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.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
School
It was hard to send my kids back to school after Christmas break. I truly love staying up late and sleeping late. At the end of the first day, my girls came home exhausted. I knew the transition for Hilary would be tricky, she was up until after 1 a.m. the day before. I was surprised Sarabeth was struggling.
"I couldn't sleep last night. I don't know what was wrong. I felt like I was back in elementary school. I'm 18 years old, I wasn't stressed like back then, I was actually excited to go back." Her words took me back.
When Sarabeth was little, I hated sending the kids back to school after Christmas break, summer, spring break, even a long weekend. It wasn't because I wanted to sleep later. It was the hurt in my heart at seeing them leave. It was especially hard on Sarabeth.
In the car on the way to school, I would pray-both outloud and silently. Elisabeth would often chatter about an upcoming event or sing to herself. She would try to engage Sarabeth in conversation. I could hardly look over, for fear of her reaction. I didn't want to see the sadness in her eyes. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to reassure her, everything would be fine. But I knew her too well. It took more than a day to adjust to change, yes, even the change of the routine of a weekend.
After parking, we'd walk to where the children were lining by classrooms. Hugs and kisses to Elisabeth as she'd take her place in line. I'd try to get Sarabeth in line, but she'd insist on walking with me to take Hilary to hers. We'd stand next to her line, her hand in mine. We both knew the exact timing the prolonging had to end. An extended embrace, I'd pull her hands from around me and hold onto them for a second. A kiss, words of encouragement and then I had to look into those blue-green eyes. That was the hardest part. She didn't have to say it, but her eyes pleaded, "please take me home. I don't want to be here." She gripped my hands tighter, but would not look away. The familiar lump formed in my throat. I didn't want to look away. I wanted to whisk her back to the car. I wanted my little girl happy. I wanted to see her smile. I didn't want her to see me cry. But she'd never turn her eyes away until I did. One last squeeze, and I'd turn my back on her.
I watched from the car. Sarabeth's long hair, cascaded down her back in soft curls. The sides were pulled neatly up with a big bow. She stood unnaturally stiff, her dalmation backpack lost its cheeriness as it perched over her shoulders. The teacher came out and the class began to file into the building. I continued to watch, hoping she wouldn't look back. She looked like a soldier, marching to battle. Her hair didn't swing. Her curls didn't bounce the way they should. A happy child's hair just does that, it is the bounce in their steps. Sarabeth's hair never moved.
I'd like to say this only happened a few times, but that would be an understatement. This went on for years, and years. The backpack changed, her hairstyle changed, her brother began driving her to school, but the look in her eyes never did change. The pleading words of here eyes that begged me not make her go were always there. As she walked away, her hair stayed still.
Next fall, I will take Sarabeth to college. All I want is to see joy in her eyes, and as she walks, I want to see bouncing curls.
"I couldn't sleep last night. I don't know what was wrong. I felt like I was back in elementary school. I'm 18 years old, I wasn't stressed like back then, I was actually excited to go back." Her words took me back.
When Sarabeth was little, I hated sending the kids back to school after Christmas break, summer, spring break, even a long weekend. It wasn't because I wanted to sleep later. It was the hurt in my heart at seeing them leave. It was especially hard on Sarabeth.
In the car on the way to school, I would pray-both outloud and silently. Elisabeth would often chatter about an upcoming event or sing to herself. She would try to engage Sarabeth in conversation. I could hardly look over, for fear of her reaction. I didn't want to see the sadness in her eyes. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to reassure her, everything would be fine. But I knew her too well. It took more than a day to adjust to change, yes, even the change of the routine of a weekend.
After parking, we'd walk to where the children were lining by classrooms. Hugs and kisses to Elisabeth as she'd take her place in line. I'd try to get Sarabeth in line, but she'd insist on walking with me to take Hilary to hers. We'd stand next to her line, her hand in mine. We both knew the exact timing the prolonging had to end. An extended embrace, I'd pull her hands from around me and hold onto them for a second. A kiss, words of encouragement and then I had to look into those blue-green eyes. That was the hardest part. She didn't have to say it, but her eyes pleaded, "please take me home. I don't want to be here." She gripped my hands tighter, but would not look away. The familiar lump formed in my throat. I didn't want to look away. I wanted to whisk her back to the car. I wanted my little girl happy. I wanted to see her smile. I didn't want her to see me cry. But she'd never turn her eyes away until I did. One last squeeze, and I'd turn my back on her.
I watched from the car. Sarabeth's long hair, cascaded down her back in soft curls. The sides were pulled neatly up with a big bow. She stood unnaturally stiff, her dalmation backpack lost its cheeriness as it perched over her shoulders. The teacher came out and the class began to file into the building. I continued to watch, hoping she wouldn't look back. She looked like a soldier, marching to battle. Her hair didn't swing. Her curls didn't bounce the way they should. A happy child's hair just does that, it is the bounce in their steps. Sarabeth's hair never moved.
I'd like to say this only happened a few times, but that would be an understatement. This went on for years, and years. The backpack changed, her hairstyle changed, her brother began driving her to school, but the look in her eyes never did change. The pleading words of here eyes that begged me not make her go were always there. As she walked away, her hair stayed still.
Next fall, I will take Sarabeth to college. All I want is to see joy in her eyes, and as she walks, I want to see bouncing curls.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
The internet has certainly changed my world, how about you? It began with email, and the ease at connecting with family and friends with quick notes. Later, I found a kinship with other moms through message boards. We developed relationships, prayed for one another, laughed, cried, and celebrated occasions together. Then the world of blogging opened up to me yet another opportunity to meet new friends and peek into their lives. In spite of all we communicate across the lines of the internet, these people would be strangers if passed on the street. I find that amazing. We share intimate things through the typing of our fingers with folks we've never seen face-to-face.
I've had a few exceptions. I've met 2 fellow bloggers in person. One is a very chic and cool lady who lives Under the Laundry Pile (where she hides from her 7 kids.) The other is mopsy at Lifenut who is clever and witty as she shares the adventures of life with 6 kids.
Last night was yet another fun meeting. An internet friend I came to know, from a message board, allowed her daughter and friend to drive across country and stay two with my family. I did have a short phone conversation with their mom before they left. She couldn't believe I didn't have a southern accent, as she was sure I was from the South. (Even though she knows I grew up in Arizona and now live in Colorado.) I expected to hear a frazzled woman on the other end of the line, but instead she was a confident, articulate lady who didn't sound at all like the home of chaos she often describes. One of these days, I will convince her to blog and you all can meet her too. (Did I mention she has 13 kids?)
For now, I'm going to go enjoy my house guests for the short time they are here.
I've had a few exceptions. I've met 2 fellow bloggers in person. One is a very chic and cool lady who lives Under the Laundry Pile (where she hides from her 7 kids.) The other is mopsy at Lifenut who is clever and witty as she shares the adventures of life with 6 kids.
Last night was yet another fun meeting. An internet friend I came to know, from a message board, allowed her daughter and friend to drive across country and stay two with my family. I did have a short phone conversation with their mom before they left. She couldn't believe I didn't have a southern accent, as she was sure I was from the South. (Even though she knows I grew up in Arizona and now live in Colorado.) I expected to hear a frazzled woman on the other end of the line, but instead she was a confident, articulate lady who didn't sound at all like the home of chaos she often describes. One of these days, I will convince her to blog and you all can meet her too. (Did I mention she has 13 kids?)
For now, I'm going to go enjoy my house guests for the short time they are here.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Make A Wish
Elisabeth's friend, Brian, works for a Porsche dealer. He mentioned one day that Make-A-Wish brought a car in for work. The crew was working hard to finish it for Christmas.
Do you remember my post about Hilary being asked to the Homecoming dance by David, a charming, young man? David has Cystic Fibrosis. His uncle donated an older, non-running porsche to Make-A-Wish Foundation to be restored. At 16 years old, this would be a dream come true for David.
As Brian shared details of the car with Elisabeth, it didn't take long to figure out this was the car for David. Hilary and Elisabeth enjoyed keeping the secret of the car's progress. Here is a photo of David and Brian showing their support for Hilary's Pom competition. It was taken in early December, before we found out about the car.
The car wasn't finished in time for Christmas. But a week later, David's mom called. She wanted Hilary to join in the surprise for David. She took Hilary and a few of David's friends to carstar to reveal the wish.
What an exciting day! Many people are involved in making a wish come true. My mom has volunteered countless hours of her time and talents to help create wishes for kids. This is the first time I've actually known someone who received a wish. May the joy of giving to others continue. Every time this car pulls up in front of my house, I will be reminded that I too have time, talents, and finances I can give so others will be blessed.
Do you remember my post about Hilary being asked to the Homecoming dance by David, a charming, young man? David has Cystic Fibrosis. His uncle donated an older, non-running porsche to Make-A-Wish Foundation to be restored. At 16 years old, this would be a dream come true for David.
As Brian shared details of the car with Elisabeth, it didn't take long to figure out this was the car for David. Hilary and Elisabeth enjoyed keeping the secret of the car's progress. Here is a photo of David and Brian showing their support for Hilary's Pom competition. It was taken in early December, before we found out about the car.
The car wasn't finished in time for Christmas. But a week later, David's mom called. She wanted Hilary to join in the surprise for David. She took Hilary and a few of David's friends to carstar to reveal the wish.
What an exciting day! Many people are involved in making a wish come true. My mom has volunteered countless hours of her time and talents to help create wishes for kids. This is the first time I've actually known someone who received a wish. May the joy of giving to others continue. Every time this car pulls up in front of my house, I will be reminded that I too have time, talents, and finances I can give so others will be blessed.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Don't Mess with PMS
I was not a nice person yesterday. As I stood arguing with the meat manager at our local supermarket, in the back of my mind I kept thinking, "Mr., I am really not in the mood for your bad attitude. Besides, you do not know who or what you are up against. Don't mess with PMS." I noticed the way some meat was marked and packaged and it struck me as false advertising, or at least misleading. The manager happened to be standing there, and I mentioned it to him. He over-reacted and became extremely defensive, talking a mile a minute. It triggered something in me.
I calmly explained my side again and he argued back that in reality what they were advertising was technically correct. I continued to point out that it was very misleading and felt they were taking advantage of the consumer. Normally, the store has excellent customer service. I've complained to the produce manager when something wasn't right, and he did everything he could to make it right. I've had the same experience in the bakery, deli, pharmacy, floral dept., etc. I am careful to not only take the time to complain, but also to compliment and acknowledge when I receive excellent service, help or whatever positive thing I can point out.
This man reacted in a very negative way, on a day when I just was NOT in the mood. I was so agitated, I forgot most of what else I needed on my shopping list. I wandered over to the produce department. I really wanted to go back to the meat manager and say something like, "I'll bet normally you are a nice person." Or, "You must be having a bad day, as I'm sure that you really want to be a nicer person." But I didn't. I also wanted to slap 1 of the butchers who interjected his comments while the manager and I were arguing. When I told Michael about it later, he agreed the guy was hitting on me.
Thankfully, I didn't say the things I wanted to do, nor was I physically aggressive. I was disappointed in myself for getting caught up emotionally and not handling it better. Maybe to avoid future issues such as this I'm going to have a button made to wear on certain days: Don't Mess With PMS.
I calmly explained my side again and he argued back that in reality what they were advertising was technically correct. I continued to point out that it was very misleading and felt they were taking advantage of the consumer. Normally, the store has excellent customer service. I've complained to the produce manager when something wasn't right, and he did everything he could to make it right. I've had the same experience in the bakery, deli, pharmacy, floral dept., etc. I am careful to not only take the time to complain, but also to compliment and acknowledge when I receive excellent service, help or whatever positive thing I can point out.
This man reacted in a very negative way, on a day when I just was NOT in the mood. I was so agitated, I forgot most of what else I needed on my shopping list. I wandered over to the produce department. I really wanted to go back to the meat manager and say something like, "I'll bet normally you are a nice person." Or, "You must be having a bad day, as I'm sure that you really want to be a nicer person." But I didn't. I also wanted to slap 1 of the butchers who interjected his comments while the manager and I were arguing. When I told Michael about it later, he agreed the guy was hitting on me.
Thankfully, I didn't say the things I wanted to do, nor was I physically aggressive. I was disappointed in myself for getting caught up emotionally and not handling it better. Maybe to avoid future issues such as this I'm going to have a button made to wear on certain days: Don't Mess With PMS.
Is it really over?
Sigh. Christmas break officially ended today. (I don't care that other's call it "Winter Break." It was definitely Christmas here.) I was up early making lunches, cooking breakfast, and trying to keep my eyes open. I said good-bye to my fellow guitar heroes as they walked out the door wearing backpacks instead of a guitar. It was still dark outside.
This isn't anything like reality TV.
This isn't anything like reality TV.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Have you played the game where you try to find the differences in 2 pictures? Because of the way these 2 photos were taken you don't get the exact angle. Besides the orientation, do you notice any obvious differences?
1. The candles, one has them, one doesn't.
2. The figures on the left appear to be smooth in appearance, while the right are mottled. (Must have been poor lighting.)
3. Hmmm...the photo on the right seems to be a little different in the fact that the baby Jesus is surrounded by all men. There isn't a mother to be found. (No, Mary does NOT have a beard.)
My mom sent me this advent wreath for Christmas. I found it very curious. Was it a mistake? I admit, I wondered if this was a new rendition of the Nativity with Larry, Joseph, and the 3 wisemen. It had to be a mistake, but why didn't someone notice when it was fitted into its styrofoam carton?
It just isn't right.
1. The candles, one has them, one doesn't.
2. The figures on the left appear to be smooth in appearance, while the right are mottled. (Must have been poor lighting.)
3. Hmmm...the photo on the right seems to be a little different in the fact that the baby Jesus is surrounded by all men. There isn't a mother to be found. (No, Mary does NOT have a beard.)
My mom sent me this advent wreath for Christmas. I found it very curious. Was it a mistake? I admit, I wondered if this was a new rendition of the Nativity with Larry, Joseph, and the 3 wisemen. It had to be a mistake, but why didn't someone notice when it was fitted into its styrofoam carton?
It just isn't right.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Wiiiii
Oh my, where have I been? Since the kids have been on break from school, I've taken a break from...well, just about everything. What have I been doing? I hate to admit it, but I've been playing a LOT of Guitar Hero III on the new Wii system. Did I mention a lot? On New Year's Eve we got together with Michael's cousin. Terry has been diagnosed with, well, I am not even sure he has a positive diagnosis yet. I set up a blog for them here. Anyway, we were discussing what we'd been up to when I was ratted out as to what I'd been doing. Hilary went so far as to say that we had this conversation, that I don't really recall. This is what she said:
"Yes, mom has been playing Guitar Hero a lot. We can hardly play at all. I woke up yesterday morning and there’s mom battling it out with the guitar. I asked her if I could play. You know what her response was??? 'Why don't you go get some breakfast or take a shower or something.' Seriously, that is what she told me."
Really, I don't remember this conversation.
Sigh. I think I'm addicted.
"Yes, mom has been playing Guitar Hero a lot. We can hardly play at all. I woke up yesterday morning and there’s mom battling it out with the guitar. I asked her if I could play. You know what her response was??? 'Why don't you go get some breakfast or take a shower or something.' Seriously, that is what she told me."
Really, I don't remember this conversation.
Sigh. I think I'm addicted.
Friday, December 28, 2007
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.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
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!
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!
Friday, December 21, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
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!
Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Bah Humbug!
I feel like a Christmas failure. Each year I tell myself I won't procrastinate, I will not be in the stores shopping for gifts the week before Christmas. But that is exactly where I am. But guess what? I figured out why I do this.
I hear tales of others who buy early, wrap early, bake, ship, entertain...and I've thought a time or two, "I could be one of those people." Not. I suppose it is my inner child who likes to play and have fun. Whenever I buy a gift for somone, I am excited to give it. I can't wait. If I purchase presents too early, I will give them early. I bought some presents this week and already gave 4 of them early. Ugh!
Oh, and what child doesn't enjoy stamping and making stencils? Doesn't this look like fun? This is my bathroom rug, a sprinkling of baby powder and a couple of hands. Why do kids love playing in powder so much??? I guess because the mom does things like this. (Dad, I promise my girls will never have a powder war at your house again.)
I hear tales of others who buy early, wrap early, bake, ship, entertain...and I've thought a time or two, "I could be one of those people." Not. I suppose it is my inner child who likes to play and have fun. Whenever I buy a gift for somone, I am excited to give it. I can't wait. If I purchase presents too early, I will give them early. I bought some presents this week and already gave 4 of them early. Ugh!
Oh, and what child doesn't enjoy stamping and making stencils? Doesn't this look like fun? This is my bathroom rug, a sprinkling of baby powder and a couple of hands. Why do kids love playing in powder so much??? I guess because the mom does things like this. (Dad, I promise my girls will never have a powder war at your house again.)
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Please?
I heard commotion in the kitchen. I'd gone grocery shopping, but hadn't put away the dry goods yet. It sounded like Ethan might be helping. I came into the kitchen to find him at the table. A wooden spoon in one hand and brownie mix, bowl, and cake mix, on the table. How could I say no?
I convinced him we didn't need both boxes, and I helped him choose the brownies.
Do you think he'd like a kitchen set for Christmas?
I convinced him we didn't need both boxes, and I helped him choose the brownies.
Do you think he'd like a kitchen set for Christmas?
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Thank-you, Thank-you, Thank-you
I need to say thank-you, to two gentlemen. (Or were they?) I don't know who they are or where they came from. I didn't ask their names and barely saw their faces. They appeared within 2 minutes of my car spinning 180 degrees and landing just off the side of the road.
I didn't hit anything, but the car was stuck in the snow. I tried going forward, then back. I was only successful at wedging us deeper in the slush and ice. Hilary looked at me and I at her. I was glad she hadn't been driving. We both reached for our cell phones.
Outside the window, I saw a truck stop on the shoulder of the road. Two men got out. I rolled down the window. Brrr....it was 21 degrees outside. One man asked if we were stuck. The other walked to the rear of the car to take a look. Then without speaking, they backed their truck up next to us, hitched a chain, and pulled us up out of the ditch. I offered my thanks and cash, but they both refused and waved me along, as they placed the tow rope in the back of their pickup truck. Good Samaritans they were, (or were they angels?) Thank-you! Thank-you! Thank-you!
Do you know what the truly amazing part was? Before I left to pick Hilary up from practice, I grabbed a light weight jacket. But before I took another step, the thought hit me, "what if you were in an accident? Take something warmer." I went to the closet and took out my heavy winter coat. I knew Hilary didn't have her coat either, but I remembered hers was in the back of the car. I know, I didn't even get out of the car so why did I need that coat. Plain and simple, I believe that little voice was the Holy Spirit letting me know ahead of time to be prepared. It is God's way of reminding me that when I am attentive to Him, I can rest assured that He knows what is happening even before it happens. Nothing takes Him by surprise. He is right there with me in the blessings and in the hard times.
I am thankful that He speaks to me in His quiet gentle way. All I have to do is listen. Sometimes I wish He'd yell to get my attention. But He doesn't. As I think about that very first Christmas, and the baby Jesus in a manger, I am reminded of the Lord's gentleness. I need to slow myself down, seek Him first, and listen. And I could stand to be a little more gentle myself.
I didn't hit anything, but the car was stuck in the snow. I tried going forward, then back. I was only successful at wedging us deeper in the slush and ice. Hilary looked at me and I at her. I was glad she hadn't been driving. We both reached for our cell phones.
Outside the window, I saw a truck stop on the shoulder of the road. Two men got out. I rolled down the window. Brrr....it was 21 degrees outside. One man asked if we were stuck. The other walked to the rear of the car to take a look. Then without speaking, they backed their truck up next to us, hitched a chain, and pulled us up out of the ditch. I offered my thanks and cash, but they both refused and waved me along, as they placed the tow rope in the back of their pickup truck. Good Samaritans they were, (or were they angels?) Thank-you! Thank-you! Thank-you!
Do you know what the truly amazing part was? Before I left to pick Hilary up from practice, I grabbed a light weight jacket. But before I took another step, the thought hit me, "what if you were in an accident? Take something warmer." I went to the closet and took out my heavy winter coat. I knew Hilary didn't have her coat either, but I remembered hers was in the back of the car. I know, I didn't even get out of the car so why did I need that coat. Plain and simple, I believe that little voice was the Holy Spirit letting me know ahead of time to be prepared. It is God's way of reminding me that when I am attentive to Him, I can rest assured that He knows what is happening even before it happens. Nothing takes Him by surprise. He is right there with me in the blessings and in the hard times.
I am thankful that He speaks to me in His quiet gentle way. All I have to do is listen. Sometimes I wish He'd yell to get my attention. But He doesn't. As I think about that very first Christmas, and the baby Jesus in a manger, I am reminded of the Lord's gentleness. I need to slow myself down, seek Him first, and listen. And I could stand to be a little more gentle myself.
A Christmas Gift
Kindergarten. A delightful time for a child to develop a love for learning. With new experiences unfolding, it's a time for best friends, reading books, recess & riding the bus with classmates. Kindergarten is meant to be a positive time in a child's life. This hasn't been the case for Ethan.
Ethan had a great summer and was making remarkable progress cognitively. We were excited for his Kindergarten experience to begin. He was ready to learn. His excitement at seeing the school bus the first morning was refreshing. A few days into his school year, the joy was gone.
It became painfully obvious that Ethan's teacher was ill-equipped for the job. She had no qualifications to work in Special Education, in fact, this was her first year teaching. At one point, she admitted taking the job in order participate in the "Loan Forgiveness Program," to pay off her student loans.
The class was chaotic. This teacher had no identifiable schedule for the classroom. No routine for the children to learn. One morning she might gather the kids for calendar time, the next day it would thrown in during the last part of the day. Ethan had disturbing behavior changes, along with other very concerning incidents. He came home with handprint bruises on his arm.
Because of his extra needs, Ethan's CNA worked with him at school several days a week, and was there to help him with lunch. She reported serious concerns with classroom activities. The following week, the school stated Ethan's CNA could no longer attend class with him. They also refused to offer him an aide to take over caring for his needs.
I can't tell you how many tears I've shed, or prayers I've prayed over this situation. I went to meetings with my daughter with the principal, school social worker, special education director, therapists, etc. on more than one occasion. It has been a nightmare.
The teacher was fired. A substitute brought into the class. Next, the preschool teacher was brought in as a temporary teacher, while they certified the new teacher. This teacher had been a consultant brought in to assess the situation. She was horrified at what she saw, having been a veteran of special education for 30 years, but recently retired. She took over as the new teacher the first week of December. She lasted 4 days, then resigned. Another substitute is the current teacher. The children in this class have lost the entire semester. Ethan has regressed. He not only missed out on anything productive his first semester of school, he lost more than an entire year of positive progress developmentally, behaviorly and cognitively.
This is unacceptable. I'm proud of my daughter. She has fought for her son, researched, made phone calls, attended meeting after meeting, sought out help from every imaginable place. As a single parent, she doesn't have the option of homeschooling or sending Ethan to a private school. On Thursday, she met once again with a team of "experts." She put together an amazing list of Ethan's needs, where the school has failed, what the law requires and more. She presented her information to all present at the meeting. The superintendant, who last month refused to give Ethan a full time aide, conceded. Ethan is now authorized to attend a private, autistic school-with a one-on-one teacher ratio. We are elated. Ethan has the chance to have a wonderful school experience. In a school that not only understands and accepts his disabilites, but he will attend a school designed spefically to work with his special needs.
What more could I ask for Christmas than this? We've been given a treasured gift for a very cherished child.
Ethan had a great summer and was making remarkable progress cognitively. We were excited for his Kindergarten experience to begin. He was ready to learn. His excitement at seeing the school bus the first morning was refreshing. A few days into his school year, the joy was gone.
It became painfully obvious that Ethan's teacher was ill-equipped for the job. She had no qualifications to work in Special Education, in fact, this was her first year teaching. At one point, she admitted taking the job in order participate in the "Loan Forgiveness Program," to pay off her student loans.
The class was chaotic. This teacher had no identifiable schedule for the classroom. No routine for the children to learn. One morning she might gather the kids for calendar time, the next day it would thrown in during the last part of the day. Ethan had disturbing behavior changes, along with other very concerning incidents. He came home with handprint bruises on his arm.
Because of his extra needs, Ethan's CNA worked with him at school several days a week, and was there to help him with lunch. She reported serious concerns with classroom activities. The following week, the school stated Ethan's CNA could no longer attend class with him. They also refused to offer him an aide to take over caring for his needs.
I can't tell you how many tears I've shed, or prayers I've prayed over this situation. I went to meetings with my daughter with the principal, school social worker, special education director, therapists, etc. on more than one occasion. It has been a nightmare.
The teacher was fired. A substitute brought into the class. Next, the preschool teacher was brought in as a temporary teacher, while they certified the new teacher. This teacher had been a consultant brought in to assess the situation. She was horrified at what she saw, having been a veteran of special education for 30 years, but recently retired. She took over as the new teacher the first week of December. She lasted 4 days, then resigned. Another substitute is the current teacher. The children in this class have lost the entire semester. Ethan has regressed. He not only missed out on anything productive his first semester of school, he lost more than an entire year of positive progress developmentally, behaviorly and cognitively.
This is unacceptable. I'm proud of my daughter. She has fought for her son, researched, made phone calls, attended meeting after meeting, sought out help from every imaginable place. As a single parent, she doesn't have the option of homeschooling or sending Ethan to a private school. On Thursday, she met once again with a team of "experts." She put together an amazing list of Ethan's needs, where the school has failed, what the law requires and more. She presented her information to all present at the meeting. The superintendant, who last month refused to give Ethan a full time aide, conceded. Ethan is now authorized to attend a private, autistic school-with a one-on-one teacher ratio. We are elated. Ethan has the chance to have a wonderful school experience. In a school that not only understands and accepts his disabilites, but he will attend a school designed spefically to work with his special needs.
What more could I ask for Christmas than this? We've been given a treasured gift for a very cherished child.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Life Is Precious
I wasn't able to attend church yesterday. I was caring for Ethan. He was sick all day Saturday. At 9:00a.m. Sunday, our Pastor sent an email, telling us of the shootings that had occurred on the church property at the YWAM (Youth With A Mission) Base. I'm sure most have heard of it by now, and the other shooting in Colorado Springs at New Life Church later in the day. So before I post anything else today, I will pray. I hope you will too.
Monday, December 03, 2007
My mind is slipping. It makes me afraid. I pride myself on having a very good memory. But this past week, I considered tucking the pride away with the Fall decorations.
The girls wanted to get a Christmas tree to put up, the day after Thanksgiving. Afterall, everyone does it. (Can we say peer pressure?) I was in the midst of a full-blown pity party originating from the wicked side effects of a particular medication. They asked if we could "pulease get a tree and decorate it the next day." Before my brain could process their request, Michael responded, "sure!"
I was shocked. Those words clearly, could not have come from my husband. He was the one who never wanted the tree up early. Once spruce trees begin to dry out, they drop needles like snow in a winter blizzard. Worse than the needle residue is sap dripping from the bark, right into the carpet. Another year, I overfilled the reservoir with water. The lovely metal stand rusted right onto the carpet. I haven't found anyone or anything that gets rust out of carpet. One year I tried to put the tree up while Michael wasn't home. It took 2 hours to saw off the bottom and then didn't fit in the stand. It tipped over 3 times before I finally sat their crying until he came home. It was always an ordeal to get our Christmas tree. Maybe Michael was just kidding about putting it up the next day.
"Really? We can?" The girls were pretty excited. "When can we go pick it up?"
"I can go downstairs now and get it right now if you'd like."
"What, you're going to chop one down for us outside?"
Now it was his turn to look puzzled. "No, I'm going to get the tree we purchased last year. Remember the tree we bought?
I was stunned. No, I was aghast. A fake tree? I never, in my wildest dreams ever, did I want, nor would I have purchased a tree that came in mulitple pieces and smelled of plastic. I honestly did not remember this.
As we talked about it, hints of a memory began to emerge. I remembered the classic procrastination of getting a tree. When we finally went to pick up our fresh Douglas Fir, the lots were empty. There wasn't even the more expensive kind we'd had to purchase because of our late purchasing and the cheaper ones were gone. In all our years, I don't recall seeing nothing left. We drove around town. We hit 3 or 4 empty lots before giving up. Sometime after this, in a dazed state, I was worn down and agreed to getting a faux tree. It was out of necessity. We needed somewhere to place those last minute presents I still needed to buy. But I don't remember buying it. What did the thing look like?
Another fuzzy memory...something about a pre-lit tree. If we were getting an artificial tree, I did not want clear bulbs. That, to me, would be another loss of tradition. We must have multi-color lights. I could not pull up the memory of assembling the tree, decorating it, or taking it down. Had it been that traumatic for me to settle for less than real? Yes, that must be it. And now, we were stuck with this green thing for years to come.
Last Sunday, Michael brought the tree up. The girls assembled it and decorated it all on their own. I admit, it was so much easier than past years. I have to say too, that in its own way, it did look lovely. That night, as I went to unplug the twinkling lights, I stopped to admire its beauty. And without thinking, I instinctively bent down to check the water level, so our tree would stay fresh.
The girls wanted to get a Christmas tree to put up, the day after Thanksgiving. Afterall, everyone does it. (Can we say peer pressure?) I was in the midst of a full-blown pity party originating from the wicked side effects of a particular medication. They asked if we could "pulease get a tree and decorate it the next day." Before my brain could process their request, Michael responded, "sure!"
I was shocked. Those words clearly, could not have come from my husband. He was the one who never wanted the tree up early. Once spruce trees begin to dry out, they drop needles like snow in a winter blizzard. Worse than the needle residue is sap dripping from the bark, right into the carpet. Another year, I overfilled the reservoir with water. The lovely metal stand rusted right onto the carpet. I haven't found anyone or anything that gets rust out of carpet. One year I tried to put the tree up while Michael wasn't home. It took 2 hours to saw off the bottom and then didn't fit in the stand. It tipped over 3 times before I finally sat their crying until he came home. It was always an ordeal to get our Christmas tree. Maybe Michael was just kidding about putting it up the next day.
"Really? We can?" The girls were pretty excited. "When can we go pick it up?"
"I can go downstairs now and get it right now if you'd like."
"What, you're going to chop one down for us outside?"
Now it was his turn to look puzzled. "No, I'm going to get the tree we purchased last year. Remember the tree we bought?
I was stunned. No, I was aghast. A fake tree? I never, in my wildest dreams ever, did I want, nor would I have purchased a tree that came in mulitple pieces and smelled of plastic. I honestly did not remember this.
As we talked about it, hints of a memory began to emerge. I remembered the classic procrastination of getting a tree. When we finally went to pick up our fresh Douglas Fir, the lots were empty. There wasn't even the more expensive kind we'd had to purchase because of our late purchasing and the cheaper ones were gone. In all our years, I don't recall seeing nothing left. We drove around town. We hit 3 or 4 empty lots before giving up. Sometime after this, in a dazed state, I was worn down and agreed to getting a faux tree. It was out of necessity. We needed somewhere to place those last minute presents I still needed to buy. But I don't remember buying it. What did the thing look like?
Another fuzzy memory...something about a pre-lit tree. If we were getting an artificial tree, I did not want clear bulbs. That, to me, would be another loss of tradition. We must have multi-color lights. I could not pull up the memory of assembling the tree, decorating it, or taking it down. Had it been that traumatic for me to settle for less than real? Yes, that must be it. And now, we were stuck with this green thing for years to come.
Last Sunday, Michael brought the tree up. The girls assembled it and decorated it all on their own. I admit, it was so much easier than past years. I have to say too, that in its own way, it did look lovely. That night, as I went to unplug the twinkling lights, I stopped to admire its beauty. And without thinking, I instinctively bent down to check the water level, so our tree would stay fresh.
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