I'm Just Sayin'

BLINK

2011-12-09T12:40:00.000-08:00

My girl is a senior this year and time is moving more quickly than I ever dreamed possible.
This milestone has meant not only the exciting senior photo session but also the need for a baby picture for the yearbook.

For Mama it means going from this:

To this:

In the blink of en eye.

She is ready to fly; and because she is ready to fly, I am ready to let her.

QUEEN

2011-10-03T09:37:00.000-07:00

So last week was Homecoming at our little high school. Float building, theme days, Powder Puff football (Senior Victory - woot!) pep assembly, parade, ballgame, group dinner, dance, photos. You know how it is.

Oh and at the pep assembly, a young girl I know was named Homecoming Queen. And her King? Football Superstar and Amazing Artist, Jante.

My girl at the coronation dance. Congratulations sweet KaylaBeth. Your tiara sparkles almost as much as you do.

NORTH CAROLINA....

2011-08-16T17:23:00.000-07:00

This picture slideshow generated with Smilebox

Soon I will post some thoughts on these wonderful memories.

NEW

2011-08-11T06:39:00.000-07:00

Check out this new blog that I happened to stumble across: www.myblogdoesnthavearealname.blogspot.com.

I know the blogger pretty darn well; in fact, I gave birth to her.

And I'm really quite proud of her.

We are on vacation in North Carolina. Posts and photos coming soon.

FOUR

2011-08-02T20:06:00.000-07:00

This evening, the three of us - Paul, Kayla and I - went out for a quick dinner and then to Walmart to pick up a few last minute groceries for our upcoming trip.

Oh. I didn't tell you? We are driving to North Carolina.

To stay in a beach condo for a week.

!!!!!!AND TO SEE OUR MARINE!!!!!!

Judging by the amount of giggling Kayla and I did in Walmart tonight, I'd say Paul is in for a real treat on that 16 hour drive from Illinois to North Carolina. See, every now and then, when Kayla and I get the giggles and start talking about nail polish and swim suits and bras, he gets a far away look in his eye and says "man, I miss my son...."

According to my calculations, which are based solely on the quickening of my heart and the goosebumps on my arms when I think about it, we will arrive on base sometime early Friday evening.

And our family of four will be together for about ten days. My girl. My boy. My love. And me. In a condo on the beach.

Four. It really is a lovely number.

TATTOO

2011-07-30T12:38:00.000-07:00

Evidently I mentioned that my son got himself some tattoos but failed to let you all know what they were.

Did I perhaps say something like "a gold star to anyone who can guess what he got?"

See? I don't even pay attention to myself....

Anyway LESA asked in the previous comment section about the tattoos. And yes there are two of them. Probably when I wrote that post, there was one, but now there are two.

So....no he did not get an Eagle Globe and Anchor. He did not get a big bold USMC. He didn't even get "MOM" or "I HAVE THE BEST MOM EV. VER." Which totally surprised me; I thought that would have been his first choice. *sigh*

He got the American Flag - all wavy and red white and blue right over his heart.

And then. He went back and got another one on the other side of his chest.

A Republican Elephant.

Yep.

He did. One of those that looks like a stencil; again, red white and blue.

So there you have it, my ones of readers.

If becoming a United States Marine wasn't enough to prove my son's patriotism, well now we just have to follow him to the beach and take a look at his chest.

Ooh rah indeed.

ORGANIC

2011-07-29T11:05:00.000-07:00

In the late summer, when it was hot and muggy; when rain was a distant memory and did not appear to be in our future; when the top of my head barely reached my grandpa's belt; I'd walk along his garden with him.

I'd kick up dirt clods and not be bothered by the dust and grime that coated me.

We'd stop at the tomato plants and he'd pick two off the vines.

Plump and red. Small in his hand; big in mine.

He'd wipe them on his pant leg and hand me one. And we'd stand there in his garden, his pride and joy each year, and eat those juicy tomatoes, the juice dripping down my chin and mixing with the sweat and dirt that already covered my face.

I'd eat every bit of that tomato, wipe my hands on my shorts and walk on, stopping to "help" him examine his other plants.

I love fresh tomatoes.

I love that memory.

I don't know which is more delicious.

It is a memory matched only by the one where I am standing beneath our apple tree in the fall. We had three. Apple trees that is. And I'd stand there with my brothers and sister like four hungry birds as we watched Gradnpa reach up and pick an apple off a low limb.

Red. Green. Ripe or not. It didn't matter.

He'd wipe it on his pants, just like he did the tomatoes, and then he'd pull out his pocket knife and slice that apple for us, handing us the slices right off the blade.

One for you.
One for you.
One for you.
One for you.

Around he went until the apple was gone. Then he'd pick another one and start the circle again until his four little birds had their fill of apple slices straight off the blade of a pocket knife.

Organic eating at its finest.

IT'S BEEN A YEAR.....

2011-07-20T11:20:00.000-07:00

Another digital slideshow by Smilebox

THE SELFISH GOODBYE

2011-07-18T09:52:00.000-07:00

As I remember "The Goodbye" one year ago today, and as I sort my thoughts for another post, I will repost this one from about a year ago.
*******************************************************************

Three days ago I said goodbye to my son - AGAIN - as he took his first step toward fulfilling his dream.

It is amazing how, during that final hug, that final hug in which I wished desperately that I did not have to let go, how many thoughts went through my mind in such a short amount of time,

First I thought of how different it is to hug my son the man, than it was to hug my son the child. Whereas years ago - although it seems like moments - I embraced a chubby, round, soft -cheeked little boy who smelled like bubble bath, sweat and dirt, this time I was hugging a tall lean young adult who smelled like deodorant and cologne. Where my hand used to touch a soft fleshy baby face, it was now touching a lean, chiseled cheek-boned face just like his dad's - a face rough with whiskers that had yet to be shaved that morning. Where I used to bend over or sit on my knees to hold my boy, this day I was stretching upward to reach him and he was bending down to reach me.

Sweet Mercy, how DOES the time pass so quickly?

The thing that remained the same, though, was that, just as my sweet little boy used to pull out of my embraces, impatiently moving on to play in the dirt or the lego bucket, my tall lean adult boy pulled away first - eager to move on. Eager to fly away and start this new chapter.

And as painful as it was to feel him leave my embrace, it is a beautiful feeling to know that your child is eager to begin a new chapter - to set out on the path set before him.

It is beautiful to see your child show courage.

For the past several months something just felt wrong about Blake's decision to join the Marines - something that I have chalked up to the fears of a mother's heart. And then it hit me.

We have, in a sense, reversed roles.

From the moment I knew I was pregnant with Blake it has been my duty, my privilege, my instinct, to protect him - to place myself between him and danger.

And now, he has chosen a life path that, in essence, will call him to place himself between me and danger.

He will become my protector - along with all of his brothers and sisters in uniform.

That just feels wrong to me. And yet it feels so right, because it IS right. I know it is right because I've seen his diligence as he prepared for this time. I've seen his excitement as he talked about it. I've seen the contentment that entered his heart when he signed those papers.

And so he has gone. And the many many emotions that swirl in my heart right now are surely going to collide and form a perfect storm where this lonely, frightened, proud, uncertain, relieved mother can do nothing but plant my feet and hold steady until I get used to this new phase. And that's okay.

I can do that.

I can do that because I recently sat through a memorial service for a 16-year-old boy whose mother cannot look at a calendar and count the days until she will see her precious son again. She does not get another goodbye. She does not get to watch him leave for the next phase of life - whatever that phase would have been.

And I am ashamed of myself becasue I have spent the last year - the last fourteen months actually - living in fear and dread of the day my son will leave home. I have lived in dread of the day I had to tell him goodbye. And then that day came and he was sent home and I had to do it all over again. And I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself.

But here's the thing. I GOT TO SAY GOODBYE. And for now I know my son is safe and, although he is doing something extremely difficult, he is happy because he is finally living his dream. I get to see him in thirteen weeks.

Oh how Nic's mother would love to know she would see her boy in thirteen weeks.

I miss my boy desperately. I cannot stand to think of what he is enduring right now. But I am thankful for the perspective that God has allowed to seep into my heart.

I have a sweet daughter at home and oh how I love watching her enjoy life. I so enjoy her. I have a loving devoted husband. I have a son who is healthy and strong enough to be at Marine Corps Boot Camp.

And I got to tell him goodbye - strong in my faith that I will see him in less than three months.

Forgive me, Father, for my selfishness during this time of change in my life. Forgive me for forgetting to look beyond my own self pitying heart.

THE UGLY DRESS

2011-07-13T16:22:00.000-07:00

So I bought this dress a couple months ago.

It's a little different than what I'd usually choose but something about it just caught my eye. It has a scoop neck - not too low - short sleeves but not so short that they show my upper arms (of which I am NOT fond) - and a hem length that hits right above the knee. And it's polyester which means I won't have to iron it.

I hate wrinkles.

I think it's a sheath dress. Or is a shift?

I don't know. But it might, kind of, perhaps, just maybe look like something Carol Brady would wear in the later episodes.

Anyway.

When I tried it on at the outlet mall (I confess; it is from Dress Barn) the sales lady that had been "helping" me adopted a sneer that made her look as though she'd swallowed a worm. Up until then she'd been very complimentary of everything I'd modeled.

"Oh, that's just darling. Great color."
"Now that is just right for you. You can wear that any where."

But this one?

Well this one did not please her. It did not please her at all.

After making her "oh dear I've swallowed a worm" face she said "I just don't see that on you."

Which was a total lie.

I mean, OF COURSE she saw it on me. She was standing there grimacing, making it very clear that she saw it on me. (I guess she was speaking FIGURATIVELY....)

And she did not like what she saw.

But I wasn't to be swayed. Not only did it have all the qualities I mentioned above but it was marked down to about $13. It did not occur to me that it was so cheap because it had the potential to make people gag.

I wanted this dress. This would be my "WOW!" piece for summer. My one piece that was just a little bit "out there."

Plus I totally wanted to spite that very disapproving salesclerk.

So I bought the dress.

Yesterday I wore the dress to run errands. I love to wear dresses and skirts in the summer. Love love love them. But I was a little unsure about putting this one on to go out in public. I mean, when a salesperson, whose job it is to SELL you things, tries to convince you a dress just isn't for you...it just isn't for you AT ALL....well, it kind of erodes your confidence a little.

But I settled on wearing it anyway.

With a paper bag on my head.

Which was very uncomfortable because: 1)it was REALLY hot outside and 2) it was really sunny and I couldn't decide if my sunglasses should go on the outside of the bag or the inside.

So I got through my day of errands to the bank, a friend's house to pick up a catalog, and....the gathering spots of ALL gathering spots....WALMART. I told myself if I saw anybody I knew at Walmart I was just going to act very confident in my outfit and nobody would think I looked anything but FAN. TASTIC.

I didn't see anybody I knew which means I didn't have to feel uncomfortable but I also didn't get any compliments on my new edgy dress.

*sigh*

At the end of the day, after putting groceries away and doing whatever else it is I do around here, I greeted my husband at the door when he walked in from work.

He did a quick scan of me in my dress and said with true enthusiasm:

"Well...you look pretty. I really like that dress."

BAM! Take that Dress Barn Lady!

THE BIG NIGHT FINALLY ARRIVES

2011-05-04T06:42:00.001-07:00

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THE BYU MORAL COMPASS

2011-03-11T05:31:00.000-08:00

Let's talk about BYU.

Have you heard the story and read the reports - the story of the BYU basketball player who was suspended from the basketball team because he had sex with his girlfriend?

BYU's honor code (which each student must sign upon admission) forbids premarital sex and consumption of alcohol and caffeine. I'm sure there are many other items covered in the honor code but these items are the ones most mentioned because, evidently, our society thinks it is absolutely ridiculous to expect our young men and women to practice self control to the extent that they wait for marriage until they have sex and that they do not ride through college on a keg of beer.

My suspicion is that most people are appalled NOT at the rigidness of BYU's standards but at the fact that BYU was actually assertive enough to suspend one of its athletes from a team that was doing so well and was well on its way to some sort of championship. I doubt we would have heard or read one word about this story if Brandon Davies was a member of the marching band or the debate club.

At all levels, athletes (because our society so idolizes them) are usually given preferential treatment. It is nearly unheard of for an athlete to be punished in such a public way. We usually hear about it all after the fact or, more accurately, after the season when said athlete's talent has been squeezed for all it's worth.

And you know what? I am SO SICK AND TIRED of our society turning a blind eye to the poor behavior of sports stars. It happens in high school. It happens in college. And we all know it happens in the world of professional sports.

I have read a couple of opinion pieces that state it is a ridiculous policy, this BYU honor code. I suppose it is to most people. I suppose it is ridiculous to those who think college is a time for kids to "explore" and "experiment" and "find themselves." I am not one of those people. I am one of those really really prudish moms who believe college is a place at which my daughter will receive her degree and I expect her to spend her time pursuing that degree, not the next party (because - have you seen the price of tuition these days?) And if her grades indicate she's chosen the latter, all funding will cease and she can come home and work at the dog kennel.

Perhaps I am not so shocked at the BYU honor code because I went to a very strict and conservative Christian university (the same university at which my daughter has recently been accepted) But, at 18, I entered that campus knowing what the rules were and that I was expected to abide by those rules. I had a wonderful college experience with lots of fun and laughing. I made lifelong friends. But I knew what was expected of me and I followed through with my end of the bargain. So did my husband and so did probably 95% of the other students there.

It is interesting to me that people have stated that a young man or woman just out of high school cannot be mature enough to sign a contract that requires them to behave a certain way for the next four years.

I come at this from another angle. I watched my son sign a military contract when he was 17 and, while *I* worried that he was too young to commit to a five year career before he was even out of high school, not one other person expressed that concern to me. Oh we got plenty of other judgment from others, mostly along the lines of "how can you let your child become a killer," but nobody suggested he was too young to choose a life path with such rigid rules and regulations. I guess when we are arming them with M-16s and expecting them to fight our wars, we do not worry about their maturity level. We just expect them to fight that war and do it in a way that prevents us from getting our own hands dirty.

See, people don't stop and think that most of our military men and women have signed a contract at the age of 17, 18 or 19 - a contract that essentially puts their every action, their every thought into the hands of their superiors. They have signed an honor code and they WILL be expected to live by it. And yet, when a young man (who is approximately the age of my son) is expected to honor his contract that governs behavior at college, people are all uptight that he's just too young to have made that decision when he did. We expect our young soldiers, marines, airmen and sailors to honor their contracts every minute of every day. We expect it because our safety relies on it. But yet we think a college student of the same age just isn't mature enough to follow through after putting their signature on a piece of paper?

Also, my high school daughter signs contracts every year when she participates in an extracurricular activity. She is expected to abide by the rules the coach or sponsor has set before her. She is expected to represent herself, her team and her school in a way that her school has deemed appropriate. So at 15,16, 17, and 18 SHE is expected to honor a contract.

I feel for this young college basketball star. I feel for him because we all make bad decisions at his age - okay at any age. He surely isn't the only student on campus to have engaged in premarital sex or to have drunk alcohol or caffeine. He evidently was the one who was caught.

Which brings me to my biggest question: how did he come to a point where he ended up "confessing" to this sexual act. I have looked through a few articles and I cannot find the answer to that. If, as one person told me they'd read, he put it on facebook; then he should be suspended for being a jerk, not just for sleeping with his girlfriend.

Every institution we encounter sets its own behavioral compass. Work places, schools, society. BYU is no different. As a private institution they have the right to make their moral code as strict as they choose.

This is not to imply that Brandon Davies "got what he deserved." That is not for me to say. This is to say that people need to lighten up on BYU and recognize their rights.

Just like we have to recognize the rights of students to choose BYU or to move on to another institution that better suits their educational and social needs.

DEVIL DOG

2011-03-10T09:24:00.000-08:00

I have a few questions after watching this video.

1)Why is this newsman looking for reasons to criticize Chesty? I mean, really, give the old dog a break. Not once did he commend Chesty for his service. Is he not aware of WHY the Marines are called Devil Dogs? It is because when they grab hold of an enemy, they do not let go. I think Chesty should have found Mr. Newsman's shoes and made a mistake on them......

2) How did that Marine remain so serious throughout this interview? I guess Marines really AREN'T
allowed to smile. Perhaps they frown on smiling. Oh my gosh, get it? FROWN on SMILING......

3)What exactly was Chesty's punishment for his write ups? Is that classified? Since I have a couple of connections with The Corps, I am delving into this.

4) And finally; how, HOW IN THE WORLD does that Marine stand upright instead of toppling over to his left under the weight of all those medals.

Ooh-rah indeed.

And by the way, I loved how it was mentioned that Chesty came in through DEP - Delayed Entry Program. That's how my boy went in. Such an innocent little pup when the Corps got him.

I have added Chesty to my list of heroes.

SOMEDAY I'LL LEARN TO DRESS MYSELF.....

2011-03-03T05:43:00.000-08:00

So then last Sunday I was putting on a pair of pantyhose for church.

The pantyhose themselves were not going to be seen as I was going to wear boots with my skirt; so I grabbed black hose to put on with my brown skirt.

But then when I put on my brown boots I realized they were going to hurt my feet and that just won't do. It won't do at all, so I would have to throw on a pair of brown shoes.

So I started flinging pantyhose out of my drawer until I found a pair of "coffee" hose.

I KNOW I have a pair of coffee hose in here. WHERE ARE MY COFFEE HOSE??!!!

The clock was ticking and I hate being late. I hate being late more than I hate wearing pantyhose.

So I found my coffee hose and sat down on the bed with a "harumpf" and began the switch.

After getting my left foot into its proper leg, I started on the right, only to find that there was a substantial run in the right leg of my hose.

*sigh*

Ticking clock....ticking clock....

So I did some quick calculating and mental measuring and decided that the run would be far above the hemline of my skirt and might even stay there if I halted that run in its tracks with some hairspray.

Never have I been so glad to have a bathroom right off our bedroom because the journey for the hairspray was not an easy one.

With the waist band of my pantyhose resting at an interesting angle between my left knee and my right ankle, I tippy-toed and hippity hopped, and hobbledy-hobbled into the bathroom (so as not to increase the run in my hose, you know) and grabbed the Kenra hairspray that is like GOLD to my baby fine hair. Gold, I tell you.

Then I carefully pulled up the legs of my hose and proceeded to spray the tar out of that run.

Then I put my left thumb through my hose at approximately the site of my hip bone.

At which point I sprayed the tar out of THAT run.

Between the hairspray on my head and that on my hosiery, I could have powered a compact car for a day.

Nobody light a match, mama will go up in flames.

ticking clock....ticking clock.....

Finally my outfit was put together and I looked in the mirror and told myself I looked absolutely ridiculous - the whole outfit was all wrong. But there was no time to correct it.

ticking clock....

Hoping that my favorite pair of gold earrings would correct the numerous mistakes of my Sunday best I grabbed them and put them on.

Thankfully I took one last look in the bathroom mirror before heading downstairs because while one earring was gold, the other looked strangely gold AND silver. At closer inspection I saw that I had actually stuck TWO earrings into one ear - a gold dangly one and a smaller silver dangly one. Apparently the little silver heart had become tangled with the gold circles in my jewelry box.

*sigh*

Now I do not plan to stop wearing earrings so I obviously need to be more vigilant with my ear accessories each day.

But this whole pantyhose fiasco? This is precisely why I usually wear slacks to church.

WE LIKE CHICKEN

2011-02-04T07:22:00.000-08:00

We eat a lot of chicken at our house. Chicken noodle soup, chicken enchiladas, barbecue chicken.

I usually have chicken on hand because it's healthy and it's versatile.

And now I know that chicken is just plain fun.

Please watch this video and see if it doesn't leave you with a craving for a bucket of the stuff.

Oh, and I'd like to dedicate this to my boy.

Blake, this one's for you.

LETTER

2011-01-31T11:27:00.000-08:00

Dear Fellow Menard's Shopper,

I get it. Menard's new grocery section is quite handy. They don't have a lot but it's nice to run in and get a gallon of milk, some butter and eggs. It's especially nice when you just need a few items before hunkering down at home to wait on the newest snow storm; and you don't want to fight the crowd at The Walmarts.

That is why I was at Menards today - to pick up a couple of necessities, namely pet food and kitty litter and ketchup.

Oh and - most important - Hershey's Kisses with Almonds.

Here's the thing, Fellow Shopper. When you are at the checkout with your last minute groceries, the idea is to bag your own groceries while the clerk is ringing you up. See, you really aren't supposed to stand there and watch while the clerk who is more than twice your age heaves a 25 pound bag of dog food off the bottom of your cart because you "can't get it." You really could help a little bit.

And if you don't want to help lift the heavy things, you could be bagging your other groceries while the clerk does the dirty work. It's just a teeeeeny tiny bit irritating for those of us in line behind you if you wait until all of your groceries are in a pile at the end of the conveyor belt before you even move down there to claim them.

And then, when you do get down there, it's really not very considerate for you to stand and read every item on your receipt, using your finger to guide your reading, in an effort to make sure you have not been cheated. If you'd like to check your receipt, great. But could you bag your groceries and move yourself out of the way first? I mean, that'd be great.

Because the rest of us? Well, we want to get out of that store too. We want to get home and eat our chocolate.

And none of us likes the grocery pile up that occurs when the clerk continues ringing up groceries while the shopper at the front of the line IS NOT BAGGING HER STUFF SO THE LINE CAN KEEP MOVING!!!!!!

I keep saying I am going to write a book on grocery store etiquette but I simply CANNOT DO EVERYTHING. I am only one woman, after all. *sigh*

So this letter is just my humble attempt at helping you, Fellow Menard's Shopper, to become more efficient and considerate when you leave your home.

That is what I am here for.

To make the world a better place one snarky letter at a time.

HW

PERFECT

2011-01-29T17:44:00.000-08:00

Today was the ultimate girls day for KaylaBeth and me.

We went shopping for a prom dress.

After driving to my cousin's house to meet her and her daughter, we all piled in their van and headed out to start the hunt. We had three shops in mind, map quest directions in hand, prom magazines dog eared and bookmarked, gentle reminders of budgets peppering the conversation.

We walked into the first shop and I became almost giddy.

I will be 44 years old in a week and I wanted to put on a prom dress. Really I did. But today was not about me and that was totally okay.

Oh the colors! The sparkles! The ruffles and poofs!

Oh the twinkle in our girls' eyes as they told the clerk they'd like to try this dress. And this one. And this one. Oh, and could I please try this one too? Oh the fun of tip-toeing through the maze of dresses so as not to step on hems and trains. If only that was the only kind of mine field our world would ever know.

And the excitement of walking into the shop and finding a classmate of KaylaBeth's just finishing up her successful search. Two mother-daughter pairs had turned into three.

Color us happy!

This is just the kind of day I needed with my girl.

She tried on aqua and baby pink, lime green and bright pink. She tried on bright orange-red. She sparkled. She twirled. She laughed and preened. She let me take picture after picture.

She made me so happy to be her mama. Again.

She chose a dress at the first shop - a dress that was her size and needed no alterations. A dress that got to come home with us today in a big plastic bag that will be tucked away in the guest room where it will tease a certain teenage girl as she waits for prom night to arrive. And since the other girls also chose dresses at shop number 1, we had time for a wonderful sit down lunch before heading home to show Daddy the gown his princess had purchased.

Oh it's just a perfect day - such a perfect day.

Pictures will come soon but if you are curious about THE dress - think "Rainbow Sherbet."

FAULTY INTEL

2011-01-25T08:11:00.001-08:00

While Blake was in boot camp he got to call home twice (not counting his "I've arrived safely" call) and, thankfully, I was home for each call. Each time he was allowed to talk for about 2 minutes but I was thankful for any little crumb I could get during those days.

Yesterday was the first time I'd missed one of Blake's calls in the six months he's been in the Marine Corps.

Can you believe it's been six months since his ship date? Wow.

Just wow.

Anyway, I felt a little bad for missing his call but, in my defense, I had been given faulty intelligence.

I had been told that there would likely be radio silence during mid day chow so I silenced all communication devices and hit my rack to do a little gold bricking.

I took a nap.

Sadly, my marine found a moment to open communications after all and tried to call during that brief time.

*sigh* This is what you get when dealing with the government....

I did wake up to a nice text from him after my nap and was able to speak to him last night before bed which always allows me to put my head on my pillow with an extra peaceful feeling in my heart. *second sigh*

In other news.

Kayla and I had an impromptu girls night last night.

Guess where we went.

No really. Guess.

Would it surprise you to learn we ended up at the mall?

It totally wasn't our fault.

Paul was working late so as Kayla and I sat at the counter eating our spaghetti somehow the suggestion came up that we go out for a while.

Which led to the only natural destination - the mall. I mean what else are we going to do when it is 19 degrees outside. Play tennis?

I think not.

Especially since I don't play tennis when it's 75 degrees outside.

Anyway.

I try - really try - to change things up when it comes to time spent with my favorite teenage girl.

But I JUST. CAN'T. DO. IT. There was that time Paul suggested the library but I told him his cruelty knew no bounds. (Silly man. I buy my books at the mall....)

At the mall, we get to walk. We get to talk. We get to challenge ourselves to find the best bargains. And it is healthy for our brains to constantly challenge our reasoning skills. They say brain puzzles will help prevent Alzheimer's and I'm simply trying to preserve my own health however I can.

Plus, clearance racks are wonderful opportunities to work on math skills, and all of the things Kayla got last night were from the clearance rack (well, not the jeans) including her faux leather jacket and her THREE DOLLAR dress.

So she was presented with many opportunities to work on her math skills - namely percentages.

I am all about promoting education no matter where we are or what we are doing.

I am just that kind of mom.

Plus, when I go to the mall with my girl, as opposed to by myself, she carries the sacks, which does nothing if not promote physical fitness for her. She is, after all, a pitcher and she needs to keep her arm strong year round.

So to sum up: Shopping equals math skills, problem solving skills and exercise.

And THAT is not faulty intel.

But don't quote me on that.

STUFF

2011-01-18T12:46:00.000-08:00

Both of my kids have been asking me when the next blog post will appear.

Blake has reminded me that he finds most interesting those posts that are about him.

Kayla has not been so self centered.

The only thing going on in my life lately has been my being sick. Sick sick sick sick sick. I'm still kind of sick. But that is not a journey you want to go on with me as it is a whiney one, so I'm just going to record here on this blog, what is going on in our life right now.

*We get to start shopping for a prom dress soon. I don't know that my heart is going to hold up very well seeing my girl in a princess dress. I held myself together very well when I saw her brother in his Dress Blues for the first time (okay I had to do a little deep breathing because Marines don't handle tears well - not well AT ALL) but my girl in a ball gown? I'm expecting to lose my dignity a little bit. I am not ashamed.

*Our Marine will be buying his first car in April, as soon as he finishes his school. This, of course is assuming he gets a stateside duty station. *Fingers Crossed* that he gets his first choice of assignments.

*Our kids are lucky. They have a financial adviser built into their support system which is quite helpful when a young man is buying his first car; however, when a young woman gets to buy her first formal gown, we might choose to ignore the sage advice of our money man. I mean he doesn't need to be bothered with such frivolity, does he?

*Has anybody seen our John Adams DVD set? I've been wanting to watch it again through the winter and WE CAN'T FIND IT ANYWHERE....

*We are participating in a Trivia Night fundraiser this weekend to raise money for the post prom party. Well, Paul is participating in the Trivia Night fundraiser. I'm on snack detail. Paul has a useless head full of knowledge (or is it a head full of useless knowledge?) while I know a lot about snacking so we will both be serving in areas of strength.

*I wish I could think of something to say about Blake so he'll like this post.

*I wonder if he's aware that Kayla is my favorite...

*My kids need to learn to leave comments on my blog.

*Did I mention I've been sick? REALLY SICK. Like so sick I soon stopped fearing I'd die and began to fear I would NOT die.

*I'm starting to feel better. Thanks.

*Oh!! Blake got a tattoo. Um....yeah. Not a fan of tattoos but he's a grown up now. A gold star for the person who can tell me what he got and where. It's the one time in my mothering career I did not feel sorry for my baby boy when he told me something hurt really bad.

*Did I mention Kayla is my favorite?

*My kids love my sense of humor.

*I think I'm going to make pineapple muffins today. New recipe you know.

*Oh!! We offered to take Kayla to New York City for Spring Break. She said she'd get back to us.....

*I look forward to 3 each afternoon when I can see my girl after school. She usually pencils me in for about 32 minutes after school before other commitments call her away.

*I look forward to 2 each afternoon when my boy calls on his lunch break to tell me hey. Last week he told me he was willing to bring me onto his financial team if I'd make insurance calls for him. I told him I'd get back to him....

*I'm drinking a cup of coffee for the first time in ten days.

Did I tell you I've been sick?

HOME

2010-12-20T15:21:00.001-08:00

When you become a military family, you get used to the fact that your service member likely will not be home for the holidays. Well, I guess you are SUPPOSED to get used to it, anyway.

And so it was for me this Christmas. I had resigned myself a long time ago to the fact that LAST Christmas was the last with both of my chicks in the nest for a while.

But on Saturday December 9th, we received word that Blake would indeed be coming home for 3 weeks. He arrived 36 hours later.

That's another thing you get used to with this military stuff - things happen quickly. Or slowly. Or not at all. You just learn to "hurry up and wait." I learned that with my Army sergeant brother a long time ago.

We are fortunate that Blake was assigned to work in the recruiting office here in town, meaning his time at home does not count against his leave time. We are also fortunate that he is great friends with his recruiter and we would hardly call what they are doing......um.....combat conditions. I daresay they are having a little bit of fun.

But if you ask me, they deserve it. Fresh out of boot camp and combat training, Blake deserves to kick back a little. A two time Iraq combat veteran who fought in Fallujah, his recruiter deserves an easy day here and there too. Anybody disagree?

Anybody?

And Me? Well, I don't know what I've done to deserve having both of my children home this Christmas. But I'm not going to question it.

My girl. My boy. Home this year. I don't know what next year will bring but for now our family of four is together for the holidays.

And as the sleet hits our windows right now, our house feels amazingly warm.

*Blake and his recruiter in their dress blues - heading out to work
the Toys for Tots campaign. Gotta love a man in uniform.*

....SO SUE ME

2010-12-16T16:21:00.000-08:00

So.

I am really tired of parents giving up responsibility for their own children.

That is why we have lots (and I mean LOTS) of young adults running around refusing to take responsibility for their own bad behavior.

www.eatocracy.com

If you go to this website, it will lead you to an article about a mother who is suing McDonald's for including toys in their Happy Meals. She claims you can only tell a child NO so many times before you have to give in and with McDonald's getting into her kids' heads, it's just too hard.

Wha....?
I don't....
It's just that.....

WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE THESE DAYS?

Here's what I'm sick of. I am sick of people who are afraid of their children. I am sick o f people who will not tell their children NO because they don't want to make them mad.

Here's what I know. It's real easy to tell your kids NO and the more you do it, the easier it becomes. Here's what else I know. It make s kids mad when you tell them NO.

But they get over it. Really. They do. They have to get over it at least long enough to ask you for the next Happy Meal toy.

child: Can we go to McDonald's and get a Happy Meal? I want that new Shrek Toy.
parent: No. Now eat your carrots.
child: UH...why?
parent: I don't have to tell you why.
child: THAT'S NOT FAIR!!!
parent: go to your room. Now daddy gets your dessert.

Period. Done. That's all she wrote. Repeat scene the next day. And the next and the next.

The only way I hope this lawsuit sees the inside of a court room is if it's in front of Judge Judy.

Do you think I'm Stupid? Because I'm not. You, Madam, are STOOO-PID. Now learn to tell your children NO. Ruling for the Golden Arches....

But since frivolous lawsuits tend to be the fad in our country I thought I might cash in on said fad:

1. I intend to sue Duncan Hines AND Betty Crocker because there is no warning on their brownie mixes telling me that eating a whole pan of said baked good will indeed make one fat.

2. I intend to sue all blue jean manufacturers because the new popular SKINNY jeans do not live up to their name. They do not make me skinny.

3. I intend to sue Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Atkins, Nutrisystem and grapefruits. None of their diets work for me.

4. I intend to sue Coach brand purses and leather goods. My daughter wants a Coach purse and, although she doesn't whine and nag me about getting one, I shouldn't have to tell her NO. They should stop making purses.

5. Ditto with the iphone.

6. I intend to sue UGG boots. I went years without buying myself a pair because, frankly, they are not real cute. This year I bought some and they are the warmest, coziest thing to happen to my feet since the womb. UGG should somehow have let me know what I was missing. Three years of my life I will never get back. Three years of cold feet. They should pay.

7. And finally I think I'll sue daylight savings time. That whole "move the clock up and back" thing just bugs me.

Since it is evidently okay to give up self control, accountability and responsibility; who would you sue?

BATTLE OF THE SEXES - CHRISTMAS STYLE

2010-12-09T13:41:00.000-08:00

CHRISTMAS TO DO LIST FOR MOM

-make extensive shopping list for gifts: your parents, his parents, teachers, Sunday school teachers, coaches, neighbors, his secretaries, classmates...oh and your own kids

-shop for said gifts, wrap gifts, hide gifts....forget where you hid gifts. Buy more. Find first gifts in back of closet in March

- make extensive shopping list for food/parties/meals - family party #1, family party #2, Christmas dinner, classroom treats, office treats.....

-shop for perfect family photo clothing

-insist on final approval for husband's photo outfit...

-schedule family Christmas photo - plead, plead, plead with children to smile or at the very least IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY - STOP CRYING!!!

-mail Christmas cards and family photos

-decorate tree, set out all the little doo-dahs that make your children smile. Hang stockings.

- wrap presents

-send correct presents with appropriate family member to school, office, church....

-help with class parties.

-Take Tylenol (lots)

-make sure children see Santa Claus

-put 257 miles on car looking for whatever toy your child (and every other child) can't live without this year

- spend all evening before each party cooking, baking, preparing food that you won't get to eat

-bake cookies

-bake more cookies

-gain 7 pounds in 1 month

-lie awake at night wondering what gift you forgot to buy

-try, try, try to hang on to the Christmas spirit despite that fact that you are nearly in a coma

-promise yourself that next year you will make things easier on yourself.
*****************************************************************************

CHRISTMAS TO-DO LIST FOR DAD

-get approval from wife on photo outfit. Never argue.

-smile for photo

-enter mall at 4:00 pm on December 24th. Forget wife's size and favorite color. Buy gifts anyway.

-assemble toys until 2:00 am

-wake up on Christmas and play with children while telling wife how good all that cooking smells

-eat

-turn on football games

-unsnap pants and fall asleep on couch.

-tell yourself how relaxing the holidays are

ADOPT A MARINE

2010-11-25T18:08:00.000-08:00

Somewhere out near Camp Pendleton California are families who took in some 300 Marines for Thanksgiving dinner today.

They drove to the base, subjected themselves to security checks and drove these servicemen to their homes for a holiday meal.

My son was hosted by a family who lived 15 minutes from the ocean and so he was treated to a nice tour of the amazing beach scenery he had so far only seen while running nearby carrying his 80-pound pack and learning to fight in a battle.

As a mother who just spent her first holiday with one of her children away from home, I am beyond grateful for the families who will take these young men in and give them a taste of home.

I am thankful that since my son could not be with HIS mom today, he was with SOMEBODY'S mom who simply decided to feed some young men and get them out of the monotony of barracks life for even a few hours. He was with a mom who has found a way to serve our country.

But then, who wouldn't want these handsome young men at their holiday table?

Last week, Blake was invited to join another buddy, Alex, for a night away from base. So they joined his buddy's mother for dinner, a movie and a night in a hotel. Alex's mother even treated Blake to his own hotel room. I am blown away by these blessings that people are bestowing on my son.

I wonder if they know. Do they know that when they do these things for my son, there is a mother half way across the country whose heart is so full of peace and contentment that it nearly bursts?

But of course they know. Because they are mothers too.

And so I am left not only with an overwhelming sense of gratitude but an endless question running through my mind:

How will I pay this forward?

WORLD CHOCOLATE CRISIS

2010-11-22T08:56:00.000-08:00

A couple of days ago, Michele S over at www.fourtimesthefun.blogspot.com posted about the end of the world. And jelly. Evidently, Fox News had given a doomsday prediction of some kind that I missed.

*sigh* I miss all the important announcements.

Anyway, I think this article goes along well with Michele's story.
http://www.aolnews.com/surge-desk/article/global-chocolate-crisis-looms/19709231

If you don't want to click on it and read it - and I don't blame you if you don't because it is FRIGHTENING - it basically says that within 20 years we may not have chocolate available to us, which might as well be the end of the world, don't you think?

We were at a birthday party recently and somebody brought this up - how she'd seen a news report saying that cocoa beans were just too labor intensive and expensive to cultivate and so the African nations that most export it are likely to stop harvesting them.

Because the company my husband works for actually has a cocoa division, I put him on the research and sure enough he found the above article. The news is not good, people.

Chocolate may become as rare and expensive as caviar.

Interestingly enough we have two tins of caviar at our house right now. No, we didn't buy it. A Russian coworker of Paul's brought it to him after his last trip home and we're just sitting on it until we have an occasion worthy of caviar.

And until we learn how we are supposed to eat it.

Now I'm thinking we might need to save it to trade on the black market for a case of Hershey's kisses.

Ladies, we need to get on this. This is a time where we cannot, MUST NOT, depend on the men. They see no urgency in this situation. After all, they have not been warned that ESPN is about to go the way of the dodo bird. They have not been told that beer will soon be extinct.

They are not going to help us one bit.

So we must be on it.

It doesn't matter how smart you are. You can help. Wait until you are at your most hormonal and then the ideas will come to you.

It will be like the panicked mother who can lift a Buick off her child or fight a grizzly bear with a stick.

We must all channel our hormonal panics into this and find a way to efficiently harvest the cocoa bean.

We can do it. But until we find a way to avert this crisis, I will be stocking up. Our basement cupboards that usually hold extra soup, tuna and ketchup will now be filled with neatly arranged piles of Hershey bars, Dove chocolates and Snickers.

I suggest you do the same.

SAVE THE CHOCOLATE!! THE HUMAN RACE DEPENDS ON IT!!

OPRAH'S FAVORITE THINGS

2010-11-20T12:47:00.000-08:00

Kayla and I watched Oprah's Favorite Things Giveaway yesterday.

Before I go on, let me just say; I like Oprah. She went through her tabloid Jerry Springer-like period; she went through her New Age type phase - and I didn't care for either one of those styles. But all in all I like her because I think she's generous. Really generous.

And the neat thing about this episode was that the audience was filled with people who worked for charitable organizations, so obviously she likes to reward generosity. Go Oprah.

Anyway, we were watching the Favorite Things Giveaway and really admiring the gifts we saw her give away:

a fancy camera
cashmere sweater and throw
a cruise (YOU'RE. ALL. GOING. ON. A. CRUISE!!!)
the edge brownie pan (totally want that)
warm up clothes and Nikes
a really fancy television with 3D glasses
some diamond jewelry

Wow, really neat stuff.

But the best part of the whole show? The part that was even better than the presents?

The audience reactions.

I think it's safe to say that dignity and reserve are checked at the door when you enter the Oprah Favorite Things Giveaway dreamland.

I'm not saying I'd act any differently - but sweet mercy - these people were funny.

Oprah even had EMTs on hand in case someone needed medical treatment after receiving her new sweater.

There was hugging. There was kissing. And, no, I do not assume those doing the hugging and kissing knew each other - they were just overtaken by euphoria.

New Nikes!! OH MY GOSH!! I'm going to kiss this stranger.

I'm fairly certain I would just stand frozen to the floor doing the ugly cry if I was one of those lucky audience members, but you never know.

Perhaps I'd be like the woman who pounded herself in the forehead several times with both fists after seeing one of the gifts. She looked as though she was either having a stroke (thus the need for EMTs) or cramming for a chemistry final and could not remember the chemical formula for table salt.

Poor thing.

I do know that there were lots of Christians in the audience.

There must have been because I saw lots of hands reaching to Heaven and mouths that appeared to be saying "Thank You Jesus!!"

Because we all know that Jesus is never nearer than at that one moment when we receive a new brownie pan (WHERE ALL THE BROWNIES HAVE AN EDGE!!!)

It is my guess that these lucky audience members not only had all their material yearnings met during this episode; they also had a deep spiritual experience.

I think it is also safe to say that Kayla and I will be parked in front of the television again on Monday.

The Favorite Things Episode is two parts this year.

Call 911.

MAD FACE

2010-11-16T05:52:00.000-08:00

For the past year or so, my kids have been making fun of my mad face.

I don't know why it took them 15 and 18 years to notice my mad face; I've worn it a lot since they were born.

A. LOT. Poor kids.

Anyway, I think the mad face started when I started having problems with my computer.

Something would go wrong with my computer - it would freeze up or the page would suddenly shrink to 50% - and I'd hear Kayla say "She's doing the mad face..."

"Look, Blake. Mom's wearing her mad face..."

"Ehhhh! Dude - you should see mom's mad face right now."

Sometimes I get no respect.

*sigh*

Anyway, recently something happened that caused my mad face to appear big time.

MAD FACE SUPER SIZED!!

We were at a small party - the three W family members that still reside in our home. My daughter was sitting beside me at a table with people we had only met right there at the party - with the exception of one person.

She told me at the end of the party that the two ADULTS she was sitting by spent much of the luncheon talking about the kids from her school and how they are just a bunch of selfish, rich, lazy kids who smoke pot while their daddies work hard to give them everything they want. This, after having asked her (in their one moment of politeness I guess) where she attended high school.

OH. NO. THEY. DII-N'T. *z-snap*

Okay, here's the thing.

I know that there are lots of kids in any school who are selfish lazy pot smokers. But to sit next to a young friendly teenage girl and disparage her school mates in one feld swoop like that is just plain wrong.

Wrong, I say!

Here my daughter had chosen to spend her Saturday afternoon at a luncheon with a bunch of adults she barely knew. She was a hands on helper with the only baby there. She was poised, polite, and pleasant.

And they slam her school.

You don't slam a teenager's school!!! It is their identity. It is their social setting. It is where they are being molded. It is the birthplace of their friendships.

You just don't do it.

*mad face*

Super sized.

Let Freedom Ring - Dennis Jernigan

2010-11-09T17:00:00.000-08:00

November 10th is the birthday of the United States Marine Corps. To all those who serve or are training to serve as one of the Few and The Proud - thank you for your service.

And to my very own Marine - my son, my hero - thank you a thousand times over.

POST PROM

2010-11-09T05:44:00.000-08:00

A little over two years ago, I received a phone call from somebody wanting to know if I'd be willing to serve on the Post Prom committee.

Since Blake was a junior at the time and junior parents were responsible for post prom and since I had not done a lot of work for Blake's class in a while, I readily agreed.

I was asked to be on the fundraising and decorating committees. Fundraising was a little outside my comfort zone but decorating was right up my alley so I agreed to serve on both.

I was in a bad mood for the next 8 months.

The first committee meeting was a real eye opener when the committee chair informed us that the previous year's committee had raised $21,000 and spent $18,000 on the post prom event - setting aside $3,000 for the following year as start up money.

*bump....bump....bump....*

I began banging my head on our host's lovely dining room table. Okay not really but....COME ON.....EIGHTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS?

And then? THEN? At one meeting, a woman actually suggested that since she knew somebody who owned a car dealership, she was sure she could get them to donate a car to give away as the mother of all door prizes.

*THUMP*

I fell off my chair.

Okay. Again, not really, but that scenario was better than the one going through my head: the one where I leaped across the table and began solidly strangling this woman for such an asinine (yes I said asinine) suggestion.

WHAT WERE WE DOING HERE? WHAT WERE WE SAYING TO OUR CHILDREN WITH SUCH EXTRAVAGANCE?

So that bad mood I was in for eight months included my constant reminder to Kayla that I was NOT going to be on the post prom committee when she was a junior.

I do enough for your class since you're an officer.
I'm not doing that again.
No way.
I mean it.
Don't even ask.

Last night I hosted the post prom committee in my very own dining room.

*sigh* and *bigger sigh*

WHAT AM I DOING? WHY CAN'T I JUST STOP IT? JUST SAY NO? WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. MEEEEEE?

The good news is that, at the beginning of the whole post prom planning season, we all decided that we were going to scale back.

We have decided to plan the party around our budget - not set a budget around the party we think will impress the other parents.

If we raise $5,000 dollars than the party will cost $5,000 including insurance coverage, rental fees, and food. The kids can play Checkers all night for all we care.

And the door prizes? WAAAAAAAAY simpler.

Because as I have been saying for two years (because I am a really, really mean mom) "Um....why, exactly, are we giving our teenagers such elaborate prizes to come to a party that we've worked months to plan and spent thousands of dollars on?"

I mean shouldn't they be giving US gifts for all our hard work?

Look, I think post prom is important. It's a great way to keep our kids safe and allow the fun of prom night to continue without the temptation of drinking and driving and whatever other taboo activities they might want to explore on 'their' night.

We lock the kids in the high school with LOTS of adult supervision and keep them there all night. We keep them entertained every moment they are there - with inflatables, video games, movies, food, a casino room, stage entertainment (like a hypnotist).....they have fun. And might I just say that this year we have some REALLY good things in store for the kids?

So why? Somebody please tell me WHY we have to give them presents on top of all that? Especially since, from all my formal and scientific research (asking kids that come into our kitchen) the kids all say they don't care about the door prizes. It's the parents who seem to want it FOR their kids.

Thankfully post prom is on its way back down to a reasonable level of expense and expectation. Leave it to the 2012 parents to lower the bar. 2012 ROCKS!!!!!!!!

I truly think future committees are going to thank us.

In the mean time, let it he known: I AM NOT SERVING ON ONE MORE POST PROM COMMITTEE after this one.

NO MORE.
I'M DONE.
I MEAN IT.
DON'T EVEN ASK.

YOUR BABY CAN READ!!

2010-11-08T06:17:00.000-08:00

My children are 19 and 16 years old.

I consider them to be pretty neat people.

Each of them has a path set before them that he or she seems determined to follow to meet a goal.

And yet, as successful and well rounded as they are, I can't help but wonder:

Would they be even better young adults if I had taught them to read while they sat in their high chairs eating cheerios and drinking apple juice from a sippy cup?

Oh the regrets we have....

You've seen it, haven't you? That info-mercial that convinces us our children can learn to read before they even have teeth?

That stuff fascinates me.

It fascinates me because I can't imagine spending my children's baby years holding flashcards in front of their faces so they could learn words by sight.

ball
dog
flashlight
platypus
drink
baby

It fascinates me because, for the life of me, I can't figure out WHY a baby needs to know how to read.

*thinking....thinking...thinking....*

Are we going to send a baby into the grocery store with mommy's weekly list so that we can sit in the car while baby does the shopping?

Perhaps.

Are we going to hand baby a menu when we go out to dinner so that he can read the night's specials and then order for himself:

"Um....yeth, thith, thalmon here? Can I get that gwilled inthead of pan theared?"

Uh....maybe....I gueth...I mean I guess.

I guess I could have tried to teach my kids to read instead of taking the lazy approach that I did. I actually read TO my kids instead of expecting them to read to me. I read and read and read books every day until my children had had enough.

Books for everyone!! All day long!!!

I also let them sit in front of the television and watch Sesame Street.

I know!!! Can you believe it?

I am the mother who freely admits her children learned their numbers from the remote control.

But you know what? By the end of kindergarten, each of them had begun reading simple books.

Actually, Kayla had begun reading simple words and writing her name when she was 3. Blake, at age 4, was not reading on his own but he was requesting "stories that were true" when we went to the library.

"Excuse me ma'am. Do you have any non-fiction books in your preschool section? He is particularly interested in stories about our presidents and the history of our country. No I am NOT kidding."

Anyway, if we are going to teach our babies to do things that are outside the realm of "normal" for babies, wouldn't we want to teach them things that will save us, their parents, some time - take some of the headache out of raising babies?

Like, changing their own diapers? I mean, we don't want to potty train them at 8 months - that would be unrealistic, after all - but why not teach them to change their own diapers?

Or at the very least to cry for Daddy when they were poopy.

Or how about teaching them to use that blue nasal bulb thing on their own noses?

Maybe we could teach them how to recognize the signs of impending vomit so they don't project the contents of their little tummies all over the living room until they are five.

But teaching them to read?

That's just silly.

WHY?

2010-11-03T06:11:00.000-07:00

As the parents of a new marine, Paul and I have realized we are going to have to get used to questions that parents of new college students simply are not asked.

It's puzzling really.

I'd finally recovered from the disapproving comments made by others when he first decided to enlist:

"How can you let him do that...?
"You should make him join the Air Force....."
"Marines? But they're the ones that kill...."

And the one that continues:

"What made him decide to choose THIS path?"

We really don't know how to answer that question.

We don't know how to answer it because we would never dream of asking it of any other parent.

"Why would he go to THAT college?"

"What made her decide to be a TEACHER?"

"What interests him so much in business that he would choose that path?"

You know. Questions that imply there is something not quite right with that choice.

Regardless of how the question is meant, we HEAR judgement in it. We hear a challenge in it - a challenge for us to justify our child's choice.

For quite a while, Paul had held on to an article from the Wall Street Journal - an article written by a man whose nephew was going to West Point. He was getting these same kind of questions and he had penned a response.

Basically, he wrote that people simply cannot comprehend that a young man with the world at his finger tips - a young man with countless options - would choose a life of military service.

Thankfully we live in an era where the military is a very revered institution; however, it is still one that carries stereotypes. Many people still believe that the military is a last resort.

They believe it is for kids who are in constant trouble and it is their last chance to straighten out their lives. They believe it is for kids who have no family life or loved ones and so they seek out the brotherhood of a military unit. They believe it is for kids who want to go to college but simply don't have the money - and for those kids they can't comprehend why one would not go the ROTC route.

Blake falls under none of those categories.

He simply loves his country and had a desire to serve.

He simply looked at the Marines as a huge challenge that he wanted to push himself to meet.

He simply has some interest in seeking political office one day and believes a military background is a plus for that route, should he choose to pursue it.

He simply decided that he is capable and healthy and there was no reason for his parents to pay for his college tuition when he had a way to work for it himself.

And still, we do not know how to answer the question "why did he choose the military?" in a polite and succinct manner. If we answer with the above options, we sound pompous and boastful.

But believe me, it is getting more and more tempting. It is getting more and more tempting to come back at these people with "why did your daughter choose the path she is on?" "Why is your adult child still at home, not working OR going to school?"

Or:

"Well, while your son is finding his future at the bottom of a beer can, my son is getting up at 4 a.m, pushing his body beyond its limits, taking occasional breaks for first aid and history classes, sleeping in the dirt, and preparing to fight in the mountains of Afghanistan so that you may keep your right to ask me stupid questions. Oh, and all the while he is earning a paycheck AND building up more than $80,000 in education funds. EIGHTY. THOUSAND. DOLLARS. for an education."

Something like that.

But so far, we've said none of that. We've simply stumbled on our words and wondered why people can't simply say something like "well, we wish him luck."

So. How should we answer that question?

Anybody?

PG-13

2010-11-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

So I was a little melancholy last night as I told my husband "ya know...this is the first time since we became parents that we've had NEITHER of our children at home for at least part of Halloween."

*sigh*

Turns out the evening was quite nice even without our kids at home.

Mainly because two of Paul's young co-workers (and wives) stopped by with their tiny trick-or-treaters. We got to meet 16-month-old Jonah who made an adorable monkey and 2-month old Vihan who made the most precious little tiger, it nearly made my heart burst.

(Side note: Vihan (pronounced Vee-hawn) lives down the street and his parents are from India. His name means 'first ray of sunlight.' How beautiful is that?)

So anyway, we had a nice visit with the young parents and we enjoyed our little visitors and all of our sweet young trick-or-treaters.

We enjoyed the entire evening.

We enjoyed it so much that at one point, between taps on the door, my husband came up to me, pulled me into a sweet embrace and started kissing me.

It was only kissing. There was no groping. He didn't even get to second base.

It was just a nice sweet kiss between a man and a woman who are happily married and still in love.

However, it probably was the kind of kiss that would make an 8 year old boy want to vomit.

An 8-year-old boy like the one we noticed watching us through our front door - the one with really cute blond hair and adorable wire glasses. He was dressed as a pirate.

*ahem*

That's right. My husband embraced me and started making out with me right in front of the side window of our front door. (It's totally his fault)

So then.

I opened the door and said (with false cheerfulness and fake innocence) "Well, hello there!!"

*crickets*

"Here you go...Happy Halloween!!!" More fake innocence as I put candy into his bucket.

*plop. plop. plop....plop. plop. plop* (I figured he deserved extra...guilt will do that to you)

Here's where it gets a little creepy.

That little boy did not break eye contact with me for one second.

He did not say "Trick-or-treat."

He did not watch the candy go from my basket to his bucket like most children did.

He did not say "thank you."

He just stared at me with...dare I say it...total contempt.

And then he gave me one final glare and turned on his little heel and walked down the front walk to his dad.

I'm telling you; if I could have read his mind, I'm sure he'd have been telling me "YOU. PEOPLE. DISGUST. ME."

Which is fine, because I was totally disgusted with myself at the moment.

Here's the thing. If I'd known this little boy I would have laughed and followed him out to where his dad was standing. And I would have said "Hey, neighbor. Um...yeah...your little fella here saw us kissing through the front window. But rest assured; it was only kissing. That's it. Nothing else. And WE'RE MARRIED!!! So, yeah, no harm done, right? Okay, then. Happy Halloween."

But since I'd never seen the kid before I just shut the door and tried to crawl under our hardwood floors, while imagining what the poor child was telling his dad.

If we were to assign a good news/ bad news label to this I guess it would be as such:

Good news: We have been married 23 1/2 years and still enjoy kissing in the dining room.

Bad news: The village board has insisted we post a sign on our front porch:

THIS RESIDENCE HAS BEEN RATED PG-13. PARENTS STRONGLY CAUTIONED.

Oh, and we had not told our children about this incident so the fact that they are finding out about this on my blog could fall under the "bad news" part as well.

Yeah, sorry kids.

THE REUNION (MOTO RUN)

2010-10-28T07:59:00.000-07:00

So then, after we saw Blake's platoon march past us we had some time to kill; so we headed over to the courtyard to explore the different buildings and await further instructions.

Most people entered the small Marine Corps museum and gift shop, which is why we did NOT enter the Marine Corps museum and gift shop. It was very crowded.

After that, I'm not sure what we did...to be totally honest.

I do remember that at one point we heard somebody make an announcement over the loud speaker - an announcement that asked us to please move into the courtyard so that we could hear further announcements.

So we headed into the courtyard where the drill instructor (who evidently spends his weekend working comedy clubs) told us he was not happy with the way we moved so we were to exit the courtyard and re-enter.

OH. NO. HE. DIDN'T.

This is when we were informed that we were about to get a taste of what our boys had been enduring for the previous 13 weeks.

So the DI continued making us repeat the same thing over and over again - louder and louder. And when I say "us" I mean all the other parents.

Because I didn't like this game.

I did not like it one bit.

And here's why. If I had just sent my son to college, I would have educated myself about the school he had chosen. Because I had sent my son to the Marine Corps, I had educated myself, as much as possible, about the Corps.

For instance I already knew that when the DI yelled "EARS!" recruits were to scream "OPEN, SIR!" And when the DI yelled "EYEBALLS!!" recruits were to scream "CLICK, SIR!!"

And I knew that when a DI started counting down from ten, recruits better be moving, and moving QUICKLY!

I surprised myself at my own reaction to this hazing because I think I have a pretty good sense of humor. I think I can take as well as I give. I can handle being verbally zapped and zinged.

But this? I didn't appreciate it at all.

(And on a side note: Blake later told us that he was in one of the buildings listening to all of this and he told his buddies "Dudes. My mom is not liking this at all." He's always been so astute)

Now where was I?

Oh, yeah - being treated like a new recruit simply was not for me. I had already sent the Marine Corps half of my best; therefore, I kind of expected to be treated with a little reverence.

And believe me, I was not the only mother who felt this way, there were some that were downright pouting. I was at least going through the motions and pretending to be excited.

Finally, we were dismissed to the parking lot and allowed to line up by platoon number so we could watch our sons run by on their final run through base. Of course, we didn't do this right either so we had to go back and do it all over again.

I AM NOT KIDDING.

I am also not kidding when I say I didn't go back. No sir, I did not. I stayed where I was. I mean what are they gonna do, fire my son? Draft me? Nope.

Besides I had found a spot right on the edge of the viewing area - right inside the cones - and I didn't want to lose it.

Turns out I lost it anyway.

Yeah, I turned around for one second to talk to somebody and when I returned to my original position - somebody had cut in front of me.

Uh - huh. Another mom had cut.

SHE CUT!! THERE'S NO CUTTING!! THERE'S NO CUTTING IN THE MARINE CORPS!!!

Not only had she cut but when one of the sergeants respectfully reminded us to please stay behind the cones - SHE MOVED THE CONE UP A FEW INCHES so she'd still be behind it.

SHE MOVED THE CONE!!

So I decided to take the high road and when she turned around and looked at me I gave her the stink eye. REAL BAD. After that she started talking to her husband who was behind us and motioning for him to come stand in front of me too. I have no idea exactly what she said as she was speaking Chinese, I think.

I do know that the stink eye is universal for "don't you dare," because when the husband looked at me and got the same stink eye, he stayed put.

Smart fellow.

So then, as another sergeant was walking in front of the crowd to make sure we were out of the running path, I desperately wanted to nudge the line cutter with my hip and knock her into the road IN FRONT OF THE CONES so she'd get smoked by the DI (see I know the lingo - you do NOT want to be smoked by a DI...)

But I didn't.

Because the Marine Corps is all about honor, courage and commitment.

I wanted to honor my son.

I had already worked up the courage to give her the stink eye.

And I was totally committed to making her sorry for cutting in front of me.

But I didn't do the nudge thing.

I just burned a hole in the back of her blouse with my stink eye.

Moving on.

The Marines started running into the parking lot where we were lined up. They came in by platoon - shouting cadences - running in perfect step with one another - greeted by cheers and banners and rally towels.

Then they stopped right in front of us and stood in formation.

And I saw my son again.

I cannot post pictures of him lined up after the moto run because he doesn't want pictures posted of him in his port holes (military glasses) but let me just say: Sweet merciful heavens! He looked amazing.

AND!! When he found us in the crowd - he gave us a quick wink.

Seriously. How's that for a sweet greeting?

After we got a good look at our marines they continued their run and we were moved to yet another location where we could watch them finish their run. The crowd was so large that we did not see anything at that point. When the marines were dismissed to shower and prepare for the Parade deck, we were invited into the theater building to meet the drill instructors.

We opted out of that due to the crowd again. Instead, we took that opportunity to walk through the Marine Corps museum and buy a couple of things at the gift shop. Then we found a Starbucks on base and had a coffee while we waited for Blake's dismissal for on-base liberty.

After they were dismissed, since the marines had been told to exit the parade deck ASAP, I had to search for a few (long) minutes to find my son. He had followed orders and left the parade deck.

Instead of going to the restaurant that had been designated for the family lunch, Blake asked if we could find a place less crowded and spend the 5 hours just visiting. No touring. No shopping at the PX. Just a simple lunch and visit.

That sounded like a fantastic idea to us.

We ended up in what could best be described as a rec center on base. It had a bowling alley, arcade, televisions....and served hamburgers and hot dogs.

Funny that was one of the best hamburgers I've ever eaten. I guess true bliss does that to ones taste buds.

This is also the point at which we ladies emptied our purses of the junk food Blake had requested we bring to him. So he ate a hamburger and french fries, about $20 worth of junk food and then another hamburger and french fries.

And he entertained us with stories of boot camp. It was amazing to hear this boy of mine - this man of few words - fill us in on the past 13 weeks of his life. The challenges. The triumphs. The humor. The frustration.

It's funny, I went there thinking I was going to come back with tons of USMC items to commemorate our trip and honor our son's career. I came back, instead with one sweatshirt and a Marine Mom lapel pin.

And precious precious memories of spending time with my son who simply wanted to sit and visit with his family for a few hours.

A LITTLE NERVOUS

2010-10-23T06:36:00.000-07:00

As you may or may not remember, I did not get to watch my son graduate from High School.

He did graduate. I mean, he got all his credits, completed his classes and received a diploma. But he didn't walk in the ceremony because he was supposed to be at boot camp but then he got sent home due to a paper work error and we had no cap and gown, no announcements, no cake, no party planned.

Nothing.
Nada.
Nil.
Zilch.

So, much to Blake's delight, his completion of high school went virtually unnoticed.

Not so with his completion of boot camp.

And therein lies the problem.

Blake does not like parties at which he is the guest of honor.

HE. DOES. NOT. LIKE. THEM. ONE. BIT.

He told me this week they make him feel like a zoo animal on display.

Now as much as I respect his reserved nature, IT'S NOT ALL ABOUT HIM.

IS IT?

That is why today I am having a Welcome Home From Boot Camp Party for him.

And he is so disappointed.

Not only is there that discomfort of being the center of attention, but he found out that he could be going on a poolee function with his recruiter. A really good poolee function where he was going to get to wear his cammies, carry his pack and hike all day while potential recruits learn what's in store for them. He was going to get to be a real Marine.

And I'm making him stay home to greet family and friends, eat some cake and a few snacks and miss all the real fun.

*sigh*

I keep telling myself that I should not be frightened by the fact that in the last week I've heard hi say things like "Bam! Elbow to the temple!" and "I got to box twice in the crucible because I won my first round!" I keep trying to wipe from my memory the letter in which he wrote that he now knows how to sever limbs with a knife. I am trying to ignore the fact that he spent a day or two playing with telephone poles like he used to play with Lincoln logs. And the bulging biceps and forearms? I'm trying not to focus on those.

For surely, SURELY he would use none of these against his mother simply because I wouldn't let him go play in the mud today. SURELY he knows that motherhood is an American institution that is to be honored - like baseball, hot dogs and apple pie. SURELY the two peanut butter crunch cakes he's inhaled since he's been home count for something - and the daily letters I wrote him through boot camp as well.

SURELY I have enough going for me that this one little, itty bitty, slight will protect me from my one big bad Marine who wants to go out and play war games but is being made to sit in clean clothes and visit friends and relatives.

Right? RIIIIGHT?

And if all that counts for nothing, I think my stink eye is still quite effective, even on him.

JUST A FEW FAVORITES.....

2010-10-22T06:46:00.001-07:00

I had found a website on which I could buy t-shirts for Blake's graduation - t-shirts specific to his battalion; however, I didn't order them soon enough and therefore was unable to get our sizes. Failure number 1.

I was, however, able to order rally towels for the moto run.

So I took the rally towels to our local sporting goods store and asked them to copy that emblem onto t-shirts for us.

They did an amazing job.

Blake's biggest cheerleaders - Echo Company Platoon 2108

And the front view - as we wait for the bus. This is about an hour before we were to see him for the first time. The neat thing about this is that Blake liked them so much he asked for one and suggested we have a family snapshot taken in them. I felt like a Terrible Marine Mom (TMM) for not having one made for him. That mistake has been corrected and we will get that snapshot taken this weekend.
There were lots of photos taken that weekend - photos of dress blues, parade formation, Old Glory, pomp and circumstance of all kinds.

But nothing - NOTHING - warms my heart like this photo below.

My marine and his dad. I absolutely loved watching them together all weekend. One man sharing his journey with another.

It is such a simple photo - poorly shot and not at all contest worthy, I know. But oh how it speaks to me.

I'd say each of them was walking a little taller that weekend.

I am in love.

THE REUNION

2010-10-20T19:58:00.000-07:00

We landed in San Diego at about 3:30 Pacific Time, Wednesday October 13th.

As we taxied to the terminal I saw it.

MCRD - Marine Corps Recruit Depot - the place where Blake had spent most of the 13 weeks that comprise boot camp.

Lots of yellow buildings with red roofs.

And in one of those buildings - or around it, at least - my boy was probably hearing our plane land.

How strange it was, to be yards away from his temporary home and yet be unable to see him until the next day.

How odd to catch a shuttle to our hotel, meet up with my in-laws, eat an amazing Mexican dinner and walk around Old Town without him, knowing that he was just a few minutes away by car.

I was a six-year-old on Christmas eve; wondering if sleep would ever come - if the magic of that long awaited gift would ever arrive.

On Thursday morning we all loaded into a shuttle bus and took a quick ride to the Depot where we would wait around for our sons to do their final run - The Moto (motivational) Run.

As we mingled around the parking lot waiting for instructions - but being careful NOT TO STEP ON THE PARADE DECK!!! (for we all had been told in no uncertain terms to stay off that hallowed ground) we noticed a platoon drilling on said parade deck.

Well, that was something we all wanted to see - a platoon of new Marines drilling in their Service Utilities (cammies)before their moto run. But I noticed something extremely exciting for our family. I noticed the Platoon flag.

2108.

It was Blake's platoon.

And they were marching right toward us.

I began snapping photos (which I will post later) as they got closer and closer.

And then I stopped snapping because I didn't want to take any chance of missing my son's face.

Here is where I will make a confession. I did not easily recognize my son while he was in formation. Throughout the whole weekend, from a distance, I could not pick him out of the line up. Because when the Marines say they make everybody the same, they mean it.

So as they march past me, my mind quickly went through a checklist of what I needed to look for:

I knew he was Caucasian.
I knew what little hair was visible would be red.
I knew he was about 5'11".

And then it clicked: GLASSES!!! He's wearing glasses - contacts aren't allowed at boot camp.

And that realization saved me for out of 76 platoon mates only about 15 were wearing 'port holes' (the nickname given to military eye wear because they are so large) They are also known as BCGs or Birth Control Glasses because they are NOT attractive. But they are UNBREAKABLE. Blake said they proved this because one recruit spent an evening trying to break his and they simply. would. not. break.

Anyway, my boy marched right past me - mere inches from me. He did not look at me but I saw him.

"I saw him!" "I saw him!" I continued to whisper to my family (for there's something about being around a drilling platoon that brings on a reverent feeling), as my hands went to my face to cover the ugly cry.

{It was kind of like that day some 19 years ago when I was lying in an operating room saying "it's a boy! It's a boy!" after a c-section.}

And a gentleman who had ridden the shuttle with us walked over to me and said "you saw your son, didn't you? I could tell by your face. I'm happy for you." His boy was in another platoon and he would have to wait a while longer to see his new Marine.

But that's what the whole weekend was - just families and loved ones who were starving for the sights and sounds of our boys - pulling for each other - allowing others' happiness to be our happiness for the time being.

Next up? The Moto run. Seeing my Marine in his PT clothing is when I realized just how huge he'd become (well, huge compared to when he left) The Marines had taken a drinking straw and turned him into a tree trunk simply by adding 25 pounds of new muscle.

THE GOAL....

2010-10-20T15:19:00.001-07:00

...has been met.

MY MARINE

2010-10-19T07:16:00.000-07:00

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WHAT'S MISSING

2010-10-17T06:51:00.001-07:00

Last night, after a wonderful but exhausting four days in San Diego, I crawled into my own bed thinking I'd sleep like a rock.

We were home. My children were home.

And I had finally placed my travel weary and worry torn heart into my favorite resting place - my bed.

And yet, I lay there for a while unable to sleep.

My body felt like it was made of jell-o. My eyes were scratchy and raw from fatigue.

And yet sleep wouldn't come.

I had reached the point where I'd become too tired to sleep and I hate that feeling.

So I lay there and asked myself what was wrong and all I could think of was that something was missing.

Something was missing? How could that be? I was in my bed, my head on my own pillow, listening to the hum of my fan - my family all in the house - and I couldn't sleep? Something was missing?

And then it hit me. Worry. Worry was missing.

The worry.

I was lying there waiting for worry to make it's nightly visit into my heart.

Only this time it wasn't going to come.

It's not that I wanted it to come; it's just that it had become such a part of my life for 13 weeks that I had taught myself to lie awake and wait for it. Because night time was when it opened the door and crept in. Always. Always at night when the lights were out and the house was quiet, I'd stare at the ceiling and think of my boy.

And now it is gone - that worry.

For now.

I left it at the curb outside the St. Louis airport as soon as our son climbed into the van.

I know it will return.

It will return when he leaves for combat training and then again when he leaves for his job school. And then again when he is with the fleet. And then again, with horrible force, when he is deployed (for we've been told to prepare ourselves for a deployment).

It will return when my daughter leaves for college.

But for now?

Now it will sit on that curb in St. Louis and I will refuse to pick it up while my boy is home.

And when I realized all of that I closed my eyes and slept with a peace that had, for a few months, been unknown to my heart.

AND NOW....

2010-10-15T19:37:00.000-07:00

...he is a Marine.

Ooh-rah and Amen.

TEST

2010-10-05T08:01:00.000-07:00

My son has started his final test. As we slept in the wee hours of this morning, he started out on his journey to conquer The Crucible.

Oh to be so close to a goal and have to push ones body and spirit beyond its limits to achieve it.

But achieve it, they will - with God's hand upon them.

Please Thursday. Come quickly. Come quickly so that I will know my son is safe and proudly wearing his first EGA pin.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRcxqwtUNNE

LIGHT

2010-10-03T15:22:00.000-07:00

Somewhere out on the West Coast is a group of Navy chaplains who work daily to reach through the dirt and grime of boot camp and shine a light of hope, goodness, encouragement, and - well, CHRIST - into the hearts of hundreds of Marine recruits.

And one or more of those chaplains did just that with my son.

We received word yesterday that our son had been baptized during weekly worship services last Sunday.

We did not get to witness this milestone event; but that is what military life is like. We will never meet these particular men who have made it their life's work to lift up young men and women who are in the midst of a hugely difficult time in their own lives.

But that is OK.

Because my son is now my brother.

And the journey before him will be an amazing one - for so many reasons.

FINALLY

2010-10-01T18:26:00.000-07:00

We've been waiting weeks to see this video. Let's see if I can lead you to it.

www.devildogs.info

2nd Batallion - Echo company - Platoon 2108.

Third row from the top - third from right. He's the handsome sunburned red head.

And he's two weeks from being a Marine.

And my heart is leaking out of my eyes.

RECRUIT PRAYER

2010-09-29T06:14:00.000-07:00

I have found a recruit parent forum that I view a couple times a week. It is for all Marine recruit parents but is broken down very specifically by training base, company, platoon, graduation date, every imaginable category. The parents of platoon 2108 (Blake's platoon) have started a prayer thread for our boys as they enter their final phase of training.

I post mine here, not to lift myself up as anything more than a mother who misses her son and wants desperately to see him; but merely to record it for Blake.
*************************************************

Father, thank you for seeing our sons through this journey so far. We ask your healing hand upon those who are injured in body or in spirit.

Please, Father, surround our sons, Your children, with your angels of love and protection as they enter this final phase. Give them wings of eagles so that they may soar and conquer their final tasks. Protect them from injury as they move through The Crucible.

Thank you father for each one of these young men who has chosen this selfless and sacrificial path in life. Thank you for each mother, father, wife, brother, sister and other loved one who is keeping each one of these boys lifted up as he meets his goal.

Lord, thank you for the men who have trained our boys to be members of this mightiest military force in the world.

Thank you, Lord, for the chaplains who somehow reach through the dirt and grime of boot camp and shine a light - YOUR LIGHT - into our sons' hearts. Because, Lord, my son is one of those who has been reached and has chosen to be baptized in Your name. And for that Dear Father, I am eternally grateful.

Lord, I pray for safe travel for the hundreds of families who will be crossing this nation to finally see our sons. Please allow us all to return safely to our homes and embrace our children for even a brief time.

Lord you have sustained us. You will continue to sustain us and our sons. And for this I praise You and thank You.

*****************
My sweet best friend J sent me some much needed words of encouragement one day and reminded me that Blake would be soaring like an Eagle. And so I keep that image in my mind as I think of him nearing his goal. Thank you Jnet.

Two weeks from today we will board a plane and head to San Diego. We will arrive that evening but not be able to see our son until the next day. Oh, the agony of being less than two miles from our child and not hold his face in my hands.....but we are getting close.

Praise God in Heaven....we are almost there.

DREAM

2010-09-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

For the past ten weeks, I've had a lot of dreams about baby boys. I wouldn't call these dreams disturbing but, like most dreams, they have been bizarre.

One night my dream was about me buckling a baby boy into a car seat and I looked away for one moment. When I looked back, the baby boy was gone but I continued to buckle an empty car seat.

Dreams about a baby boy simply not being there any more. These dreams have not left me fearful; but rather resigned. Resigned that my baby has gone and left in his place a man.

But early this morning? In those moments where I had awakened once but slipped back into that wonderful Saturday morning doze? I had the sweetest dream of my boy.

We were seeing each other for the first time since he left for boot camp.

He was in his dress blues and he was kissing my cheek.

And it was HIS face; not some abstract, non-face that appears in many dreams.

It was my boy's face.

And his arms around me, hugging me tight.

And in the back of my not-quite-awake-yet-not-fully-asleep mind, I was telling myself.

Don't wake up. Don't wake up. Stay asleep and this feeling will last a little longer.

But of course I woke up.

And I lay in bed and basked in that sweetest of dreams - a dream of my boy - now a man who is just a hair's width away from achieving HIS dream.

And I looked at the calendar and was reminded that we are less than three weeks from seeing him. Less than three weeks from seeing our son become a Marine.

And then I walked to the mailbox and opened another sweet letter.

But still, I want to close my eyes for just a moment and picture him in that uniform, feel those arms around me and imagine that boy kissing his mama's cheek.

Sweet dreams indeed.

I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M DOING THIS

2010-09-20T18:05:00.000-07:00

My mom sends me lots of e-mail forwards. Most of them are at least slightly humorous, if not worth saving.

The one I received today is just so disturbing I have struggled with my conscience about whether to even create a post about it.

But I finally decided it is going to have such an impact on my life (and probably yours) that I simply had to step outside my comfort zone and post it:

Ladies and gentlemen, please forgive me:

Yes, this woman is at the grocery store without a blouse. And without a bra.

But apparently that is no problem since her breasts fit quite nicely into the waist band of her stretch pants.

I just...

I mean....

wha....

My eyes!! My eyes!! Please, God in Heaven, strike me blind NOW!

When I am not dreaming of pouring bleach into my eyes, the questions simply will not stop swirling around my now permanently scarred brain.

First off; Why? In the name of all that is good and holy WHY? Did this poor woman not have ONE top? NOT. ONE. TOP?

Should we be at all concerned that she's shopping for chicken breasts while hers are tucked into her waist band? What's that about?

Does this super market have no greeter? Because surely anybody with any sense (and hopes of ever sleeping again) would have called security. "Uh...yeah...Barney, we have a situation here. Please bring a blanket."

*And an ice pic so I can gouge my own eyes out.*

Was there not one person who encountered this woman and thought, "hmmm, she has no shirt on. I think I'll try to cover her up?"

And finally, where can I buy the best, most supportive bra EVER?

Because I think I want to take some pre-emptive measures for when I actually lose my last two functioning brain cells....

And now, loyal readers, good luck erasing this image from your brain.

I CHOOSE TODAY

2010-09-11T19:52:00.000-07:00

Remember those days when your children were babies? Those days when you thought:

I can't wait until they sleep through the night

I can't wait until they can walk

I can't wait until they can talk

I can't wait until they are out of diapers

(or am I the only one who had those thoughts?)

It seems when my children were little, as much as I cherished my babies, I found myself looking forward to new phases.

How exciting new phases were - and how relieved I sometimes was when those new phases arrived.

The first week of sleeping through the night? Was there anything closer to heaven than my head staying on my pillow for six to eight hours at a time? I think not.

The first happy days after potty training was complete? FREEDOM!!!!

I'll admit I was not one of those moms who sobbed my eyes out when my baby went to kindergarten. I was a little melancholy about missing both of my children but I also looked forward to all of that "free time." And truthfully, I looked forward to my children experiencing the magic of learning - to the world being opened up to them in a whole new way.

But that mysterious free time that comes when all of your children are in school? It took several years for me to actually learn what that felt like, but that's a whole other post.

Like most of you moms who have teenagers or older children, I've blinked my eyes a few times and my kids are practically adults.

My son is at USMC boot camp and I have not seen his face in 8 weeks.

My daughter is a junior in high school and is busy and active and social and in love with life.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

But I realized the other day that I've spent much of my parenting years simply ignoring the beauty of the moment.

When they were babies, I so often let frustration and fatigue win out and I'd wish for them to grow up.

Now that they are growing up I want them to be little again and I dread them growing up even more.

I so enjoy my sweet daughter; and the last couple of months have been especially amazing with her. This girl knows how to make the most of life.

She sparkles.

But sometimes? Sometimes when I watch her with her friends or listen to her laugh, I find myself thinking "only two more years...." When she's working on the homecoming float in our garage, I stand back and watch and think "after this, only one more float." And my heart does a sad little flip flop.

I want to hold on to her and turn back time to the days she wore soft leather MaryJanes and big hair bows. I want to see the hole in her smile that so charmed us during the tooth fairy days. But at the same time I want to see her move deeper and deeper into this wonderful journey of life. I want to watch her experience the joys of prom, graduation, college, lifelong friendships.

And so I once again have a choice to make.

Just as I had to make a choice 15 months ago when my son enlisted in the Marine Corps - the choice to live in faith instead of in fear - now I am making the choice to live in the moment as a mother.

I cannot go back to the joys of those sweet sweet days when my children were little. But I can recognize and be entrenched in the sweet moment of today - the sweetness of a high school girl who lives life with joy and surrounds herself with girls as sweet and fun as she is; and the relief and happiness that comes from knowing my son is healthy and strong enough to endure Marine Boot Camp.

I cannot turn the calendar back; and the calendar will turn itself forward quickly enough without my watching it and dreading it.

So here is my choice.

I choose today.

And all of the blessings it holds.

I'M HERE - ALWAYS

2010-08-26T12:16:00.000-07:00

I think I might have hit a wall this week - week 6 of my son's absence.

Perhaps it's the new school year and having my sweet girl move to "upper class man" status. Perhaps it's the onslaught of fundraisers and projects that come with each new school year. Perhaps it's the many plans we are making for Blake's graduation, ten day leave, and welcome-home party.

Whatever it is, I've hit the wall of worry and fatigue that comes from missing somebody who is embedded in your heart.

And so today, when I went to the mailbox for the fifth time - and I do mean FIFTH time - to see if the mailman had finally brought me a letter from my boy (I finally discovered he had not) I was brought down by a baby bird.

A baby bird conquered this recruit mama's heart.

It was a tiny little thing - that bird - no more than two inches tall and two inches long. So tiny it probably weighed no more than one of the maple leaves blowing in our tree nearby. This tiny bird was obviously where he wasn't supposed to be. He was in the middle of our driveway. In the sun. Out in the open. No shelter, no shade, no mama nearby.

And he stood still with his mouth open - yet silent - as though he were trying to call for help but had not quite learned how yet.

I came inside to get my camera but the pictures did not turn out. The sun was too bright, the bird was too tiny, and I suspect the mother was too close for me to approach; for I heard her. I heard the same trill coming from our tree. Over and over, the same pattern, the same call. Surely this sweet yet desperate call could only be that of a mother trying to lead her baby home.

I'm here. Here at home. I'm waiting for you. I'm here. Always.

And then I noticed that mixed in with the pleading call of the mother, was a tiny and plaintiff pattern from the baby.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm here and I don't know how to find you. Keep calling me. Keep calling me home.

I came inside to put the camera away (and to give my heart a break) and when I came back out - just a minute later - my tiny feathered worry was gone. The song of the mother was there but coming from a different tree. And the song sounded less sad, less desperate. I could not find the baby in the grass or under our shrubs.

Oh how I hope mama and baby were reunited. I hope somehow those minute wings of that baby bird were able to lift it into its nest where it belonged so that it could hide itself under its mama's wings and escape the hard cement of our driveway and the blazing heat of the sun.

I have one who has left the nest and one who will leave when I blink once, twice, three times.

The one who has gone? I know he misses me, but I don't think he's sad or lonely or scared. I think he is where he was meant to be; he and I both know it. And yet I still hope, with every letter I write him each night before bed, that he can hear my heart say to him "I'm here. Here at home. I'm waiting for you. I'm here. Always."

And the one who has one foot outside the nest? For now I wish I could put her under my wing and keep her out of the hardness and glaring heat of the world. And perhaps I can. But soon - too soon - I will be sending her off and my heart will be singing the same song:

"I'm here. Here at home. I'm waiting for you. I'm here."

Always.

A WHOLE NEW ALPHABET

2010-08-11T11:39:00.000-07:00

As a Marine Recruit mom, I'm learning a lot of new things this summer.

I'm learning that, for some reason, I get a little nervous every time the phone rings.

I'm learning that I have a new fondness for our mail carrier and the words to "Please Mr. Postman" keep going through my head.

I'm learning that no news is good news.

And I'm learning lots and lots of alphabet soup. Letters we throw around now as easily as we used to say "formula, diapers, fever, homework, practice, curfew" are now part of our every day conversation as we watch the calendar and mark the days until our recruit is no longer a recruit but a Marine.

USMC

DEP

ASVAB

POOL-E

MEPS

PT

IST

PFT

IT

B-MED

MCRD

MCRD-SD

MCRD-PI

DI

SDI

MCMAP

and finally...EGA.

The EGA - Eagle, Globe and Anchor is the symbol for the United States Marine Corps. Recruits are officially Marines when they are handed their first EGA pin. They earn that at the end of boot camp after surviving the Crucible.

The Crucible is relatively new to Marine Corps Recruit Training - having been added in the 1980's. It is a 54 hour highly intense combat and team building exercise during which the recruits sleep four hours and get two meals.

Four hours sleep and two meals. In fifty four hours.

Those 54 hours are when they learn to depend on each other for success and survival. At the end of the Crucible they are given a Warriors Breakfast where they get to eat as much as they want and actually take time to taste the food.

And then they are given their first EGA.

E. G. A. I suspect in about ten weeks time, those letters are going to be some of the most profound of our son's life.

And mine too.

A DAY WITH MY GIRL

2010-08-07T07:56:00.000-07:00

Thursday night I made a decree that the following day would be Girls Day Out for the W family.

LET IT BE KNOWN - IN THIS LAND AND ALL LANDS THAT MAY HEAR - THAT FRIDAY AUGUST 6 WILL BE A DAY OF ERRANDS AND SHOPPING FOR THE PRINCESS AND QUEEN OF THE W ESTATE. HE WHO OBJECTS (DADDY...) WILL BE SUBJECTED TO THE SMELL OF NAIL POLISH AND A DOUBLE SILENT TREATMENT FOR NO LESS THAN 24 HOURS.

So then.

We first headed to the Walmarts for essentials like nail polish, People Magazine, and donut holes.

We also picked up lettuce, fresh spinach, paper towels and toilet paper.

And, finally, we printed some photos from one of Kayla's summer softball tournaments. See, we had this disc that we got at the tournament and we finally got ourselves out there to choose photos and get them printed.

Now having me stand in front of the photo printers at the Walmarts is like putting me in front of the controls of the Space Shuttle. "oooh! What does this button do....?"

But Kayla knew what she was doing, even though she'd never used those printers before either.

Our troubles came, not from the printers, but from the crabby old woman who was also printing photos. It was obvious she had used the printers often and was quite adept at printing her photos, scanning her receipt and then heading to the counter to sigh deeply and tap her foot when a clerk wasn't available RIGHT NOW!!

She scooted in front of us to scan her receipt, violating every personal space law known to man. She hovered over our shoulders piercing the backs of our heads with disapproving looks as we made our selection and she waited on her order to be "completed soon." She stood behind us in line at the counter and let us know, telepathically, that she was not happy - not happy AT ALL - that we got there first. After all, it appeared she had printed nearly 200 pictures at different times that morning, while we printed a mere 17.

And then. Before I even received my change from the clerk, she stomped up to the counter, placed her pocketbook down, marking her territory, and kind of, like, slid me out of the way, making me fear I was going to receive an elbow to my left cheek if I didn't MOVE OVER NOW!! And she did all of this despite the fact that I had already inched myself as far down the counter as I could to make room for her. I was far enough away from the register by the end of my transaction that the clerk would have been better off tossing my change to me one coin at a time; rather than he and I having to stretch our arms equidistant so that could receive my 76 cents.

I kept looking around for a Personal Space Law Enforcement Agent (a PSLEA) but there was none to be found. And surely, if there is ever need for a PSLEA, it is at the Walmarts.

Am I wrong?

Please, Mr. Walmart, post a nice sign about personal space etiquette in your entry way. Or better yet, have your greeters say "Hello. Welcome to Walmart. Please remember to stay at least 36 inches away from your fellow shoppers at all times. Have a nice day."

Whew! Was it a relief to get out of there. But our enthusiasm was not to be dampened. We headed to Jo-Ann Fabric and bought some thread for friendship bracelets and baskets for my craft room.

Then before finishing off our day with a late lunch of Chinese food, we stopped in at the salon and got our eyebrows waxed. Because we cannot have such a pleasant day without punishing ourselves a little bit.

Balance is important, you know.

HELP

2010-07-08T14:59:00.000-07:00

I have always loved to read.

Always always always. I'm so happy when I have a good book in my hands.

When I was in the first grade, I read a book about a little girl who went shopping with her mom and got red shoes. That year I asked Santa to bring me red shoes for Christmas and he came through for me. From then on I've always had a pair of red shoes in my closet.

And my daughter got her first pair of red Mary Janes for her first Christmas pictures - at age eight months. And, even, if it's just red flip flops from Old Navy, she's always had red shoes in her closet too.

All because of a book.

My biggest weakness with books is that I buy them. I don't check them out from the library. I buy them; much to my husband's chagrin. Seriously, he can't stand that I spend money on books.

I can't help myself. I just want the book to be mine mine mine. I want to fold the pages down to mark my spot when I finally have to go to sleep at night. I want to mark the pages with a highlighter so I have poignant quotes at my finger tips. I want to carry the book to the softball bleachers and not worry if I smudge it with chocolate. If the book is part of a series, I want to collect the whole series and make it mine mine mine as well.

And I want to grab those books off my shelf and read them again. And again and again.

I have also realized I buy books for comfort.

And since my son is leaving (AGAIN) for boot camp in 11 days, I find myself seeking comfort in the shelves of the bookstores.

Which is where I found one of the best books I've read in a long time.

The Help. By Kathryn Stockett.

It's the story of African American domestic helpers (maids) in Mississippi in the 1960s. It's the story of their relationships with their White female employers.

Interestingly, the author (who has not written a novel before this) was raised in Mississippi with Black servants in her home.

This book is so poignant. So compelling. It's sad, humorous, heart wrenching, anger-inducing and worthy of a movie. It is most definitely worthy of a sequel, and I'm already predicting the plot of that sequel that may or may not be written.

The Help is one of those books whose ending I dreaded. I dreaded getting to that last page. And it's one of those books that I can't stop thinking about.

If you are a reader, go. Go now and find this book. You will be so glad you did.

And now I am reading Shanghai Girls by Lisa See.

I'll post a review on it when I'm finished.

Or maybe not.

A MOTHER'S HEART

2010-07-02T19:13:00.000-07:00

The thing about being a mother is that our hearts scream at the infliction of pain on another mother's heart.

Because our hearts can feel it. Our hearts can imagine it. Our hearts plead 'no...no....no....' on behalf of our fellow moms when their hearts are being ripped from their chests.

And so it is tonight as I sit paralyzed with sadness at the news that a classmate of Kayla's was killed in a car accident.

Sixteen years old, driving a mere couple of months. On his way to work.

And he is gone.

A mother's precious son is gone.

Her daughter's little brother is gone.

Her husband's boy is gone.

In the blink of an eye, her heart is laid bare to the worst pain a mother can imagine.

And we can feel it, can't we moms? We can feel that desperation to make it not true.

no no no no no....

How will she ever again lift her head off her pillow when she awakes each morning? How will she crawl out from under that weight of grief?

Do you feel it? Do you feel her pain? Is your heart breaking, simply because you know? You know what it means to love so fiercely that to lose that which you love is to have the air that you breathe sucked out of you forever?

If you are the praying sort, I beg of you to pray for this family. You don't need to know their name; God knows. God knows which mother will never be the same. God knows which family has just set out on that crippling journey of grief. God knows which parents have just been called to do that which no parents should ever be called to do....

This. This is beyond our comprehension. This is beyond what we think we can handle. This is a tragedy that will rip through our tiny school district like a hurricane blowing winds of grief, breaking hearts, devastating young lives. Because a precious boy is gone. A life is over far too soon. The foundation of our community has been shaken. And one family? Tonight one family in our midst now has a hole in its heart.

And so what we must do is fight the need to curl into a ball and hide from the pain. We must arm ourselves with the tools necessary to get our young people through this loss. We must show them how to minister to their friend's family. We must gather our strength from each other so that we can give it to our children.

There will be little sleep for me tonight. I daresay most of our community will by lying awake most of the night. As I pray for this grief stricken family I will also be praying that the rest of us can serve them, minister to them, lift them up, carry their burden, carry them.

And I hope you will join me.

BABY LOVE

2010-06-30T14:23:00.001-07:00

Every Thursday in June, I had a long date with my new little boy friend. He's short and pudgy, nearly bald and barely has any teeth.

The thing about my little boyfriend is that I took advantage of him in the most absurd ways. Like one day? After he'd had breakfast and was in a really good mood? I started taking silly photos of him.....

This was an especially exciting photo session. I said to Kayla "Ok. He's fed. He's dry. Strip him down and let's get some patriotic photos." I had to put my camera on the Advanced Sports Action setting; this little guy has quick hands....It was like 'Lucy and Ethel do a Photo Shoot.'

See, my boyfriend's mama was offered a one-day-a-week job and asked if I'd watch him on that day. We both agreed to give it a try through the month of June. On the second week, Mommy came home saying she never wanted to go back to that horrible place again.

But she lived up to her agreement and finished her time, while baby Caden stayed with me.

As is the norm in our house, when a baby comes to visit, the world stands still and all things revolve around said baby.

Caden loves loves loves Kayla.

If Kayla left for a while, when she returned his little baby face lit up like a Christmas tree and he flapped his arms and legs like a pudgy bird trying to leap out of the nest.

Oh sweet Caden. He even won Blake over. And it's a good thing. Caden is the son of Blake's recruiter. Oooh-Rah.

Caden loves Tigger.....

And his own toes.....

Sweet mercy, those legs. Don't you just want to smoosh them forever?

And his thumb.

And those eyes? I think I'm in love

What Caden does not love is sleep but I couldn't hold that against him because neither of my children loved sleep either.

I am so used to sleepless babies it's not even funny.

It's why I have exactly two working brain cells in my head right now.

What Caden's mommy and daddy don't know? When Blake leaves for boot camp, I'm going to put Caden in my back pack and bring him home with me. Shhhh....don't tell.

PITCHING IN

2010-06-20T19:46:00.000-07:00

About a week ago, some guy called Paul and asked if he thought our daughter would be interested in filling in on a travel softball team. One of their main pitchers has been injured and they needed somebody willing to pitch one or two games for a weekend tournament.

The thing is that this other team is from a nearby town and Kayla didn't know anybody on it, except another girl from her school who happens to play because her cousin is on the team.

So.

As a mother, when I hear that my daughter is being invited to join a group of teenage girls - a very close knit group of teenage girls whom she does not know - in a very competitive sport, what I hear is this:

"Yeah, we were wondering if you would hand your precious baby over to us so that we could throw her into a deep dark pit filled with hungry hyenas. Only for one weekend for now. And we'll see if they get hungry again after that."

Because sometimes? Girls can be a little....um....unwelcoming when an "outsider" comes into their midst.

But Kayla was all like "Sure. I'll play a tournament."

Now here's an interesting side note about our family. We are, evidently, athletic mutts.

Our children attend school at the home of the MF Trojans where they wear blue and yellow to support their teams. Our family wears blue and yellow in the spring while we sit on the bleachers to watch Kayla's school softball team.

Blake wrestles for the A/O Bombers and wears a blue and orange singlet. So,in the winter our family wears blue and orange while we sit on the wrestling bleachers.

And now?

Well, now we might be wearing red and black for the rest of the summer while we support Kayla's temporary position with the Mt. Z Braves Travel Softball Team.

I have no idea what we should call ourselves or what color we should be wearing each day......but I do like red.

After the first day of the tournament the coaches asked if Kayla would like to finish the season with this team. It is a huge commitment so she hasn't decided yet. But it is also a huge honor being asked, and we so appreciate the people who suggested her when the coach was calling around asking for a pitcher. Any chance to gain some experience is wonderful; but more importantly, any chance to make new friends is bound to be a great experience.

And as for the girls? I worried for nothing. All of them were very sweet and welcoming to Kayla. They were all very encouraging of each other on the field and off.

And Kayla is getting Facebook friend requests from some of them now. THAT speaks volumes, doesn't it?

I cannot tell you how proud I was of my girl this weekend. We showed up at that tournament and she introduced herself to the coaches, shook their hands and thanked them for inviting her to play. Then she dove right in with the girls and enjoyed herself.

I am proud of her performance on the field, but most of all I am proud of the fact that she spent two very long hot days with a new group of girls and started developing some new friendships. And she didn't seem one bit nervous.

And when one of the team moms - whom I just met this morning - told me that my daughter was "just a real sweetheart?"

Well, it might as well have been mother's day because what mom doesn't love to hear comments like that about their kids?

Sweet Kayla Beth - Dad and I are so proud of you for how you handled yourself all weekend. Great games. Great attitude. GREAT DAUGHTER.

SEEKING LIGHT

2010-06-08T13:38:00.000-07:00

So.

My last post? I deleted it for a couple of different reasons, but not before reading your very sweet comments of encouragement and empathy.

Thank you.

And thank you to those of you who sent e-mails to encourage me and to let me know I was being prayed for.

While I certainly don't intend to take joy in others' sorrows, I found some comfort in learning that some of you have also been through very dark times - or are living in a dark time now. Just knowing that my little stumble into the valley is something others experience - that I'm not a complete weakling for giving in to this - is comforting.

Reading of your experiences has brought a couple of questions to mind:

1. Why are we women so hard on ourselves and insist on walking through the valley alone? I have my own theory on this but I'll keep it to myself for now.

2. Have I sent the women in my life a message that makes them hesitate to seek help from me in their darkest times. Have I sent a message that says I won't be a source of light when they are sitting in darkness? There has to be something that keeps us from seeking help from each other. Am I exhibiting that "something?" I want to examine myself and know if I'm lacking in that area. I want to know if I've passed up an opportunity to minister to a sister. Because there are a lot of people out there who are in a dark place right now. Are they seeking help? Do they wish somebody would notice and nobody has?

I realize that sometimes we don't want help and I'll admit I'm like that. When I'm feeling hopeless and helpless it is very easy for me to turn inward and want to remove myself from the world until the pain passes. Most of the time, at least.

Are you like that? Tell me. Tell me why you think we women are so hard on ourselves and why we don't allow ourselves to ask for help.

TIGGERIFIC......

2010-06-01T19:18:00.000-07:00

…you can either be an Eeyore or a Tigger. Remember them from Winnie the Pooh? Eeyore always has a dark rain cloud hovering nearby while Tigger obliviously bounces on his tail in a overly happy state of mind; Eeyore=gloom and despair, Tigger=a hurricane of happiness. Randy Pausch - The Final Lecture.
***************************************

A few years ago, Kayla's softball coach created The Tigger Award, to be given to the player who exhibited a consistent positive attitude, sportsmanship, and a constant smile regardless of how the game was going.

Tonight at the softball awards night, my girl was given the Tigger Award

She signed her name on Tigger and added the year she received it. Tigger will now reside at our house for a year and then be passed on to the next Tiggerific player at next year's awards night.

During this season, Kayla hit a triple during the same game as she executed a triple play.

Two games later she hit one over the fence for a two-run-homer. And we were so excited at those games and all the others, just to watch her play and do her best.

Obviously there are girls who had better stats than Kayla this year and those girls rightfully won awards for their athletic accomplishments.

But I love the Tigger Award. Even though it's not a shiny trophy or a plaque on which her name is engraved. I love the Tigger Award because it confirms to me what I've suspected all season.

That my girl has let her light shine. On the pitcher's mound. In the batters box as she came up to bat each inning. As she ran the bases. Regardless of the score, regardless of the weather, regardless of the mood of the crowd, my girl was calm, cool and collected.

And smiling.

There were times she'd walk out to the mound and I'd say to Paul "wonder what's made her so happy tonight."

And really, she was usually smiling when she came out of the dugout. Whether it was to bat or to pitch; she was smiling.

May it always be so.

As she finishes her sophomore year and starts the magic days of summer, I wish for her to be swept away in a Hurricane of Happiness.

I have a feeling she will start the joyous breezes blowing all on her own.

Congratulations sweet Kayla Beth. We are so proud of you.

TO RECEIVE IS TO BE HUMBLED

2010-05-23T16:43:00.000-07:00

Last week was a hard week. A really hard week.

It seems, on Monday morning, the dread had set in before I even opened my eyes.

It was Blake's last week of school...his last week at home.

The weather matched my mood. Dark. Cold. Cloudy.

I had told myself that it was just something I was going to have to get through - this week of waiting. Waiting to say goodbye.

As I moped around most of the day, flitting from one activity to another, unaware if I completed any or not; I did happen to check facebook (of course) and noticed a little note that said something like "need to drop something by your house this afternoon. Will you be home?"

Seeing as how the note was from my dearest friend, Janette, I said well, of course I'd be home.

I had no idea what she'd need to bring me. Perhaps pictures from her weekend away? A card?

Having settled in on the mindless task of ironing while I watched Dr. Phil (I know. I know....but I said it was a bad week) I kept one eye on the clock waiting for her to arrive.

And when she arrived, the dam broke. The lump in my throat that had been holding back the tears dissolved and the tears began to flow.

Because her arms were loaded down with food. Food to feed my family for most of the week.
Food to feed my spirit. Chicken and noodles, mashed potatoes, pulled pork barbecue (and buns), watermelon, fresh crunchy veggies, two kinds of cookies.

She knew.

She knew that my heavy heart had probably rendered me too weary to think about the mundane task of fixing supper for my family. She knew I was carrying a burden.

And even though she can't carry my burden for me, she carried me for a while.

And it is so sweetly humbling to be loved like that.

After a week of similarly sweet notes, e-mails, cards and calls from other friends, I was blessed again with the touch of a loving hand.

Literally.

In our church, a time is set aside each Sunday for us to meet privately with our elders for prayer concerns. During this time today I was absorbed in song, absorbed in the peace that music brings, when I looked up to see a woman walking toward me with her hand outstretched. She took me hand and said "Come on. Let's go pray." And she lead me by the hand to one of our leaders and he prayed over us.

She knew. She knew my heavy heart today, a mere two hours after saying goodbye to my son. She knew because she is a Marine Mom and it wasn't so long ago that she said goodbye to her boy and wondered when she would next hear his voice.

And as that sweet Godly man put his arms around us - the two Marine Moms as he called us - and prayed for our hearts, prayed for our boys, I felt so incredibly blessed.

Again, it is so sweetly humbling to be loved like that.

My week has been sandwiched between two incredible acts of love and concern, peppered in between with just enough kind words and surprising gestures to keep my heart above the dark waters of despair.

The doers of these acts? They are all moms. This is not to say that a childless woman could not or would not bring me comfort; but this time I have been lifted up by moms.

Because moms know.

Regardless of how a child moves into our hearts, we moms know that once they move themselves in and embed themselves, once they wrap their arms and legs around our hearts and grow roots there - well, no matter the reason for trying to extricate them - it is nearly impossible.

Whether it's time or not, whether they want to move on or not, whether we want them to move on or not, it is just plain hard to pull ourselves from the hold our children have on our hearts.

And these women know that. Their encouragement and love have been humbling. I cannot repay it this time. And so I choose to just receive.

Receive their love and enjoy it and the humility that comes with it.

HE MISSED OUT ON THE FASHION JEAN

2010-05-13T05:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday before the softball game I had to tell him "Look. When Kayla and I helped you pick out those jeans, we really thought they were for certain occasions - like dates and stuff. Not sitting on muddy bleachers and doing yard work."

He gave me a look and changed his jeans.

Today I had to tell him "Um...I simply cannot let this continue. You can't go like that. You need to change the shirt or the pants. Something. Let's show Kayla."

Kayla's response? "Ooooh. It's so true." At which point he skulked up the steps to change his pants.

I've had a lot of conversations like this with him over the years and it just doesn't sink in. I usually just let it go but sometimes I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. I don't want him leaving the house looking like he got dressed while wearing a blindfold. Because, let's face it. People will blame me. They know who is ultimately in charge of his clothing.

I mean, seriously. How old should a man be before he doesn't need help getting dressed anymore?

Because my husband is 44 and he still has to have our daughter and me guide him, wardrobically* speaking, when he leaves the house.

*****************************************************

*Wardrobically - {ward - ROBE - i - kly} - of or having to do with a wardrobe, the victories and defeats thereof. 'The poor girl had a beautiful face but was wardrobically challenged.'

DRIVING MISS CRAZY

2010-04-16T11:39:00.000-07:00

It seems a gale force wind has entered our home and is blowing the pages of our calendar - turning, turning, turning them so quickly it's as though they've been caught in the winds of a tornado.

And I am desperately trying to stop those pages from turning - wanting to throw myself against the kitchen wall on which the calendar hangs, hoping to flatten said calendar so that the pages will remain still.

Why oh why are we parents unable to stop time?

We parents who, it seems yesterday, were watching the clock wondering if this day would ever end, if we would ever get past this stage, then this stage, then this stage. Long days, short years.

Time - it sure is ticking away here at the house of W.

In two days my baby girl will be Sweet Sixteen. A couple of days after that, she will obtain her drivers license.

Who, I ask you, thought it was a good idea to give babies a license to drive?

Ridiculous.

Four weeks after our Sweet Sixteen celebration, my baby boy leaves for boot camp.

Who, I ask you, thought it was a good idea to put babies in combat boots and arm them with M-16s?

Ridiculous.

But lest we be overwhelmed with melancholy during these next few weeks - the weeks between our younger child getting her license and our older child leaving the nest - we find ourselves distracted by some upcoming excitement.

Because for those four weeks?

WE'RE MAKING THEM SHARE A CAR.

WITH EACH OTHER.

Any of you care to guess how well this decision has been received?

We are the meanest parents in the world.

*high fives all around*

Each of our children has brought their case to me in hopes that I could somehow convince their father to purchase another vehicle for those four weeks.

Each of them has, almost identically, thrown his or her hands in the air and proclaimed "This is not going to work."

To which I reply with great empathy:

"Well, make it work."

Feel free to use that bit of wisdom any time you want.

Kayla is enjoying a slight victory, however, because I have proclaimed that softball games and practices take priority. Since Blake is in no extra curricular activities at this time, he will be at the mercy of the girls' softball schedule when it comes to use of the vehicle.

Blake has used all of his debate and negotiating skills to get us to change our minds but I have held firm.

"You've given rides to your buddies for nearly three years. Make those hooligans reciprocate for a few weeks."

His argument, while heartbreaking, has left me unable to stand upright, so hard do I laugh when he brings it to me.

Since he appears unwilling to swallow his pride and drive my mini van it seems his only option, according to him, is to walk to school and hitch hike 7 miles up a major highway.

I told him that was fine as long as he wasn't tardy.

Or he could....you know...ride the bus...if he doesn't want to ride with his sister.

This is when he informed me that he can't ride the bus. This won't work either:

"Mom, when I was a freshman I really gave this one senior a hard time for riding the bus. I was like 'why are you on the bus? Aren't you like 18? Why don't you drive to school? How about getting a job so you can buy a car?' Now I'm that senior riding the bus, with no job and no car of my own."

And, being the mean mom that I am, I had to point out the irony of his situation.

Again, our conversation left me laughing mercilessly at my poor son's dilemma. I even saw one corner of his mouth turn upward in what could almost be called half a smile. That boy of mine loves to push my buttons.

Yeah. I really look forward to the next five weeks. Watching my two offspring peacefully negotiate use of the third vehicle that is available for them to drive.

I suspect the excitement will only be surpassed by that of the spectators of the Roman Gladiator fights.

By May 23, the Coliseum will have nothing on us.

I, though, intend to remain calm and encourage my kids to "use their words" and "inside voices" as they come to a loving mutually agreeable arrangement.

All while sipping tequila and stabbing my eye with an ice pick.

ON QUITTING

2010-04-07T14:34:00.000-07:00

First, though, kudos to coach Applebee for giving the softball team such a treat today.

Apparently, when the game was cancelled today (due to thunderstorms, hail, and tornado sirens) the coach told the girls there would be practice anyway.

So they entered the gym and SURPRISE!!! They were going to have a pickle ball tournament instead of doing softball drills.

Do your kids play pickle ball?

My kids have explained it to me but I can't remember the details. It might have been invented here...I don't know.

I hope so, though, 'cause I want our community to be known for something besides The Soybean Capital of the World.

Pickle Ball capital will surely bring in more tourists.

Oh! And then? After Pickle Ball, the coaches treated the girls to ice cream sundaes in the cafetorium.

Okay then, where was I?

Oh yeah, quitting.

So last week (Tuesday I think) Kayla had a game at a rather large school 7 miles from us.

I was especially eager to go to this game because this school had just recently been featured on the local news for some sort of "mob action" amongst its students. You know. Gang stuff.

And I was having a really tough week, so I was all like "bring it on...I'm ready to rumble." Plus it might be kind of nice to make the local news.

So I put on my very best gangsta look - jeans and a black twinset with a very chic plaid scarf to keep my neck warm against the strong winds - and drove my mini van to said school, parked and walked across the parking lot thinking "Nobody better mess with me or I'm likely to .....well....probably call my friend J-net crying like a baby...." But anyway.

So then.

My in-laws were already at the game, along with Paul's great aunt and her developmentally delayed adult son, whom I think is just so fun and sweet. He likes to pick on me. So after he told me he was going to pick me up and throw me over the fence into the ball diamond, he whipped his camera out of his pocket and proceeded to snap several pictures of me.

None of the pictures show my whole face but they do show my twinset and scarf so I requested a copy of each one. I'm thinking Christmas cards.

Once the camera was put away, I was able to concentrate on the game. The Varsity girls did quite well - we were winning by so much, in fact, that our coach instructed our runners to get some intentional outs by leaving the base early - a mercy move - to move the game along.

I was excited for the JV game. Blake was home resting comfortably under the very competent care of Cubby and I was enjoying the brisk but pleasant outdoors.

And it turns out that our JV girls were going to be playing quite well also - we had two outs before we started scoring, and then we scored twelve runs before the inning was out. Once again, the coach instructed our runner on first to leave the base early to get an out, so that we could move that inning along.

My girl pitched quite well and the defense kept their opponents scoreless.

First inning over. Score: twelve to zero.

Before we could start the second inning, though, the opposing coach walked out to the field and told the umpire "That's it for us. My pitcher is tired and she has a lot more games this week."

Wait, what?

You mean you can do that?

You can just, like, quit, when you're tired? Even if the game isn't over? Even when there's still enough light left to play another inning or two?

You can just, like, decide that it's over?

Ummmm. I was so confused.

So our girls had donned their uniforms, packed their gear, boarded the bus and prepared for a game, all to be told their pitcher was tired?

I left my son at home healing from oral surgery to come to a game that was going to be called off because the pitcher was tired?

My in-laws drove 40 miles to sit on the bleachers in the howling wind and dropping temperatures to watch their grand daughter play ball only to have her game be called after one inning? BECAUSE THEIR PITCHER WAS TIRED?

THEIR PITCHER WAS TIRED?

Well, my daughter was tired too. She had played a double header the previous Saturday, pitched a game just the previous night and had two more games scheduled that week.

You don't think she was tired???

And more importantly, I WAS EXHAUSTED!!!

I was shocked that a coach would stop a game because they were getting beat so badly.

And believe me, our team knows about getting beat. The next night, our girls got their tails kicked. I mean, it was NOT PRETTY.

But did they quit? Did they stop trying? No. No they did not. Sure it was painful, but they hung in there and finished.

Here's the thing. Not only do I think this decision to call the game was a very poor example for the team - it taught them that when things are a little tough, you pack up and go home instead of seeing things through - but it was also discourteous.

It was inconsiderate of them not to allow our girls to play the game they had come to play. Sure we had all only driven a few miles. But we all showed up. The parents made time in their schedules to be there for their daughters; but, more importantly, the girls showed up ready to play ball. And that's what they wanted to do.

So that evening was a good news/bad news kind of night.

Good news - our girls won
Bad news - they only played one inning
Good news - we got home earlier than usual
Bad news - I had nothing ready for dinner
Good news - I wasn't involved in any "mob action"
Bad news - I won't be on the local news any time soon.

There's always next season.

TEENAGERS IN ACTION

2010-03-31T20:18:00.000-07:00

It is obvious from the fact that my son is still speaking to me that he has not read my previous post. Of course, he just started speaking today after his surgery so I'm not in the clear yet.

Something tells me, though, that he has more on his mind than reading his mother's blog.

Like salvaging what is left of his spring break now that he can eat and speak again.

Which leads me to just that - Blake's apparent success at making the most of the remaining days of his spring break. Said success would not be possible without two of his friends.

Yesterday Cubby came over to visit. Since I was done packing bloody gauze into the craters left in Blake's mouth, I left and went to Kayla's softball game 15 minutes away. I was glad Cubby was coming over. Cubby is a big guy and I knew he could easily pick Blake up off the floor and throw him onto the couch, should Blake happen to faint from blood loss or severe hunger.

Thankfully neither happened.

Instead I received a text from Blake, while I sat in the bleachers: ''Cub driving me to mall." Since Blake can't drive until Thursday Cubby offered to take him to the mall to visit Gamestop and to get him out of the house.

Now, isn't that sweet? Is that the kind of behavior teenage boys are known for?

I say NO! NO it is not. Teenagers DO have hearts. Teenagers are not always self centered.

I *heart* teenagers with heart. I *heart* Cubby.

And it doesn't end there. After the girls softball game, Blake's fellow Marine Recruit, Carmen, asked if she could stop by and have a visit. So Blake, Cubby and Carmen settled in the basement and watched movies and ate strawberry cake.

Well, Carmen and Cubby ate strawberry cake. Blake ate oatmeal and sprite.

So then.

This afternoon, Carmen had offered to drive Blake to their weekly Marine meeting (Poolie night), so she came by a little early and suggested they take a walk around the neighborhood beforehand. So they did.

Then she drove him to Poolie Night and then to DQ, where Blake ate a sandwich and a mister misty freeze and bought Carmen a mister misty (cause she didn't want dinner).

Again, I ask you....are these the actions of a self-centered teenager?

I say NO! NO, they are not! I *heart* Carmen

And now, Cubby is back in our basement with Blake and they are playing video games and watching movies and Cubby is spending the night.

And neither Cubby nor Carmen has even made fun of his chipmunk cheeks.

But seriously, folks. I've been so thankful for Blake's friends this week. He's been such a good sport but I know he's been miserable. And it's so good to see teenagers that take it upon themselves to do good for one of their own.

I am worn out. There is not one clean glass in my cupboard. Thankfully, I ran the dishwasher this morning and there ARE clean glasses in it; I just haven't had time to empty the dishwasher. my floors are dirty. The laundry is backed up. Kayla and I have eaten fast food three nights in a row. It's been a busy week, with the surgery, the gauze management (every thirty minutes the first day), helping Blake swallow his meds (because his face was completely numb and I literally had to place the pills in his mouth and help him pour water down his throat); softball games four nights this week, Easter shopping, birthday shopping for Paul, and a husband that is stuck at work 14 hours a day, I'll admit I'm worn out.

But even though my body is weary, my heart is energized from watching these teenagers in action. Somewhere out there are two families who should be very proud of their kids, and I intend to tell them that.

***************************************

Disclaimer #1: There is absolutely nothing going on - dating wise - between Blake and Carmen. Carmen has a boyfriend who is away at boot camp. And Blake is not interested in her "that way." They are just buddies.

Disclaimer #2: Despite Blake's testimony that he could easily get $10 a pill for our unused Tylenol with codeine tablets ($30, according to Cubby) at the kids' high school, I do not intend to let the kids sell them outside the cafetorium; our negotiations broke down when I demanded a full %50 cut. I did consider it for a while (OH STOP! YOU KNOW I'M KIDDING) because we DO have oral surgery to pay for and....well....I want a new sofa....but decided it would be a terrible example for my kids. Plus Blake totally needs to spend all of his time in the classroom, not in the halls selling pharmaceuticals. After all, he doesn't even WANT to be a pharmacist.......

ORAL SURGERY, TEXTING AND OBAMACARE

2010-03-29T12:24:00.000-07:00

My sweet son had all four wisdom teeth extracted this morning.

I am exhausted for many reasons.

I did not sleep well last night because, even though he is almost 19 years old, I lay awake most of the night praying for his comfort and worrying about complications.

The surgeon was running late today. SURPRISE!!! a surgeon who is not on schedule.

When we got back to his office, we realized why he was running late.

Boy can that doctor talk.

And boy does he talk fast. So fast it wore me out trying to listen to him.

I was picturing a child who had eaten his whole Easter basket full of candy, downed a RedBull and then spent the day with Grandma.

I've never seen a doctor so passionate about his work.

By the time he finished with his consultation with us, I felt my eye twitching and I noticed that Blake was having a hard time keeping a straight face. Also, I completely forgot everything he said to us.

He did tell us that patients react to anesthesia in one of four ways:

-weepy, which could escalate into "wailing of Biblical proportions"
-child of the sixties...mellow and thoroughly happy with the drugs they've been given
-loopy and overly friendly....flirting with the nurses
-cussing like a sailor...which will lead the parents of said patient to attempt to crawl under the bed

Then the doctor clasped all our hands and began praying with us - praying that Blake would recover well and that he himself would do a good job for this patient brought to him. Maybe that's why I forgot everything he said to us....my mind was on this wonderful testimony of his faith.

I also realized then why Dr. K spoke so fast and with such enthusiasm - the man is high on God.

I then spent my time in the waiting room praying that Blake did not awaken from his procedure cussing like a sailor, or in our case, a marine. I also prayed that he did not try to cop a feel on one of the nurses, especially since one of the nurses was the mother of his homecoming date.

Thirty minutes later, we were escorted back to his recovery room. One look at him in bed and we knew which category of anesthesia reaction he met....MELLOW AND HIGH AS A KITE. Our son is a child of the sixties

Things were looking PRIT. TEEE groovy for our boy. He seemed to be especially enthralled with the lights and other shiny objects.

He saw us in the doorway and smiled real big and gave us a big thumbs up. I never thought I'd be so happy that my son was a stoner.

He continued with the smiles and. thumbs up sign for several minutes until he told us (through sign language) that he wanted to write us notes.

He wrote us such messages as;

drugs are sweet

doctor is cool

drugs are awesome

How did they get me in here

and my favorite

liberals suck.

Now we are home changing gauze packing every 30 minutes and administering drugs every two hours.

And I am falling in love with texting all over again.

If I'm not in the room with him, Blake texts me for what he needs. If I am in the room with him, he types a text, lets me reads it, then deletes it.

When his Tylenol with codeine kicked in and he fell asleep, I lay down on my bed for a while to catch a little nap. I awoke to my phone vibrating and Blake texting me "new gauze, please."

Texting is the best new medical aid of the 21st century.

But I seriously doubt Obamacare will cover it as a legitimate medical expense.

GIVING CREDIT

2010-03-09T14:20:00.000-08:00

Nobody says it better than Antique Mommy.

The fact of the matter is that for some time now, I’ve been feeling like Forrest Gump in that scene where he is jogging down the highway out in the desert with all those people following him and he just stops. He’s been running hard for five years and one day, he just stops. He doesn’t really know why. It just seems right. He turns and tells all the people that he’s tired now and he’s going home.

That’s sort of how I’ve been feeling about blogging lately, just sort of called away, feeling like it’s time to slow down, be quiet, do something else, invest elsewhere. I don’t plan to stop completely, I don’t think so anyway, but I’m going to take away some of the time and energy I give to this blog and invest it in my photography and elsewhere. Is that called balance? I don’t know.
**************************************
Not that I have a photography hobby but there are other things going on, other places I need to spend my time. Plus, I just can't get any thoughts to meld together into anything blog-worthy.

Perhaps now that I've used Antique Mommy's words (and she certainly has some of the best words I've ever read) - my mind will be jumpstarted.

Perhaps not.

DOUBLE DONUT DATE

2010-02-19T06:09:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in my kitchen drinking a cup of coffee and waiting for my son to come downstairs and eat donuts with me.

Because that's what really good mothers do. They eat donuts with their children.

Blake is missing school today so he can drive to the University of Illinois and support his wrestling team mates who are competing in the state tournament.

GO BOMBERS!!

So I took Kayla to school today. When I got up this morning she asked if we could stop at Casey's on the way to school and get a couple of donuts. Did I tell you? We have a new Casey's near the school - woot!

So I said of course we would stop for Donuts. Because I'm sacrificial like that. I make myself eat donuts. For the Children.

Then her brother came downstairs and mumbled something like "hey mom, how 'bout you bring some donuts from Casey's?" I told him I was already on it.

Are you starting to pick up on the fact that our family likes donuts?

So then. Kayla and I ran into Casey's to pick out our donuts and while I was at the donut case I felt a little tap on my shoulder and when I turned around there was one of Kayla's classmates smiling at me and saying "hey, Mrs. Woolard." Hey, Devin. I love love love it when my kids' friends make a point to speak to me when they see me in public.

You like me....you really like me.....

{{I would like to take this moment to give a little shout out to the teachers and administrators at my kids' school: When you see my daughter in the cafetorium eating donuts and diet pepsi before school, please know that she had a banana before she left home. She also has access to other fresh fruit, healthy cereals and yogurt. The fact that she chooses donuts and diet pepsi is something I'm going to blame on her father for now. M'kay?}}

Now back to my donut date with my daughter. Let me just ask you, is there anything a sixteen-year-old girl likes more than bling? Probably not. Now imagine her delight when she finds a donut with bling on it. Seriously. She found a donut with silver sprinkles. And it was oh so shiny and sweet looking. It was so shiny and captivating, she could barely place it on the counter so I could pay for it.

It was so shiny and captivating that when she told me she forgot to bring her Junior Class Schedule for next year (and it's due today) and I said "That's it! Give me your donuts." She said "NOT MY SHINY ONE!!"

I'm going to have a whole gross of shiny donuts made so that when she gets upset about something I can say "Kayla...Honey...look at your donut and breathe. Watch. The. Donut."

Anyway, after my sweet and shiny 30 minutes with my daughter this morning, I came home and yelled up the stairs "Blake!!! Donuts!!" and got no response. So then I sighed and did what I hate to do.

I texted him: DONUTS.

And he still hasn't come down to enjoy his donuts with me. Should I be offended? I'm being stood up for the second half of my Double Donut Date.

His reluctance to join me has worked to my favor in one regard. It's given me the chance to remove the Chocolate Iced With Peanuts from the box and set it aside for myself.

Because that's what mothers get to do. They get to steal the good donuts.

And let me tell you. Wrestler or not, I could totally find a way to pin that kid if he tries to take my Chocolate Iced With Peanuts.
*************************************************************************

In other news.

With the state wrestling tournament going on today and tomorrow, Kayla has made an excellent point.

Wrestling does not have a huge following. I understand that. People have basketball and volleyball and all sorts of other commitments. Wrestling is not a sport a lot of people are familiar with and so they don't enjoy watching it. Totally understandable.

But, and here is Kayla's point, the students who didn't care to follow and support the wrestlers when they were working their way to the state tournament are suddenly very enthusiastic for our state bound wrestlers - because it's a day away from school to go watch the tournament at the University of Illinois.

And that has some of the loyal followers a little ticked off. So I'd like to thank the few students who supported our boys.

First, the beauties - Kayla, Hannah, Andrea, Becky, Mrs. Barnes, Miss J-net.

And the beasts (who Blake calls his Crew) - Drew, Jake, Taylor and Brian. There has never been a more vocal and enthusiastic fan than Drew. Oh how we love hearing Drew in the stands when our boys are on the mats...and on the podium getting their medals.

Thanks Beauties and Beasts. You are the best.

As for the rest of the students who are interested in the state tournament - I'm thinking of The Little Red Hen. They really wanted nothing to do with making a state bound wrestler, but they certainly want to enjoy the experience of the State Tournament - and missing a day of school to do so.

One good thing to come of this will be that people can see how hard our wrestlers work - what a difficult and intense sport it is. Hopefully they will see that it does involve strategy and planning, patience and quick thinking.

And maybe those extra fans will inspire our boys to reach the top in the tournament this weekend.

Good luck Chris (140), Andrew (189), Aaron (215) and Trent (285).

You Wrestlers Wrock!!!

PERFECTLY LOVED

2010-02-14T15:40:00.000-08:00

Today my husband gave me a box of chocolates - COLD STONE CREAMERY chocolates (who knew?) - and a video (New In Town) in honor of Valentines Day. I love them both, just as I love the card he gave me.

I also got received a card from my children. A card that says "For letting us know we didn't need to be perfect in order to be perfectly loved, thanks Mom. You're Wonderful."

I am in awe of that sentiment.

I love this card for two reasons:

Number one, it is from my children.

Number two, it makes me feel like I've done something right.

I've made mistakes as a mother but I will not list them because there is not enough memory on this or any computer to record them all.

But one thing I have always hoped to do with my children is let them know that I love them NO MATTER WHAT.

I have never expected perfection from my kids; and that's a good thing because they are not perfect. And that works out just fine because they are being raised by two parents who are not perfect.

But as they get closer to leaving our home (99 days, in fact, for Blake) I hope, more than anything, that they remember one thing.

That, no matter what, I have loved them.

With all the mistakes I've made in this journey of motherhood, I choose to believe that I've done one thing well.

I've loved them.

I've loved them as fiercely, as strongly, as perfectly as I know how to love.

I've loved them through temper tantrums, discipline issues, poor grades, calls from teachers, and issues too personal to mention on this blog.

I've been angry with them. I've lost my patience with them. I've slapped my forehead and wondered how I would get us out of the current mess. But always the Good Lord has helped me remember that I love them - that even though they aren't perfect - I perfectly love them. And He has helped me to remember that I must tell them that. And so I do - daily.

Neither of my kids has been the star of an athletic team. Neither of my kids will be valedictorian of their class. They have both made mistakes - some bigger than others.

But if I might speak a little too highly of myself for a moment....I know that they know they are loved. They are perfectly loved.

They are perfectly loved by a far from perfect mother.

When life has kicked them in the teeth; when things don't seem to be going their way; when they think they just aren't measuring up in a world that is far too competitive for young people; I wan t them to know that they are not perfect but they are perfectly loved.

And my hope for them is that the knowledge of that love will be their soft place to fall when life has knocked them down.

EVERYBODY DESERVES A MOMENT LIKE THIS

2010-02-06T19:07:00.000-08:00

Today at Blake's regional wrestling meet I watched the sweetest victory I think I'll ever have opportunity to witness.

And it had nothing to do with my son.

The interesting thing is that the boy who achieved this victory was going to be a subject of my post tonight anyway. But not because he had actually won a match.

Because he hadn't.

The only wins to his name until today had been wins due to forfeit.

Because this boy, Brandon, is our 103 guy. Except he isn't...103 pounds that is.

He weighs 85 pounds.

He is living with a liver disease and he is quite small. He looks frail and tired. His skin and eyes are yellow.

This is Brandon - the one with his back to the camera.
We have never seen Brandon run from a fight, even though he knows he's going to get on the mats and face an opponent who is nearly twenty pounds larger than he. He runs out at the beginning of each match like he knows he's going to set the world on fire with his strength.

And when he is pinned in 20, 30, 40 seconds - after giving it his all...well, he shakes his opponent's hand and gladly shakes the hands of the coaches before he jogs off the mats again.

I've never seen his parents at a meet. I have seen him at the concession stand without enough money to pay for his snacks. But always there is somebody from the team digging into their pockets saying "I'll get Brandon's." The team takes care of him.

Brandon fills my heart. He's a fighter. He's a little guy with a big desire to simply go out and do his best.

Today was a big meet. Only those wrestlers who placed third or above would advance. For the rest, it would be their last meet of the season. I suppose, like in all the other meets, the coaches and team sent Brandon out to the mat expecting another loss out of him. Not that he doesn't fight like mad to win, but he just isn't strong enough to conquer his opponents. He is, after all, an 85 pounder in a 103 world.

But today was different.

Today Brandon came up against an opponent his size.

And Brandon made it through the first period.

And when that buzzer sounded at the end of the first period, his team mates were on their feet. The state ranked wrestlers, the tattoo covered 189 guy, the guys who could carry Brandon with one arm...they were on their feet punching the air with their fists. They were yelling 'til they were hoarse, they were coaching him from the sidelines - 15 pumped up, testosterone filled voices encouraging him, telling him HE WAS GOING TO DO IT.

I doubt the actual coaches' voices could be heard, so loud were the fans and the team.

This wrestler had never made it past the first period.

This wrestler had turned it into a match.

The second period came and went. His opponent started yelling - grunting - so furiously was Brandon working him over.

The wrestling team could not be contained. Their little guy who took this weight class because "they had nobody else," was setting the stage for this phase of their meet. Even if he did not win, he had made it further than he ever had this season.

Our little 85 pounder had become a giant.

The buzzer rang a second time and Brandon was going to make it to the third period.

More fist pumping from his team mates. More yelling from nearly hoarse, sweaty, bulging muscled young men who cannot believe what this little guy is doing for their team.

More calm forward leaning posturing from the coaches who had never been in the position to direct Brandon through 3 periods before.

Our crowd is on their feet.

BRANDON!! BRANDON!! BRANDON!! YOU CAN DO THIS BRANDON!! YOU CAN HOLD ON!!

I can only imagine how long those last 2 minutes were for him. He knew victory was near, but so unaccustomed was he to it he was confused. He did not know what move to make next to pin his opponent.

S0 he just held him. And held him and held him. With every bit of strength his tired little body had left, he held him. For nearly twenty five seconds, until the final buzzer, he held him.

What an incredibly long 25 seconds.

BRANDON!! BRANDON!! HOLD HIM!! YOU'VE GOT HIM!! HOLD ON!!

And then the final buzzer sounded and our small crowd erupted. Our wrestlers did more jumping and fist pumping.

With a final score of five to four, Brandon had won.

He gets a win to his name now. This box score is not going to say 'win by forfeit.' It will say 'win by decision:5-4.'

He got to raise his hand in victory today - a victory he fought for, not a victory brought on by lack of an opponent.

He gets to advance to sectionals next week because he won third place in his bracket. He stood on the podium and received his medal.

And he got more high fives and hugs than any wrestler at the meet today.

And because his mother wasn't there, I felt it was my duty to let happy tears go ahead and run down my cheeks - just for a moment.

Everybody deserves a moment like this. A moment that will keep them awake at night, so excited are they every time they remember it.

"Remember the time I won that match....my first win? When nobody thought I could do it? When I thought I couldn't do it?"

Who knows what this moment will inspire Brandon to try next?

Today is my birthday. I spent it sitting on the bleachers watching a very long wrestling meet.
And I got to watch a sweet young boy inspire a gym full of wrestlers and their parents with a victory none of us imagined when we awoke this morning.

Happy Birthday to me. What a sweet sweet day.

A GIRL AND HER PHONE - A LOVE STORY

2010-02-02T06:04:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, a certain teenage girl in our household began having trouble with her cell phone.

Again.

It probably had something to do with the fact that said cell phone had been dropped from the bleachers at a wrestling meet. And not onto a wrestling mat as one would hope but onto the hard wood floors from about 20 rows up.

So then.

Her father and I told her that until we decided when and if her phone would be replaced she would have to.....gasp....use the land line.

This caused much confusion and distress......

That squiggly cord thing....the mere massiveness of it....the fact that it could not be carried in her pocket.

Yes we are indeed cruel parents.

Of course we parents decided that the phone would be replaced but not by a new one. Then came the difficult decision as to which parent would enter the cell phone store and take care of this. We thought of doing rock, paper, scissors. We considered arm wrestling.

But then I merely spoke one sentence to Kayla's father and the decision was made:

I. AM. NOT. ENTERING. THAT. CELL. PHONE. STORE. AGAIN. TO. GET. HER. ANOTHER. PHONE.

And it was said through clenched teeth. Worked like a charm.

This caused our teenager even more distress because she knew she might end up with two tin cans on a string if her dad was in charge of her replacement. So to prepare for the humiliation, we practiced with two cups and a ribbon.

Things began to fall apart when she realized one cannot text on a plastic cup.

Sweet Mercy. This girl was beyond distraught. She had no phone. She had no way to text her friends. All she had at her disposal was...gasp...the land line.

My phone! My phone! My sweet constant companion - my phone!

It was really quite pathetic.

Once her father had been to the cell phone store and realized that the phone could be replaced with a slightly used model for a mere $12 shipping charge, I decided that she and I could share my cell phone until hers arrived in the mail.

And then the clouds parted. The birds began to sing. And joy was returned to the W house.

Ah - sweet contentment.

Then came the difficult days of waiting.

Oh the torture of waiting for a cell phone to arrive in the mail.

Every day after school (for three whole days) my tortured soul of a daughter would come in and desperately ask "Did my phone come?"

And, oh, the ache in my heart when I'd have to say "No dear. It did not come today. Just be strong a little longer. YOU CAN DO IT. And remember, I am here for you during these dark days."

And then (hallelujah chorus) the phone arrived in the mail and our daughter, for a brief mindless moment turned into Tom Cruise on the Oprah show:

Up on the couch she jumped.

I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!! My phone. My phone is back!!

And then she vowed to treat her constant companion cell phone with much better care and tenderness, as it deserved.

The End.

CHANGE OF HEART?

2010-01-19T09:37:00.001-08:00

As I sit in our living room and watch the news coverage of the tragedy in Haiti, I think of the two women last summer who told me in no uncertain terms that my son's choice to become a Marine was a huge disappointment. As though their narrow minded opinion should be enough for me to alienate my son.

You see, in their words "The Marines are the ones who are trained to kill," and I should make my son choose another branch of service...a branch of the armed services that does not train their members to kill.

Oh, the irony.

Anyway, I am sitting here watching my television and I see more Marines landing in Haiti to deliver relief packages to the victims of the devastating earthquake. They are delivering lifesaving food, water, medication, blankets. They are setting up safe zones. They are using their language specialists (because not all Marines merely shoot to kill) to communicate with the locals so that these efforts can be run with the efficiency of any U.S. Military operation. And they are doing so in a country whose own government seems to have disappeared when its people need it the most.

Yes, some of these Marines are carrying their weapons; but they are also carrying hope to these people whose window of hope is rapidly closing. We are seeing pictures of military personnel carrying babies to safety. We are seeing news stories of Naval ships docking and setting up hospitals for the injured. We are seeing members of the U.S. Army organize food lines.

These young men and women who have chosen a career that earns them disparaging remarks are jumping on planes and helicopters to fly to a country in devastation. They are leaving their families to save somebody else's.

And it is not to fight. It is not to kill.

It is to save lives.

It is to deliver the most basic supplies that you and I have at our fingertips.

It is to do what they have been trained to do.

Because our military personnel, even our Marines, are not merely trained to kill. They are trained to survive. And they are trained to help others survive. They are trained to be ready at a moment's notice to go wherever their government sends them and perform the task set before them. And they will do it.

Because these are the young men and women who have allowed themselves to be broken down and rebuilt into the forces our world calls upon in a tragedy.

And when this humanitarian task is done, they will come home to relieved spouses and parents and children.

And people who choose to look at each of them as nothing more than a person who has been trained to kill.

In a year or so, my son may be one of those Marines landing in a devastated country to deliver humanitarian aid.

And in a year or so, my son may be one of those Marines landing in a war zone. Yes he will have been trained to kill. I certainly hope and pray he will not have to use those skills. But I'll say it here and now; if it ever comes to a choice between my son and the enemy at the other end of his weapon, I choose my son. And if it ever comes to a choice between his brother in uniform or the enemy he has been trained to fight, my son will choose his brother; just as his fellow Marine will choose him.

That is what war is, and as long as man populates the earth, we will see the ugliness of war. And as long as there is war, we must have men and women trained to fight them.

But as we are seeing on the news this week, these men and women are not just fighters. They are not merely takers of life. They are also givers of life.

I am hoping that those who are disparaging of military service will see these images of our humanitarian forces and soften their hearts - just as the victims - young and old - of the Haitian earthquake are sure to soften these tough Marines, Sailors and Soldiers.

MY HEART - PART II

2009-12-18T09:23:00.000-08:00

This one:
This one truly taught me the meaning of the word "breathtaking;" so thrilled was I to have a second chance at motherhood, I'd stand over her crib and stare at her, soak her in, realizing moments later that I had forgotten to breathe once again.

This one's passion, simply put, is life.

Her first words were "...and me!" and she said them often as she followed her big brother through the house trying to mimic his every move. Those words were soon followed by "I do it myself." And she meant it. She will take on any project, any assignment, and laugh her way through it while giving it her all.

And that laugh. My stars, that laugh! By the time she was three, her laugh was bigger than she was. And now it makes me weak in the knees. It's deep and true. Thankfully we get to hear that laugh many times a day, every day.

I'm in love with her joy for life. I'm in love with the privilege of sitting back and watching her enjoy this party that is life for her. I'm in love with the fact that she allows me to have a front row seat on her journey. I'm in love with her.

This one has men in her life that will turn the world upside down for her. She may not always like it. She might not like it, at the moment, when her brother goes to school dances and watches her the whole time. She might not like it, at the moment, that he teases her about the boys in her life. But deep down, I know she realizes how lucky she is to have her own security staff of one looking out for her. And I know she is proud of him. I know that she is proud of the man he is. I know that she is proud to call him her brother.

This one had her daddy wrapped around her little finger from the moment the doctor said "It's a girl." He wants to tell her "no." He needs to tell her "no." But he struggles with it. He really does.

Because when she wraps those arms around his shoulders, she also wraps her eyes and dimples around his heart. And then....

Well then he is rendered helpless. And the princess is granted the kingdom. Again. But seriously. Look at that smile. Look at those dimples...that hair blowing in the wind. I suppose many dads would be turned into a helpless pile of goo when faced with that.

This one thrives on being with others. Her mood might take a slight dip if her heart isn't kept full with the presence of those she loves. Just as my mood might take a slight dip if my heart isn't kept full with her presence. Sure, we need time apart. But my day is just a little darker when I haven't seen her smile and felt her energy.

Sometimes I think I want a day alone. Sometimes I think I don't mind having the house to myself. But then she walks in at the end of the day and I realize that I love a rainy day until the sun comes out again.

And I realize I have missed the sunshine all along.

This one. I don't know what her path in life is. But I know it will be a path bordered with laughter and light. I know that she will make life the joyous party it is meant to be.

I know that she is my heart.

***********************************************

Early photos by Lynn Austin - L.A. Photography

Current photos by Jenna Stahl - Daily Life Photography

SIMPLE

2009-12-14T15:00:00.000-08:00

From our house to yours:

MY HEART - PART I

2009-12-07T21:24:00.000-08:00

This one:

This one initiated me into that wonderful, maddening, frightening, mysterious, joyous club we call motherhood.

All mothers know that when we first hold our child in our arms, we experience our heart living outside our bodies. What we don't know at that first glance, that first touch, is that we will blink once, twice, three times - and they will be grown, with one foot outside the nest, eager to jump and fly without us. Does anybody tell us that? I suppose we wouldn't believe them anyway, so wrapped up are we in sleepless nights, bottles, colic, fevers, first smiles, first teeth, first steps, first words. There are days we think we will not survive the baby stage.

And then we blink again and they are grown. Like this one:

This one who started out talking with a vengeance, using phrases bigger than he was as a toddler. Somewhere along the way, though, he morphed into a man of few words. He is the strong silent type I guess.

But when he speaks you can count on his words to be well thought out and full of passion. Usually. You can count on them to be self deprecating. You can count on his words to leave no doubt in your mind where he stands on a subject. Subjects like protecting the unborn and supporting our military. Subjects like loyalty and fairness.

But make no mistake; this young man who is so passionate and independent; this young man who is several inches taller than his dad, absolutely adores this man:

I have learned, with this tall lanky son of mine, that physical height has nothing to do with the people you look up to in your walk through life. He has made mistakes, this son of mine. He has hit a bump or two on the road to adulthood. Who of us hasn't?

But he has come out the other side a little bit stronger, a little bit wiser, a little bit more willing to laugh at himself. And carrying a little bit more character with him than many adults he knows; though his spirit might have been a little bit bruised in the process.

He will look out for the underdog. He will take the lost one, the weak one, the new one, under his wing.

But in his youthful eagerness to keep all things equal, he might also strive to take the arrogant one down a notch or two. But once that is done, he takes the newly humbled one under his wing and gives them a special kind of respect.

He doesn't talk to his little sister a lot. He doesn't talk to anybody a lot.

But, again, make no mistake. He would take on the world for her. He threatens to have his shotgun in hand when boys come to the house. There are rumors that he's had "little talks" with boys he doesn't deem worthy of our girl. He has little respect for young men who do not treat girls well; especially if these young men have little sisters of their own.

Eighteen and a half years ago, when I held this one in my arms for the first time; as I rubbed his round fuzz-covered head, I had no idea of the man he would become.

And now? Now I'm getting a glimpse. I know he has a desire to serve his country - a desire so strong that it could not be quashed by this fearful mother's pleadings. I know that he has learned from his mistakes. I know that he is eager to be out on his own and face the challenges that life has to offer.

I know that he is my heart.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

*Photos by Daily Life Photography - www.dailylifephoto.blogspot.com

VOLUNTEERS

2009-12-07T05:59:00.000-08:00

Maddy spent the weekend with us. You know. Cousin Maddy? My cousin's daughter? The one who makes Kayla absolutely miserable when she's around. Seriously, look at these unhappy girls, just before they left for the mall:

See Kayla's scarf? Well, it isn't. Kayla's that is. It's Maddy's. She had bought it at the mall the day before. Yes, they go to the mall every day when they're together. Anyway, I liked it so much I asked the girls to pick one up for me on chapter 2 of their mall trip.

They didn't have the same one, so they picked a different one out for me:

Poor Maddy. An old woman wants to dress like her. By the way, Maddy's dad is very tall. So is Maddy.

Before we took Maddy home last night, amongst much wailing and begging and pleading that we not separate them for another week, the girls were giving me some advice on how to rearrange the basement so that they would be more comfortable down there.

Not that they aren't grateful for the space and all (so they said) but they had some good ideas on how we could better utilize our space and give them room to actually let five girls lie on the floor while watching television.

Silly me. I thought providing a couch and two recliners was nice enough, but NOOOO-uh....they want plenty of floor space.

They suggested that I simply move the two large bookshelves and the three small bookshelves (all of which are full of books), take all the pictures off of one wall to make room for the television stand, and rearrange the furniture; and that would make the basement much more conducive to a happy slumber party.

I took that to mean they were willing and eager to do all that moving and shifting.

So Friday, when Maddy returns (if the girls can make it that long between visits), I'm assuming they will both have their muscles primed and be ready to lift, scoot, and pivot - all while I supervise with a cup of coffee in my hand.

And surely, they are willing to do that because they've asked if they can have a New Year's Eve party here. With boys.

Pray for us.

BUSTED

2009-12-05T08:07:00.001-08:00

The only television we have on the main floor of our house is a little 13-inch one in our kitchen. We do not have one in our family room up here because when we finished our basement, I decided we'd put the main TV down there for the kids and make the main floor television-free.

Each of the kids has a television in their rooms, which I know makes us lousy indulgent parents.

Commence with food throwing now.

So then. Last night, I was really looking forward to watching the series finale of MONK because I've always loved that show. LOVE. IT. I was unable to watch most of this season because of football concession duties.

*sigh* The things we sacrifice for our children.

The main TV in the basement was occupied by our daughter and some friends, so I decided I was going to sneak into Blake's room and watch MONK on his television.

So after wrestling practice I quizzed him a little more intensely about his plans for the evening:

Hang out with Drew, eat somewhere, go to see Blind Side at ten.

"So, you won't be home 'til around midnight, correct?"

"Yeah, prolly."

So at eight o'clock, Paul and I went into his room and totally hi-jacked his television. I even brought an extra pillow in an propped myself on his bed.

That kid has a pretty good situation going on in there.

About twenty minutes into the show, we heard car doors slam, then a key in the front door.....

Then two teenage boys walking into our house.

Paul and I looked at each other.

"What are they doing here?"

"He promised me he'd be gone until midnight?"

"Why can't we teach our kids to stay out all night?"

"He's totally ruining my MONK farewell....!"

So I met Blake at the bottom of the steps and told him that Dad and I were watching MONK in his room because we had no place else to watch it.

"No, no, no, no....MOOOOM-uh! We have these games we rented and we need to play them before the movie at ten. Seriously, I'm gonna have to ask you to get out of my room. This is just wrong."

"But, Blake, I made you brownies. I set aside a torpedo sandwich for you guys. Look! FOOD! It's only forty more minutes...You said you'd be gone. I thought I could count on you to be gone all evening."

"Please, mom. We need to be in there"

Well, seeing the urgency of his timeline and his obligations, I relented and told Paul we had to clear out.

So we moped down to the kitchen and tried to cuddle on a bar stool in front of the television. (We didn't go to Kayla's room because her TV is much smaller, and we knew we'd likely be interrupted in there too. These kids just keep finding us.)

In an attempt to make things more romantic, I did offer to turn on a stove burner so we'd at least have a fire going while we watched TV on our bar stool.

The good news is the ending of MONK was wonderful.

The bad news? We are buying a television for the upstairs family room after Christmas.

OUCH....or HOW MANY TIMES CAN I TYPE THE WORD "SPIT"

2009-12-02T20:35:00.000-08:00

Eighteen and a half years ago, after delivering Blake via c-section, and after lying flat on my back for 12 hours, a nurse helped me brush my teeth. I was finally able to sit upright and she held a little basin under my chin while I brushed.

Interestingly, when I went to spit my toothpaste into the basin, it merely dribbled weakly down my chin instead of hitting the basin. Not that it mattered. I had said goodbye to my dignity upon entering the hospital the day before.

Since my abdominal muscles had been traumatized and I was still somewhat numb from the spinal block, I had no spitting power. There was no oomph to my spitting.

Never having been much of a spitter (much to my brothers' chagrin) I had no idea how important abdominal muscles were to spitting.

It was one of the first lessons motherhood taught me.

Now I find myself in the same boat, being unable to spit well.

Because I have a huge canker sore on the side of my tongue, a smaller one on the inside of my lower lip, and one forming on the inside of my upper lip.

The sore on my tongue has nearly left me incapacitated. It's like having strep throat on my tongue.

It hurts to talk. It hurts to chew. It hurts to swallow food, medicine, and my own spit. When I try to spit my toothpaste into the bathroom sink, it merely dribbles into the basin in a pitiful stream of Crest Whitening. There's not enough force behind it to even hit the drain.

I warned my husband last night,that it was beginning to hurt when I talked. Seeing the dread on his face that I would remain silent for the next five to seven days (surely it was dread) I assured him that I would soldier on and talk through the pain.

Anything for my beloved.

Today, though, I changed my mind. I do not want to talk. I have taken to printing e-mails regarding our family Christmas parties and marking them with "FYI" and placing them in front of him. Normally, I would follow him down to his man cave and fill him in on all the details, but today he gets a memo. Just like at the office.

Funny, though, my inability to talk seems to have hit at the same time as a profound lack of hearing on my husband's part. The few things I have said to him this evening, he responds to with "what?" I do not know if this is because, in my effort to talk somewhat painlessly, I may sound a little bit like Quasimodo, or if he is torturing me just for fun and finds it amusing to watch me grimace while I speak to him.

Surely he wouldn't be torturing me, would he? I mean it is the Christmas season.

I am rinsing my mouth with a peroxide mixture. I'm rinsing with tea (the tannin is supposed to speed the drying of the sores) and I'm eating ice cream and mashed potatoes. And I am praying for fast healing.

In the meantime, my family is just going to have to get along without my voice for a few days.

I'm totally counting it as their main Christmas present.

DAY 5 - BAYEUX - PART II

2009-11-21T06:00:00.000-08:00

Oh Bayeux. Sweet Bayeux.

It truly was the favorite part of our trip for Paul and me. This is not to take away anything from our sweet friends whom we visited later in the week. It's just that WE WERE IN FRANCE. A tiny little French village that was quiet and full of history. And we were with our children who were also having a great time.

Photo taken by our sweet tour guide, Naomi.

And the locals actually liked us. And we were on our way to the beaches of Normandy. The beaches that once held the imprints of my grandfather's boots.

And it was in this town that I made the sweetest memories of our family trip.

Maybe it was the charming shops. Maybe it was the charming shop keepers who didn't mind that I spoke no French.

Maybe it was the narrow cobblestone streets.

Maybe it was the tapestry handbag I bought that is oh-so-chic and oh-so-French.

Ladies? Was this a mistake?

At parent-teacher conferences I plopped this on the table and let Blake's French teacher read it to me. Was that wrong?

Maybe it was the fabulous birthday dinner we had for Blake at La Butcherie, where we had potato patties - hamburger patties with a hashbrown patty on it, covered in melted cheese. But it was totally healthy because there was no bun. Or maybe it was the real live French Creme Brulee we had after our meal.

Maybe it was the two....I mean....three...OKAY....FOUR French pastries I had (but two were tiny samples) while strolling the streets.

Maybe it was laughing with the local vendors in the open air markets as we tried to complete a transaction -neither of us knowing the other's language. Kayla wanted to try some fruity candy and the sweet French lady would say "It is...um...how you say....a bay-REE? um....not red but, uh...bleu?"

And I'd say "BLUEBERRY!" And she'd laugh and say "Oui!!" We got really good at that game as we tried to decipher what flavor each piece was before handing over our Euros.

Euros. We were spending Euros!!

But I think the sweetness of my memories of Bayeux come from the sleeping arrangements we had for the night. Since we could not get two rooms next to each other, we decided to put the girls in one room and the boys in another. Because I decided I was not going to put my babies in a room without a grown up.

This was very logical I know. Like I was going to protect Kayla better than her brother could.

So then.

The boys got the bigger room, but we got the shower. I know Blake enjoyed his bubble bath that night. The kids came up with a shared custody agreement for Paul's lap top so they could each have some contact with the outside world that evening.

And oh what a sweet evening.

Kayla and I sat in our room with the window open. There was no telephone. There was no TV. There were no screens in the window because there were no bugs in Europe. Really. They do not allow bugs in Europe. And we sat on the window sill and watched the traffic and the people in the courtyard below us. And the weather was glorious; we could smell the flowers below us all the way up in our second story room. We read our books. We planned our morning and shared our shampoo and hair supplies. We planned our outfits for the next day.

And the next morning because the guys had gotten up early to go for a run, they ate breakfast without us. At first I was a little miffed at them for that, but then I realized things were so much better this way. My girl and I, in an historic French hotel dining room, World War II era French music playing softly, eating breakfast before we headed to the beaches. Just us girls.

And I was taken back to the days when she was four and five years old - the days when she'd still hold my hand in parking lots. And as we walked down the street or across a parking lot, she'd swing my arm and look up at me with a giant grin and say "Just us girls, Mommy!"

Oh the sweetness of that morning in France with my girl.

Our French breakfast. Kayla had a bowl of fruit and some warm French Bread with fresh Strawberry Jam and a glass of skim milk. I had a bowl of fruit, a glass of skim milk and a cup of coffee.

Oh, and a croissant as big as my head.

That was one big croissant. And oh so buttery and flaky. And oh so painfully delicious with fresh apricot jelly. Yes, I did indeed make it my mission to see if I could become ill on French pastries. Surprisingly I did not, as hard as I tried.

Don't judge me. I had to eat the giant croissant for energy.

After all, I was on my way to Omaha Beach.

FAVORITE

2009-11-20T12:51:00.000-08:00

Autumn is my favorite season.

I love cool rainy days,

and red leaves.

I love early evenings and lamplight,

And mixed flowers in reds and golds.

BYE BYE MAMMOGRAM? - ANOTHER HELPFUL LETTER

2009-11-19T14:04:00.000-08:00

November 19, 2009

Dear U.S. Preventive Services Task Force,

I have listened with great interest to the news these last couple of days, because apparently you all have made a brilliant recommendation regarding women's health.

Is it true that you are recommending we put off our first mammogram until the age of 50? And after that, you want us to have one only every two years? Is this true?

And is it true that you're suggesting we stop doing our own self breast exams every month? I tell you what; we'll stop doing our self breast exams, when you tell our male counterparts to stop "examining" a certain part of their anatomy in public. Are all those baseball players checking for lumps? Because surely that's against your rules.

Idiots

And your reasoning in cautioning against self breast exams? That you don't want a bunch of women being scared by lumps that turn out to be nothing; and, after all, false positives occur and then we've wasted our time for nothing. Oh the horrors of finding out you are actually healthy after being fearful you had cancer!!! Your way is much better. Let's all bury our heads in the sand until it's too late to do anything about it.

Morons.

Brilliant People, long gone are the days when you get to pat our hands (or any other part of our bodies) and tell us "you don't worry yourself about such things. Let me handle it." The thing is YOU are not worrying about it and your way of handling it is to let potential cancer fester in our bodies for ten years or more. Probably less, actually, because by the time we get that mammogram, all hope will be gone.

I don't mean to be harsh but YOU PEOPLE ARE NUTS!!

I have a few suggestions for you:

My first suggestion would be that you visit the homes of women who were diagnosed with breast cancer IN THEIR THIRTIES. Look into their eyes and the eyes of their loved ones and then tell them "Um, yeah, ma'am, we really wish you hadn't gone and found that cancer on your own. It was entirely too early for you to be messing with this. You've totally messed up our research." *sigh*

Second, please PLEASE, PLEASE stop in at my family doctor's office and tell him that you don't want me to have a mammogram for the next seven years. Please do it. I will pay money to see the verbal annihilation that awaits you.

Third, put out a similar recommendation that men stop having their PSA checked. Let's ban prostate screenings. What's good for the goose......

Fourth, recommend an immediate halt to all insurance coverage of Viagra.

Fifth, why not recommend that all women start smoking two packs a day and eat a small tub of Crisco shortening for lunch? While you're at it, let's ban exercise, just for fun.

Now I know we are all just a bunch of simple minded little women folk who can't worry our pretty little heads about cancer and other things that might scare us, but we are watching. We know that you are a government panel of doctors and scientists. We know that this could very well become a part of our new American health care system. So we are watching and listening.

And if we start having coverage denied for mammograms and other cancer screening simply because we have breasts but are not yet fifty; well, then we know who to thank, don't we?

Just when I thought I'd seen my fair share of STUPID.....

Yours in good breast health (so far)

HW

THRIFT

2009-11-16T14:46:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I had to eat some crow.

Because two days after I sat on the softball bleachers and told my fellow softball moms "Kayla will never have genuine Uggs..." well....I went out and bought her some.

I know. I know.

I'm a terrible indulgent mother.

I know none of you expect an explanation (or rather a justification) but I'm going to give it.

See, Kayla is a saver. She doesn't nickel and dime us for money. She babysits and pet sits. She shops carefully. When she is heading out with her friends on the weekends I'll ask if she needs money and she very rarely says yes. When she sees something at the mall she likes, she waits a couple of days before buying it. Last week, she put two pairs of jeans on hold at the mall and asked if I'd buy them. They were $15.00 a pair. That's pretty good. And while she always has her own money and could have bought the Uggs herself, I really do believe it's a good thing to occasionally reward our kids for managing their money well.

So when she called and said she found some Uggs in her size and in the color she liked, I told her to put them on hold and maybe, just maybe, I'd run back and buy them in the next day or two.

This all occurred during a very stressful time at the W house. And even though Kayla wasn't trying to take advantage of that stress, it was easy for me to go out and buy those Uggs, because I like to live by my college roommate's advice:

"When you're having a bad day, do something nice for someone else."

There were a few weeks there where LOTS of people were getting surprises from me.

So I bought the Uggs and came home and was, like, THE. BEST. MOM. EV. VER.

It took a couple of days for Paul to find out about the Uggs, though. Not because I keep purchases from him but because he was working 14 hour days and we basically saw each other enough to say good morning and good night. Plus he doesn't tend to notice his daughter's footwear.

So when something was said about Kayla wearing her Uggs to a football game, a little bell went off in Paul's head and he said "Wait....she has Uggs?" And I said "Oh, yeah I bought her some Uggs earlier in the week." And he did that thing with his eyes and didn't say anything else. So I gave him the justification that I just shared with you, my ones of readers. Well, I added another reason but that's private W family stuff.

So then, he recovered fairly quickly from the fact that his daughter was wearing Uggs - which by the way I'm sure got their name from the sound parents make when they are paying for them.

Fast forward to yesterday after church.

We were sitting at lunch with our friends and Kayla said "Daddy....can we go to Plato's Closet." And Daddy tried to say it wasn't near enough to the restaurant. Thank you, Bridget, for chiming in and saying "oh it's just around the corner." We women really do need to stick together when someone is trying to trample on our constitutional shopping rights.

Since Plato's Closet is a re-sale shop for teen clothes, I piped up and said "Um....Daddy? You know, most 15-year-old girls would be asking to go to Hollister or Von Maur. Couldn't we go by really quickly so she can get a few things?"

And after being assured that she had some babysitting money with her, he agreed.

And let me just say right here: that whole exchange was totally unnecessary and almost comical. Because as soon as Kayla said "Daddy..." he and I both knew she was going to get whatever it was her brown eyes and dimples were asking for. Because from the moment she was born, Kayla has merely had to hold out her little finger and Daddy would begin winding himself around it, occasionally stopping to ask "How tight, Honey Bunny?"

So Daddy dropped us off at the door of Plato's Closet because it was raining. Then the preacher jumped in our van and they headed off to the bank to deposit the church offering, while Kayla and I went on a hunt for some darling bargains.

One hour and about a hundred dollars later, we came out with a sack bulging with a dozen items, including this skirt and leggings.

I'd say a trip to the re-sale shop totally makes up for those boots. What do you think?

The top half of her ensemble came from her own closet and my jewelry box. Skirt? $4.00. Leggings $3.00.

Boots? Well, the boots aren't the point of this post, now are they?

TACO MEAT

2009-11-13T12:38:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to my Fellow Officer Moms (FOMs) - Kelly and Gretchen

Oh Taco meat, dear taco meat
how delicious you are,
when piled into one little shell
on an innocent taco bar.

But when cooked in our kitchens,
ten- TWENTY! - pounds at a time,
then the sight of you...the smell of you...
well, it's almost a crime.

You'll soon be transported
to a busy concession stand
where we'll be selling you to
parents, coaches, even the band.

Piled on chips, topped with some cheese.
They'll all long
for your goodness.
"ONE WALKING TACO PLEASE."

You're sure to be a money maker
not a better one could we find.
But putting this one together?
Well, it's costing us our minds.

The burgers, the pork chops,
the pizza and hot dogs,
This whole concession stand thing?
Well, it's turned our minds to fog.

But this is the last one
our dear friend Taco Meat.
If you could last until halftime,
that sure would be sweet.

Guess what I've been doing today?

LIBERATORS

2009-11-11T09:49:00.001-08:00

And the American Rangers began to climb. They shot rope ladders over the face of these cliffs and began to pull themselves up. When one ranger fell, another would take his place. When one rope was cut a ranger would grab another and begin his climb again. They climbed, shot back, and held their footing. Soon, one by one, the rangers pulled themselves over the top, and in seizing the firm land at the top of these cliffs, they began to seize back the continent of Europe.

President Ronald Reagan, June 6, 1984 - Normandy.

Three and a half months after seeing this in Normandy, I still nearly weep at the words.

"When one ranger fell, another would take his place..." Oh, the heartbreak of watching your brother in arms fall and know that you must not falter from your mission. You cannot stop to see if he has survived. You cannot tell him goodbye. You must keep climbing. Because you are an American Ranger and a continent is depending on you.

"....soon, one by one, the rangers pulled themselves over the top..." One by one. The sacrifice of one ranger, and then another ranger, and then another ranger. One man at a time, one sacrifice at a time, these heroes began the job of liberating a continent. One by one they formed the mightiest military force in the world.

And in this place, Normandy, they have not been forgotten.

Happy Veterans Day to all of our service men and women.

And thank you.

SECRET

2009-11-10T13:46:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make.

Most days? While the kids are at school and my husband is at work? I sit in the old blue swivel rocker in Blake's room (which he charmed out of his grandmother when she bought new chairs - it's LOVELY) and I play violent war games on X-Box. Or X-Box 360, or whatever it is.

I sit there and ignore the phone. I ignore the laundry, the grocery shopping and my volunteer obligations.

I just sit there all day long yelling "DIE! DIE!" to all of my virtual alien enemies.

Or at least that's what the clerk at the game store thinks.

Because when I walked in there today, receipt in hand, to pick up a game for which Blake had prepaid, I was very nicely told "um, yeah, Blake, like, paid in full for this, but since you're not, like, on his list of approved people to pick it up, we can't, like give it to you," as the clerk stared at his computer screen like a weary airline worker.

"But I've picked them up before" I say.

"Yeah, well, if he'd only put down, like, five dollars, we'd let you have it. Because then if you weren't supposed to have it we'd only be out five dollars and not the whole price of a game. Plus he's eighteen now and he's paid for it in full, so you can't pick it up"

And then I felt my brain bend ask I cocked my head to one side and started laughing. Baroo?

"Oh, I understand" I said. But I totally didn't. "What if I show you my license to prove we are related?"

"Sorry, I can't let you have it, in case, like, you know, it doesn't get to him. Some people try to pick them up and keep them for themselves. Tell him to put your name on the approved list and we won't have a problem again."

"I will and thank you so much," I said as I looked for hidden cameras. Because surely I was being Punk'd.

Be honest. Do I LOOK like a lover of war-themed video games? Do I look like someone who would STEAL a war-themed video game from an unsuspecting teenager?

This really poses a problem because Blake is absolutely not going to believe my story.

See, I have this terrible habit of playing jokes on him when I pick up his games. I hide them and leave treasure hunt clues, which believe, me teenage boys REEEEEAAAAALY LOVE!

So this morning when he left and handed me the receipt, as though he was handing me the cure for cancer, he said "mom can you pick this up and can you just bring it home and leave it on the counter? Seriously, mom, just leave it on the counter and don't do anything funny."

To which I responded "well, of course I can pick it up....but as for the funny business, I can't make any guarantees."

He is SO going to miss me when he's a Marine.

DAY 5 - JULY 28 - BAYEUX, FRANCE

2009-11-09T08:53:00.000-08:00

Veteran's Day is only two days away. And while our school district chose NOT to recognize this national holiday, I've decided it's the perfect time to get back to my vacation journal. Especially since we are ready for our tour of the Normandy beaches.

We arrived in France on Tuesday July 28th - Blake's 18th birthday.

We're really sorry son. We couldn't do much this year so we're just taking you to Europe for your birthday. Please forgive us.

Blake and Paul did a wonderful job getting us from Cherbourg to Bayeux. They did such a good job, in fact that upon entering Bayeux, we had no trouble at all finding our hotel:

And oh sweet mercy. I was in love with this hotel. The flowers. The decor. The steps. The flags of the allied forces.

The trained security dog:

Okay maybe "trained security guard"' is overstating things a bit. This is Siyah and she immediately took it upon herself to search our luggage. The only time that green ball left her mouth was when she replaced it with a red one.

Siyah on duty in the rear garden.

Always the watchful guard dog. We really took a liking to Siyah. And her little green ball.

Bayeux was spared during the German invasion. After the Germans left it unscathed, the American generals wanted to destroy the city, thinking the Germans might come back and use its resources. The British generals, knowing first hand what such an experience would do to its citizens, convinced the U.S. to leave the town standing. And so Bayeux became a point of rest for soldiers marching through after having survived their landing on the beaches of Normandy.

I spent two days wandering this beautiful village, wondering if my grandfather, after surviving his own landing on the beach, rested in this town.

Did he enter this church? Did he pray for his own safe return home?

Did he sit in a pew, where these chairs now are? Did he fervently pray that he would be returned to his young bride and baby boy? Did he sit in this stone building and hear the noise of distant bombing and gun fire? Did he fear that the sights he had seen on the beaches might never leave his memory? Did he mourn for his lost brothers in arms?

Did all of them? Did all of the soldiers who passed through this haven of rest enter this church? Did the townspeople sit within its walls and seek peace for their trembling bodies and hearts? Did they use their energy to welcome our soldiers, their liberators?

We will not forget our liberators, was a common sign in Bayeux.

I do know this. I know that somewhere in France two young women - sisters who were both school teachers - took my grandpa and some of his buddies home for dinner one night. They brought these American GI's home to their mother and father and shared their small rations with them. They gave them a touch of home. They fed their liberators.

Was that in Bayeux? And if so, was it near this water wheel? Was this water wheel turning when our soldiers passed through? Was it turning at the locals' efforts to keep their lives going in the midst of their own unending nightmare?

Bayeux was peaceful and refreshing after the buy streets of London. We spent the day strolling narrow cobblestone streets. We enjoyed the beautiful weather. We enjoyed the quiet and the reverence.

We saw the Tapestry of Bayeux. Photos were forbidden on this tour, but it was amazing. A tapestry eighty meters in length tells the story of William the Conqueror. It was stitched for the "common man" who couldn't read. It was stitched so the story could be told for generations and never forgotten.

After the tapestry we needed a little sweet treat, so my little sweet treats had some ice cream:

I passed on the ice cream because I had indulged in a French pastry earlier. A Bignet. Sorry, but a Bignet in France FAR outweighs an ice cream cone anywhere.

Eating ice cream and pastries in a tiny French village? Seriously, what is better than that?

I'll tell you what, waking up the next morning to walk on the sands of Omaha Beach. The best part of our vacation was truly only hours away.

BRAND NEW

2009-11-07T17:36:00.001-08:00

Look what I found in the pumpkin patch:

One week ago today, on Halloween, this little peanut of a guy entered our family: my brother's sixth grandchild, Micah Derek.

Big brother Landon was not happy about being called away from his vacuuming to have his picture taken. He's two, you know, so the moods come and go.

But then he realized he could actually lift great grandma's "lello" - what he calls the Yellow Vacuum - off the ground. And then a favorite toy became even more fun.

Because, really, what is more fun than lifting a yellow vacuum cleaner off the floor and carrying it through the house while all the grown ups tell you how strong you are?

Could life get much better than this?

EXPERT

2009-11-05T04:54:00.000-08:00

We were recently at an event where I was watching a man in the audience balance his little boy on his knee. The boy was probably about three or four, and I commented to Paul that those parents were still in the phase of parenting where they could say "My boy would NEVER...." fill in the blank with any number of options.

We have teenagers and, I know this will come as a surprise to most of you, but sometimes teenagers have to be disciplined.

No really, they do.

Sometimes teenagers don't make the best decisions. Did you know that?

And sometimes you actually have to do more than slap your forehead while slowly shaking your head back and forth in a great big gesture that says "I CANNOT believe this...."

Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty, really dirty, when disciplining teenagers.

Except it's not your hands that end up feeling dirty and worn out. It's your heart, but that's another post.

As a parenting expert....no wait....as somebody who knows a lot about parenting....um, I mean....since I am full of parental knowledge.....

Since I've given birth to two children (that keeps your expectations low enough, doesn't it) I've decided to publish, right here on this blog, my parenting philosophy when it comes to disciplining teenagers. I will do so in a "Bullet Point" format. And I have no idea how many bullet points there will be because I will be making them up as I go along.

You know. Like James Dobson and John Rosamond probably do.

Let's get started, shall we?

When your teenager gets into trouble, you can:

*Deny. Deny. Deny. I call this kind of response the "Not MY boy" response. These are the parents who could actually see their little Mikey vandalize the neighbor's car and still say he didn't do it.

*Make excuses. These are the parents that admit their little Mikey did indeed vandalize their neighbor's car but claim it was the neighbor's fault for having their car parked in their very own driveway instead of behind a locked garage door. If the car hadn't been left out, little Mikey couldn't have vandalized it. These parents are usuall not too popular in the neighborhood because nothing is every their child's fault but they are ever so eager to throw other children under the bus.

*Explode like an atom bomb. This explosion will reach everyone - the victim, the authorities, the wayward child. This explosion will accomplish absolutely nothing except showing people what an idiot you are, but it will make the parent feel better - short term. After the explosion, the parent will most likely never be taken seriously again. Especially if he threatens to sue the neighbor for leaving his car parked in his very own driveway.

*Ignore, ignore, ignore...your child that is. This is the parent who gives the child the ultimate of silent treatments. This method is good if you want to reach the child at their level - you know, the child is a teenager, so the parent acts like a teenager. It probably doesn't accomplish much but you will at least be at your child's level while the problem remains unsolved.

*Bury your child in guilt. This is my personal favorite and I apply it quite often. Do you know how you've embarrassed us? What will people think of our family now? I give and give and give and what do you do....? A little guilt can be healthy I think. But too much guilt can be crippling. I don't know why I haven't learned that yet. Perhaps I'm doing an experiment to find our just HOW MUCH guilt is too much. Yeah, that's it - a parenting experiment with my own children as the emotionally damaged guinea pigs.

- and finally you can

*Put your hand on your child's back. This serves two purposes. First, and most importantly, it pushes your child forward. Forward toward the people to whom he must account. Forward toward his consequences. Forward toward learning from his mistake. And second, the hand on his back reminds him that you are there. That you literally have his back. It reminds him that even though he must be accountable for his actions, even though he must make that walk, he is not walking alone. If he needs to look over his shoulder for reassurance, you are there with your hand on his back to steady him against that crippling guilt, those people who hope to see him fall under its weight, and the fatigue that comes with cleaning up ones own mess.

Like the days when our babies took their first wobbly steps and needed to hold just one of our fingers to make it across the room, so are the days of raising teenagers. They can get across the room. They HAVE to get across the room. They have to be standing alone when they reach the other side.

But hopefully if they've felt our hand on their back througout their journey, they will feel ready to stand strong again and they will be glad that hand was not only steadying them but also pushing them along to meet their goal.

NICKNAME

2009-11-03T10:15:00.000-08:00

I just finished making an online purchase.

In filling out the billing information, I came across a line for "nickname." Naturally I assumed that was optional and skipped that little box.

Silly me.

After clicking "enter" I saw a whole bunch of red letters appear on my screen, telling me that "nickname is a required field."

I had no idea a nickname was so urgent in ordering turtlenecks.

So I began to panic.

Because, people, I don't have a nickname.

I mean, my husband calls me Honey. My kids call me Mom. Or "Maaaaaahhhm-uh" depending on their mood. Sometimes it's "MUH -THER."

When I was little my mother called me "Little One" or "Heidence."

And actually there might be some people in the community right now who are calling me some things that can't be printed on this PG-rated blog. You locals know I'm right about that.

But I don't have an official nickname.

So I decided to be clever and fill in the little box with "Bubbles"

Oh stop! You now I'm kidding.

I simply typed "Heidi" and ordered my turtlenecks, feeling just a little empty inside.

BEHIND EVERY GREAT HIGH SCHOOL FUND RAISER...

2009-10-31T13:20:00.000-07:00

...are some really tired moms.

Mrs. R, Mrs W, Mrs K

A couple of weeks ago, I told my FOMs (Fellow Officer Moms) that I'd really like to skip just one football game. There were things going on that just made me want to stay home and catch my breath. I needed some space.

And they were very gracious and understanding and said all sorts of encouraging things.

You relax, and don't worry about things.

You really do enough, it's okay for you to miss one game.

Really, they were so sweet in allowing me to be a great big slacker.

But then I started worrying that they really liked it better when I wasn't there.

I mean, what if they no longer LET me work in the concession stand?

What if they didn't let me do ANYTHING?

What if I wasn't given any more responsibilities with the fund raising?

What if they no longer let me sit at the cool kids' table?

But then I woke up and said "pffft! That'll never happen" Because as little as I might do (I am known for excusing myself to the bathroom when any hard work comes up) they probably still need me, if for no other reason than because I always have gas....I mean I always have THE gas...I mean I'm the one that gets the gas.

Okay, let me start over. I am the one that gets the propane tanks filled for the gas grill so we can grill up all those scrumptious burgers, pork chops and hot dogs during the ballgame.

And without the propane, we have no hot sandwiches people!!!

I am the gas lady, and I choose to believe it is a vital job despite the fact that I have sat dormant for the last 2 weeks when it came to keeping the concession stand running.

Thank you FOMs - Kelly and Gretchen. Thank you for letting me beg off for a week or two so I could stay removed from a difficult situation and catch my breath. It really means a lot to me.

And you can count on me for that Christmas raffle. Really, I'm you man...er...woman....to get that one up and running.

In the mean time, if you need me for anything, I'll be in the restroom.

Thanks again, ladies.

'ROID RAGE

2009-10-30T05:23:00.001-07:00

I have pleurisy, which is an inflammation of the lining of the lungs - the pleura, I believe. I think it also means I'm getting old.

And pleurisy really hurts.

Come. Come with me on my journey of pleurisy.

So then, in the middle of last week, I started feeling a tightness in my chest, then pressure, then pain - over a period of a few days. I get congested at this time every year so I decided not to worry too much.

And I told myself if I had not awakened dead by Monday I would call my doctor.

Take me to Vegas, baby! I played those odds and won.

I got into the doctor on Tuesday and he diagnosed me with Pleurisy.

Which was really good because it would have been a real bummer if I was having a five day heart attack.

But after he diagnosed me, he sat and stared at me with a puzzled expression - an expression that said "I really don't know what to do with you."

Not unlike the expression my husband and children give me several times a day.

But I wasn't offended because he's a medical person and it seemed far less insulting.

See, the problem is that the two treatments for the pain of pleurisy are:

1) Non steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs

2)steroids

Which, now that I've typed that seems very much like a contradiction.

But what do I know?

My problem with these two options, is that my body can't tolerate either one.

If I take the anti-inflammatory drugs, they will aggravate my ulcer.

If I take the steroids, they might accelerate my heart rate because I have a teeny tiny little heart condition.

My goal is to be a case study in a medical journal before I'm fifty. That is the only way I will ever be a cover girl.

To help the doctor out, I weighed in. And, believe me, after 19 years as his patient, he totally loves it when I weigh in on things. Or better yet, when I tell him I've saved him some time by diagnosing myself using Webmd before my appointments. He loves that.

So I said "Well, since I won't be on the anti-inflammatory drugs for more than a week, let's go with those. I can handle it if it irritates my stomach." I am woman. Hear me roar.

Boy was I wrong.

Two hours after one dose of the sample he gave me, my stomach set itself on fire.

But because I'm a slow learner, I took the second dose the next morning.

And by eight thirty I had called my doctor to ask for the steroids. This made my husband happy too because the first drug was going to cost over one hundred dollars. Ther steroids cost us $1.86. No, really they did.

With a steroid pack, you have to take six doses - SIX DOSES - on the first day and you decrease your doses every day for a week.

So after each dose yesterday, I sat in a chair and concentrated really hard on my heartbeat.

Is it beating fast now?

How 'bout now?

Now? Is my heart beating too fast?

Which, I realize, was a total waste of time. I mean if I'm going to be on steroids I should be in my garage swinging a seventy-pound sledge hammer for fun or something. Which is not to say that my friend's husband is on the 'roids. No, not at all. He's just freakishly fit and has this unbeatable spirit.

I, on the other hand, wear myself out using my little kitchen hammer to put a nail in the wall.

But NO MORE I SAY!

Now that I got me some 'roids.

Tonight at the football game I think I'll lift the team bus off the ground just for fun.

RUDE

2009-10-29T06:24:00.000-07:00

So then, the other day I stopped in briefly at a place where I do some volunteer work.

I can't say where it was because this is a small town and any complaints will get right back to them before I hit PUBLISH and I've got enough controversy in my life right now thankyouverymuch.

Anyway, I made a brief stop to make arrangements for my REAL volunteer day and I was treated rudely by the front desk person.

And I don't like to be treated rudely by somebody who works at a place where I volunteer my time.

I don't like being treated rudely by anybody, actually, but it really bothers me when it is by somebody who is either being paid by me or is receiving free labor from me.

I'm not going to complain to anybody about it (you know, like formally) because that would reflect badly on the organization I represent. I will probably let our coordinator know that somebody hurt my feelings *sob* and then let it go.

But Geesh!

I figure a volunteer should be treated like a client.

And as a former receptionist/secretary, LET ME TELL YOU, clients are supposed to walk on a red carpet when they enter your place of business. It doesn't matter if you have a migraine, if you're mad at your boss, or if your toilet overflowed before work that day, you treat the clients nicely.

Am I wrong here?

So now that I've given you a detailed account of my persecution, you can all weigh in with some sympathy.

Those of you who aren't too busy on Facebook that is.
***********************************************

Now speaking of RUDE, I was telling my sweet neighbor about a little issue we've been dealing with at home and she said I should totally blog about it. So since it fits right in here, let's have a little chat about....

CANINE FLATULENCE!

Okay, you can blame Jenna for this post.

We have a senior dog.

She's really sweet and loyal and as docile as they come. She barks at the UPS man and Schwan man but she's afraid of the neighbors' new puppy. She folds herself into the litter box when it thunders and sits there shaking until the storm passes. That is, if she isn't in the bathtub trembling. We have considered sedating her on each Independence Day because the fireworks turn her into a trembling drooling mess. Poor Baby.

As most of you dog owners know, a dog can be pretty smelly at times. There have been times when our whole family has simultaneously dropped to the floor from her silent fumes as she lies among us snoring.

But now her...um....fumes aren't just Silent But Deadly (SBD). Now they are actually Audible But Deadly (ABD).

And they scare her.

Yes our dog is scared of her own flatulence.

Now as she dozes on the carpet, she scares herself with her ABD's. She will be in the midst of a well deserved nap and hear a suspicious noise behind her, leap up and run across the room with her tail between her legs and look back as though she expects to see a predator.

And her little canine thought bubble reads "What the heck was that? Don't worry family, I'M ON THE JOB!"

Then she looks at all of us to see if we're frightened before settling down to another nap so she can repeat the process. I think she might be a little confused as to why we are all laughing so hard during such a frightening time.

Such is life with a senior dog, rude as it may be.

The only person who seems even the slightest bit pleased with this new....uh....issue....is Paul.

Now when he says it was the dog, he has proof.

MY HEART

2009-10-27T12:35:00.001-07:00

Approximately ten days ago I told half of my heart that it would be wearing brown for family photos. The other half, since I actually trust her fashion instinct, decided to pair PINK with the brown. Go figure,

This is the result.

Is it any wonder I asked my sweet neighbor to take Blake's senior portraits for us and then snap a few of the whole family?

A few words to mothers of little ones. Remember that feeling when you saw the first professional photo of your baby? Or even the one taken in the hospital? Remember how you fell in love all over again and you wondered how in the world you were still breathing even though your heart had suddenly jumped outside your body?

Remember that?

Well, that feeling doesn't go away.

Even when, say, hypothetically, your grown son has decided not to shave or get a haircut until January 1st. Even, when, say, hypothetically, he holds fast to this commitment when it's time for his senior photos.

Even when, say, hypothetically you beg and plead and say "Why, son? WHY?" And you wave the white flag of surrender because, as you're pleading for a clean shaven young man, his peers are saying things likes "Dude, that is SO COOL. It's like you're a wolf man or something."

And how can a mother hold battle against such encouraging words?

But you look at the photos of "Wolf man" and his little sister and you fall in love any way.

You really can't explain it.

It's just there like a balloon swelling somewhere inside of you (probably that place where your heart used to be) and as you look at each proof, that balloon grows bigger and bigger. So big you know it's going to burst and leave a spray of tears all over your computer screen.

I love photos. Photos have a way of putting life into perspective. They remind you of what really matters. They remind you to put the past where it belongs. They remind you not to fear the future. They remind you that life is beautiful. Life is good.

They remind us that we somehow manage to do our job on this earth even when our heart is living outside our body.

********************************************

Thank you, Jenna. The photos are all gorgeous. You have a wonderful gift and we appreciate you.

SWEET HONEY...

2009-10-24T07:14:00.000-07:00

...David Whyte in The Heart Aroused can resonate with the Spanish poet Antonio Machado who wrote:

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvelous error! - that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures."

"White combs and sweet honey from my old failures." Sometimes it works out that way, but not always. Sometimes my failures have me buried in shame and guilt and loss. I've come to learn that when I fail alone and isolated, I don't crawl out of the muck so well. Sweet honey only comes from my old failures when someone has taken the time to love me through my failures. And through the loving touch of that caring human being, I am healed.

Paul S. Williams

From the devotional book When I'm Learning to Love by Greg Allen, Rick Rusaw,
Dan Stuecher - Paul S. Williams, editor.

FRIEND

2009-10-22T19:16:00.000-07:00

*Edited to add: Apparently this post made my friend cry and she sent me an e-mail IN ALL CAPS telling me so. This is not a good thing for her to be doing at work, crying that is. She works in a male dominated profession, which she combats beautifully by wearing lots of pink and carrying great purses. But still, there's no crying. So, sweet J-net, if those big mean men made fun of you, give me their names and I'll come down and smack 'em.
Okay, not really. That's your job.

I have this friend.

I'll call her J-net.

She's carrying quite a load right now so I decided last week to take dinner to her and her husband. I whipped up a pot of chicken noodle soup and popped in with it.

Don't they say chicken noodle soup is good for the soul or something?

So anyway, I had such a good time that night that I decided to do it again tonight.

Because even though I went to make their evening a little brighter they ended up making my evening a whole lot brighter.

Tonight I popped in with some meatloaf and trimmings. I knew I'd have to keep my visit short because Friend J-net has a cardio class in the evenings and I didn't want to keep her from it. Turns out she had a tiny little headache and decided to skip cardio so we could visit and laugh.
And laugh and laugh.

Here's the thing, though. She really didn't want to tell her husband she was skipping cardio due to a tiny little headache. Because, see, he has cancer. And he was in the garage working out while we were in the living room making excuses for skipping our own exercise routines that day.

He was working out with some other guys and I kept hearing this "thwump." "thwump." "thwump."

What IS that noise?

Oh, they're just swinging a sledge hammer against a tire.

Wait, what?

This man who is on the tail end of thirty six radiation treatments is in the garage swinging a sledge hammer before heading off to his second job?

HE WAS SLINGING. A. SLEDGE. HAMMER.

For fun.

And he's not, like, on a chain gang or anything.

And he's undergoing radiation treatments.

And I decided to skip my exercise today because I had cookies to bake and a meatloaf dinner to prepare. Oh and I had to run to the mall to buy an ice cream cone. I had a busy day, people!

So then.

When he came inside Friend J-net confessed that she was skipping cardio because she had a tiny little headache. And I decided to make the ultimate sacrifice for her and let him know: "Her headache's name is Heidi and I'm crying on her shoulder. She can't leave."

Once he finished his NINETY MINUTE WORKOUT he ate some dinner and left for his second job.

Hello. My name is Heidi and I am a slug.

Here's the thing about my little visits with my dear friend. I like to think that by showing up every week or so with a simple meal it might take a little stress off of her for a couple of nights. I like to think that the hour (or two or three) we spend laughing and talking might be a little pick me up for her.

And maybe it is.

But as it turns, out, it is a HUGE pick me up for me. Because even though she is carrying such a heavy burden right now, she has, on each of these visits, set her own burden down, and picked mine up for just a little while.

She has encouraged me, affirmed me, loved me, teased me, and made me laugh til I cry and cry til I laugh. She has been my sister in heart and in Christ. Each of us has helped the other bury her father. When I try to imagine my life before I met her, I simply cannot comprehend how empty it must have been without her shining smile, amazing humor, self assurance, and true loyalty.

Plus, when someone hurts my feelings she offers to hunt them down and smack 'em. Really, she does.

I am blessed by you Miss J-net. You have helped me more than you'll ever know during our years of friendship and I want to help you carry your burden.

And next week we have a celebration dinner to plan....

Love you sweet friend.

SLINKING AWAY

2009-10-22T05:35:00.000-07:00

Each of my children has faced a bumpy road lately.

And each of them seems to have navigated it better than their mother.

When Kayla was having a disagreement with another girl - a disagreement that took an ugly turn - this mama bear had to work very hard to keep her responses measured and her words kind toward somebody who was hurting her cub.

Then one night, Kayla came home and calmly said "Oh, we worked it out. Things are fine now."

Now I have a confession.

When she said this, I wanted to say "But...wait...what do you mean you worked it out? What if she....you can't have...."

"Wait, what?"

But there was such finality to her statement, such calm assurance that I, for once, was able to keep my mouth shut and listen and learn.

It's over. It never happened. For now I choose to believe in this peace.

And I slinked away in shame.
***************************************************

Yesterday Blake had an encounter with an adult that, in his words, left him feeling intimidated.

And here came that mama bear again.

I calmly said to him something like "I'm sorry this happened to you. Do you want me to step in and say something?"

And he said "No, mom. I have a future ahead of me that's so much bigger than this man and this situation...."

And I slinked away in shame.
*****************************************************

Last Saturday was Senior picture day for Blake, and since it had been a while since we'd had family photos taken, we turned it into a session for all of us.

And as I watched a couple of Blake's shots (I didn't want to watch them all - I want to be surprised) I turned into a puddle of goo just thinking about the fact that we were at this point in life.

Then, just for fun, I had our photographer take a few shots of Kayla.

And I turned into a puddle of goo.

Because, come on!!

How does this happen so quickly? How do we get to this point so quickly - the point where we no longer spend an hour getting the perfect shoes, the perfect dress, the perfect socks, the perfect bow for pictures? The point where we no longer beg and cajole and threaten so that Blake will cooperate with "just a few shots, buddy. - PLEASE!" The point where Blake no longer has to hold his head at odd angles to work around the giant bow on his sister's head.

The point where our children are fighting their own battles better than we could fight for them and coming out the other side with a lesson learned.

The point where glimpses of their character are starting to shine through and we can, between prayers and frustrated slaps to our own foreheads, say maybe, just maybe, things are going to turn out just fine.

And we get out their baby books and try to convince ourselves that those days really weren't so sweet after all.

LEARY

2009-10-19T11:04:00.000-07:00

Yesterday at Kayla's last softball game, I noticed a guy there that looked a little...um...shall we say....shady. He was wearing a funny stocking cap and sunglasses that I suppose were like Oakley's or something like that. Maybe he got them in Europe....la te da....

He had not been at any of the games before but he kept standing around watching MY DAUGHTER'S game so I was just a little disconcerted.

So much so that I turned around and snapped his picture:

Oh wait. It's only Kayla's big brother and his friend Mitchell.

"911? Uh, yeah, never mind. The shady guy is my son."

Crisis averted.

PERSPECTIVE

2009-10-18T19:41:00.001-07:00

Life has been coming at us hard and fast lately - as hard and fast as a speeding freight train.

And we are tied to the tracks.

For a local point of reference - we are the Trojans and life is Tuscola.

We are the Titantic and it is the iceberg.

Yeah, things have been a little rough.

But Friday I got some news that puts things into perspective for me.

Our neighbor's son was injured in Afghanistan last week. You might have seen the story on one of the national news channels. Our troops were caught in a fire fight - outnumbered - and lost eight brave soldiers. Our neighbor's son, a medic, received multiple shrapnel injuries. I think his body will heal more quickly than his spirit. After all, he had the horrendous task of tending to his brothers in arms who gave their lives.

This young soldier's step dad was Kayla's softball coach last summer. His little sister was on her team. I thanked him last summer for his service to our country - before he shipped out. I talked a lot to his mother about what it was like to have not one but TWO sons serving our country in a war zone. I listened to every word she spoke but I still did not comprehend.

I still don't.

But I called his mother today. I called to tell her that I was praying for her and we most certainly would continue praying for her boy and her family. And that is all I could do. What does one do for a neighbor whose son is injured in a desert half way around the world? How does one even begin to put words to that kind of pain?

Please pray for this family. Please pray for all families that are receiving that most heartbreaking of phone calls or visits from some U.S. Government official who never met their loved one.

It is indeed time for peace.

CHILLY

2009-10-12T08:44:00.001-07:00

Now I know why they call it a FALL league.

It was a wee bit chilly at Kayla's games yesterday. But notice the trees in the pictures below. They are truly becoming gorgeous.

But anyway. When we started the day yesterday at the fields it was a balmy 51 degrees, partly sunny with a breeze that kept things a bit nippy. At the end of the final game it was 48 degrees with no hint of sunshine and a breeze that kept the moms a bit snippy.

And now for a brief pitching tutorial - from the least athletic mind God ever created.

When a pitcher warms up she does not throw fast solid pitches lest she hurt her arm and her mom and dad have to pay for some sort of contraption to make it all better. And no no no that's not gonna happen.

Here is Kayla "framing."I think that means she is just like, maybe, getting herself centered, and, like, maybe, staying balanced. Frankly, I don't know. But she's doggone cute while she does it. (notice the girl to the left. That's Hillary. Her hat? It's a magic hat 'cause that girl was on fire yesterday. note to self: buy 12 zebra caps.)

Then the pitcher will bring her pitching arm above her head, forming an "L" with her other arm, then bring the pitch around in a nice smooth arc, then snap her lower arm quickly and release the ball, like so:

She will do this a dozen times or so. I actually caught this whole action in a series of frames but have no idea how to explain it. And I'm sure Kayla will read this post and say "Um...mother? You got it all wrong." Whatever. But she looks doggone cute while she's doing it.

Perhaps as the mother of an athlete I should know more about her sport but I consider myself to be my kids' chief cheerleader. That is my only job. They have coaches. The parents who know lots about the sports - all the technical stuff and every teeny tiny rule - tend to be, in my experience, the ones who are also more critical of their kids. I don't know sports, but I know how to encourage so I'm going to keep myself ignorant, thank you very much.

The girl with the hat? She also wore some pretty nifty little boots to the game. I told you it was chilly.

Here are Kayla and Becky. I had asked for Kayla not to act annoyed at my picture taking so Becky was kind enough to step in and take on that role. What are friends for?

My daughter will not let brisk Autumn temperatures deprive her of her flip flops. She has a thing for flip flops. Oh don't worry. She doesn't play in them. She changes to her cleats that are black with pink stripes. 'Cause you gotta work the pink in somehow.

Kayla, what's with the annoyed look? I'm your mother. I birthed you. I'm really cold.

Could you please give me a genuine, sincere, appreciative smile?

Okay maybe a little over the top but we'll take it.

Oh and her coat? We thought it was a little pricey when we ordered it last year as part of her school softball uniform. But I threw it on today to step outside and it's REEEEALLLY nice and warm, and it's water repellent and it fits me.

If it didn't have her name embroidered on it I'd totally steal it.

FLU SHOT - PART II

2009-10-09T05:33:00.000-07:00

So on Wednesday I decided that Kayla and I needed a little quality girl time.

After school, we got in the van and headed out - not for shoe shopping but...wait for it...are you ready....?

FLU SHOTTING

Since I could think of nothing for which Kayla needed to be punished in the past week, I decided to spare her the Walgreens experience and instead headed for our nearest walk-in clinic.

Oh the heartache of having the best family doctor, ever, 21 miles away.

But really, it didn't matter where we were going; what mattered was the mother/daughter bonding time we were giving ourselves, right?

Pulling into the parking lot, I was somewhat encouraged because there did not appear to be many cars there. Counting the staff, I figured the cars represented maybe 10-15 people who might be in various stages of their walk-in doctoring.

My spirits sunk, however, when we walked into the waiting room and the first thing we saw was a stainless steel stand holding surgical masks, tissues and a giant bottle of hand sanitizer.

And I heard the theme from Jaws playing in my head.

There was a young mother with a little girl in line ahead of us at the sign-in desk. The not-so-subtle sign in lady said really loudly "So she's getting a flu shot?" And that poor sweet little girl turned her head and looked up at her mom like she was suffering the biggest betrayal of her life. Her lower lip began to quiver, her face scrunched up in a heartbreaking pout, and then tears began to fall silently down her precious little cheeks. I wanted to take that stainless steel rack and soundly thrash that mean lady. That poor little girl had a long wait ahead of her to dread the needle and obviously her mother had wanted to spare her that. I bet after work that lady went to that little girl's house and kicked her puppy.

Not one to be pessimistic (ahem) I thought SURELY at the start of flu season they had a system set up such that seekers of the flu shot were being called back lickity split while the miserably sick were required to wait a minimum of 90 minutes.

Because fair is fair, people.

Turns out I was wrong.

So terribly, painfully wrong. I soon realized that EVERYBODY was going to wait a minimum of 90 minutes. Escpecially scared little girls waiting to be poked with a needle.

After signing in and checking all the "No" boxes on Kayla's flu shot form we settled in for what I still hoped would be a short wait.

Kayla read her book and made small talk with a little boy who was probably in fifth or sixth grade. (That girl really has a way with kids) I sat and stared into space. I tried not to look at the little girl across the room who was curled into a ball in her chair silently crying while her mother whispered in her ear. It was hard to ignore her. I also couldn't seem to ignore all those germs that were jumping onto my body.

Because this room was full of really sick people. People slumped over in their chairs like they were made of noodles. People whose eyes were red and puffy. People with little piles of used tissues lying beside them on the chair. A lady on the cell phone telling somebody "Yeah, I'm swollen all over." My only distraction was a little boy who was about two. He would catch my eye, smile, cover his face and giggle. He was painfully cute. So cute it made my arms ache to hold him in my lap. But that would not have been wise.

Germs, ya know.

His cuteness was countered, though, by the little boy of about 7 who spent 20 minutes doing handstands in the middle of the waiting room floor. I kept wondering why somebody, you know, like a parent of his, didn't roll up a magazine and pop him on the back of his baggy little jeans after he was told to stop and he didn't. But I'm mean like that.

So we waited about 25 minutes before I decided we had picked up all the germs we could - there were no more germs to be found here - and I politely told the receptionist to take our name out of the line up because we decided not to wait.

We high tailed it back to the van where I made Kayla bathe in hand sanitizer. There was so much hand sanitizer floating through our van, the poor girl had to open her window to breathe lest it bring on an asthma attack. "Geeesh, Mom!"

Then we stopped by the marine office where I had hoped to catch my son's recruiter because I had a question. But we had no luck there, so we walked next door to the new Bible book store and bought my friend and her husband some presents (because he is fighting cancer - please pray for them) and ourselves some CD's and books.

We arrived home just in time for Kayla to leave with a friend to go eat Chinese food for dinner, while I made a note to call our doctor's office to let them know we'd be stopping in for a flu shot.

All in all, I'd say this girls day out ranks right up there with our last trip to the dentist. Plus, I'm still in the running for mother of the year.

HOMECOMING

2009-10-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

After the float had been floated, the concessions had been concessioned, and the game and been won, it was time to put all of our efforts into the dance the following evening.

So Saturday evening, my heart got all dressed up and took itself to the festivities.
Separately of course. This was as close as the two W offspring were going to get to spending their evening together. You know, I think I'm objective when I say this; I haven't done a lot of remarkable things in my life but I sure did make me some pretty babies.

The W girls:

Kayla's dress came from London and I think she did a wonderful job choosing her hair-do to go with it. It was a side pony tail with lots of curls and she put a silk flower in it. Nice and simple.

Cousin Maddy spent the weekend with us and went to the dance with Kayla and her friends. Next week, Kayla is going to Maddy's dance. These girls obviously hate each other. See how unhappy they look. They are miserable like that every time they get together.

Since the weather was so terrible, we decided to turn the W house into a clown car and see just how many sophomores (and a couple freshmen I think) we could fit into our family room for photos.

FOURTEEN!! With room for a few more. It was a very sparkly gathering.

Me and my boy:

Notice his huge smile. No really, that's a huge smile for Blake. But I know he loves is mama.

After the sophomores left for dinner we rotated the seniors in. Blake and his friend Connor brought their dates to the house for some quick photos. Connor's Marine ship date is June 21, while Blake's is May 24. The really neat thing about these two big tough future marines - one swimmer and one wrestler.....

...is that they went to the dance wearing pink and purple.

Because that's what their dates told them to wear and they are no dummies.

Blake and his sweet date Mackenzie.

Well, there they are again in front of the fireplace.

Beauties and the Beasts: Connor and Jenna; Blake and Mackenzie.

I have a couple more great photos to post but I have to first steal them from a couple of different facebook pages.

And I need Kayla to help me do that.

*Legal note: There is a slight possibility that this post may disappear within 24-48 hours because I have absolutely NO permission from the parents of any of the above pictured minors to post their photos on this blog. And since I have seven (yes, SEVEN!!!) followers and a few closet readers (those who don't want to admit they read it) this could turn into quite an ugly legal battle. If I do happen to receive a cease and desist order, I'm going straight to Nancy Grace so you'll just have to tune in to see what happens.

RESCUE

2009-10-01T08:09:00.000-07:00

Edited to add: Well, I've been called out on a terrible mistake in this post. Apparently, today was simply WACKY TACKY day at school - not WACKY TACKY SUPER HERO DAY. It was my daughter's idea to put on a cape and become a super hero for the day. The good news is, she rescued my weary heart. The bad news is that my daughter actually has a pink super hero cape in her wardrobe. I've yet to decide if I should worry about just how far her love of accessorizing has taken her.

It's been a bad ten days here at the House of W.

Because of things that are too private for this blog, there are some heavy hearts around here.

But life goes on and we strive to enjoy the here and now while picking up the pieces from "before" and looking forward to the peace that comes with "after."

And since this is homecoming week for us, there are many distractions like float building and dance preparations.

Since every day this week has had a theme at school, and since today was WACKY TACKY SUPER HERO day, this super hero swooped in this morning and picked my heart up off the floor:

Seriously, wouldn't your heart feel just a little lighter if YOU had given birth to this super hero?

And while we're on the subject, what shall we call her?

THE PAY AND BEG POLICY....MANIPULATION AT ITS BEST

2009-09-28T11:30:00.000-07:00

So, I am granting myself a reprieve from the "no more non-vacation posts" decree.

Because it's homecoming week, people!!

And if anybody out there can think of something that is more blog worthy than homecoming at a small rural school, I'd like to know what it is.

Anybody?

Yeah, I though so.

Homecoming week for me, since I am an O.M. (Officer Mom) means many things - many exciting and wonderful things that I never dreamed I'd be lucky enough to experience.

LIKE BUILDING ANOTHER FLOAT. woot! woot!

In order to build a float, you first have to load a couple of teenage girls into your van and traipse through Menard's looking for just the right materials to make your float - materials that can be converted into something that conveys the theme of the parade. The theme is ROMAN. This trip to Menard's will involve speaking to many different staff members who will look at you as though you've grown a second head when you say "oh, we're going to use it on a float..." about all the different items you need to purchase.

My idea was to pull an empty flatbed behind our Jeep with a banner that says "Rome Wasn't Built in a Day." But that suggestion didn't go over well.

Unfortunately, I can't tell you our REAL float idea now because there might be moles from the other classes reading this blog and we don't want any of our FANTASTIC ideas being leaked to the wrong people. There is, after all, absolutely nothing at stake here - no prize money, no blue ribbon - so we need to be very careful.

Anyway, back at Menard's you and another O.M. have to get all those materials into your van and/or Tahoe only to find out the ply wood won't fit, causing you to have to make arrangements for somebody with a pickup to come back and get that later. Which will turn into a whole new adventure....

Then you meet at the appointed garage and start assigning tasks to the pack (pack? herd? gaggle?) of sophomores assembled there so we can get this float going. You also realize that JUST ACROSS THE STREET the freshman class will be building their float and you feel a little ashamed as you try to think of ways to send your sophomores over to spy on them to see what they are building. Maybe they could say they lost their frisbee?

This is all even more exciting if it occurs on a day that you are suffering a knock-you-off-your-feet migraine and your mail order prescription company has once again failed to deliver your medication.

So then.

Letters are traced. Items are painted. The school mascot is reproduced. The float is taking shape.

All the kids are working well and you are able to stand back and decide that it is not necessary to panic after all. This will get done.

And then you are hit with the realization that last year you GROSSLY underestimated how much candy would be needed to keep all the little parade watchers happy and - OH MY GOSH!!- where will all the candy come from? Because the officer parents simply can't donate everything!! Suddenly you are obsessed with candy.

Must. Find. Candy. Preferably one full ton.

This is where the manipulation comes in.

Since you need to buy flowers for the upcoming dance anyway, you go into the local balloon/flower/candy shop and order two corsages and one boutonniere (don't ask), and after you hand over waaaaay too much money, you casually say something like "Would you be interested in donating some candy for the parade so that our kids can throw it from their float?" And when the nice lady asks how much, you say "Whatever you are willing to give would be greatly appreciated."

And then you walk out with two pounds of Bit-o-Honey.

Then you go back to Menard's where you, just a few days prior, had spent waaaaay too much money on float supplies and ask the same question, only to be told that those requests have to go through their home office, which takes about two weeks. And you're really disappointed because, really, what's a giant bag of tootsie rolls to these people when you just put $170.00 on your credit card (for which you'll be reimbursed) to purchase supplies from their store?

But you refuse to be bitter so you thank them nicely and head to Pizza Hut where you are hoping to snag some pizza boxes.

Once again you decide to follow your "pay first, then beg" policy. So you order a salad bar to go and then casually ask how much they would be willing to sell their pizza boxes for, unless, you know, they'd be willing to DONATE them. Then you say the magic words..."The kids are going to use them on their homecoming float."

And the nice young man says he thinks he can give them to you but let him check with his general manager, as he pulls out his cell phone and - GREAT NEWS - the GM says you can have the boxes if you promise to come in and eat pizza sometime soon.

Ummm....pizza? Wow, what a sacrifice. So you reluctantly agree to come in for a pizza sometime soon (what's next - force feeding me chocolate?) and skip merrily to your van wondering how you can manipulate your husband into donating a new sofa to your living room.

SO, I LIED....

2009-09-25T15:19:00.000-07:00

Okay, so this has nothing to do with our vacation but school pictures came in today so what's a mom to do? Simply not post them on the blog?

I think not.

Sweet Kayla Beth - Sophomore class vice president, softball fanatic, scholastic bowl member, extreme social butterfly. My girl.

Big Man on Campus Blake. Senior, wrestler, future marine. Sufferer of severe senioritis. Mother thrilled he's actually smiling - almost. Shirt? Also worn in sophomore photo AND junior photo.

Like I said: JUST. LIKE. HIS. FATHER. My boy.

Blake's formal senior portraits are scheduled for October and we are going to have some family pictures taken at that time too.

Blake is absolutely thrilled, mainly because I'm picking out his outfit for those.