick, easy labor. In fact, I was some young intern's first delivery. I did enjoy hearing my mom tell how this intern asked her, "is this your first child?" After my mom replied no, he said, "well that's good, because this is my first delivery." My youngest sister's delivery was even more boring, with not amuch in the way of anecdotes.

Any one who has given birth deserves a medal of courage. If you want to share your birth story, let me know. I want to hear it.

This and That

Day 16 of a sore throat & congestion, that doesn't appear to be clearing anytime soon.

My mother-in-law had this great idea to fly to North Carolina to see her oldest daughter for Mother's Day and wanted her favorite daughter-in-law to accompany her. So guess who will be seeing the state of North Carolina for the first time in May? I'm so excited. Anyone out there live in Charlotte?

The best moment ever, on an Easter Sunday? Standing at the end of our church service, praying. The Pastor was inviting anyone who desired to a new life in Christ to come forward. People began walking towards the altar. I prayed for hearts to be soft and open. I felt a hand on my shoulder and a whisper in my ear. "Mom, would you go up there with me?" And with tears streaming down my face, I stepped out with my daughter, as she rededicated her life to the Lord. Nothing could bring greater joy.

A Nice Surprise-Not

In early December, you may recall I was pretty excited. I posted that Ethan was finally going to get the extra help he needed. He was to begin attending an autistic school. Can you believe he hasn't started yet?

Christina was told it would probably be February before he actually got in...you know the logistics, evaluating Ethan to see what his needs are, hiring a teacher, blah, blah, blah. But nothing happened. It gets sort of confusing, something about another child took his spot, he's next on the list...you get the picture. I'm wondering the whole time, what good does moving him so close to the end of the school year??? And what is taking so dang long?

Finally, a couple of weeks ago, Ethan was evaluated. Then came a meeting with the school district head honcho, who holds the power cards to approve, disapprove, allow, disallow-the one who holds the purse strings. The meeting also consisted of the director the Autistic School so she would know what exactly what head honcho was going to allocate for Ethan. It was during this meeting that Christina found out funding was approved for the remainder of the Spring semester, and for the Fall and Spring semester of next year. Sounded great. There was only one problem.

The Autistic School is year round. This means for 5 weeks this summer, there are no funds for Ethan to attend school. The new school said it would not be conducive for Ethan to start and then be absent for 5 weeks. If this was the case, he would not be accepted into their school. Translated: Christina needs to come up with a couple thousand dollars or so, in order for Ethan to attend his new school.

Isn't this a nice surprise?

All week I've felt guilty. My poor blog has been suffering feelings of rejection as I've logged on to the computer, yet failed to offer any words of assurance that I'm committed to her. So here I am.

Have I ever mentioned I don't multi-task? My computer operates just fine, performing simultaneous functions. I, on the other hand, can't even think about or plan more than one thing at a time. I can't plan Easter events before the last birthday celebration is completed. When I'm shopping for groceries on Monday I was able to buy for the week's meals, including a birthday dinner for Hilary. But forget planning for Easter dinner. My brain just cannot work all of those thoughts out. Easter snuck in way too early this year.

Yesterday was not only the end of the week and Good Friday, but it was officially the start of Spring Break for my school kids. Woohoo! That sort of snuck up on me too. Since I can't plan ahead, immediately I wanted to pack up the car and take off to some exotic location. (Ok, Arizona isn't exactly exotic, but warm & wild enough for me.) Gas prices don't scare me. (I don't pay the bills.) But Elisabeth has committed to house sitting for cousins who are at this moment, enjoying the tropics of Arizona. I'd feel awful leaving her behind with a houseful of pets. Sigh.

The good news? On Thursday, Christopher is boarding a plane in sunny Arizona and flying to not-quite-spring-yet Colorado. Ethan is on Spring break, so Christina and he will drive up to share in the fun. My house will be full. The heck with Spring Break, it will feel more like summer vacation.

Waiting For Baby

"We waited for months,
We waited for weeks.
We waited for days you see.
Our baby you'll always be!"

I picked up your book this morning, and read it cover to cover. "Written for Hilary Rose, by her maternal grandmother, so she'll always know she is loved." It is a delightful story of how we waited for you, our 5th baby to be born. Papa & Gramma were here to share in the excitement. Gramma penned the words, and snapped lots of photos to go into this book. She wanted you to know you were loved as much as our 1st, 2nd, 3rd, & 4th child. Even though you were the 9th grandchild, your birth was special. God planned for you.

At 16, you continue to fill our lives with joy, laughter, and beauty-exactly what your names mean.

>

>>

I didn't know you would be our last child. Gramma was right, "our baby you'll always be!" Happy 16th Birthday Hilary, We love you.

Thank-you

Thanks everyone for the birthday wishes. I had a lovely day. I made a lavish Mexican Fiesta, with my favorite dishes. (And yes, I could have gone out to dinner, but I wanted to save that for the weekend when Christina and Ethan could join us.) Of course I completely forgot Hilary was having her 16th birthday party on Saturday. How did I forget? I'd been cleaning the basement for 2 weeks so she'd have room for all of those teens.


I did have a pretty cake.


Sadly, I had a bad hair day all week. I had my hair cut on Monday. I'd made the appointment the week prior. Upon arriving, I couldn't remember how I wanted it cut. I knew I wanted 3 or 4 inches off the length in back, I just didn't know why. My hairdresser knows me pretty well and I trust her. She snipped to her heart's delight. The next day my memory returned and so did my reasons for cutting the length. I didn't want so many layers, just a bit towards the bottom. By cutting it shorter, the layers would be longer and it would be thicker. I now have the length off AND very short layers on top. The exact opposite of what I wanted. I wish I had a brain sometimes and could remember things.
Thanks for the wonderful birthday wishes. We celebrated again last night by going out to dinner. Tomorrow is Hilary's actual 16th birthdate. We'll eat more cake. Did I mention this is our birthday season?

What a nice surprise to wake up to this morning.

Sarabeth is graduating from high school this May. She has a commemorative tassle hanging from the rear view mirror, with an '08 dangling from it. At one point, it twisted around backwards and read '80. How funny. That was my class year.

I was flipping through the radio stations and noticed the "oldies" station no longer plays 50's and 60's music. They were playing 70's and 80's. When did that happen? Is my generation old?

But then I remember. I didn't actually graduate in 1980, like I was supposed to. I graduated in 1997. That makes me the class of '97. I feel so much younger.

To celebrate my birthday, would you mind leaving a comment? I'd love to know who's reading or who might have recently stopped by. Go ahead, make my day!

An Anniversary (Part 2)

As the months passed, we began to see a transformation. They were no longer Ed & Betty, living at the Meridian. Upon visiting my inlaws we were stepping into the community they'd immersed themselves. I'd find my mother-in-law, sitting at the puzzle table, just outside her room. She'd introduce me to her friends who were working with her on the current puzzle. They began inviting us to special dinners, like the "Wine & Candelight." What a joy to see them chatting away with so many new friends, pointing out which table they normally sit at and with whom.

Ed began stepping out of his comfort zone. When he comes to dinner, he doesn't seem to mind that we don't eat at 4, or even 5. He ventured downtown with us for Elisabeth's birthday at a ESPN Sports Zone, which is a glorified sports bar. Unless the weather is bad, he insists on going to his doctor appointments without us. He shares about the very informative and interesting talks given by (I wish I could remember the name of the organization.) Even after his heart attack just 6 weeks ago, my father-in-law insisted on driving over here a few days ago, to return a movie we'd loaned him. He came by himself, and we sat on the porch and visited while his lovely wife Elizabeth, was learning the card game Canasta.

Speaking of Elizabeth, I am so impressed. I remembered her saying how much she wished she could go by the name Elizabeth, instead of Betty. When I took her to my hairdresser for the first time, I made the appointment for "Elizabeth" and introduced her as such. She loves reading books with strong, female characters. I think "Elizabeth" sounds bolder than Betty.

Elizabeth stepped out of her comfort zone and began playing Bingo on Saturday nights. She attends exercise classes twice a week, reads with a group of second graders, learned to play Bunco, and ventures down to movie night. She isn't afraid to speak up. When some of the residents began discussing the shortfalls of the dininig hall chef, she joined a committee that meets to see that changes are made.

She was chatting with Sarabeth a few weeks ago. Sarabeth is graduating from high school in May and will go off to college in the Fall. Elizabeth excitedly explained the opportunity opening up before her. "You can be anybody you want to be. No one will know you at college. You can reinvent yourself. Everyone at this school knows you as the same little girl that you were when you started seventh grade. It's hard to change within that environment. Look at me, I've been Betty all of my life. Thanks to this move, I've become Elizabeth and it wasn't until I was 80 years old. I could never have done that living in Arizona."

This year has passed quickly. My inlaws not only survived their first winter in Colorado, but I'd say they were living well. We are so very blessed!

An Anniversary (Part 1)

Saturday is an anniversary of sorts around here. One year ago, my inlaws boarded a plane with as many clothes as their suitcases could hold, and came here to live for the rest of their lives. It was huge.

They'd spent the last 42 years in the hot desert of Arizona and were entering the ever-changing weather of Colorado. How would they adjust to living in snow?

At first we planned to renovate our home to provide them with space and privacy. After months of configuring, strategizing, engineering, researching,we came up with another plan. We found a lovely retirement community, the Meridian. It was close to our home with many amenitites that we couldn't provide-the first being a quiet place. Even though our home is quieter than it has been in years, it can still be bustling with activity and noise. That can be difficult to escape. At 83 and 79 years old, we felt a home at Meridian would offer them so much more than we could provide.

Shortly after their arrival, we worried. Had we made the right decision? They seemed tired, frail, sad. Michael and I doubted they'd be able to live on their own. During family dinners, it seemed they missed much of the conversations. We feared the noise level was too much, the chatting, laughter, and silly stories were not enjoyable but exhausting for them. What were we to do?

It didn't take too many days or weeks before we began to see remarkable improvement. Not only were they smiling more, they were becoming a central part of dinner conversations. Playful teasing, joking, and lots of laughter was exchanged between the kids and their grandparents. We were thrilled.

Towards the beginning of April, Michael and Christopher drove a truck of their downscaled belongings, and moved them into their one bedroom apartment. After everything was unpacked, we said goodbye and closed the door. As we walked from the building, I had butterflies in my stomach. The same flutters I felt the first day of Kindergarten with each of my children.

After 5 years, my child was no longer exclusively under my care.

After 5 weeks, my inlaws were no longer sharing our home.

I was excited for my child to begin his new journey at school, but I worried how he would cope with so many new experiences.

I was happy for my inlaws to have a place of their own, opportunites to meet new friends, and learn new things. Would they be happy?

Letting go butterflies. Hoping & trusting I've done what I should, in the time I'd been given. Expecting the best, but preparing for the worst. Very mixed emotions.

A Bad Day?

I understand that anyone can have a bad, even doctors. But when it comes to one of MY kids, it better not happen in my presence.

Elisabeth went for another back injection yesterday. Michael went with her. I had taken Hilary to school, which on a good day, I can drive it in 37 minutes. It was not a good day. Snow was blowing, and the roads were terrible. I arrived home 93 minutes after I'd left.

After her injection, Elisabeth was in a LOT of pain. With the particular meds that were used, she shouldn't have had any pain. She cried for 2 hours in recovery. The doctor doesn't usually come back to see patients, but two different nurses made requests that he do so.

I understand that he has a schedule to keep and that he is busy, but I don't understand his behavior. He appeared very agitated for having to see her. How much time did he save by snatching the juice from her hand as she was taking a drink? Was jerking her from a reclining position to sitting necessary? What did the few seconds it would take for him to wait for her to set the juice down and sit up on her own really cost him? Was he truly trying to save time?

Maybe this man was really dealing with his own pride. At our first meeting, he came off as very arrogant. He was certain of Elisabeth's diagnosis. We were hopeful in light of the confidence he exhibited, after reviewing her medical records. But now I can't help but wonder if he was feeling a bit like a failure when the injection seemed to go awry. Maybe his diagnosis had been wrong. Elisabeth's pain was making him look bad, and he didn't like that. The recovery room was filled with other patients of his. Several people, also waiting in recovery, came by to ask if Elisabeth was ok. They could tell it wasn't going well. Strangers cared and showed concern, why didn't this doctor?

To fix the problem, he filled a syringe with a numbing agent and re-injected her back. I think he over medicated her, as she became very sick afterwards.

It's a good thing I wasn't there. I would have been like a mama bear attacking anyone who harmed her baby cub. As it is, this doctor will get an earful at her next appointment. And maybe more.

Secrets

I grew up with an older sister who couldn't keep a secret. If Carolyn knew a secret, we were lucky if it lasted a few hours. I'm not sure why, but asking her not to tell, was like putting a plate of cookies before a sweet-toothed child and asking her not to touch or taste them. Whisper a secret into her ear, and it would come spilling out her lips.

I, on the other hand, loved keeping secrets. I was the best secret keeper I knew. Even my parents trusted me with secrets. Sometimes I knew of trips we would take before anyone else. I'd know what my dad was getting for his birthday. Maybe I felt special that someone trusted me with their secret-so much so, that I wouldn't do anything to lose that entrusted place.

The older I become, it is harder to keep a secret. I can still keep them, but I want everyone to know that "I" have a secret that I'm keeping. I'll announce that I have a secret. If you have read my blog for awhile, you probably remember another time when I shared that I had a surprise secret but couldn't tell what it was. But I had no problem saying I had a secret. And I did really enjoy when it was no longer a secret and I could share it openly.

So, I know a secret. I'm dying to say something, but I won't. And sometime in the near future, I will mention this post and release the secret. I will enjoy every minute of it. For now, I delight in knowing that I know a secret and in being able to say I have a secret.

Update

For those who asked, no I wasn't in the hospital. I went for a CT scan (those pesky sinus infections) and I was required to wear an I.D. bracelet. Did they think I'd forget my name, or have a medical emergency while having the scan and they needed to know I was allergic to morphine? I kept forgetting to cut it off and actually wore it until the next day. Like I said, they are comfy.

Michael drank coffee every day for an entire week. Then just as quickly as he began, he gave it up. Diet Pepsi is once again his morning beverage.

Last Saturday, we went out to dinner to celebrate Elisabeth's 21st birthday. I wanted to look nice and was digging through my jewelry box trying to find a pair of dangly earrings. (Somehow I thought they might make me look NOT like the mom of a 21year old. Forget the fact that Christina will be 27 in April.)

Sitting innocently, amongst my costume jewelry, were 2 earrings linked together. The rubies and diamonds glistened as lovely as ever. I scooped them up and hugged them tightly to my chest. Once they were lost, now they were found. (I was feeling foolish for the tears I'd cried.) Quickly, I adorned my ear lobes with these fine ornaments and joined my family in the car. I waited to share my find for later, as I didn't want to take anything away from El's birthday celebration. Afterall, 21 is the last big growing up birthday. The milestones after that are at ages 40, 50, etc. and the excitement just isn't the same.

Happy 21st Elisabeth

A little girl, who loved ribbons and bows and is still as cute as ever, turned 21. As I began to write a Happy Birthday Post, I found myself writing much of what I wrote for her 20th, so thought I'd cut and paste a part of that here.

It's hard to believe you've closed the door to your teen years. What happened to my little Gerber baby with the infectious smile?
Very quickly, that baby turned into a laughing, forever-singing toddler. You loved singing and entertaining anyone who'd pay attention. There was no such thing as a stranger. You welcomed everyone into your world.

Remember how you'd play dress-up for hours and hours? Or making tea and crumpets with your kitchen set? Your golden brown hair, pulled up in crooked pigtails, would bounce as you "cooked." You'd talk and talk in your singsong voice as you'd offer freshly baked cookies.
I remember a girl in second grade who wanted to be a cheerleader. You went to cheer camp and performed at a high school basketball game. Two ladies in front of me saw you amidst the sea of girls and couldn't get over how cute you were. I wanted to say, "that's my girl!" But before I could you waved and curtsied my direction and they thought you were waving to them and they waved back. You brought out the best in others. It wasn't but 7 or 8 years later that you were in high school drawing the crowd to their feet.

It was hard to see you move out this year. I'm thankful that your residence is a mere 20 minutes away. I love that you come home for dinner several nights a week. You are still the same sweet, caring sister and daughter as before, but you are wiser and more mature. I didn't realize turning 21 would be such a transformation. You'll always be my little girl, even though you are all grown up.

This was taken on a cell phone and goes by very fast. I didn't quite capture the first couple of seconds. Hope you get the idea of my crazy kids antics.

Time Flies When You're Having Fun

Let's see if I can quit having so much fun and get back in the swing of things. Last week Christina was sick, so I picked Ethan up and kept him for a few days. And his big dog. I had hoped Ethan wouldn't get sick, but he did. Suffice it to say, I was busy.

Paper bracelets. What do you think? I've decided they are an ideal accessory. I could have every color of the rainbow, add any design to match or coordinate with every single outfit I own. No more struggling with hard to do clasps. They are comfortable to wear. I can go to be without ever removing it. I can even shower while wearing. When it's time to change, I cut it off and put on a new one. These have to be cheap. Just think, I'd never have to worry about losing or damaging them either.

How cool are hand painted nail designs? I absolutely love them! I haven't mastered the art myself, but I figure if I had the proper tools. It is impossible to paint in fine detail without a tiny brush.

I wouldn't try to cut a large piece of meat with a paring knife or use a meat cleaver to slice a tomato.

With the correct tools and proper training, I could paint nail designs. But that wouldn't make me an artist.

Too often, I don't value the talents I have. I want to do or be something never intended for me. It is difficult to accept our weaknesses and sometimes even our strengths.

Growing up, I'd hear my mom telling others about us kids. She'd speak of our gifts and talents. The things she'd brag to others about me didn't seem that big of a deal because they came easy to me. I wanted to be like my sister. Mom would talk about her dancing ability, her social skills-things that didn't come naturally to me. They were a challenge for me, so they seemed like better gifts to have. I didn't realize she felt the same way and didn't see her talents as something special or unique to her. She wanted what I had.

Today's challenge: To appreciate the giftings of others and encourage them to seek after what they are passionate about. I want to express to them how valuable their particular gifting and talents are and how much I (and others) need them. But I will also value and appreciate everything that God has placed within me and try to use my talents and gifts for His glory.

Somebody is a good brownie baker/server

Making The World A Better Place

Lori at View From Our Porch gave me this award. Lori truly does make a difference in the lives of so many. Everyone needs to feel valued and special.

The rules are to link to Ukok's place, then pick 5 other bloggers to give this award to. I am giving it to everyone on my Links list, as each one of you have made a difference in my life. Please pass it along.

Pet Peeve

Pet Peeve: Cruising along the highway, doing the speed limit, when all of the sudden nothing but brake lights ahead. I slow down to under the speed limit. I wonder what could be causing the slow down. Up ahead, on the side of the road, is a patrol car. No lights, no accident, nothing. The car is just sitting there. Why is everyone braking? If these cars aren't speeding why the need to slow down? Guilt is my guess. They must be regular speeders who watch for police cars. I have never feared or felt guilty seeing a police or patrol car. My dad drove one.

Dad emailed me the rest of his 1970 Christmas letter. I wanted to share another portion here. Dad was 31 at the time, mom 30, I was 8. My siblings were ages 6, 9, and 11.

"Kathleen says the time has come for me to reveal what I've been up to the past year. Life seems to revolve around my work schedule, which can be day shift, night shift, and a combination of the two. I have been working on the road as a patrolman for the past 16 months. I never dreamed that I would ever get to work on the road. I always wanted to be a policeman, but when I didn't grow tall enough to meet the height requirements, I gave up the idea. Now, here I am working along with the six-footers. I may be the smallest patrolman on the highway patrol, but there are a few others not much bigger. We peewees are known as the mini-patrol.
Sometimes, I wonder why I ever left the cool/warm, depending
on the season, comfort of the radio room. While sitting
overlooking the Salt River Canyon, watching the river below,
and inhaling the cool, pine scented air, I am grateful for
having been liberated from the four walls. On winter nights,
while carrying an injured or dead person out of a canyon, I
wonder why I'm not back in that nice comfortable radio room,
sipping a cup of coffee between radio calls.

People tend to make my job interesting. You meet the good
and the bad. You meet them at their worst and their
best. You get to help them when they need help the most. The
disabled motorist is glad to see you, but the violator wishes you
were in some other county. I could go on about my job as I find it
fascinating, but I'm going to leave it here."

For anyone who might be a guilty-braker, thought it would be fun to read the thoughts of a patrolman.

I laughed at the next part of dad's letter:

"Being church treasurer keeps me busy a couple evenings per
month. I sometimes wonder how I ever managed to acquire the
job. Bookkeeping never was high on my list of aptitudes. The
congregation certainly must have a lot of faith."

Dad wrote more, but I figure that is enough for one post. It brought back such fond memories of my dad. He did mention special training he'd been doing for upcoming demonstrations. I don't recall what the commotion was about, but do remember the extra protective gear he had to wear at that time. It was a time of demonstrations turning into riots and complete chaos. Seeing my dad in his uniform, I saw the strong protector. I felt safe, knowing my dad was watching out for us.

Dad is retired now. He no longer wears a uniform, protective gear, or carries a gun. But he continues to be a strong protector of our family and others. His weapons are not visible, except when he's on his knees.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!

Sometimes It Can't Be Fixed

Not everything broken can be fixed. A lost treasure isn't always found. Ask me how I know.

Before Christmas, I embarrassed myself. Christopher was home and we went out shopping. As we passed my favorite jewelry store, I showed him the bracelet that I wasn't getting. He said, "ma, you don't know that." I assured him that his dad couldn't pull off a suprise like that. I had been hinting how much I wanted the bracelet. No, I wasn't hinting, I was practically begging. I told him about it in detail. I pulled it up on the internet to let him see exactly what I wanted. I even found some cheaper alternatives if he just couldn't swing this one. He didn't pay much attention. Christopher tried to encourage me that surely if it was that important, there was a good chance his dad bought it. No, I was confident that I knew him better. Michael would have asked what store it was at, or if I really wanted it, before he went out. I'd know. Besides, 2 days earlier, he'd bought me a pair of exotic boots for Christmas and it would be way too much money to spend. (Yeah, I knew I was getting them.)

Imagine my humiliation when Christmas morning, Christopher handed me a slender gift box from his dad that looked the perfect size for a bracelet. "Hmm...I wonder what this could be? Oh, but surely not. There is no way dad could possibly have surprised you. Wow, do you feel a little silly for the way you carried on the other day?" He continued laughing and teasing me. And he'd been correct. Michael had truly surprised me.


The whole situation reminded me of a Valentine's Day not too long ago. I posted about my disappointment at not receiving a coveted pair of diamond & ruby earrings. Michael surprised me. He gave them to me for my birthday. He has become unimaginably extravagant in giving to me.

Last week, while painting, I took my bracelet off and shoved it in my pocket so as not to get paint on it. In doing so, I bent it backwards deeming it unrepairable according to the jeweler. During that same week, I took off the above mentioned earrings and set them on the coffee table. They are no where to be found. I fear they fell off the table and I inadvertently vaccuumed them up. I'm afraid they are hidden inside a trash bag located in a remote landfill, never to be found again. You would think that with something so valuable and important to me I wouldn't be so careless.

The jeweler agreed to replace my bracelet if I would purchase an extended waranty for an extra $38. My bracelet is brand new. I am not very hopeful of ever finding my earrings.

The Good News? God is not careless. He has already purchased an extended waranty for us: The guarantee of eternal life. I was careless with this gift of life. I experienced pain, loss, loneliness. My life was a broken mess. I was sure the damage I'd done was irrepairable. But it was not. God made it brand new. He can do it for you.

No matter how lost I might become beneath the cares of this life, He knows where I am. He can pluck me from the darkest, most hidden place.

Maybe you aren't in a dark place, but find somewhere along the path, you've lost your way. You can be a valued treasure in the hand of God, if you want. Your redemption is there for the asking.

I imagine the garbage man walking through the dump. He stoops down. He turns over a dirty, wet paper plate. He digs a bit through the coffee grounds and dog hair and pulls out an item. "I knew right where you were all along," he says. At home, he washes and cleans his newly found treasure. There before him is a sparkling pair of diamond/ruby earrings-something of great value to him.

Every broken life can be fixed. Every lost person can be found.

Random Thoughts

Why do kids wait until right before bedtime to mention they are supposed to bring snacks to school the next day?

When and why do people start drinking coffee? Is it possible to begin at age 54? Michael is doing just that-sitting here having a cup of hot coffee with me for the first time ever. How cool is that after nearly 25 years of marriage? Oh, and he is much older than I.

Did I mention Ethan was here last weekend? I gave him the transformer valentine's I'd bought. We sat at the kitchen table playing something akin to paper dolls, except with cards printed with transformer guys. Ethan squeeled with delight as I did my best transformer voice imitiations. I thought we'd have to do that all day, until I took a quick break to check on his dog. I ran downstairs, let Dazy inside, gave her a treat, then ran back upstairs. In that short period of time, Ethan had ripped everyone of them into shreds. He looked to be having as much fun as he had playing paper transformer dolls. I let him continue ripping and tearing.

The $12 car wash isn't any better than the $6 one. In fact, I think my car looks much nicer at the cheaper price, especially when the roads are dry except for the snow in front of my house. As soon as I got home, slushy, snow splashed on what was a clean car.

Have a great weekend!

SuperMom

The day before Hilary left to Florida, she gave me this mini-balloon. She thought it was so cute.

I gave her a card as she was walking out the door. She told me she read it on the plane and it made her cry. Her coach asked what was wrong. She answered that nothing was wrong and shared the card with her. The coach said she wished I'd come on the trip with them.

The next trip to Nationals, I'm going too.

Book Meme

PJ at Bits & Pieces tagged me for this book meme. Here are the instructions:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages.)
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

The book is Ten Minutes From Normal, by Karen Hughes

"Governor Bush had placed three of us at the head of the campaign: he paid us each the same salary, and treated us as equals. Karl Rove was our political guru, in charge of the overall strategy; Joe Albaugh was the campaign manager who liked to be known as 'the enforcer;' and I was the communicator, responsible for the message. Joe called us 'the brain, the brawn and the bite'."

(Okay, I'm going to cheat. I'm going to quote from the other book that was sitting atop this one.)

3:16 by Max Lucado

"Millions who face the chill of empty pockets or the fears of sudden change turn to Christ. Why? Because he's been there. He's been to Nazareth, where he made deadlines and paid bills; to Galilee, where he recruited direct reports and separated fighters; to Jerusalem, where he stared down critics and stood up against cynics."

So there you have it. Anyone want to play along?

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