Monday, May 15, 2006
Tomorrow
This time tomorrow, I will be at the hospital preparing for surgery. I am not worried or stressed about it, but later I might be. It will hit me when I get up and cannot have a cup of coffee. That will tend to throw my whole morning off and remind me that something is different. It is outpatient surgery, so I am planning to be back home tomorrow evening. And I expect to be fine by Wednesday. Is that asking too much?
Sunday, May 14, 2006
How Does That Happen
Yesterday I spent over an hour writing a tribute to my mother. When I went to publish it, poof! It disappeared. I have yet to try again to put my thoughts into writing.
To me, written words are to be cherished. Spoken words can be forgotten, but once written down, they are forever. It's true that hateful, angry words spewed off of one's tongue are usually etched into a memory, but it is the soft, meaningful words that can be lost. I'm one of those who would still prefer an old fashioned, hand-written note to a phone call for just that reason. The tribute I typed here for my mom was to go into her card after I wrote it. So I will definately try again. Sigh. Happy Mother's Day Mom, and to all of the other moms too!
To me, written words are to be cherished. Spoken words can be forgotten, but once written down, they are forever. It's true that hateful, angry words spewed off of one's tongue are usually etched into a memory, but it is the soft, meaningful words that can be lost. I'm one of those who would still prefer an old fashioned, hand-written note to a phone call for just that reason. The tribute I typed here for my mom was to go into her card after I wrote it. So I will definately try again. Sigh. Happy Mother's Day Mom, and to all of the other moms too!
Friday, May 12, 2006
Weight Loss
I've been wanting to lose weight for some time. Diets have been started and stopped many times. I thought it would be so much fun to have dramatic before and after pictures. The hard part is always taking the dreaded before pics. I wanted to look my worst so I could later look great. At the same time, I dispise those before/after photos in which a woman has no makeup, bad hair and sweats, while the after photo shows a perfectly manicured one. I want to see the before fat, but not someone totally unkept. (And I really didn't want anyone else to take the picture and see how awful I really looked, as if they hadn't noticed. Sheesh!)
I don't believe I ever got my worst photo. Oh, I have plenty of very bad ones where I look horrendous, just none which shows enough flab. I've been working out and wanted to show muscle definition in the after photo.
I don't have those photos yet, but I've lost almost 20 lbs and still losing. I'm so excited. Michael has lost 22 lbs. Why didn't we take a fat photo together? Oh well, I'm going to be happy with the new slimmer us with or without the photos.
I don't believe I ever got my worst photo. Oh, I have plenty of very bad ones where I look horrendous, just none which shows enough flab. I've been working out and wanted to show muscle definition in the after photo.
I don't have those photos yet, but I've lost almost 20 lbs and still losing. I'm so excited. Michael has lost 22 lbs. Why didn't we take a fat photo together? Oh well, I'm going to be happy with the new slimmer us with or without the photos.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Cheesecake
I made a cheesecake yesterday. The recipe called for a liqueur. Not being very knowledgeable in alcoholic beverages, I ventured out to find one. I needed such a tiny amount and all I found were huge bottles. Then I happened upon this cherry syrup:
The little hat caught my attention (no doubt the marketing ploy.) I picked it up and went to pay for Milady Cherry Liqueur. She did indeed look like a little lady wearing the hat. At the checkout counter I found some small bottles of liqueur, but at this point, I just could not put back this cute little Miss.
After making the cheesecake, the bottle was sitting on the counter. My daughter was helping me clean the kitchen.
"What is this little hat for?" I told her it went on top of the bottle and I supposed that she could throw it out as it wasn't necessary to save it. But before doing so, I wanted to show her how cute it was and put it back atop the bottle. At that point, there is no way I could throw it out.
"You know, if you girls were still little, I'd give you this hat for your barbies." Sarabeth responded, "Yeah, Mom, I know. I was just thinking the same thing." Immediately we were both transported back to Barbie Land.
Growing up, I had the best dressed barbies. My mother and grandmother would sew or knit clothing for them. The outfits were coveted by all of the neighbor girls and friends who had the privilege of playing barbies at our home. My sisters and I were so inspired that we spent hours ourselves creating our own clothing for them when we learned to sew. I don't think we played dolls as much as we made clothes and just dressed them.
My oldest 2 daughters had the privilege of playing barbies while my grandmother was alive. Once again, my girls had the most fashionably dressed dolls around. They too spent time creating clothing, even when it was just cut-out fabric with holes for arms and string tied around the waists. (I did not inherit the seamstress genes.) But in all those years, I don't recall ever having hats to complete an outfit. This hat would have been to die for.
The little hat caught my attention (no doubt the marketing ploy.) I picked it up and went to pay for Milady Cherry Liqueur. She did indeed look like a little lady wearing the hat. At the checkout counter I found some small bottles of liqueur, but at this point, I just could not put back this cute little Miss.
After making the cheesecake, the bottle was sitting on the counter. My daughter was helping me clean the kitchen.
"What is this little hat for?" I told her it went on top of the bottle and I supposed that she could throw it out as it wasn't necessary to save it. But before doing so, I wanted to show her how cute it was and put it back atop the bottle. At that point, there is no way I could throw it out.
"You know, if you girls were still little, I'd give you this hat for your barbies." Sarabeth responded, "Yeah, Mom, I know. I was just thinking the same thing." Immediately we were both transported back to Barbie Land.
Growing up, I had the best dressed barbies. My mother and grandmother would sew or knit clothing for them. The outfits were coveted by all of the neighbor girls and friends who had the privilege of playing barbies at our home. My sisters and I were so inspired that we spent hours ourselves creating our own clothing for them when we learned to sew. I don't think we played dolls as much as we made clothes and just dressed them.
My oldest 2 daughters had the privilege of playing barbies while my grandmother was alive. Once again, my girls had the most fashionably dressed dolls around. They too spent time creating clothing, even when it was just cut-out fabric with holes for arms and string tied around the waists. (I did not inherit the seamstress genes.) But in all those years, I don't recall ever having hats to complete an outfit. This hat would have been to die for.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Chatty
I learned yesterday that it is best to avoid certain individuals who can't seem to speak without using hand gestures. I had to have my blood drawn and I made the mistake of being chatty to the lab tech. She got the needle in my arm and I must have said something that stirred her emotions. She reacted by trying to say something with the hand waving technique, completely forgetting that her hands were busy with a very sharp needle in my vein. She instantly realized it was a bad idea and apologized while digging around to find the vein that escaped. Next time I have to have my blood drawn I'll either be very quiet or run the other way if I notice a hand talker.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Glasses
Here are the new glasses! This was taken after we made cookie dough and Ethan is in the midst of devouring as much of the dough as he can before the cookies are baked.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Ethan's Glasses
Christina called me.
"Mom. Ethan has to get glasses."
"How can they tell? How do they figure out what a child needs when he can't tell them?" My curious, a bit skeptical of their accuracy, brain wants to know. I'm wondering what I would end up with if I had my eyes examined without the "which looks better, A or B questions.
"Mom, I don't want him to have to wear glasses. How am I supposed to get him to wear them?"
"Oh, I think he will like them. Remember how much he loves to put on those safety goggles?" I'm trying to be positive while walking through the grocery store talking on my cell phone. I hadn't noticed the pain in her voice.
"I really didn't want him to have to wear glasses. Why can't Ethan get a break? He doesn't need one more reason for people to stare at him." I suddenly realized what she was saying and could hear tears in her quivering voice. "Not very many 3 year olds wear glasses. When they do, people stare. I just want him to look cute so he is more accepted.
I stopped walking. I didn't have an answer. I'm standing in the middle of the grocery store with tears welling up in my eyes. I want to hug my daughter. I want to hold my grandson and make things better. I know wearing glasses isn't the end of the world. I want to tell my daughter the plus side of the glasses, that Ethan will enjoy life more. We won't see him crossing his eyes when he tries to focus. But at that moment she isn't looking for answers. She just needs someone to hear what she is feeling and to understand. When there are no words, communicating via telephone falls drastically short. So I stand there hugging my phone, with no words coming out. I hope she understands the meaning.
"Mom. Ethan has to get glasses."
"How can they tell? How do they figure out what a child needs when he can't tell them?" My curious, a bit skeptical of their accuracy, brain wants to know. I'm wondering what I would end up with if I had my eyes examined without the "which looks better, A or B questions.
"Mom, I don't want him to have to wear glasses. How am I supposed to get him to wear them?"
"Oh, I think he will like them. Remember how much he loves to put on those safety goggles?" I'm trying to be positive while walking through the grocery store talking on my cell phone. I hadn't noticed the pain in her voice.
"I really didn't want him to have to wear glasses. Why can't Ethan get a break? He doesn't need one more reason for people to stare at him." I suddenly realized what she was saying and could hear tears in her quivering voice. "Not very many 3 year olds wear glasses. When they do, people stare. I just want him to look cute so he is more accepted.
I stopped walking. I didn't have an answer. I'm standing in the middle of the grocery store with tears welling up in my eyes. I want to hug my daughter. I want to hold my grandson and make things better. I know wearing glasses isn't the end of the world. I want to tell my daughter the plus side of the glasses, that Ethan will enjoy life more. We won't see him crossing his eyes when he tries to focus. But at that moment she isn't looking for answers. She just needs someone to hear what she is feeling and to understand. When there are no words, communicating via telephone falls drastically short. So I stand there hugging my phone, with no words coming out. I hope she understands the meaning.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
When it rains it pours
I hadn't cleaned out the refrigerator in over 2 weeks. Ick! I probably would have put if off a bit longer, but I could not cram a single more thing into it. It was grocery shopping day and so it was a necessity.
I began emptying plastic containers of tidbits of leftovers. Nothing was growing anything furry, nor did I find anything unrecognizable. (I'm doing better people.) But why did I save 1/4 cup black beans? It's not like one of the teens is going to open the fridge, say "yum! black beans," open the lid and have a snack. Thanks to my temperamental garbage disposal I emptied the containers into the trash can. I found out the hard way once, after cleaning out my 'fridge. I poured the leftover down the infamous garbage disposer. Afterall, isn't that what the name implies? Not sure if it was the true culprit or the pipes that regurgitated, but the stuff did NOT go down. Two hundred dollars later, the plumber asks if I had just cleaned out my refrigerator. "How did you know?" I queried. Apparently, it happens all of the time. But I've been diligent ever since.
Now who leaves a half-eaten individual pudding container with a spoon in it? Are we really so spoon deprived that she was afraid we wouldn't have any when she came back to finish it off? (Which of course, never happened.) Somehow in the midst of dumping garbage I managed to knock the can over. Out spilled the gooey, slimy contents all over the kitchen floor. That pudding container flew across the room flinging chocolate goo onto the cabinets. I tried to be thankful. At least the can didn't go down my carpeted stairs...wet coffee grounds are especially hard to get off that beige carpet. (Ask me how I know.) Why is my garbage can now protesting and regurgitating? Is the food that bad?
At this point Michael walks in with a gentleman to get an estimate on some work that needs to be done. I smiled and kept right on cleaning. I came across the last container. It was saurkraut. The odor was quite strong. I had just emptied the trash outside, so decided this one could go down the garbage disposal and hopefully the smell with it. I sent it down that grinding hole and tossed a small squishy orange after it hoping to mask the odor. I was finally finished. Off to the laundry room to attack the next chore.
That was when I noticed a strange scent. Walking into the laundry room it was unmistakable. There next to the washer, on top of my freshly folded clothes was saurkraut and water. Darn! It wasn't that nasty disposal afterall. It was the pipes that had it in for me. They were the true perpetrator in the food and water assaults. The floor was also swimming in water mixed with the earlier contents of my purging of the fridge. I had a doctor appointment in a half an hour and I did NOT have time for this. I won't bore you with how the rest of the day went, but after picking up kids, school meetings and such, I finally got back to getting that mess cleaned up sometime around 11p.m.
So this morning, I found a repeat of regurgitated water from my coffee maker on my counter. I wanted to cry. Something about water mixed with anything chunky has it in for me. It was my own fault. I forgot to put a filter in, so the ground clogged the hole causing the brown liquid to overflow onto the counter where I have the lunch and breakfast stuff laid out. I give! I will not try to mix any kind of food, grounds, or anything not liquid with water again. I will forever keep them separated and never contaminate a receptacle for water.
I began emptying plastic containers of tidbits of leftovers. Nothing was growing anything furry, nor did I find anything unrecognizable. (I'm doing better people.) But why did I save 1/4 cup black beans? It's not like one of the teens is going to open the fridge, say "yum! black beans," open the lid and have a snack. Thanks to my temperamental garbage disposal I emptied the containers into the trash can. I found out the hard way once, after cleaning out my 'fridge. I poured the leftover down the infamous garbage disposer. Afterall, isn't that what the name implies? Not sure if it was the true culprit or the pipes that regurgitated, but the stuff did NOT go down. Two hundred dollars later, the plumber asks if I had just cleaned out my refrigerator. "How did you know?" I queried. Apparently, it happens all of the time. But I've been diligent ever since.
Now who leaves a half-eaten individual pudding container with a spoon in it? Are we really so spoon deprived that she was afraid we wouldn't have any when she came back to finish it off? (Which of course, never happened.) Somehow in the midst of dumping garbage I managed to knock the can over. Out spilled the gooey, slimy contents all over the kitchen floor. That pudding container flew across the room flinging chocolate goo onto the cabinets. I tried to be thankful. At least the can didn't go down my carpeted stairs...wet coffee grounds are especially hard to get off that beige carpet. (Ask me how I know.) Why is my garbage can now protesting and regurgitating? Is the food that bad?
At this point Michael walks in with a gentleman to get an estimate on some work that needs to be done. I smiled and kept right on cleaning. I came across the last container. It was saurkraut. The odor was quite strong. I had just emptied the trash outside, so decided this one could go down the garbage disposal and hopefully the smell with it. I sent it down that grinding hole and tossed a small squishy orange after it hoping to mask the odor. I was finally finished. Off to the laundry room to attack the next chore.
That was when I noticed a strange scent. Walking into the laundry room it was unmistakable. There next to the washer, on top of my freshly folded clothes was saurkraut and water. Darn! It wasn't that nasty disposal afterall. It was the pipes that had it in for me. They were the true perpetrator in the food and water assaults. The floor was also swimming in water mixed with the earlier contents of my purging of the fridge. I had a doctor appointment in a half an hour and I did NOT have time for this. I won't bore you with how the rest of the day went, but after picking up kids, school meetings and such, I finally got back to getting that mess cleaned up sometime around 11p.m.
So this morning, I found a repeat of regurgitated water from my coffee maker on my counter. I wanted to cry. Something about water mixed with anything chunky has it in for me. It was my own fault. I forgot to put a filter in, so the ground clogged the hole causing the brown liquid to overflow onto the counter where I have the lunch and breakfast stuff laid out. I give! I will not try to mix any kind of food, grounds, or anything not liquid with water again. I will forever keep them separated and never contaminate a receptacle for water.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Extravagant Love
Extravagant: Given to lavish or imprudent expenditure
Exceeding reasonable bounds
Extremely abundant; profuse
Unreasonably high; exorbitant
So what does extravagant love mean? Growing up, I knew my parents loved me. When I got married, I hoped my husband loved me. When I surrendered my life to Christ, I was overwhelmed with the thought that He not only loved me, but thought of me and saw something of value. When you value something, you invest in it. You spend time caring for it. Nothing is too great a price to protect it. How many people feel lavishly loved? How many of us know what it means to be extravagantly loved?
Speaking with others, some mention intense feelings and emotion of love when they found "the one." While dating, they felt valued-that nothing was too unreasonable for the other to give in order to express that love. I can't say that Michael and I had an intense, passionate dating/relationship experience. Sometimes I look back and wonder if we even liked each other. We were both self-centered and protective of our hearts.
I did not feel treasured when we married, like I was so deeply loved he couldn't live without me. It was almost as if he just put up with me. Truthfully, he probably felt the same way. I spent years trying to be the perfect wife, hoping somehow I'd earn his undying affection. I came to understand that you cannot make someone love you. It is a choice on their part. Love cannot be forced.
Life has changed. Every day I wake up, the only way to describe what I am living is in Extravagant Love. Michael tells me the sweetest things. He'll say I'm the best thing that has ever happened in his life. He asks, "have I told you today that I love you," or "Did I tell you today how beautiful you are?" And when I look into his eyes, I can see it. He is passionate.
This passionate love is seen as he has lavished gifts upon me. Money is very important to him. He has always been frugal and only invests in what he believes will benefit him or something that will retain it value or increase in value. He does not waste his precious resources. Never has. For him to be so extravagant, shouts to me "I am worthy of his love." (Which of course I'm not. But I do feel like a rare gemstone that he is pouring everything he has into so it will keep its value and preciousness.)
I've been given a love I never believed would be mine. I cannot believe that after being with this man for 23+ years that I could love him more and more each day. I want to give this treasured feeling, extravagant love back to him. I want to share it with everyone I know and those I don't.
I believe this is just a glimpse of the love that God wants to pour out on me and you. When love is nurtured, it grows. It is like a tender plant. With proper care it will flourish and multiply. It will reproduce its own kind. It will bear fruit. And it gives back to the original source of love in its own extravagant way. I don't want to be a reflection of this love. I want to live it overflowing.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Men, Cars, Reversing
I am curious. Has anyone else noticed this? Go to any parking lot. It doesn't matter if it is the grocery store, the mall, a church. Any parking lot will do. Watch for awhile. How often do you see a female backing into a parking spot? So far, I've yet to find one. If you see that reverse light go on, the driver will almost certainly be male. Is driving in reverse akin to driving fast? Is there an adrenaline rush when the shift to R is made?
When my son was home over Easter weekend, I let him drive my car. (Does it sound like my thoughts are centered around this car? I suppose if you count 3 dreams last week, I do think about it a lot.) Anyway, each time Christopher got home, he'd back the car into the garage. He's a pro at backing up. Yes, that means he gets paid. He works as a Valet Parking Attendant. Michael thought it was actually a good idea for my car to be backed into the garage. That way when I opened my car door, it wasn't next to his car.
I've never much liked spending much time in reverse-only when necessary. I may occasionally get an adrenaline rush, but it is pure fear. I suspect this comes from having driven large vehicles for so long. When you drive a full size van, there are blind spots when backing up. That can be scary. The same is true of a Suburban. It is also true in my S2000 if the top is up. (Truthfully, I've only driven twice with the top up. Once was Monday when it was snowing.) But with the top down, it is pretty safe to reverse.
I'm not an expert reverser yet. I can never get the car in the same place twice. This morning Michael said he reversed my car into the garage. What? You drove my car before I got up? "No," he replied. "I just pulled it out and backed it in. I wanted to see if it was as hard as you make it look."
"And, was it?"
"Nope," he grinned. "It's exactly where it should be."
I am curious. Has anyone else noticed this? Go to any parking lot. It doesn't matter if it is the grocery store, the mall, a church. Any parking lot will do. Watch for awhile. How often do you see a female backing into a parking spot? So far, I've yet to find one. If you see that reverse light go on, the driver will almost certainly be male. Is driving in reverse akin to driving fast? Is there an adrenaline rush when the shift to R is made?
When my son was home over Easter weekend, I let him drive my car. (Does it sound like my thoughts are centered around this car? I suppose if you count 3 dreams last week, I do think about it a lot.) Anyway, each time Christopher got home, he'd back the car into the garage. He's a pro at backing up. Yes, that means he gets paid. He works as a Valet Parking Attendant. Michael thought it was actually a good idea for my car to be backed into the garage. That way when I opened my car door, it wasn't next to his car.
I've never much liked spending much time in reverse-only when necessary. I may occasionally get an adrenaline rush, but it is pure fear. I suspect this comes from having driven large vehicles for so long. When you drive a full size van, there are blind spots when backing up. That can be scary. The same is true of a Suburban. It is also true in my S2000 if the top is up. (Truthfully, I've only driven twice with the top up. Once was Monday when it was snowing.) But with the top down, it is pretty safe to reverse.
I'm not an expert reverser yet. I can never get the car in the same place twice. This morning Michael said he reversed my car into the garage. What? You drove my car before I got up? "No," he replied. "I just pulled it out and backed it in. I wanted to see if it was as hard as you make it look."
"And, was it?"
"Nope," he grinned. "It's exactly where it should be."
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
It Happens
It was bound to happen. At least that is what everyone keeps telling me. Last week my baby turned 1 month old. (Yes, my baby is yellow, and some people refer to it as a sports car.) I've been taking such good care of it and its pristine interior/exterior. Saturday, after washing her up real nice, I was feeling quite generous. So I took my 16 year old out to teach her to drive a standard transmission.
She is currently driving my old baby, a 1999 Chevy Suburban. I took darn good care of her too. After 6 years I'd had no accidents, no fender-benders, hardly a door ding in that big white truck. I did manage to catch the side mirror-twice backing out of the garage. It chipped a bit off of the plastic. (Whose idea was it to put plastic mirrors on a truck????) When Michael found out those mirrors were $600 to replace, and since I'd bumped it twice, the chipped and cracked mirror is the only reminder of any negligence to my truck.
Last Tuesday, after arriving at school, I received a teary-eyed phone call from Sarabeth.
"What's wrong" I asked.
"Can I come home?" She barely managed to squeeze out.
"What's wrong?" I repeat.
"When I was pulling into my parking spot I hit Jen's car. It broke her tail light out. I went into the school to find her. The worst part is when she saw me she hugged me. She told me she was having a terrible day and was happy to see me and needed a hug. I told her, that her day was about to get worse..."
Michael handled it all so well. Very different than when our oldest was driving our big blue van and she stopped at a stop sign and her brother's head hit the windshield, cracking it. She didn't drive again for 2 years. This time, when Sarabeth arrived home, Michael took her in his arms and held her as she cried. He let her know that now that she'd had her first incident she could quit worrying about it. Also, that the first one was "free," he'd take care of it. (I did cringe when I saw the slightest mark on my old faithful truck bumper. She was showing the first scars of teenage driving.)
Back to Saturday. Since she'd had such a rough week with cars, I thought Sarabeth would enjoy learning to drive mine. We arrived at a vacant, recently closed Target parking lot. I taught the basics of clutching, shifting, braking. My little flame handled it well, stalling only a few times, a bit of grinding, revving the engine and if Sarabeth could just remember to take her foot off of the gas after pushing in the clutch. Driving got a little smoother. I was starting to get sunburned, so decided maybe we'd gotten far enough to let the new shifter drive my car home. And then it happened. We hit a dip a bit hard, going too fast. The car scraped on the bottom. It was a terrible scratching sound. I'd heard this sound before in Michael's car. His sits low to the ground and scrapes if you get to close to those concrete parking barriers. Ok, we'd survive. I let her drive home. We made it with only 1 stall.
I took my keys back and was happy to have them back in my possession. It wasn't until later when Michael asked me if I'd parked to close to something that I even questioned that there might have been damage.
When I looked I wanted to cry. The whole front of my car, that beautiful yellow fiberglass was scraped with black showing through. It's only 1/2-1 inch, but it is across most of the front. Sigh. I wasn't as kind as Michael. I didn't yell or get outwardly angry, but I was sullen the rest of the day. It wasn't as if this was a precious golden calf. Or was it?
She is currently driving my old baby, a 1999 Chevy Suburban. I took darn good care of her too. After 6 years I'd had no accidents, no fender-benders, hardly a door ding in that big white truck. I did manage to catch the side mirror-twice backing out of the garage. It chipped a bit off of the plastic. (Whose idea was it to put plastic mirrors on a truck????) When Michael found out those mirrors were $600 to replace, and since I'd bumped it twice, the chipped and cracked mirror is the only reminder of any negligence to my truck.
Last Tuesday, after arriving at school, I received a teary-eyed phone call from Sarabeth.
"What's wrong" I asked.
"Can I come home?" She barely managed to squeeze out.
"What's wrong?" I repeat.
"When I was pulling into my parking spot I hit Jen's car. It broke her tail light out. I went into the school to find her. The worst part is when she saw me she hugged me. She told me she was having a terrible day and was happy to see me and needed a hug. I told her, that her day was about to get worse..."
Michael handled it all so well. Very different than when our oldest was driving our big blue van and she stopped at a stop sign and her brother's head hit the windshield, cracking it. She didn't drive again for 2 years. This time, when Sarabeth arrived home, Michael took her in his arms and held her as she cried. He let her know that now that she'd had her first incident she could quit worrying about it. Also, that the first one was "free," he'd take care of it. (I did cringe when I saw the slightest mark on my old faithful truck bumper. She was showing the first scars of teenage driving.)
Back to Saturday. Since she'd had such a rough week with cars, I thought Sarabeth would enjoy learning to drive mine. We arrived at a vacant, recently closed Target parking lot. I taught the basics of clutching, shifting, braking. My little flame handled it well, stalling only a few times, a bit of grinding, revving the engine and if Sarabeth could just remember to take her foot off of the gas after pushing in the clutch. Driving got a little smoother. I was starting to get sunburned, so decided maybe we'd gotten far enough to let the new shifter drive my car home. And then it happened. We hit a dip a bit hard, going too fast. The car scraped on the bottom. It was a terrible scratching sound. I'd heard this sound before in Michael's car. His sits low to the ground and scrapes if you get to close to those concrete parking barriers. Ok, we'd survive. I let her drive home. We made it with only 1 stall.
I took my keys back and was happy to have them back in my possession. It wasn't until later when Michael asked me if I'd parked to close to something that I even questioned that there might have been damage.
When I looked I wanted to cry. The whole front of my car, that beautiful yellow fiberglass was scraped with black showing through. It's only 1/2-1 inch, but it is across most of the front. Sigh. I wasn't as kind as Michael. I didn't yell or get outwardly angry, but I was sullen the rest of the day. It wasn't as if this was a precious golden calf. Or was it?
Monday, April 24, 2006
Funeral
I'm on my way to a funeral. I received a phone call last night that an old friend had lost her son. He was 29 and had custody of his two young boys. It was very unexpected. He had a heart attack. His 4 and 6 year old found their father in the bathroom and couldn't help him. The only phone, a cell phone was in their father's pocket. They waited the night out until their grandmother arrived the next day to find her son dead on the bathroom floor. The children sad because they could not help their father. They couldn't even unlock the front door to go for help.
We don't know what tomorrow holds, or even today. I am thankful for the breath I am breathing, in spite of allergies. I won't complain because of this temporary discomfort. It will pass. The pain of losing a son will not. I cannot imagine, nor will I pretend to comprehend what my friend is walking through. Honestly, I don't even want to think about the devastation. But I will. However feeble my hands may be, I will offer my support. I will stand and allow her to lean. Knowing the only way any of us stand or walk, or take our next breath, is by God's grace, we will hold onto Him together.
We don't know what tomorrow holds, or even today. I am thankful for the breath I am breathing, in spite of allergies. I won't complain because of this temporary discomfort. It will pass. The pain of losing a son will not. I cannot imagine, nor will I pretend to comprehend what my friend is walking through. Honestly, I don't even want to think about the devastation. But I will. However feeble my hands may be, I will offer my support. I will stand and allow her to lean. Knowing the only way any of us stand or walk, or take our next breath, is by God's grace, we will hold onto Him together.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Upside Down
At times in our life, we feel as if our world has been turned upside down. Maybe what we don't realize, is that we are just looking at it from the wrong perspective. It might take the help of someone else for us to notice that our world really isn't upside down, we just aren't looking at it the way others see it. My kids showed me a clear picture of why I am feeling so out-of-sorts.
So there really isn't anything wrong in my world, just me seeing things wacky.
"For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
Nor are your ways My ways,” says the LORD.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
So are My ways higher than your ways,
And My thoughts than your thoughts." (Is.55:8-9)
So there really isn't anything wrong in my world, just me seeing things wacky.
"For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
Nor are your ways My ways,” says the LORD.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
So are My ways higher than your ways,
And My thoughts than your thoughts." (Is.55:8-9)
Thursday, April 13, 2006
He's My Son
I was driving in my car, the top down, listening to the radio. I was thinking about this weekend. Christopher is flying in for Easter. He hasn't been home since Christmas. Then this song came on the radio. Tears filled my eyes. I haven't heard this song for over 2 years. I remembered the last time this song played. I was driving then also, but instead of tears, I erupted into full-fledged sobbing.
It was August. I had the privilege of driving 900 miles with Christopher to see him off to college. We had some great talks along the way. But, have you ever been to Phoenix in August? It was 115 degrees. Christopher's dorm was on the 3rd floor. No elevator, just concrete steps that were outdoors. So up and down we went carrying boxes, bedding, more boxes, computer, a small refrigerator, boxes, microwave and even more boxes in the blistering heat. When we finally carried the last load up those steps we sat in his room trying to cool down. The air conditioning was running, but I sure didn't feel cooler. I was dripping wet with sweat, red in the face and dog-tired. I said good-bye and took my last trip down the stairs.
I was holding up pretty well. Mostly, because I was wiped out and wanting to cool down. While I was driving, that song came on the radio. I melted into heap of emotion and cried my eyes out.
"He's My Son"
I'm down on my knees again tonight,
I'm hopin' this prayer will turn out right.
See, there is a boy that needs Your help.
I've done all that I can do myself
His mother is tired,
I'm sure You can understand.
Each night as he sleeps
She goes in to hold his hand,
And she tries
Not to cry
As the tears fill her eyes.
Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.
Sometimes late at night I watch him sleep,
I dream of the boy he'd like to be.
I try to be strong and see him through,
But God, who he needs right now is You.
Let him grow old,
Live life without this fear.
What would I be
Living without him here?
He's so tired,
And he's scared
Let him know that You're there.
Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.
Can You hear me?
Can You see him?
Please don't leave him,
He's my son.
It was August. I had the privilege of driving 900 miles with Christopher to see him off to college. We had some great talks along the way. But, have you ever been to Phoenix in August? It was 115 degrees. Christopher's dorm was on the 3rd floor. No elevator, just concrete steps that were outdoors. So up and down we went carrying boxes, bedding, more boxes, computer, a small refrigerator, boxes, microwave and even more boxes in the blistering heat. When we finally carried the last load up those steps we sat in his room trying to cool down. The air conditioning was running, but I sure didn't feel cooler. I was dripping wet with sweat, red in the face and dog-tired. I said good-bye and took my last trip down the stairs.
I was holding up pretty well. Mostly, because I was wiped out and wanting to cool down. While I was driving, that song came on the radio. I melted into heap of emotion and cried my eyes out.
"He's My Son"
I'm down on my knees again tonight,
I'm hopin' this prayer will turn out right.
See, there is a boy that needs Your help.
I've done all that I can do myself
His mother is tired,
I'm sure You can understand.
Each night as he sleeps
She goes in to hold his hand,
And she tries
Not to cry
As the tears fill her eyes.
Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.
Sometimes late at night I watch him sleep,
I dream of the boy he'd like to be.
I try to be strong and see him through,
But God, who he needs right now is You.
Let him grow old,
Live life without this fear.
What would I be
Living without him here?
He's so tired,
And he's scared
Let him know that You're there.
Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
Let me take his place some how.
See, he's not just anyone, he's my son.
Can You hear me?
Can You see him?
Please don't leave him,
He's my son.
Monday, April 10, 2006
What will they think of next?
It was a gorgeous spring day yesterday. My girls were sunning themselves and found the sidewalk chalk. They decided to pose and then outline their shadows. It was quite amusing. Elisabeth, my gymnast, had to take her poses to the next level.
I didn't get pics of their chalk outlines, but am going to try before they are all erased. I love that the kids still find ways to entertain themselves without getting into trouble.
I didn't get pics of their chalk outlines, but am going to try before they are all erased. I love that the kids still find ways to entertain themselves without getting into trouble.
Friday, April 07, 2006
I'm A Godmother
When my niece was born, I had the privilege of becoming a godmother. I take my responsibility seriously, and feel it is important to invest in her life. I want to do everything I can to help her grow up and use her gifts and talents. I'm trying to figure out if she has some artistic ability like my mom, her grandmother.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Twenty-Five Years
Twenty-five years ago, at 5:04 p.m. I became a mom. My little girl weighed in at a mere 5 lbs. 6 oz. Because of her low weight, she was whisked away shortly after her birth. I caught just a glimpse of her and the first words out of my mouth were, "She's real!" To which the reply came, "yeah, they quit giving out fake ones a long time ago." I don't believe I'm the only one to utter something foolish at seeing a newborn. My mom says the first time my dad laid eyes on me, he remarked, "she looks like a dried-up monkey without a tail." Thanks, Dad. (Now I know where I get it from.)
Happy Birthday Christina!
Looking at that tiny newborn, I was filled with hopes and dreams for her. Seeing her as an adult, I couldn't be more proud of the lovely lady she has become. Christina is a mom herself now. A mom's life isn't usually described as easy, but Christina has some added challenges. She is a single mom to a child with special needs. Watching her as she so lovingly cares for him, I am overwhelmed with emotion. God couldn't have picked a more perfect mom for Ethan.
Happy Birthday Christina!
Looking at that tiny newborn, I was filled with hopes and dreams for her. Seeing her as an adult, I couldn't be more proud of the lovely lady she has become. Christina is a mom herself now. A mom's life isn't usually described as easy, but Christina has some added challenges. She is a single mom to a child with special needs. Watching her as she so lovingly cares for him, I am overwhelmed with emotion. God couldn't have picked a more perfect mom for Ethan.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Duct Tape
I've always heard men can fix just about anything with duct tape. The funny thing is, I have never seen my darling fix anything with duct tape. He prefers to fix things the "proper" way. (Probably why I married him.)
I, on the other hand, love duct tape. Recently, when I went out to his work bench to borrow it, I found we had RED. Now isn't that a fun color! My lil' Ethan snapped a little plastic piece off of the back of my MP3 player. (No, I don't have an IPOD.) So with just a little strip of red, I can wear it again while working out. Thankfully, the back is against my skin so it doesn't show.
Another creative use for duct tape is a quick hem for pants. I've done this for years with jeans. I am not very tall and it is hard to find the right length. Plus, I like to wear different shoes. So if I'm in the mood for heals, great. If I want to wear flats, out comes the duct tape. Voila! In just a few minutes, my jeans are the perfect length. I've also been known to hem pants in the old fashioned way, but too many times have cut them off to short. After sewing, tearing it out and resewing the smallest possible hem they were still too short even for flats. (At least without my kids saying they would die of embarrassment if I wore them in public.) So I revert to duct tape.
Last week I decided to wear a pair of black slacks to church. My toenails were not polished, so I couldn't wear a dress and open shoes. I pulled out a pair of black pants that were new. Ugh! Way too long. Out came the red duct tape. Worked great, until I decided to wear the same pair of pants this week.
It was beautiful outside, I was having a great hair day as I strutted into church. I saw a few heads turn and watch me walk by. They must have noticed my hair. It wasn't until after much singing and I sat down that I noticed the bunched up red duct tape hanging off the bottom of my black pants. At that point I was wishing we'd had black duct tape. Of course once the tape has been tromped on it is folded on itself and there is no way to unfold it. It was useless to try to pry it apart and restick it. Should I sit there in church and pull off the rest of the tape in the front so each leg would drag freely all around? Or should I just let it drag in the back with the possibility of pulling the other pieces loose?
Let's just say, I'm going to cut off the bottom of those pants and try hemming them with needle and thread. The stickiness leftover after the duct tape has been removed on slacks is a magnet for dirt and does NOT wash off. (I never had this trouble with jeans before.) So I will never hem slacks again with red duct tape. Well, maybe if I can find black duct tape.
I, on the other hand, love duct tape. Recently, when I went out to his work bench to borrow it, I found we had RED. Now isn't that a fun color! My lil' Ethan snapped a little plastic piece off of the back of my MP3 player. (No, I don't have an IPOD.) So with just a little strip of red, I can wear it again while working out. Thankfully, the back is against my skin so it doesn't show.
Another creative use for duct tape is a quick hem for pants. I've done this for years with jeans. I am not very tall and it is hard to find the right length. Plus, I like to wear different shoes. So if I'm in the mood for heals, great. If I want to wear flats, out comes the duct tape. Voila! In just a few minutes, my jeans are the perfect length. I've also been known to hem pants in the old fashioned way, but too many times have cut them off to short. After sewing, tearing it out and resewing the smallest possible hem they were still too short even for flats. (At least without my kids saying they would die of embarrassment if I wore them in public.) So I revert to duct tape.
Last week I decided to wear a pair of black slacks to church. My toenails were not polished, so I couldn't wear a dress and open shoes. I pulled out a pair of black pants that were new. Ugh! Way too long. Out came the red duct tape. Worked great, until I decided to wear the same pair of pants this week.
It was beautiful outside, I was having a great hair day as I strutted into church. I saw a few heads turn and watch me walk by. They must have noticed my hair. It wasn't until after much singing and I sat down that I noticed the bunched up red duct tape hanging off the bottom of my black pants. At that point I was wishing we'd had black duct tape. Of course once the tape has been tromped on it is folded on itself and there is no way to unfold it. It was useless to try to pry it apart and restick it. Should I sit there in church and pull off the rest of the tape in the front so each leg would drag freely all around? Or should I just let it drag in the back with the possibility of pulling the other pieces loose?
Let's just say, I'm going to cut off the bottom of those pants and try hemming them with needle and thread. The stickiness leftover after the duct tape has been removed on slacks is a magnet for dirt and does NOT wash off. (I never had this trouble with jeans before.) So I will never hem slacks again with red duct tape. Well, maybe if I can find black duct tape.
It's Time To Go
As a young mom of lots of kids, I tried unsuccessfully to have a beautiful, well-maintained home. I very much wanted my home to be a reflection of Christ. We didn't own a single piece of new furniture. We had a little bit of shabby chic going on, much more of "shabby tacky" than chic.
With each pregnancy, I wished for an old fashioned rocking chair. My dear husband wondered why I would ever want to give up this lovely swivel rocker for a hard wooden one. Well, probably because it was a lime green, velvet, 20 year old chair that matched nothing in the room. The brown tweed couch wasn't particularly attractive either, but it did match the brown loveseat. I have to admit, the rocker was comfy to rest in at 2 a.m. feedings. And yes, there were times I remember my head must have leaned back and I actually dozed during some of those feedings. The chair was an eyesore, but it became my comforter.
I grew accustomed to the squeak at one particular juncture in the rock. Rather than letting it be an irritant, I imagined it as a sing-song tune that helped my babies get back to sleep. That song helped rock sick children back to health. Could a hard wooden rocker do that?
One day I walked in the room to find Christopher sitting behind the chair. He had just learned to write his name. What better way to practice than on this bright green canvas in permanent marker? I wanted to cry. As if our furniture wasn't shabby enough, I now had to live with graffiti. And in my own living room. There on the back of the rocker, scrawled out in 5 year old penmanship were the letters:
C H R I S T
Either I interrupted his writing, or he ran out of room, but that is as far as Christopher got on his name.
I'd wanted my life and home to be a reflection of Christ and unbeknownst to me, I had a visual reminder, every day of that desire. Some days I had visitors. I wondered what they thought of our chair with Christ's name emblazoned on the back. I knew they saw it. But more importantly, did they see Christ in me?
I wish I could show you a picture, but after 16 years the letters have faded. All that remains is a shadow from a "miracle product" cleaner used a few years later. It actually removed some of the ink, and a bit of color from the chair. The chair is still here. How do you throw out Christ's chair?
When we moved into our present house, we invested in a few pieces of matching furniture. Christ's chair became a permanent fixture in Christopher's room. That room has now become Hilary's room. She has no fondness for an old worn-out chair that is no less than 30 years old. It now resides in a corner of the family room. I think it is time to let it go to the place where all good, completely used up furniture goes. But nothing will replace the memories. And although it is not visible, I know I wear CHRIST's name. I hope that it shines as brightly as those letters stood out, on the back of the chair. Thanks Christopher for sharing your name and Christ with so many. I'm glad you two share the same name!
With each pregnancy, I wished for an old fashioned rocking chair. My dear husband wondered why I would ever want to give up this lovely swivel rocker for a hard wooden one. Well, probably because it was a lime green, velvet, 20 year old chair that matched nothing in the room. The brown tweed couch wasn't particularly attractive either, but it did match the brown loveseat. I have to admit, the rocker was comfy to rest in at 2 a.m. feedings. And yes, there were times I remember my head must have leaned back and I actually dozed during some of those feedings. The chair was an eyesore, but it became my comforter.
I grew accustomed to the squeak at one particular juncture in the rock. Rather than letting it be an irritant, I imagined it as a sing-song tune that helped my babies get back to sleep. That song helped rock sick children back to health. Could a hard wooden rocker do that?
One day I walked in the room to find Christopher sitting behind the chair. He had just learned to write his name. What better way to practice than on this bright green canvas in permanent marker? I wanted to cry. As if our furniture wasn't shabby enough, I now had to live with graffiti. And in my own living room. There on the back of the rocker, scrawled out in 5 year old penmanship were the letters:
C H R I S T
Either I interrupted his writing, or he ran out of room, but that is as far as Christopher got on his name.
I'd wanted my life and home to be a reflection of Christ and unbeknownst to me, I had a visual reminder, every day of that desire. Some days I had visitors. I wondered what they thought of our chair with Christ's name emblazoned on the back. I knew they saw it. But more importantly, did they see Christ in me?
I wish I could show you a picture, but after 16 years the letters have faded. All that remains is a shadow from a "miracle product" cleaner used a few years later. It actually removed some of the ink, and a bit of color from the chair. The chair is still here. How do you throw out Christ's chair?
When we moved into our present house, we invested in a few pieces of matching furniture. Christ's chair became a permanent fixture in Christopher's room. That room has now become Hilary's room. She has no fondness for an old worn-out chair that is no less than 30 years old. It now resides in a corner of the family room. I think it is time to let it go to the place where all good, completely used up furniture goes. But nothing will replace the memories. And although it is not visible, I know I wear CHRIST's name. I hope that it shines as brightly as those letters stood out, on the back of the chair. Thanks Christopher for sharing your name and Christ with so many. I'm glad you two share the same name!
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Starbucks
Now look at this grin at getting a Starbucks drink. Imagine his horror when he found out it was NOT coffee. His smile faded pretty quick and he didn't drink any of it. How do I convince him he does NOT like coffee???
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