MORE GROWING PAINS

Tonight I have an appointment with a Marine recruiter.

I had read that they were having trouble meeting their quota of overweight middle aged housewives so, for love of country, I decided to enlist.

I'm going to paint my helmet mauve.

Actually, Blake has been meeting with this recruiter for quite some time so Paul and I told Blake that we wanted to meet with him ourselves before we gave our final okay on Blake's plan to enlist.

I asked Blake if Sergeant Gibson has seen combat. Has he been deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan?

He said yes, yes he had.

And I said that was good because then he might be somewhat prepared for me. My goal is to make the recruiter cry.

Oh! I kid.

My friend told me to act real crazy while he's here, then they won't want Blake. I said that wouldn't work because they would feel the need to rescue him. You know, that "never leave a man behind" business.

Blah, blah, blah.

So I decided I'm going to tease my hair real big and put on lots of black eyeliner. Then I'm going to greet him at the door in my Daisy Dukes and clear stiletto heels, smacking my chewing gum, while waving a cigarette around as I talked.

Hi. I'm Bubbles. I can't stay long because I'm working a double shift at the biker bar tonight. But, my oh my, aren't you a big strapping young man. *wink, wink*

Oh, stop. That's not true either.

I did, however, warn Blake that I probably would embarrass him because I intend to serve up a plate of homemade cookies and a pitcher of lemonade. Because that's the kind of thing we do in this house when we have a guest (even if that guest IS trying to steal my baby boy away from me.)

You wouldn't believe how that kind of thing embarrasses a teenage boy. You know - hospitality.

But he said that would be fine and he wouldn't be embarrassed. He said he already "warned" Sergeant Gibson that his mom could easily be the president of Mothers of America (whatever that means) which I think was a reference to the fact that Blake thinks I've approached this parenting job with a, well, um...ferocity? But that's okay. I think it's okay for a Marine to be a little bit afraid of me.

Moms? Can I get an Amen on that?

So I need to get busy jotting down my questions for Sergeant Gibson.

My first one? "Will the United States Marine Corps provide a cot for ME or should I bring my own sleeping bag?" Oh. and "Should I bring a lawn chair to sit in while I watch Blake in PT?" And finally, "Do they have a special menu for moms?"

See, Blake has nothing to worry about tonight.

KEEPING UP WITH THE JONES'

The W house finally got a satellite dish and somebody's not too happy about her role in making sure we have 600 channels.....







Look, Cookie, I'm sorry you're humiliated. But if you'd stop eating away the flesh on your legs we wouldn't have to do this. Maybe that Benadryl the vet suggested will help.

Until then please make sure your head is always facing southeast.

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

This is my daughter.


Isn't she lovely? When she was a baby, she looked like me. Now, though, she looks like her dad and his sister. But see that dimple? It's just like mine. So, anyway, in about 13 months, she will get to start dating and, like all proud mamas, I imagine we'll have a few boys knocking at our door wanting to spend time with her. And that's fine with me.


Because this is what will be waiting for them once that door is opened:






Welcome to the gun show fellas.


Sorry Kayla.

LIFE IS GOOD

One of my favorite books is O Rugged Land of Gold by Martha Martin.

It is the true story of a woman who, in the early 1950's, is stranded on an Alaskan island for an entire winter.

She is stranded alone, in a little cabin, because her husband left on a fishing trip and a severe storm set in, making it impossible for him to return for her.

She actually gave birth on the island.

Alone.

With no epidural.

Without her husband. She couldn't squeeze his hand. She couldn't threaten him with things like "You will NOT touch me again!" She didn't get to eat green jell-o after she gave birth and send the baby to the nursery for the nurses to tend to.

All of you should try to read this book. It is truly inspiring.


The reason I am thinking about this story today is that I can totally relate to this brave woman right now.

See, Blake's car wouldn't start this morning.

So he took Paul's Jeep to school and Paul took my van for the day.

I'm stranded here, people.

I'm stranded in my suburban home with central heat and air, a pantry full of food (including chocolate and coffee) one cat, and a dog who is trying her best to chew her front paws clean off.

All I have to look forward to is lunch tomorrow with my dear friend, a weekend with my sweet husband and two healthy kids, sleeping late in my clean bed Saturday morning, eating Chinese food sometime in the next few days, and attending church services on Sunday morning.

There is nothing to occupy my time except a tiny little computer, another historical novel, and a book about London which I'm supposed to be reading so we can plan our upcoming trip. I might have to do a few loads of laundry before I prepare a sparse supper of chicken casserole, green beans and Sister Schubert's rolls.

The weather is dreadful. While the wind is quite chilly, the sun is shining and a few daffodils have bloomed in the front flower bed. Every now and then I watch the Canadian geese fly over our house. And, lately, I've been visited by a few pairs of mallards who have taken to waddling through the yard, perhaps looking for a suitable nest.

Conditions here are truly harsh.

Yeah, I can relate.

WEARY

I have just returned from a visitation.

To protect the privacy of the grieving family, I will not write my feelings tonight. Of course, I am too tired to write anything but this one thought anyway:

With every ounce of my being, I wish there would never again be the need for such a tiny casket.

Sadly, I do not believe my wish will come true.

THE DING DONG DITCH...

But first, a Facebook thingee update.

We had dinner with my BFF and her husband last night. She once again pointed out to me that I need a Facebook account. And I got all excited and said "OH! I've been thinking. I'll open a facebook account, if YOU will open a Google account so you can comment on my blog 'cause your comments will be so funny."

And she was all like "I don't know how to comment" and I was all like "Well I don't know how to do Facebook." And she was all like "Okay, I'll do it." And I was all like "YAY!"

Notice how I was unwilling to do something for my friend without first being assured that she would do something for me in return.

Yeah, I'm like that - I try to never, never, never, never give anything without getting something in return. That's my motto "NEVER GIVE WITHOUT GETTIN'."

In other news....

We were Ding Dong Ditched on Thursday night.

Now I can picture my BFF holding up two fingers to tell me this will be the second time she's heard that story*

So anyway. We got Ding Dong Ditched on Thursday night. Ding Dong Ditching is when a hooligan rings your doorbell late at night and then runs away.

I know.

It's great fun to be the Ding Dong Ditchee.

So this happened at about 11:45 Thursday night. Now, since we are very lax parents who have no values at all, we had given Blake permission to go to a midnight movie; he had left 30 minutes before our little wake-up call. So when somebody started pounding on our door and the dog started barking her "Somebody's on the porch!" bark, my heart squeezed into a tiny little ball because I was afraid it was a police officer telling me there had been an accident.

Of course when we got downstairs, there was nobody at the door. Paul went outside to make sure the mustang and Cody's truck were locked. Well the truck wasn't locked, so Paul locked it, prompting Cody to have to wake his dad in the middle of the night, when they returned from the movie, to come unlock the truck because he had left the keys in it. Paul had checked to see if the keys were in it but couldn't find them. That's probably because they were IN THE IGNITION!! And Paul didn't think to look there. So last night, I couldn't help but ask Cody if it wouldn't be easier for him to put a big ole sign on his truck that says "STEAL ME."

No, my kids aren't embarrassed by my sarcasm to their friends. They are used to it. Besides it builds character.

Plus we have good snacks, so the kids just can't stay away.

Anyway, while Paul was out locking the cars, our next door neighbor was also out looking for the Ding Dong Ditchers because they had been DDD'd too. We also noticed that our other neighbors had been out for a while, and then I got really mad, because they,our across-the-street neighbors, are a retired couple and should just be left alone. If our house is targeted because we have high school kids, then I can live with that. If some girls want to draw little hearts all over Blake's car windows in the middle of the night (hypothetically of course) or if the adolescent boys who live a block over want to play a joke on us because Kayla lives here I can live with that. I much prefer it be on a Summer night or at the very least a weekend, however. The fact that this was a Thursday night and they totally ruined my sleep PLUS the fact that they Ding Dong Ditched a retired couple who have totally done their time in Teenage-dom REALLY bothers me.

Please understand me, people. I've VERY open minded about Ding Dong Ditching. Let's face it there are much worse things a couple of hooligans...I mean teenagers, could be doing. But now I've got my dander up because these kids broke the rules of Ding Dong Ditching Etiquette.

So, here's my plan. I'm going to set a booby trap (heh! I said booby) and string some fishing line across the steps of our porch. That way when they fall and bloody their nose on my porch, they will be down long enough for us to fling open the door and say "AHA!" and scare them half to death. Then I will tell them to leave retired people alone. And then I will hand them a copy of DING DONG DITCHING ETIQUETTE - WHAT EVERY HOOLIGAN SHOULD KNOW.
Then I'm going to fall to my knees and pray that I don't forget about the fishing line and trip on my own steps and break a hip.

I know it sounds harsh, but you DON'T EVEN WANT TO KNOW what Blake's suggestion was.
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*When I was in college I had a professor who had suffered from "inoperable" brain cancer and was told she would not survive. She won the battle against cancer and returned to the classroom. On our first day of class she shared her story and told us she still struggled with memory, so if she started covering a topic we had talked about the day before, we were to hold up two fingers to indicate "second time," and then she'd find her starting point again. We use the two finger signal here at the W house (which is A LOT BETTER than that one finger signal some people use). So I told that story last night.

Funny, later in the evening I started telling a story about my brother and my BFF held up not two fingers, but SEVEN!!!

PRAYERS...

I ask for your prayers.

A baby has died at the hands of his father.

This precious baby's mother has had a special place in our family for years. She has a special place in the hearts of our children; she helped shape them.

I believe in a sovereign God. I believe in a God who holds us in the palm of His hand each second of each day. And yet, may He forgive me, I don't know how this family is supposed to pull themselves up out of the pit of grief into which they've just been thrown. I don't know how a family is supposed to fight a two front battle against grief and rage. How does one grieve the loss of a baby while digging into the depths of their souls to find forgiveness?

Is the human heart really made to withstand such a brutal attack?

I AM NEARLY WITHOUT WORDS...

Since this blog is meant as a record for my family - for my children - I have to record this.

We just returned from Blake's end of season wrestling banquet. It was actually a winter sports banquet so it included basketball, wrestling, cheer leading and poms.

Since we co-op with another school for wrestling, we were one of four families in attendance whose child does not attend this school. The building is a second home to Blake but we obviously don't know all the families like we would if it were a banquet being held at our own high school.

The banquet started with a nice meal and all the athletes together in the cafeteria. Each athlete was introduced and then the teams were separated into different rooms for their own awards.

The wrestling coach introduced each wrestler. Upon calling Blake's name, he called him his "Go-To" wrestler. Blake often ended up wrestling opponents he was not scheduled to wrestle because they had to move people around in weight classes (and Blake would have to wrestle UP) at the last minute or a senior would choose not to take on an opponent that was too tough for him (really!) Blake never said no. He never ran from a challenge. The coach pointed out that Blake would have had more wins to his name had he played it safe, but for the sake of the team he always took on the challenge of wrestling somebody bigger than he was. He always stepped up. The coach made sure to tell Blake tonight that his frustration at wrestling above his weight class, wrestling more experienced athletes who were often state qualifiers, and having to change his plan of attack at the last minute, were all indeed sacrifices that helped the team.

That alone was enough to make this mama proud.

Then the four main awards were given out.

Most improved wrestler went to a freshman from our school.
Most take downs went to Cody, Blake's best friend - who also goes to our school.
Best wrestler (Most Wins) went to a senior who has an astounding record.

The Coach's Award, which is voted on by the coaching staff alone, went to our son.

The award is named after a wrestler who, last year, sacrificed his spot in the state tournament to another wrestler due to a mistake made by the coach.

The plaque reads:
The Nikko Lang Award.
Awarded to Blake W
This award is based on character, sportsmanship,
leadership, unselfish acts and hard work.
Thank you for being an example to others - 2009.

I audibly gasped when they read his name. Not because I was surprised but because I was so doggone proud. Blake is lucky I did not turn into a puddle of goo right there in the cafeteria.

This is what it's all about, people. This is when you see the sleepless nights and the utter exhaustion pay off. When you see your child recognized with a plaque that includes the words Character, sportsmanship, leadership, unselfish and hard work; when you see your child being called an example to others...well, then at least for a while, you can lay your head on your pillow and rest your weary soul.

HER MOTHER IS POSSESSED BY A DEMON...

A large herd of pigs was feeding on the nearby hillside. The demons begged Jesus, "Send us among the pigs; allow us to go into them." He gave them permission, and the evil spirits came out and went into the pigs. The herd, about two thousand in number, rushed down the steep bank into the lake and were drowned. Mark 5:11-13
********************************************************************************

Kayla stayed home today because she has a headache.

Because I had already planned a trip to the grocery store for this morning, I decided, while I was there, to once again use my vast pharmaceutical and medical knowledge and pick up a couple of things to help her feel better.

A half gallon of vanilla ice cream and the latest issue of Teen Vogue.

On my way home from the grocery store I realized I could also pick up an early lunch for us. So I steered the van into the healing glow of the Golden Arches.

Because we all know there is nothing healthier for our children than an order of Chicken McNuggets.

Along with the nuggets for Kayla, I had every intention of ordering a Southwest salad with grilled chicken for myself. Have you tried it? It's really good - and so tasty you don't even need dressing.

So I ordered a six piece McNugget with sweet and sour sauce...

And then I heard a voice say "and one Big Mac, please."

Wait. What?

I looked all around my van to see who was leaning over my shoulder to hi-jack my healthy order; but found nobody.

Clearly I have become possessed by a fast food demon and my only recourse is to throw myself down a steep bank and into one of the many large lakes found in Central Illinois.

WHO'S THE LUCKY GIRL...?

In May Paul and I will celebrate our 22nd wedding anniversary.

Now, I am not the kind of wife that expects all sorts of wining and dining on our anniversary. I don't expect an expensive vacation or an elaborate gift. I truly love and appreciate simple celebrations, living on the belief that we try to celebrate our marriage every day of the year.

This year, though, we are pulling out all the stops and are in fact leaving town for our anniversary.

We're going back to our little hometown to attend Paul's 25th class reunion.

I know.

How lucky can a girl get?

The problem lies in a statement my husband, by his own admission, made to his running buddies. Something like: "Yeah, Heidi's agreed to let my class reunion serve as our anniversary celebration."

No no no no no no no.

Heidi did not say that.

What Heidi said was that she didn't mind going to Paul's class reunion on our anniversary. I guess I just went on the assumption that some sort of simple anniversary celebration would take place on another weekend. "Assumption" is the key word, I guess.

Gentlemen, what we have here is a failure to communicate. *name that movie*

I hate to be a snob but I just can't get excited about spending my anniversary eating dinner at the local KC hall. Not that there's anything wrong with the KC hall....

To sweeten the deal Paul has offered to get us a hotel room for the night in our little hometown - our hometown with a population of 6,000. That way we can socialize and dance the night away at the KC hall without worrying about the long drive home, PLUS take in all the local culture the next day. This added bonus led to me doing a little bunny hop and clapping my hands wildly: "lucky me, lucky me, lucky me!"

The bright spot in all of this? I'm thinking that new patio furniture I've been wanting will be making it's way to our house right about the time May 23rd rolls around.

I'm just sayin'.

ON DATING...

Every now and then I have to remind Blake that his sister already has two parents and he is not one of them.

Blake, you are not the third parent around here.

This usually occurs when the subject of dating comes up for his little sister.

He has his own very clear ideas on WHEN she should be allowed to date and WHOM she should be allowed to date. The interesting thing is that these ideas keep changing.

When Kayla started high school he had a talk with us to make sure that we were indeed smart enough to forbid Kayla from dating a junior or a senior. In fact, he added, there is no reason for her to date a sophomore or anybody that can drive since she isn't allowed to car date. IS SHE?

Then he pointed out that if she were to be seen hanging out with a junior or a senior, said junior or senior boy would find himself in quite a jam because since Bronson and Andrew (our school's top wrestlers) have graduated he's pretty sure he could take anybody in our school and these upper class men would be sorry they looked at his sister.

Upon hearing this, I pictured myself jumping up and down and pumping the air with my fist - perhaps offering him money. I could totally handle having him suspended from school if it was to protect his sister's honor. But I simply said something along the lines of "Well, that's for your dad and me to handle...."

It appears, though, that Kayla and Blake have dating discussions quite often on the way to school. And although Kayla won't reveal all of their conversations (what happens in the Jeep stays in the Jeep) she has indicated that her big brother keeps changing his dating rules on her.

First the rules went something like this:

No dating juniors or seniors.
No dating any boys from another school.
No dating any boy who already had his license.

Then he added:
No dating any boy who was NOT a wrestler.

Now, evidently Blake has amended his dating rules again:

No dating wrestlers because they are too dumb - his words not mine. When Kayla pointed out that he was a wrestler. He simply said "I know."
No dating anybody that does not attend our church.
No dating ANYBODY until Blake is at least twenty and is a trained marine or soldier and highly skilled in numerous forms of combat. In other words, until Blake is able to kill somebody without leaving a mark.

Since this final list of rules sounds just about right to me, I will be having them notarized tomorrow. Then we three parents can sign off on it.

Sorry, Kayla.

THE SOUTH BEACH DIET DROPOUT

About four weeks ago, I broke up with South Beach.

I had been with him for 3 weeks before I had to give him the "it's not you; it's me" speech. Except it was him.

Even though I lost 7 pounds in two weeks, it just didn't feel right for me. And it's not because I couldn't eat chocolate. It's because I couldn't eat a banana.

And the ban on some of the purest and simplest food seemed somehow wrong to me.

And to my colon; but we won't talk about that.

Anyway.

Paul and I decided to go on this South Beach diet together with the clear agreement that we would not police each other. We would never say "you're not supposed to have that," or question each other's choices.

We ended up deciding at the same time that it was not a diet for us - without input from each other.

Here's the thing about Paul.

He makes a lousy diet partner.

He simply does not whine enough.

He never once banged his head on the kitchen counter and whined "I miiiiiiiisss chocolate-uh."
He never once gazed wistfully into space and sighed "if only I was built like my sister."
He never once opened up about being an emotional eater or tried to explore WHY he reached for a cookie when he was sad. He just wouldn't share.
He never once looked at the calendar and tried to decide the date by which he'd once again be able to tuck in his shirt.

He simply ate his cheese sticks and pecans and went on about his day.

He obviously doesn't get this dieting thing.

Now Kayla wants to do a modified carb diet. There is no way on God's green earth that she needs it but she has assured me she just wants to feel a little better and get a little leaner for softball. After giving it much thought for several days, I've decided that her mindset is healthy and that I'd let her do this, and I'll do it with her if she wants. We'll simply limit french fries, baked potatoes, white bread and candy, but we will NOT ban fruit from our diets.

But let me make myself clear on this. If she does not whine the entire time I'm out of there.

IT'S JUST NOT MEANT TO BE

Big news day - this is my second post in 8 hours...


Since I know all of you have been checking in several times a day regarding my cardigan crisis; here's an update.

My new Raspberry Rose cardigan arrived today.

It's Lime Sorbet.

NNNNNNAAAAAAYYYYGGGGH!

There must be some glitch in the JC Penney computer that sends "green" when we punch "pink." Now it falls to me to contact them and let them know they have a problem with their computer system.

Because if I don't there will be millions of women all over the world wearing Lime Sorbet when they really wanted to wear Raspberry Rose. And we simply cannot have that.

*sigh* It is so hard to be me.

ONE LINERS

Kayla informed me today that she was going to set me up on Facebook.

I didn't ask her to do this, but evidently she takes after her mother and decided I was going to have a Facebook account and I WAS GOING TO LIKE IT.

So I had to inform her that I realized why Facebook made me nervous. It's because it's full of one sentence tidbits.

Um...I'm not a one sentence kind of girl.

I cannot imagine how enormous the pressure might be to keep my comments brief on fellow Facebookers' walls. I would quickly be un-friended as people realized I just talked too much.

That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

In other news....

I got a call yesterday from one of the stores at the mall - a store I shop at often. They were once again calling all their best customers to let us know about a one day sale on Saturday. If we tell them we got the call we get the discount.

Let me insert here that I have not gone to one of their sales in a long time because I'm trying to save money.

And I can't decide if I will go to the sale on Saturday. On one hand, I would love to try their new Tummy Slimmer trousers and receive ten dollars off each pair.

On the other hand I don't know if I should be offended that they had my name on a list of CUSTOMERS WHO NEED TUMMY SLIMMERS.

Perhaps they could have said "Receive ten dollars off each pair of our new trousers. Oh, and by the way, they are Tummy Slimmers. Not that YOU need Tummy Slimmers but why not get the discount anyway. Even though you totally don't need them - Tummy Slimmers that is."

Instead they got all sing-songy and enthusiastic - "Come try our new Tummy Slimmers!! They will change your life!" Not really on that last part...

Tummy Slimmers, Tummy Slimmers, Tummy Slimmers.

Plus. Might they be setting their customers up for disappointment? I mean what if we go into the dressing room expecting to look all flat and thin and tummy slimmed and we don't? Why not just let us put on the trousers and be pleasantly surprised that we look so good? How nice would it be to put on a new pair of trousers and be able to say "Huh. That half pound of chocolate I ate at the retreat doesn't show at all. In fact it made me lose weight."

I think that would be more fun.

I will probably go check them out. After all, I AM a favorite customer who needs her tummy slimmed. Plus I might find a pair that looks good with my new Raspberry Rose cardigan. Or Lime Sorbet. Or Raspberry Rose. Or Lime Sorbet.

COLOR ME CRAZY

Before she left for school today, Kayla asked if I could make it to the store today to buy some crayons - lots of crayons, like 64. I had to smile to myself because I thought I was beyond the new crayon stage; but she needs them to do a school project. She reminded me that Crayola would be best.

Um...she didn't have to tell me that.

Kelly? If you are reading this, you can stop because you've heard the story coming up.

So.

When the freshman class officers were working on their fundraisers earlier in the year, Kayla offered to do the posters for them. Although we had plenty of markers in the house, we didn't have any fat markers.

Chris? If YOU are reading this, I promise to someday post about my love of markers. Remember, what happens at the retreat stays at the retreat...Confession coming soon.

Moving on.

Since Paul was on his typical Sunday errand to buy the paper on the day Kayla started the posters, I called him and said "Could you please run into Walgreens and buy two packs of CRAYOLA MARKERS. We really need Crayola because they are the best."

And he said sure.

He came home with four packs of markers from the Dollar Tree - not Crayola.

Fast forward about two weeks.

Kayla was working on a poster for their fundraiser in which they were holding a raffle for a big Valentine gift basket and I decided to help.

We needed lots of pink and red.

I grabbed a deluxe Dollar Tree red marker and started making letters.

They looked orange.

So I grabbed a deluxe Dollar Tree black marker to outline it.

It looked green.

Then Mommy lost her mind.

I went straight to the basement where Paul was asleep on the couch. Nobody slights me when it comes to markers.

I woke him up so that he could watch my head spin on my shoulders.

Do you remember when I asked you to bring home those markers a couple of weeks ago? Remember how I clearly said CRAYOLA MARKERS? You didn't buy crayola. MY RED AND BLACK LETTERS LOOK ORANGE AND GREEN. Orange and green are not Valentine colors. I asked for Crayola markers.

CRAAAAAY - OOOOOO - LLLLAAAAA MMMMMAAAAAAARRRKERS.

Why must we always get the cheap stuff. I don't mind the cheap stuff for some things, but now our Valentine poster is orange and green.

CRAAAAAY - OOOOOO - LLLLAAAAAA MMMMMAAAARRRKERS.

I ASKED FOR CRAYOLA MARKERS!!!!!! You said you'd bring Crayola. THESE. ARE. NOT . CRAYOLA.

And I stomped away in a self righteous snit.

Because in twenty two years of marriage I've learned it is good to be calm and rational when really important things come up. You know - present your side of things with peace and love.

I do think, though, that as I walked up the stairs I heard Paul asking God to send a meteor to land on him.

Go figure.

Since the Freshman class earned over seven hundred dollars on the Valentine basket, I learned something very important.

You don't really need lots of pink and red for Valentine's day.

Orange and green will do just fine.

SOME PEOPLE SHOULDN'T DO THE MAIL ORDER THING...

...and evidently I'm one of them.

I just want a pink sweater, people.

Or rather a Raspberry Rose cardigan and shell.

I can't wear most shades of pink, so when I saw this Raspberry Rose sweater set in the JC Penney catalog I said to myself "...self, you could wear that."

And I ordered it.

I was hoping it would come in time to take to the Ladies' retreat but, true to my prediction, it came 4o minutes after I left.

I was so excited to open the package when I was done retreating, bleary eyed and bloated on chocolate.

I slit open the package and was thrilled with the color when I saw the Raspberry Rose shell.

But not so much when I saw the Lime Sorbet cardigan.

NNNAAAAAYGGGGH!!!

So I immediately went to my sweet little computerling, Chip, and pulled up my order confirmation. Sure enough, it had been confirmated that I was getting a Raspberry Rose cardigan and a Raspberry Rose shell.

Who would do that? Who would pack a lime green cardigan with a raspberry shell? Does JC Penney hire color blind packers? Because who would see these two colors together and NOT think "Oh, I better check to see if this customer really wants to look like an Easter Egg."

Because I don't. Not until March.

Now, since I had decided to wear my Raspberry Rose twin set to the Valentine banquet next weekend, I became a woman possessed about getting this mistake taken care of. So I went to our catalog department yesterday and let the lady help me get an even exchange done and a new Raspberry Rose cardigan ordered. I actually got the shipment confirmation today.

They are sending me another Lime Sorbet cardigan.

ANOTHER LIME SORBET CARDIGAN!!

The Lime Sorbet Cardigan that will not die.

So I called the JC Penney Catalog Color Crisis Hot Line and said "...somebody help me!"

I spoke to two very nice women who each said "Sure enough, it seems you're getting another green cardigan."

Nice.

My only hope is that somehow the Raspberry Rose and the Lime Sorbet color codes are reversed in their system and that when you type in one you get the other.

Later, I'm going to schlep back over to the mall and ask if they can confirmate for me that they did indeed order me a Raspberry Rose cardigan. And then I'll await the arrival of the UPS man with great dread to see what color I'm actually getting. It will be like opening a grab bag gift - and we all know how fun that is.

I really wanted to wear Raspberry Rose to the Valentine banquet. If it doesn't come I'll have to wear....sigh....red.

VOICES

I couldn't help but think all weekend, as we would worship in song, that surely those who could hear us outside must be mistaking this sound as a chorus of angels.

When your worship experience typically consists of praise songs that are a beautiful blend of His sons AND daughters; there is something sweetly refreshing about hearing only the voices of your sisters.

This is not to say that the voices of our brothers do anything but enrich our worship but sometimes when something is rare to us; it just becomes more beautiful.

The voices of your sisters.

The voices of the women of Christ.

The voices of the weaker sex.

These are the voices who are teachers, nurses, secretaries, police officers, occupational therapists, child care workers, mothers, wives, sisters, grandmothers. They are the voices that can do anything.

These are the voices that have brought forth life. These are the voices that have traveled the world to give life to a child. Or two. These are the voices that give hope to those who had none. These are the voices that have buried their own parents. These are the voices that soothe sick children and piece together broken hearts. These are the voices that carry on when their own hearts are breaking. These are the voices that teach children, any children, about the Love of God. These are the voices that clean up the messes of life. These are the voices that will sing like an angel during praise but roar like a lion to protect their loved ones. These are the voices that shake when we share are deepest fears or our greatest joy. These are the voices that are choked with sobs as we feel our sister's heartbreak. These are the voices that are broken with laughter as we create memories.

These are the voices that are not as deep as the ocean; but are as clear and sweet as the cloudless sky. They are a cold drink of water for a parched soul. They are the dessert of life.

These are the voices that, individually, will garner little attention, but together were able to bend the ear of God.

And I know, for a couple of days, He was leaning just a little bit closer to listen.

SHOULD HE STAY OR SHOULD HE GO...?

I'm off in a couple of hours to our church's ladies retreat.

Two reasons to pray for me:

1. I am speaking tonight. NNNAAAAYYYGGHH!
2. I will most likely be donning a bathing suit to enjoy the indoor water park. Enough said.

I can't decide if I should take my new little baby computerling with me. By the way, we've decided to call him Chip. Should he come along with mama so I can maybe do some live blogging or should he stay home and rest?

Decisions, decisions...

Paul got home from a business trip last night and, since we believe in rotating parents in and out to prevent burnout, I'm leaving today. Actually, if our kids were younger, I would not be going on my little getaway, because I wouldn't want to leave after he had been gone most of the week - you know - continuity and all. But since neither of our kids is actually home much on the weekends -except to sleep - I doubt our back to back absences will damage their innocent little psyches.

In fact I won't be a bit surprised if I come home on Sunday evening and they say "Oh, you've been gone, mom?"

I have left Paul with a couple of tasks to complete while I'm gone:
1. Clean out the refrigerator and find out what that smell is. I think it's some fresh pineapple that got spilled in the back.
2. Remind Kayla and Blake to clean the bathrooms.

I wonder which job he'll find more difficult....

BECAUSE SHE'S SO HELPFUL...

Tuesday night I made jambalaya for supper.

Poor Kayla had been asking for jambalaya for four weeks.

Please mother, when will we have food again? Any food will do, but Jambalaya would taste so good and fill this hollow starving pit in my stomach.

Soon, dear child. We will have food soon, as soon as I get off my duff and get to the store....I am weary sweet daughter - weary from chopping wood and plucking chickens.

Each time I'd go to the store, she'd come home from school and say "did you get jambalaya stuff?"

And I'd slap my forehead and stare at my shoes in shame.

"Write it down," I finally told her as I slapped one of my trusty index cards on the counter.

So she started writing "J -U-M..."

"Um...Sweetie, that's not how you spell it."

"I'm spelling it the way it sounds"

Jumb - uh - lie - yah.

Now I would have been happy to see "jumb-uh-lie-yah," written on my little note card as a reminder for my next grocery trip. But because Kayla is in no way a slacker, she decided to place reminders all over my kitchen.

On my decorative chalk board - JUMB - UH - LIE-YAH
On the family white board - JUMB - UH - LIE - YAH
On the refrigerator, so large it took three sheets of paper - JUMB - UH - LIE - YAH

All with cute little geometic exclamation points.

Imagine the trouble I would have been in had I not bought JUMB - UH - LIE - YAH stuff at the store on my next grocery run.

So she finally got her jambalaya (in fact I bought two boxes) although, I don't think she fully understands just how difficult it is to make.

Sometimes I am just too tired to rip open that box of Zatarain's jambalaya mix and add water.

*sigh* She will not fully understand the lengths I'll go to for her happiness until she is a mother herself.

And now for your culinary pleasure, my jambalaya recipe. Please note: it is crucial to stick to the precise measurements in this recipe.

One family size box of Zatarain's jambalaya mix (with 50% more!!) prepared according to directions.
Some cooked chicken breast -chopped
Some smoked sausage - sliced into cute little circles
One bag of salad shrimp - which normally cost about $2.49 at our grocery store.
One can of cream of chicken soup - for those who are taste budically challenged and need to curb the spiciness of the jambalaya. You can also mix in sour cream, grated cheese, whatever.
Um...put it all together and serve at 4 different times while your family rotates through the kitchen.

It is of great importance to note that the jambalaya box will suggest ham, chicken, sausage, OR shrimp for this very complicated meal. But because I can never limit myself to one choice when it comes to food I put in three meats and call it Jambalaya Supreme(alaya).

Plus, it stretches it out into two or three meals and, since I worked so hard to prepare this one, I usually need a night or two off.

ON TEXTING...

When we got our kids their cell phones...um...however many years ago it was...we knew that it was going to make them extremely happy. So happy, in fact, that we feared they would like us too much.



And since it is our goal to make sure our kids never like us too much, we had to find a way to take some of the joy out of having their own cell phones.



So we had a parental sidebar and quickly discussed our options.



What to do? What to do?

I know. Let's disable their text message capabilities.

OH! Good one.



Which is how Paul came to be known by our children as the Text Nazi, a title that goes well with others he's earned since becoming a father: The Snack Nazi, The Cable Nazi and The Nazi of All Things Fun (which obviously covers everything under the son that makes him a mean dad)



Anyway, to make things even more miserable for our children after we made sure they knew they wouldn't be able to text ANYBODY, we informed them that mommy and daddy could indeed text each other.



R.H.I.P, children. Rank has its privileges.



The trouble is that I cannot manage to text anybody without sending out a bunch of gibberish (that predictive mode - what's that about?) Paul, surprisingly also had trouble texting. While trying to send me a text message one day, he accidentally told himself "I LOVE YOU," when the message bounced back to him instead of coming to my phone.



Somehow I don't think our children were quite as miserable when they saw that even though we got to text, we had know idea what we were doing. Ah, sweet revenge.



Happiness once again arrived at the W house; however, when I went to the cell phone store last Friday and unblocked the text capabilities on our kids' phones.



*cue Hallelujah Chorus now.*



Of course they have to pay for it.



Kayla had won us over with her argument that her social life was being ruined - RUINED I TELL YOU - by not having text. She had, after all, become a freak by being the only person to not be able to text.



I have to admit I see her point. It seems that once somebody had taken the time to text 3 or 4 people about the plans for the evening, they simply didn't have the energy to punch in a phone number and speak to The Textless One. It seems we have reached the point that we not only let our fingers do the walking, we now let them do the talking too.



Anyway, now that all four members of the W household have text, I decided to do an early upgrade (got the fee waived thank you very much) so that I could have a phone with a full keypad. See, I just couldn't manage typing on a telephone keypad. It's just not natural.



Now, though, since Kayla is so happy to be able to text I see my status as a Mean Mom slipping away, and I most certainly can't have that.



So, I have been sending her text messages at least 4 times a day.



I'm going to make her so sorry she has texting, I tell Paul as I start typing...



For instance I'll sit in the basement and text her: whatcha doing? And she'll answer: Getting ready hby?



Assuming Hby means "How 'bout you" I answered "Kissing your dad."



And she answered "Yuck."



And today while Paul and I were at lunch, and she was at the mall, he texted her "Stop talking to that boy." To which she replied, "I'm looking at clothes. Nice try."



The most beautiful thing about our new texting capabilities is the way it has brought our children together. I know for a fact that yesterday Blake texted Kayla and asked her "Can I have your big Valentine Cookie." To which she answered "No. You had your own."



With that kind of love going on, I'm sorry we didn't get this texting thing sooner.

AND TO YOU...

Ladies, back me up on this.

When you write a sweet little Valentine verse for your beloved, and publish it for the world to see (if you can call four readers 'the world'), shouldn't you expect a response that's a little sweeter, a little more heartfelt, than "And to you...?"

And to you?

AND. TO. YOU?


AAAANNND. TOO. YOOOOOU?

What kind of response is that to such a declaration of love?

I was expecting something like "I don't deserve you," or "The tears in my eyes prevent me from responding..." or "you are the queen of my world..."

And to you?

Who says that?

I tell you who, we all do. We say it to the Salvation Army bell ringer after he's told us Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas.
And to you, complete stranger.

I brought this up to Paul on the way to church yesterday;

Honey, about your comment.

And then I started laughing so hard I couldn't sit upright. Because he started laughing. He knew he had completely fallen off the bottom of the romance-0-meter. He knew his words were completely underwhelming.

And yet he typed them anyway.

Since my birthday is in February, I never really expect much for Valentine's day -a card is just fine.

Now, though, I'm certain it's not too late for him to find a box of chocolates.

I DIDN'T KNOW...

I didn't know I was lost until you found me.
I didn't know I was hungry until you fed my spirit.

I didn't know I was thirsty until I drank from your strength.
I didn't know I was cold until your arms warmed me.

I didn't know music until I heard your laughter.
I didn't know rest until I lay my head next to yours.

I didn't know contentment until I made a home with you.
I didn't know beauty until I watched you hold our children.

I didn't know joy until I danced with you.
I didn't know safety until I held your hand.

I didn't know freedom until you carried my burdens.
I didn't know courage until I borrowed yours.

I didn't know love until there was you.
**********************************************************************************

Happy Valentines Day, Paul.

I GOTTA HAND IT TO HIM....

We have a little bit of experience with broken hands.

About 4 years ago Blake broke a finger playing kickball in school. I think I've told you that I waited two weeks before getting it checked. Mainly because he continued to play baseball and wouldn't even take a Tylenol. Finally, though, some maternal instincts kicked in and we had a hand surgeon check it out, after a walk-in doctor said that it was broken but nothing could be done.

The hand surgeon immediately scheduled him for surgery during which he would insert two pins to put his bone back together.

I missed the mother of the year award by a mere hair that year.

The day before Blake was to return to surgery to have his pins removed, Kayla broke her thumb in a softball game.

This was an especially good day because Paul and I headed out in separate cars after her injury. While I turned right to head to the emergency room, he turned left to head to the airport so he could fly to London.

All the way to the emergency room Kayla complimented me on being such a good mother and "not letting this injury go for two weeks like you did Blake's...." I told her that there were indeed some positive things about being the youngest.

Like getting adequate medical care.

Kayla's injury was worse than Blake's but she, thankfully, did not need surgery.

As the doctor illustrated to me:

This bone is just crushed. Picture a Popsicle - the kind with two sticks that you break in half for your kids. Her bone has broken in half right down the middle just like that.

I can be showered with all the bodily fluids a kid can spew on me (from either end) but a broken bone makes me woozy.

The floor under me tilted just a little bit when I heard the good doctor's description.

Anyway, we were quite the talk of the hand surgeon's office as each of my kids came and went with a hand in a cast. I actually heard the nurses laughing at us during one visit.

That beautiful sculpture in his waiting room? We paid for that.

So all this to say that when Blake informed us last week that he actually broke the hand of a wrestling team mate during practice, I felt a strange sort of kinship with his mother. When Blake told us that Dr. Smith was his doctor, I felt even more connected. After all, we had fairly recently funded a new wing for Dr. Smith's office, so I felt confident that the poor kid was going to get adequate care.

Blake has asked that I pick up a gift card for his victim...I mean team mate. He said I could make him a card and he'd write a note.

I imagine the note will say something like "Dude, sorry I broke your hand."

I think a sentiment like that should protect us from any lawsuit.

DID I TELL YOU...?

Pussy cat, pussy cat where have you been?
I've been to London to visit the queen.

Pussy cat, pussy cat what did you there?
I frightened a little mouse under the chair.

Guess where we're going in July.
**************************************************************************************

Yeah, we are taking a family trip to London this summer. After being married to a fly away husband for 22 years, I am flying away with him. The kids too.

In the years that Paul has traveled for business he has accumulated 900,000 frequent flier miles.

NINE. HUNDRED. THOUSAND. Oh so close to that million mile mark. I personally hope we do not hit the million mile mark.

We used every last one of the remaining miles in his account to book this family trip.

We've gone on a few other trips using his miles - Boston, Florida a couple of times, San Antonio. The boys went to New York. We've given some miles to a couple of families. But this is our first really big trip.

This may be our last summer together as a family (sob) so we decided to go for it and book the flight. We are blessed in that the frequent flier miles cover our tickets. We are further blessed that we get to stay with friends part of the time and in the company flat part of the time.

We are blessed that we get to go to Normandy and see the beaches on which my grandfather landed during World War II.

We are blessed.

And yet I am still selfish enough to say I've waited a long time for this.

Paul has traveled throughout most of our marriage and there were days,when the kids were little, when I thought I wouldn't make it through the next hour, let alone to the minute he'd return for his brief stay at home before leaving for the next foreign country. Those were hard years for me raising the little ones alone most of the time.

So when Paul jokingly said I don't need a new carry-on bag or that Kayla and I need to share a suitcase, I sort of went a little crazy on him.

Just a little.

Maybe it was the time of the month. Maybe I'm still battle scarred from those difficult years. But I kind of let loose on the poor man.

"Twenty two years. TWENTY. TWO. YEARS. I have stayed home and raised your kids, kept things from falling apart around here, while you traveled - for twenty two years. I've dealt with illness, broken bones, home repairs, car repairs, problems with our parents. I've lived in fear of the phone ringing. I've watched you leave for any imaginable foreign country with 12 hours notice. I've watched our child go into surgery while you were out of the country. I've battled depression while I virtually raised two little ones alone, not always knowing when you'd come home and when you'd leave again. And now that we get to finally take an overseas family trip for which the tickets and lodging are free, you tell me I can't buy a tote bag and I need to share a suitcase with Kayla? I DO NOT THINK SO."

Something like that.

I know.

I am evil. Bloody Mary had nothing on me, I guess.

I deserve to be put in one of those torture devices I'm sure we'll see in the towers of London.

The thing is, he forgives me so easily.

I'll buy my new carry-on bag (and another bag for all of our walking trips) -once I get recommendations from my readers for the best bags EVER. And Paul won't even remember my little selfish tirade. He's like that, you know.

Like I said, I'm blessed.

LET'S TALK ABOUT ME AGAIN...

So I think there's this thing going around face book where you list 25 things about yourself.

I don't do face book because I don't really get it. But a couple of years ago I didn't get "the blog" and look at me now. By the time I get a face book account, there will be something better that bends my brain. And I will have a face book account.

Anyway.

Since I just turned 42; and since I like a challenge (not really) I'm going to list for you, my ones of readers, 42 riveting facts about myself.

Ready?

1. I know the Toll House chocolate chip cookie recipe by heart. I thought this was a requirement for womanhood but evidently it's not.
2. I'm not a big fan of ice cream. I never crave it; am rarely tempted by it.
3. I am a technological idiot.
4. I love the black and white episodes of Andy Griffith - the ones with Don Knotts. They seriously calm my soul. Don Knotts was an acting genius.
5. I love animals. All animals.
6. I have a college degree but love being a housewife.
7. I am not for one minute blind to the blessing it is for me to be a housewife - especially in these tough economic times.
8. Every night I ask God why he thought I was worthy of the man who sleeps beside me. I still don't know but I'm so glad He did.
9. Ditto with the two children He gave me.
10. Seventeen years into this parenting job, I still lose my breath when my kids laugh.
11. I would be happy if my whole closet was full of black and white - with a little brown and red.
12. I love shoes.
13. When I was in first grade I asked Santa for red shoes because I had read a book about a little girl going shopping with her mom and buying red shoes. Santa came through for me.
14. Now that I have a daughter, she always has red shoes.
15. I just burned my hand taking chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.
16. I have brick red counter tops in my kitchen. Seven years after choosing them I still don't regret it.
17. My favorite book of the Bible is James
18. I cannot tell a girl scout no at cookie time. No matter how many come to the door, I buy cookies. Especially those little Daisy Scouts. Seriously, have you seen how cute they are?
19. Ditto with boy scouts and their popcorn.
20. We have 17 boxes of girl scout cookies on the way (four courtesy of Grandma)
21. I love to rearrange furniture and even my wall decor.
22. I tend to have a sarcastic sense of humor.
23. It appears our kids have inherited my love of sarcasm. Sorry, honey.
24. My son wants to be a marine.
25. I now teeter on the fence between extreme pride and paralyzing fear.
26. My daughter wants to major in fashion merchandising and minor in business.
27. I hope to have a closet full of "KaylaBeth Originals" some day.
28. I rarely call people on the phone-only my mother to check on her. I'm not a phone person.
29. If you call me, though, I can easily talk to you for an hour or more.
30. I am terrible - TERRIBLE - at fund raising. Don't ask me to be a fund raiser for you. I'll do decorating, hospitality, or letter writing, but I am uncomfortable asking people for money.
31. I love kids of all ages - even teenagers.
32. I've never been outside of the United States - but that will change in July.
33. I'm afraid of heights.
34. I don't know if I can swim well enough to save myself.
35. But I know I can do it to save my child.
36. Pre-children, I worked in a facility for the mentally ill - 127 schizophrenics - and I loved it.
37. I got married after my sophomore year in college and was blessed to be given a job as a secretary on campus. The professors liked my work so much they asked me to put my degree on hold and work full time. I told them no and they let me stay on part time.
39. The forties aren't bad - they aren't bad at all.
40. I will be 45 when our youngest leaves home.
41. I hope to finally travel with my husband when we are empty nesters.
42. I don't do mornings well - not well at all.

THE PITTER PATTER OF LITTLE KEYS

Guess what I'm typing on...

The cutest little notebook computer EVER. The screen is about 5x7 and the keyboard is a tiny little space - will take some getting used to.

But it's mine. All mine. I will no longer have a teenager (of the male variety) standing behind me while I work on the family computer saying "how much longer?" "Will you be done by the time I'm out of the shower?" "I DO have homework."

In fact, today when said teenager wanted to sit down and try out this tiny little thing, I stood over his shoulder and said "How much longer?" "I have an assignment to do." "Will you be done when I get out of the shower." "My readers are counting on me."

Because turning 42 has made me that much more mature.

Yep. It's my birthday. And while the day looks to be a quiet, uneventful day, I love birthdays. I even love turning 42. Because if I wasn't turning 42; I'd be...well...dead. And I'm not ready to be dead yet.

The neat thing about this birthday is that I've made my kids happy TWICE already today. One, I got a new computer, giving them more time on the family keyboard. Two, I've told them that, no, I won't be offended if they don't join us for dinner tonight. Blake has a big wrestling meet tomorrow and likes to be in bed quite early. And Kayla has plans to go ice skating. I told them that we could go out as a family on Sunday and the important thing was that I got my gift...

You know. That maturity thing again.

I must say this little baby computer (computerette? computerling?) is quite a pleasant surprise. Isn't my husband thoughtful? He totally gets how much I wanted a space of my own when it came to blogging. He totally gets how I love my words.

He's totally hoping I'll become the next Erma Bombeck and bring in some cash. But that's not gonna happen. There will never be another Erma.

I miss Erma.

Soon, when I learn how to navigate this little thing a little better, I'll post a picture. Because everybody loves baby pictures.

Okay, funny birthday story.

On Tuesday evening, Blake walked in after practice and immediately said "Happy Birthday Mom."

"Thanks, but my birthday is Friday."

"Ryan S. said it was today."

"First, what are you doing listening to Ryan S about my birthday and second, how would he know?"

"Well, he said he heard Kayla talking about it in Geometry...so he told me it was today."

I laughed so hard I thought I'd wet myself all over my new hardwood floor.

Turns out, Kayla was telling her friends that she didn't know if she could go ice skating on Friday 'cause it was her mom's birthday. All Ryan heard was that it was her mom's birthday, and at lunch reminded Blake that it was my birthday and to tell me Happy Birthday.

It IS the thought that counts.


Anyway, thanks, Honey for this most generous of gifts. I will do my best to go forth and prosper with it.

WHEN YOU GIVE A MOUSE A COOKIE...

When you install a new hardwood floor in your kitchen you are going to spend a lot of time admiring it.

But you are also going to have to buy little felt furniture leg pad thingees for all the furniture that will sit on the floor.

Then you are going to have to buy a new area rug to go under the kitchen table and chairs.

Then you are going to have to vacuum the new area rug at least once a day because you chose a dark color that shows every speck of lint, dust, and pet hair.

Then you are going to wish you had bought small throw rugs to match the area rug even though your husband said "let's wait on the smaller rugs" because now you won't be able to get matching ones because your rug was made from a carpet remnant and they threw the scraps away.

Then you are going to notice that your vacuum cleaner (your Dyson) seems to be making a funny noise and NO!! your Dyson cannot die now because you've spent all your money on a new floor, furniture leg pad thingees, and an area rug.

Please, Lord! Not the Dyson!!

Then you are going to start researching The Shark to keep your new wood floor clean (because even your grandma likes The Shark) even though you know you can't buy it for like, say, oh, I don't know, 2 years.

Then you are going to obsess over the new floor and spend much of your day stooped over picking up little bits of stuff that you never would have noticed on the old linoleum.

Then you are going to wonder if it's really necessary for your family to actually walk in the kitchen. Really, why is that room so popular anyway? Can't people stay off that new floor and let her adjust to her surroundings.

Then you are going to get hungry and realize that the new floor can stand a little wear and tear after all.

Then you are going to ask yourself why you came into the kitchen in the first place.

Oh, yeah. A cookie.

THE PRESIDENTIAL ESCALATION TEAM...

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Periodically, over the last two weeks I have been banging my head against a brick wall.

The reason for this oddly comforting behavior is my ten day battle with our mail order prescription company. They lost the prescription for my migraine medication and seemed very unwilling to help.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

So each day for more than a week, I called the toll free number and talked to a different customer service representative who was absolutely no help at all.

Which caused me to need my migraine medicine.

Which I couldn't get.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Essentially, the battle for my migraine medication had brought on a couple of migraines.

I know.

The irony is enough to make my eye twitch.

As each person listened to my tale of woe and then proceeded to tell me that there was basically nothing they could do to correct THEIR mistake I became more and more certain that I would:

a) suffer a stroke
b)experience my head spinning in circles on my shoulders while spewing green vomit
c)start insulting their mothers

You would think when a customer says "Yes, I've been waiting THREE WEEKS on a prescription..." SOMEBODY would say they would get right on that and take care of the matter.

Um....not so much.

OH! And evidently, when they say a prescription is going to be expedited, that means once it's found, sent to the pharmacy, entered into the computer and packaged, THEN they start the expediting. NO OTHER PHASE of the process will move any faster. ONLY the mailing part is expedited. So be under no delusion that anybody is rushing around taking care of your problem. Only the UPS man is expected to hurry.

So after waiting three weeks for my medication, and getting nowhere by calling the number on the back of our membership card, I turned to the only person I could think of

Google.

I googled "president/CEO Express Scripts" and found the name George Paz.

Not only did I find Mr. Paz's name but I found the phone number of the corporate headquarters in St. Louis - and the address.

Now, as much as I wanted to hop in my mini van and drive to St. Louis to give them what for, I didn't. I simply called them.

First, the nice receptionist patched me through to the same ole' customer service line that I had dealt with for a week, so I told them my story, got no sympathy at all, hung up and called the corporate headquarters again.

This time I said "I'm just a customer and I need to file a complaint. No, I do not need to speak to the customer service reps. Do you have a department there in your headquarters that handles customer complaints? Say, a complaint about a prescription being lost and taking three weeks to be processed?"

"We certainly do ma'am. I'm going to let you speak to somebody on our Presidential Escalation Team."

"Thank you so much." Woohoo! The PRESIDENTIAL ESCALATION TEAM. I'm dealing with the big dogs now.

So after telling the PET member my tale of woe and letting them know, as nicely as I could, that it was inexcusable to wait for three weeks on medication, the wheels started moving. I also told them that one of their customer service reps actually told me to just get my prescription filled locally and that I was surprised their customers were being told to take their business elsewhere.

Because sometimes you just feel better when you can tattle on somebody.

Further, when told that I could have my medicine 'overnighted' to me for a fee of $18.00, I suggested that they overnight my medicine to me for FREE since they are the ones that lost my prescription. That worked too. Besides I was going to need that $18.00 for chocolate.

I had my medicine 36 hours later.

Some observations:

A customer should not have to track down the CEO of a company to get reasonable service.

A customer service representative should have some people skills.

A customer service representative should not YAWN while speaking to a customer.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

ARTPALS

Yesterday I spent a couple of hours in our grade school doing an ArtPals presentation. ArtPals are a bunch of ladies who go into the schools (kindergarten through 4th grade right now but we're hoping to add older kids each year) and guide the kids through Perceptual and Aesthetic Learning through Scanning of various classic prints.

Most kids just call us the art ladies.

Each class gets one visit per month and most of us make two visits through the year.

Last year I presented to third graders but this year they moved me down to first grade. I don't know if that was a reflection on my behavior or a need to rotate personnel.

I won't ask.

Anyway.

If my college Art Appreciation course had been taught the way we teach ArtPals, I would have enjoyed it much more. I would have actually acquired an appreciation for art. Sitting in a dark classroom at 8 a.m. watching slide after slide after slide of various works of art, while listening to a monotone of names and dates does not really induce one into a euphoric interest in art.

Had I been able to look closely at each piece of art, comment on it, ask questions, really ENJOY it, I might not have caught so many ZZZZZZZ's on Tuesday and Thursday mornings during my freshman year of college.

ArtPals? Where were you 24 years ago?

So....first graders?

First graders are really fun little people.

I had several little girls tell me that they were already "awtists" because they take art lessons one day a week.

One little boy cried through the entire presentation and the project to follow. Something very heartbreaking had evidently happened at lunch just prior to my arrival.

Another little boy asked me if the paper I handed out for them to draw on was the same kind of paper our featured artist had used 507 years ago.

Good question.

Oh, and since our print yesterday was Young Hare by Albrecht Durer, I got to hear many many stories of pet rabbits, including how they died.

In one class we spent about 6 minutes discussing why the art ladies felt the need to laminate the prints before bringing them to the school.

In yet another class, in the middle of my riveting presentation of our print, a small digital alarm started beeping and 20 tiny voices yelled "FLOOR CHECK!!" and dropped to the carpet.

Wait, what?

So I had to stop my presentation so the kids could clean up the floor around their desks.

Apparently Mrs. S's first graders have floor check every hour.

Blake, Kayla? We will be implementing the floor check alarm in the W house this weekend.

We ArtPals do receive training with our Area Arts Council. The official ArtPals program offers a total of nine hours of training to prepare us for this volunteer program. Unfortunately, some of my training was scheduled while my dad was ill so I'm not fully trained. But nobody is going to fire me because I'm eager and willing to enter the grade school on a volunteer basis when I have no children in the grade school any more.

Which makes me sort of an oddball at the meetings. As each (much younger) mother would ask me "what is your child's name? Who's their teacher?" (At least they didn't say grandchild.) I would say "Oh, my kids are in high school."

"Oh, so you have a background in art?"

"No, my degree is in social work. I just couldn't tell Mary Jo NO, when she asked for my help."

"So...you have no kids in grade school, but you come in anyway to present ArtPals?"

"Sure."

"OooooooKaaaaaay." As though they've just seen me poking myself with a straight pin over and
over again.

The truth is, I like being back in the grade school with the little kids. I love the phase of parenting I'm in but I like being back with the little ones every now and then. It's refreshing.

It's fun.

It's something I can continue to do after my chicks have left the nest in a few short years.

Those of you with little ones, check out your local Arts Council and see if they have an ArtPals program that you can implement in your school.

Then maybe you too can learn about FLOOR CHECK! and discuss the benefits of lamination.

Obama to Lift Ban on Funding for Groups Providing Abortions Overseas...

And here I had been saying I was going to be optimistic and hopeful with our new president.

It has taken President Obama, what, two days - forty eight hours, to jump on the abortion bandwagon. Seriously, it appears as though he just couldn't wait to make it possible for more abortions to be performed in our world. This? This is one of his first acts as president? Our economy is falling apart, our sons and daughters are dying in battle and this is what he is thinking about first?

Is it not enough that we slaughter our own unborn? Must we once again give money to groups who wish to perform abortions in other countries? Must we now sanction the taking of tiny Mexican lives? African lives? Haitian lives? Must we once again sanction the taking of tiny lives any where pro-choice groups wish to travel in the name of "education and outreach?"

All of us who are sickened by the war in Iraq, all of us who are sickened by the deaths of not only our soldiers but also the Iraqi people, where is the outrage?

Are we only outraged when we leave our own borders for purpose of war and take lives? Are we not outraged that now we are sending our money outside of our own borders to take the lives of tiny unborn children? Are we not outraged that our leader, capable though he may be, has made a conscious decision to sign an order which will allow OUR money to be used for abortions in a foreign land? In this time of economic collapse, we are sending our money to other countries to END LIFE?

Could we not use that money to feed starving children in our own country? Keep a roof over the heads of homeless children in our own country? Educate at-risk children in our own country? Provide medical care to uninsured children in our own country? If we refuse to protect the lives of the unborn here within our borders, could we not, at the very least, put more effort into caring for the children that have been given life HERE WITHIN OUR OWN BORDERS? Isn't that a better use of our funds than, say, an outlined plan that funds the taking of more lives?

It is heartbreaking that our society considers its children to be disposable.

Evidently, we now consider children around the world to be disposable.

************************************************************************
*Sorry, readers - the link isn't working today. It worked last night. I found the article on Foxnews.com and I'm sure it's on all the major news sites.

SNOW SWEET

It snowed last night, which is no big deal considering it's January in Illinois.

But this was a perfect snow.

There was no wind. The snow was light and fluffy. It was falling just heavily enough to be beautiful, but just lightly enough to be safe.

It was the kind of snow that made you think it wouldn't be so bad to live in a snow globe, where you could spend your evenings lying on the ground and watching millions of twinkles falling on your nose.

It was the kind of snow that made the yards and fields look pure and new. Untouched. Quiet.

It was the kind of snow that made the moon reflect silver through my bedroom window as I fell asleep. Soft silver. Silver velvet.

It was the perfect snow.

But today? Today the snow has been touched by man. It's gray and wet and dirty. Each street corner looks as though a cloudy day has simply collapsed on it. Like so many other things that God gives us, the snow that started out white - spotless, pure - has been discolored by our own touch. The dirt and grime of life have settled upon it and ruined the idyllic scene.

Until I look out my back window and see patches that are still untouched, except by the tiny footprints of children trudging through the yards on their way to play for just a few minutes before their noses sting and their eyes water, forcing them back inside to mothers who were enjoying a few minutes of peace.

Those tiny footprints? Now that's not a bad way to leave our mark on God's handiwork.

Not a bad way at all.

ON HOLLISTER

Last Saturday, we drove an hour and half to watch Blake compete in a wrestling meet.

It was the first time Blake had to wrestle a girl.

Now I am just shallow enough to say: "Thank goodness he won!"

We didn't get to see that match but of course I had to ask him lots of questions about it:

Blake were you nervous when you realized you had to wrestle a girl?

Yeah I was nervous! Because I knew if I lost I'd have to quit right there on the spot.

Was it awkward?

Mom, I didn't have time to feel awkward, I pinned her in 11 seconds. I knew I had to get in there and win fast to get it over with.

Now I'm going to go out on a limb here and offend every feminist who reads my blog....

I DON'T LIKE TO SEE GIRLS WRESTLING.

There I said it.



Now, moving on. I learned this weekend that teenage girls probably shouldn't even WATCH wrestling meets, as evidenced by a brief conversation I had with Kayla after dinner that night:

I'm glad you came today. It was nice of you to give up your Saturday to watch a long boring wrestling meet and support your brother.

Are you kidding? Wrestling meets are great. Those guys are so hot...

*gulp*

And then I stooped down to pick my eyeballs up off the floor so I could place them back in my head.

Note to self: reserve room at convent.


I decided that the only way to get Kayla's mind off all those hot boys was to take her shopping at a mall we would be passing on the way home - one we don't get to often. Paul dropped us off and headed across the street to the nearest safe spot - Best Buy - where he could lose himself in the manly sights and sounds of ipods and laptops.

After wandering through Macy's, we spent some time at Victoria's Secret where we bought some...um....some unmentionables, some soaps, and body sprays.

Then I got to experience my first visit to Hollister.

I had shopped at Hollister before - online, and somehow my daughter had been in Hollister before even though we don't have one at our mall, but I was a Hollister newcomer.

Here's the thing about Hollister.

I don't get it.

I don't get the dim lights. I don't get the music; although I will say their music was much better than, say, Pac-Sun or Aeropostale. I don't get the crowded area around the check-out that makes it so awkward to wait in line. I just don't get it.

But I don't get most of the stores the kids like to shop in. I mean must they be so loud? And the clothes? The clothes are just darling (but a little expensive) and they look really cute on Kayla and her friends, but when are we going to be done with the narrow shirts?

Seriously each shirt in Hollister and its cousins stores? It looks like a leg warmer with sleeves.

I suppose that is to keep mothers of teenagers from buying clothes that match her daughter's. At least this mother of teenagers has no desire to wear the same clothes my daughter wears.

You're welcome, Kayla.

As Paul picked us up and we were tossing our packages in the backseat (we found a great winter coat at Hollister for Kayla - 75% off!!) I said to him "I know, I know. I need to find a way to bond with our daughter that doesn't include spending money. BUT WE HAVE SO MUCH FUN."

His response? "I'll introduce you to the library next week."

I told him there was no need to be cruel.

I TOLD YOU SO

Throughout October and November Blake and I had several conversations that went something like this:

Blake you need to get a flu shot when Kayla and I go in.

No.

Blake, you are a wrestler. You are exposed to who knows how many germs and viruses on those mats.

*shudder*

I'm not getting a flu shot. I won't get sick, but I'm afraid the shot will make me sick.

The shot won't make you sick.

I'm not getting a flu shot.

On New Year's Eve Blake got the flu.

He was hit hard.

It morphed into a severe sinus infection. The doctor looked in his throat and actually gasped. Then he made me come over and look in his throat. I thought I was staring at a giant strep blister, but it was just the infectious drainage caused by the sinus infection.

Pretty.

Then Blake had an allergic reaction to his amoxicillin. He's never reacted before but the doctor put him on a huge dose this time. So we had to switch him to a z-pack this morning.

It's been really hard not to say I TOLD YOU SO to Blake.

But he's been feeling so miserable I just haven't had the heart. I have, however, thought it several times.

If you're going to be like my mom and my brother and ask why I didn't MAKE Blake get a flu shot I'll tell you what I told them:

Because he is 17 years old and I can't very well drag him kicking and screaming into the doctor's office and hold him down on the exam table while a nurse sticks a needle in him, like I did when he was five.

You know - back when parenting was fun.

Kayla gets a flu shot because she has asthma.

I get a flu shot because I get sick if somebody spells F-L-U in front of me.

Paul gets a flu shot because they are free at his office.

Blake doesn't get a flu shot.

But I bet he will next year.

ANOTHER FRIENDLY LETTER

Dear Insurance Company,

I'm not going to publish your name because I assume your influence is far reaching and I don't want you to deny coverage on the elective lobotomy I'm going to need next week after banging my head against the proverbial brick wall all day today. Because of you.

But I do have a couple of requests.

First, could you please send me copies of the medical licenses, credentials and diplomas of all the licensed physicians who make all or your prescription decisions? You DO have licensed physicians who carefully weigh the needs of each individual, don't you? Licensed physicians that respect the knowledge and training of each customer's own personal physicians?

I assume it is not too much to ask for these physicians' credentials since apparently all they do is sit around all day with a big old rubber stamp that says 'DENIED' and gleefully pound it on all sorts of request forms.

They must have amazing upper arm strength in their stamping arms.

I will say this, though. The speed at which you move is quite impressive. In the hour it took me to drop 3 prescriptions off at Walgreen's, take my sick son home, fix my kids some lunch and drive back to Walgreen's to pick up said prescriptions, you had managed to deny one of those prescriptions.

Pretty impressive.

That leads me to my second request.

Could you please explain to me your Step Therapy rule? The way I understand it, you don't want to cover the prescription antihistamine that a licensed physician prescribed for my son because you want us to try the "first step" and go with an over the counter antihistamine first - like Claritin. My question is: how do you know we haven't already tried an over the counter antihistamine? OTC medications require no records for you or for our doctor so how do you know we haven't already tried them?

Four years ago, you didn't want to cover the Nexium my doctor prescribed because you thought I should try Prilosec OTC first. The thing is I had tried Prilosec. And Zantac. And everything else I could grab off the pharmacy shelf.

Here's the thing, insurance people, if you are dealing with a mom, you can be pretty certain that she's tried everything in her power to avoid seeing a doctor for herself, so by the time you get involved, we really need whatever our doctor says we need. On the other hand, if you're dealing with a mom who wants her child to be comfortable from the flu and sinus infection that's attacking his body, it's just not very smart to tell her no.

So how DO you know we haven't tried the over-the-counter medications first? Do you just take our word for it?

If that's the case - my Tylenol isn't working, so I'd like some morphine.
My chamomile tea and St. John's Wart aren't working so I'd like some Prozac.

There. I tried the bottom steps of your step therapy. Now move me on up that ladder and send me the good stuff.

This Step Therapy only serves one purpose. It puts us, your paying customers, one step closer to needing it. Therapy that is.

And it's really making me mad.

By the way, have you considered it? Therapy that is. No offense.

Because you people are nuts!!

See, my son is sick. And yeah, he's 17 and almost an adult but he's still my son. And when somebody tells me that they don't think he needs the medication that a licensed physician prescribed for him - a licensed physician who was kind enough to ask "do you have prescription coverage?" before deciding what to order for my sick son - well, it makes me a little crazy.

Please tell me why we pay for your services. Please tell me why I assured the doctor that we had good insurance coverage and I wanted whatever was necessary to make my child feel better. Please tell me why I walked into that pharmacy today, confident that I would be leaving with the three prescriptions necessary to make him well, only to leave with two prescriptions and one store brand bottle of antihistamine.

Please tell me who you recommend to perform my lobotomy. It was you, after all, who prompted the need for it.

Sincerely,
HW

YOU WERE JUST A CAT

THE ADOPTION

You were just a cat.

But just like the two legged burglar that is named for your species enters a person's home and steals his possessions, so had you entered my life and stolen my heart.

And it wouldn't have happened had our first cat, Columbus, not gone out for his nightly exploration one evening and never returned. After a proper mourning period I, being the indulgent mother (yet rebellious wife) that I am, promised our children they could each pick out a kitten to replace Columbus.

Two kittens to replace one cat seemed like logical math to me, the cat lover in the house.

Interestingly, Paul was in London when I made this promise. I would have some explaining to do when he returned from that business trip.

Having decided that our household did indeed need two kittens we - the kids and I - entered Cats Only and said "We'd like to see your two youngest cats."

Sadly, their two youngest cats were also their two sickest cats.

You, Boomer, had been found by the side of a dumpster, no bigger than a minute, too weak to hold up your head; tossed out like a piece of debris - left for dead.

You were taken to the Humane Society who had decided you were too sick for them to save.

Our Cats Only vet saw you and had different plans for you. She took you in and decided that you were not, after all, one to give up on life.

Within days of your first rescue, in walks this over indulgent mother who wants two kittens - for the children of course. We were told that you would be available for adoption if you made it through the next two weeks.

Your soon to be housemate also needed two weeks of nursing care before she could come home with us. We were willing to wait for both of you.

We were even granted visitation rights while the vet and her staff nursed you back to health. And we took advantage of that privilege and came every few days to look at you, pet you, allow you to get to know us. One day we showed up and a staff member was working who wasn't aware that we had been given special visitation rights. Sadly, I was not the most understanding (soon to be) pet owner and told her in no uncertain terms that YES WE DID TOO HAVE THE RIGHT TO OPEN THAT CAGE AND HOLD THIS KITTEN. WE HAD BEEN DOING IT FOR A WEEK AND I WASN'T GOING TO STOP DOING IT NOW. For the children of course. You just had that effect on us, Boomer. We were drawn to you moments after we met you.

Your first few days at home with us, you spent most of your time curled into our necks - probably seeking warmth. You loved anything shiny and were prone to chewing on necklaces. Your early illness and ongoing recovery, however, did not stop you from immediately establishing your position in the household.

You decided as soon as you walked in the door that the way to deal with the sixty pound Labrador who already lived here was to simply ignore her.

And ignore her you did.

While Bitsy, your fellow adoptee, chose to arch her back, hiss and spit, you would not even glance at the dog. You made it quite clear that this dog who always thought she was the ruler of the house, was not worth your time and would quickly be taken down a notch. Or two.

The king had arrived; he weighed less than a pound and his name was Boomer.

GOODBYE SWEET BOOMER

Thank you for making me smile.

I'm sorry.

I THINK THE TIME HAS COME

The vet encouraged us to bring Boomer home today and see if he would eat and drink for us, since he refused anything by mouth while at the clinic.

He won't eat or drink for us.

The poor baby has been hiding under Kayla's bed.

He never hides under Kayla's bed.

Cats go to hard-to-find spots when they feel lousy.

The vet has called to check on him and, based on all the things she told me to look for (to hope for) I told her I think we will be bringing Boomer back tomorrow so that we can tell him goodbye.

She assured me that any decision we made, based on all of his blood counts, etc, is a valid decision. If his counts were half what they are, she would encourage us to hold out hope, but being what they are, she does not think it is wrong to relieve his suffering.

If he rebounds from this (which is doubtful) it will be short lived. I do not want to see him get well only to know that he has more suffering in his future, most likely every few months. None of us needs that.

I know he's just a cat. Somebody - a non cat lover, to be sure - once asked me what purpose this cat served. Why have a cat?

All I could say was that he makes me smile.

That's all. He makes me smile several times a day.

And really, isn't that an okay purpose to have in life?

HE HATES THE CAT BUT HE LOVES THE CAT-LOVER

On my way to the vet today, as my left eye was twitching from the ridiculously loud "MWWWWOOOOWWWW," coming non-stop from the back seat, I called Paul to confirm with him how we would pay for this visit. After all, spending money to keep this cat well just four days after Christmas is not on the top of our favorite things list. It most certainly is not on the top of Paul's favorite things list - especially the "keeping the cat well" part.

Within seconds of hanging up, he called me back and said "Um...I guess we never discussed how far we're willing to go with this. I hope you understand but we can't spend a ton of money on this cat."

Of course I understand.

Because we choose to spend our money on more frivolous things like say, oh, I don't know, inhalers for our asthmatic daughter, migraine medication, eye glasses/contacts for four people, dental work, utility bills and groceries.

Things like that.

So as the vet kept me informed of what was going on with Boomer (looks like some sort of kidney disease) I said "I love this cat and I don't mean to be cold-hearted but we have to be very conscious of cost with his treatment." She understood and did not make me feel like the most stone-hearted client she had ever met.

So she told me what was going on and what the worst- and best-case scenario would be.

As they were doing x-rays I stood in the lobby and called Paul to tell him what I knew and where we were at cost wise.

And being the doomsday, animal loving, pre-menstrual woman that I am, I started crying as I told him the details. Really, all I could think about was that I was going to have to decide to put this cat down and walk out of there with a plan in mind to tell my daughter why I made the decision that I made.

And Paul kept saying, "Honey, we can do whatever you want..." And I kept saying "Of course we can't, we have to be practical. We cannot go into debt for this cat."

''Do you want me to come and be with you?"

"No. There's no decision to be made yet. I'll keep you posted."

Then 30 minutes later as I was standing in the teeny tiny x-ray room listening to the vet say things like "renal disease" "blockage" "distension" "hydration therapy.." there was a knock on the door and one of the assistants brought my husband into the room.

He didn't want me to be alone as I faced a difficult decision about my beloved cat - a cat that has been a thorn in his side for five and a half years.

How sweet is that?

His first day back at work in ten days, and he left the office to stand beside me and look at x-rays of a cat that he despises.

If that's not love, I don't know what is.

PRECIOUS SLEEP

I couldn't sleep last night.

It was probably the migraine pounding in my right temple - the third migraine since Christmas eve.

Or it could have been the fact that our cat has been vomiting for 36 hours and I am keeping him quarantined in the laundry room until I can get him to the vet on Monday. If I can find a vet, because ours closed. In the mean time he is putting up quite a fuss and the yelping is DRIVING ME CRAZY.

Or it could have been the fact that our sump pump sprayed all over our basement storage area due to heavy rains yesterday. Now our basement floor is full of items just lying around trying to soak up some warm dry air like so many sun bathers at the beach.

By the way these items include my wedding album.

This wonderful Midwest weather is like the gag gift that keeps on giving.

Anyway.

As is often the case when I can't sleep my thoughts turned to my children.

Kayla was happily tucked away in the basement with her cousin after having baked and decorated a giant cookie.

Blake was spending the night at a friend's house. A-Pat to be exact. A-Pat is a combination of his first and last name. Teenage boys are big on nick names. A-Pat is a bull dog on the wrestling mats. He's short and as muscular as they come - a compact package of power. A-Pat does not lose on the mats. It just doesn't happen.
While A-Pat is a bull dog, Blake is a Great Dane - all arms and legs and long lean muscle. While he doesn't have the bulk and power that A-Pat has, he's learned to use those long arms and legs pretty effectively.

And I realized again last night that I have simply blinked one time since I could gather those arms and legs onto my lap to rock my little boy to sleep.

See, I broke one of the cardinal rules of parenting when Blake was little.

I rocked him to sleep. Until two months before Kayla was born, I rocked him to sleep for naps and for bedtime.

Nap time was the sweetest time for Blake and me. He had a very precise sleeping routine as I rocked and sang to him. He would start out with his tummy pressing against me, his head on one of my arms, his legs dangling past the other.

Our hearts touching.

He'd watch my face as I sang, and I'd watch his. I'd watch his eyes grow heavy.

And just before his eyes would close for sleep he'd shift himself into another position. He'd turn his body so that his back was against my chest and his little legs dangled around my thigh, head leaned against me like the worn out little cowboy that he was. We somehow melted into the same position, with my hands clasped around his tummy - holding on to those moments for dear life.

Within seconds of his shift, he'd let out a tiny sigh and sleep.

And for some reason I had trouble pulling myself out of that rocking chair and placing him in his bed.