TACKY

Recently, at a softball game, a bleacher neighbor said to his wife "Hey did you hear? Heidi's family is going to London...virtually free."

"Virtually" is the key word here.

Since we are leaving on our "virtually free" trip soon, it only stands to reason that we had to replace our garage door and pay 325 dollars for van repairs last week. Neither of which was free - virtually or otherwise.

It also stands to reason that Paul and I are starting to receive strict instructions from our offspring on how we are expected to behave on this trip.

"I don't want to look like a bunch of tacky tourists," Kayla keeps reminding us, with a stern look in her eye.

What she's really saying is "You BETTER not embarrass me over there."

I say she's survived extreme embarrassment at our hands countless times on American soil; it's time to toughen her up and start embarrassing her on another continent.

After all, we want her to be well rounded.

Plus, it's like she's laying down a challenge for us.

Our number one rule is not to walk around with our cameras hanging from our neck.

I also don't think she likes my Easy Spirit Walk/Run shoes that I plan to wear much of the time.

(I think I'll pair them with Bermudas and red crew socks.)

Paul is not to drool over the maps of the subway routes like he did in Boston. Paul really likes maps.

He is not, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, to pick up a British accent, as he is prone to do after spending any time with a British co-worker.

I also think wearing dark socks with his white running shoes is a no-no; as is wearing white socks with brown dress shoes and plaid shorts.

Oh! and he is not to ask for Ranch dressing at every restaurant regardless of whether or not he has a salad.

I'm sure we will receive more intense instructions on the flight over, with the pressure building as we get close to landing.



Say it again. What are you forbidden to do? REPEAT!

I don't know! I don't know! Stop! Stop! I can't stand it another minute!!

So here is my promise to our sweet daughter:

I promise to embarrass you no more and no less in England than I ever do in America.

Take that how you will.

MY GIRL

Softball tournament.

Seven games in six days.
Three games on the final day.
After working their way out of the losers' bracket, they managed to place second out of 21 teams.


The trophy on the right is because they were the division champs. The middle sized trophy is for being runners up in the tournament. The smaller trophies and the medals are for enduring blowing rain, scorching heat, obscene language from opposing teams, excessive challenges from opposing coaches, overly competitive parents and, most importantly, for being told by the umpires that our team had exhibited the best sportsmanship of all 21 teams throughout the entire tournament.

Too bad there is no trophy for that.

Yeah, they got second place but WOW! These are some sweet girls and they are the best sports of the entire Country Girls Softball League.

The umpires said so. And the umps always get the final call.

Now this girl - my girl:

She pitched the whole tournament - minus half an inning. We estimate she pitched approximately 4o innings, give or take a strike or two. She managed to hit two triples in one game and a two run homer in the game against an arch enemy - I don't want to name any names - Meridian - but I am just shallow enough to say some victories are sweeter than others.

And then, 48 hours, two pizzas, a pool party, and a sleep over later...

Bippitiy Boppity Boo...

The fairy godmother had appeared; the little mice had worked their magic; the sweat and dust of the ball diamond were forgotten and the princess was ready to re-emerge.




My girl.

HELPING HAND

I was recently reminded of this picture:

Please excuse the unfortunate purple outfit on Blake. He was two and his grandma bought it for him. But notice how the purple saw matches his clothes. It is the closest Blake has ever come to accessorizing.

Isn't it amazing how quickly we move from this:


The phase of "Daddy, can I help?"

To this: "Son, I need your help."

You blink your eyes and suddenly they can carry their weight,

Hold their own,

Reach higher than we expected.

Please excuse the unfortunate outfit on Blake. He's eighteen and there's not a thing I can do about it. But notice his marine haircut. He found a barber (a retired soldier) in town who would give him a "High & Tight." And he charged him a mere five dollars.

For that price I fully expect Paul to be sporting the High & Tight any day now.

SIDE BY SIDE

Some things will always be the same.
No amount of reasoning, no amount of questioning, will change them.
Like the digits of the number line on a first grader's desk.
Always the same.
No matter how you count, no matter how you do the math, the numbers are the same.
Each number has its neighbor - forever side by side.

You can move forward; you can move backward; you can even skip a step or two; but always there will be the one that is by its side forever.

Because nothing can move it.


May you always have a friend that is only a step away.

May you always simply look to one side and find your forever neighbor, your forever friend.

SOMEDAY I'M GOING TO MISS THIS

Blake is at Wisconsin Dells this week for wrestling camp.

Since we redecorated Kayla's room while she was at camp, I thought the least I could do for Blake was give his room a thorough cleaning while he's away. After all, he doesn't want a bedroom makeover.

"I'll be gone in less than a year," he keeps telling me as he twists the knife in my heart one more rotation. "Do it when I'm gone."

So then.

Today when I went into his room to put some laundry away, I was thinking I'd get started on that little clean up I had planned.





SWEET MERCY! What have I done?

I just....

um...

It's just that...

WOW!

In all fairness, I did have to do QUITE A BIT of cleaning before decorating Kayla's room.

Sorry, Kayla, but I gotta keep it real.

So I should not have been surprised. But MY STARS the food wrappers! The Mountain Dew Cans! The unidentifiable containers!!!

So here's what I did.

I quietly set his laundry on the bed, backed out of his room and shut the door.

Because I totally believe in running away from a challenge.

ON JON AND KATE

Yeah I used to watch their show.

And, yeah, I still occasionally turn to their show when The Closer goes to commercial.

But I was becoming more and more disgusted by the way Kate spoke to her husband, her children, and to anybody else with whom she came in contact, so I stopped tuning in. Plus, I was starting to feel quite guilty that I was seeing these children in moments that would cause them embarrassment later when they saw the episodes played back to them.

Now that Jon and Kate have announced their divorce, there seems to be a debate going on about whether the show must go on.

Because it would be absolutely terrible for a mother and father to have to actually, you know, go to work 40 hours a week (or more) to support their children and give them a normal, albeit less materialistic lifestyle.

You want to know what I think?

This show must stop.

Now.

Divorce is very hard on children.

It is very hard for children to show up at school and know that their classmates and teachers have heard the news around town - the news that their family is falling apart. Because no matter how common or uncommon divorce is; it's not easy when it's YOUR parents. It is very hard for children to get used to a new family arrangement and the new "normal" that comes with divorce. There are new schedules to adjust to - some days with Daddy, some days with Mommy. There are new signals to read - will mommy be mad if I'm happy to see Daddy? Will Daddy be mad if I talk to Mommy on the phone. Children of divorce have to learn to walk differently. They have to learn to tread lightly; especially when one or both parents is known to have a volatile temper.

Now these eight precious children; these children who have had their privacy stolen, these children who have had their most private and embarrassing moments televised for the world to see; these children now get to adjust to their parents' divorce while the world watches.

It's bad enough that their regrettable tantrums, their potty training, their trips to the dentist, have all been televised in the guise of "making memories;" but now their hearts have to be laid bare for the world to see so that Mommy and Daddy can continue a lifestyle to which they very quickly became accustomed - a lifestyle they've convinced themselves they deserve.

There are those who wonder how these eight children are to be raised without the money generated from the show.

I think they are to be raised the same way most large families support themselves - with hard work and sacrifice and with a knowledge that there are more important things in life than Gymboree, swimming pools, and custom play houses.

I think they are to be raised the same way my mother raised four kids alone; and the same way my great grandmother raised seven kids alone; or the way our friends are now raising seven kids in today's difficult economy; or the way our other friends are raising nine.

They should be raised with the knowledge that they will have everything they need, but not necessarily everything they want. The should be raised knowing that designer clothes and free trips will not turn you into a decent, productive member of society. They should be raised knowing that they may not have the best of everything but at least their most important moments in life - good and bad - are theirs and theirs alone and will never be seen on You Tube. After all, don't all of us, as adults, have moments where our own behavior has made us cringe? Isn't it hard enough to remember those moments while we are trying to sleep at night? Can you imagine if those moments, those moments where we showed the absolute worst of ourselves, were immortalized for the world to examine over and over again? Do these children, because of their young age, deserve less privacy, less respect for their dignity?

This is what the Gosselins have done to their children. This is what they continue to do by adopting this "Show Must Go On" attitude. They have invited the world in to view the circus that is now their children's lives.

I can't help but think that in ten or fifteen years, these eight children are going to look back at how their lives were played out in front of the world and they are going to simply say "Why didn't somebody help us?"

And that is my question. Why hasn't somebody helped them - "Somebody" being the executives at TLC? Why aren't the executives at TLC willing to close their own wallets and say "Send those poor children home. This show is over?"

Why aren't the sponsors that shower them with freebies willing to say "NO" when asked if their products can be splashed across our television screens in exchange for free advertising?

Why won't somebody help these children? Because, like the Gosselin parents, all of the adults in these children's lives only hear money.

And these poor children are evidently still able to bring in lots of money for everyone involved.

I just hope the children actually get some of that money - lots of it. They're going to need it to pay their therapists.

MY DAUGHTER IS UNBALANCED

My daughter has this issue. It's called Extreme Arm Disproportion Due to Pitching (EADDtP).

It's really rather embarrassing:

See? See how her right arm has some bulk and her left arm...well...doesn't?

People point and laugh at her all the time.

Not really. Only when she strikes the Popeye pose, which I really hope isn't often but we never know...


Kayla's cousin, Maddy, is visiting this weekend. Maddy's mom and I are first cousins and our birthdays are 11 days apart. Our daughters were born 3 weeks apart. Not that we planned that, but you know how those things happen.

Anyway, these poor girls are miserable when they're together. MISERABLE I tell you!

Number one rule about sunglasses: Never wear anything bigger than a hub cap.

They are spending the day at our small town festival and then I heard something said about the mall.

I just hope they can stand to be around each other the whole time.

FINAL TOUCH

I finally got Kayla's curtains put up in her bay window tonight.

I had been waffling about whether to go with red or white and then exactly how to hang them. My neighbor has white sheers in her daughter's room and I really liked that look; and, since I couldn't find a sheer that was the right shade of red, I completely stole my neighbor's idea and went with white sheers. She has forgiven me though.

Kayla had no opinion on the matter whatsoever.

This is what we came up with:

Kayla wanted the shorter length because she knew the cat would have too much fun with the floor length curtains. Smart girl. You can't see it in the photos, but the ribbon on the sheers is blinged out with jeweled flowers.

Because, really, can a girl have too much bling?

I think not.

This is her east wall - what you see when you first enter her room:


I'm thrilled with the black walls. I think they have a very crisp look next to the white trim. If I was very brave and had money for a new dining room set, I'd go with a black and white dining room. Well, and if I was crazy enough to let Blake and Cody paint for me again. But I digress.

This is her other black wall - the north wall - that forms a right angle with the wall pictured above:

Having two closets really helps to break up the black. You can't see it very well but her mirror has a red frame. All I can say is I've spray painted more things red and black over the last two weeks than I care to think about.

We are done with Kayla's room. DONE I tell you.

And have I told you how much I love Wal-Mart and Hobby Lobby?

STORM

This morning at 6:00 we were awakened by the tornado sirens. For the briefest of moments I considered staying in bed; thinking it would be less painful to be blown into the next county than to get up and go to the basement.

Then I remembered I had a child in the house whom I must save.

Yes, only one child. Blake is now a future Marine; he's on his own.

Not really. He spent the night at a friend's house.

Anyway, I staggered out of bed and went to Kayla's room.

Kaaaayla...let's go to the basement - tornado sirens.

Then I went to get the dog.

Now the dog's favorite place to hide during a storm is in our garage. We have a small set of steps leading up to our door that leads to the laundry room, and she likes to hide under those steps at the first rumble of thunder.

When she can't get to the garage, she will choose from a number of different hiding places in the house - our shower, the basement bathtub, under the bar in the kitchen. She used to hide under the bed but now she's too fat.

She's very sensitive about that.

But her new favorite hiding place is the cat's litter box in the corner of the laundry room. And no, she doesn't scoop it out before she settles into it. And no, she is not small enough to fit in a litter box. But she somehow manages to fold herself into an interesting origami shape and lie there and tremble.

That is how I found her this morning.

And I had to drag her by the collar through the kitchen and living room to get her to the basement. She's learning though. As soon as she saw the open basement door, she zipped down the stairs and headed straight for the bathroom.

Where she stood trembling like a leaf and staring at me.

Weeeelll, can you give an old girl a hand up please?

So since it was six a.m. and she's a "Senior Dog" with arthritis, I gave her a little nudge and plopped her 57 pound body into the bathtub.

Where she proceeded to tremble and drool through the rest of the severe storm.

Blake absolutely loves it when he opens his shower curtain and finds: a) the dog lying there asleep or b) the dog's foot prints and drool left behind from her traumatic storm experience.

Blake is going to be home any minute.

Surprise Son!! We had a tornado nearby. Did you hear the sirens? Cookie is just fine, thanks for asking.

Ahh! This is just one of the many things I'm sure Blake will miss while he's a boot camp.

HABIT

I've heard that if you do something for 21 days straight, it will become a habit.

This morning marked my 22nd day of exercising in my effort to make it a daily habit.

I think I may have habitualized myself. I was kind of expecting somebody to show up at my door step with a Certificate of Habit, but there has been no fanfare whatsoever.

Somebody asked if the 21 day rule applied to good habits as well as bad habits; so in an attempt to add a little scientific research to my quest for an exercise habit, I decided to smoke a cigarette after each session.

OH! You know I'm kidding.

Anyway.

I am walking away the pounds - or I hope to be walking away the pounds. I am doing two different versions of Leslie Sansone's Walk Away the Pounds DVD series. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday I go next door and do one version with my neighbor in her basement.

This not only counts as exercise but free therapy. I am sure I expend more calories on those days because I spend the entire 47 minutes talking.

Really, just ask my neighbor.

On the other four days of the week I either do another version of the Walk Away the Pounds, in my own basement, or I actually, well, walk...around our little town. Only once in the past 22 days have I "walked" for a mile. The other days have all been two or three miles.

*cue applause now*

I've lost six pounds but, more importantly I feel really good; and MOST importantly, I think I've conquered my insomnia. You people have no idea how good it feels to sleep all night.

One of my skirts felt a little loose the other day but strangely enough, so did my shoes. Yeah, my SHOES.

Well this is just GREAT!! I bust my tail exercising every day and the only places I'll probably lose any weight will be in my feet and my breasts.

But back to the habit. I get a little uptight if I do not have a clear plan each day as to when I will exercise. If one of the kids has friends over to watch television, I say "Okay, but I HAVE to exercise some time today."

Well how BADLY are you bleeding, Blake? Because I have 17 minutes left to exercise...and kick back, kick back, kick back....jeesh kids!!

As with many habits; I fear this one might soon require an intervention.

Lift those knees up....

SURPRISE!!

So Kayla got home from church camp today. She was really tired. I think she went to bed at 6:45.

This morning.

After all there was pizza to be eaten and silly Olympics to play.

I was really excited to have her see her new room.

This is what she found when she walked in:


She really wanted a black and white room with red accents. We bought this comforter six months ago. See that bed? It was my grandpa's. I slept in it when I would visit him as a little girl. It was in his spare room. It needs to be sand blasted and painted but I refuse to do that yet. Kayla understands. She's had that bed for a few years now and really likes it. That bench at the foot of her bed? We bought that at a men's clothing store when they were going out of business - TWENTY DOLLARS!! The cushions are simply chair pads from Wal-Mart - velcroed on to the bench.

Now this picture below - this is where it all happens - the makeup table. She got this for her 13th birthday. It's actually a bar from a patio furniture set with a swivel stool. We wanted something narrow to save space. Works well.

Kayla has always wanted a dress form in her room - a full size one. I guess you could call this full size if you are making custom fashions for a two year old.

I like this little vignette below. I love the ceramic Converse hi-top. Because that is so Kayla - a little bit of frill mixed with a little bit of Converse.

The art work? Scrap book paper from my stock, framed in recycled frames that I spray painted black.

Kayla really wanted black walls in this room. And I really thought that wasn't a good idea:

But it is only paint after all. It can be covered - WITH ABOUT FOURTEEN COATS OF HER NEXT COLOR CHOICE! But I went with it and I must say I really like the look. Two of the walls are black. This photo above is what you see when you first enter Kayla's room.

I was so excited to see her reaction that I hid in her room to wait for her to come home.

Obviously she hated it.

And I couldn't take any more pictures after this one.

Somebody was squeezing me a little too tightly.

WORK ETHIC

I suppose it is safe to tell you that while Kayla is away at camp, we are redecorating her room for her.

It's a surprise. But don't worry. She picked out her comforter months ago and told me what color she wanted her walls.

So today I started painting the two walls that are going to be something other than white (pictures upon completion), after Paul had spent two nights priming all the walls and painting the two white ones.

Having spent twenty minutes painting this morning, I decided my time would be better used elsewhere. After all there were two teenage boys in the next bedroom that were doing nothing but playing a video game.

So I knocked on Blake's door.

*knock, knock, knock*

WHAAAAAT?!?

Hey. You guys wanna paint for me?

Uh, NO!

I'll pay you.

Oh, allllll right.

So the boys exit their cave and enter Kayla's room for their instructions.

It is important to note that Blake made it very clear that pictures would not be allowed, which absolutely broke my heart because I really wanted to commemorate Dumb and Dumber painting a teenage girl's bedroom.

*sigh*

After listening raptly to my instructions Blake starts telling me in no uncertain terms that he's a lousy painter and he hates the idea of doing this.

You do know this is going to look terrible, right? I'm terrible at painting so it's going to be a lousy job.

Well, son, that certainly isn't the way to start negotiations. You should be saying 'I won't let you down, Ma'am. You can count on me to give you the best service ever.' Right Cody?

Um...yeah.

And then, Blake uttered words that, in 22 years of marriage, his father has NEVER uttered to me: Well, what are YOU going to be doing all day?

Funny, I don't know how it happened; but suddenly Blake had a whole gallon of paint dripping from his head and face....

Cody attacked the job with as much enthusiasm as Cody shows for anything, but he certainly didn't complain. In fact, he actually told me about four times that he would do it for free. That was when Blake said "Dude!! Don't be stupid. Take the money." Which made me prouder than you can imagine.

No, I'm going to pay you. And you, Cody, will get a "NO WHINING BONUS" because you have such a good attitude. Blake on the other hand...well...obviously I've failed. Oh, and Cody? You're in charge of this operation.

I obviously failed to instill any work ethic into my son, as I lost count of how many times he complained about the painting and said "Man, I hate work!"

Dear Uncle Sam,
That new Marine recruit you got last weekend? Well, the drill instructors might need to know that he hates work. Perhaps he will do better in your Low Impact Boot Camp. Could you see to it that he is enrolled in that one?
M'kay, thanks.

One thing that Blake DID have going for him was that he wore appropriate paint attire - sweat pants and a stocking cap.

That's all.

No shirt.

No shoes.

No socks.

I don't even know what to say about that.

Then, in what I guess was an attempt to get me to fire them, they turned on Kayla's antique stereo (circa 2005) and turned the music up really loud so I'd have to listen to all this horrible music - Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me....?

I showed them. I left for the mall.

To make this "Dumb and Dumber" episode even more exciting - I had actually thought about keeping it a secret from Paul that the boys did the painting.

See, well, Paul has issues about painting. He hates to paint but he doesn't want anybody else to paint either.

I know. It puts me in quite a bind when I want to redecorate.

So then.

I thought I had 8 or so hours before Paul got home and I could work up to telling him that I had let two teenage boys loose with the paint; but then Paul called me on the phone.

And I immediately started giggling when I answered his call.

Because I can't keep a secret (especially when I know it's going to get Paul all worked up)

Which is probably why I'll never be a gambler or a spy.

Of course when he heard me giggling he assumed I was visiting with Blake.

Well, sort of....

So, what's up?

Well, don't be mad...but I'm letting Blake and Cody paint Kayla's room.

*silence*

They better keep that floor covered! Do they know how to move the tarp to protect the rug?

And then I said something to my husband that I never imagined I'd hear myself say:

OH! DON'T BE SUCH AN OLD LADY!! Really, I said that. Can you believe I said that?
Do you really think a little paint is going to make that carpet look worse than the nail polish and marker stains that are already on it? We can cover things with throw rugs. Stop worrying, for Pete's sake.

The good news is the painting is done - except for a little touching up - and it looks fantastic. The boys did a great job.

The bad news is that not only does my son hate manual labor, but apparently I'm married to a persnickety eighty-year-old woman.

EMERGENCY....

When we went shopping for Kayla's camp stuff, I was surprised when she picked out only one snack item for the cabin - a BIG bag of Skittles. She usually takes more goodies than that.

My misgivings have proven to be spot on. Kayla texted Paul today regarding the snack emergency in which she has found herself:


When you come on Wednesday can you bring some food for the cabin?

Perhaps. What would you like?

Nacho Doritos, Gold fish.

Since we usually attend the church services at camp on Wednesday night, Kayla decided to see if she could convince her daddy to step in and rescue her from these dire food conditions.

Naturally Daddy will take care of this.

Because it is no secret that girl has him wrapped around her little finger.

Surely, though, she meant to ask for Oreos and just forgot to put that on her list. Just to be safe I will buy a bag and eat a few before we deliver them to Cabin Eleven.

I think it is the Godly thing to do.

WHAT REMAINS...

See this beautiful stone fireplace?

There is supposed to be a building around it.

Last winter we sadly watched the local news while listening to the story of how this building was burned to the ground. It was determined to be an act of arson. While I wish no SERIOUS harm to come to the arsonist, in the words of one of my college professors "may the fleas of a thousand camels infest his armpits..."

Is that bad of me?

Because, this building was the mess hall for our church camp.

The camp ground is actually owned by another church and for years our church has rented it for two or three weeks in the summer so that kids like Kayla could grow up with the memories and tradition that adults like Paul have. See, Paul grew up going to this camp too.

Being the heathen child that I was, I never got to go to church camp.

But I sure heard a lot about it from Paul. Mainly, I heard about the church camp romances, but we won't get into that.

And now I get to watch my sweet daughter thoroughly enjoy this phase of her life.

Except she has to finish her church camp career without the original mess hall.

A lot goes on in the mess hall. Most importantly, that's where the kids get fed. And I've never heard a complaint about camp food. In fact our kids have always come home asking me to learn to cook pulled pork barbecue like the camp cooks, or try to find the sausage that the camp cooks serve.

Camp food, camp food, camp food.

The mess hall is where the kids work on their crafts. Or at least the younger kids. I don't know if high schoolers do crafts. Probably not. It's also where the kids hang out when the weather turns stormy.

It's where we parents would deposit our children at the beginning of the camp session, write our check and turn in the kids' medication to the camp nurse. It's where we negotiate with our kids on how much money they need for the canteen.

Because, really, how many Mountain Dews does a child need in six days? How many Skittles is too many?

It's where mail is distributed. And if you get three or more letters in a day you have to sing for your mail.

Whatever you do, DON'T write to me! Was always the instruction we received from our kids.


Thankfully, the campground has a Retreat Center that they have opened for our use. It has a kitchen facility and a big room in which to hold services and the talent show. Actually, the retreat center is probably nicer than the mess hall. It's definitely nicer than the pavilion where most of the activities had been held - the pavilion that has now been torn down because it's been decided that it will be replaced with a large multi-purpose building that will hold the new mess hall and other rooms for the campers' activities.


But I am sad. I am sad that somebody decided it was okay to enter a clearly marked church property and set fire to one of its buildings. I am sad that somebody decided it was okay to not only destroy this property but also to take away a place that is full of memories and tradition - a place that has spanned generations in the impact it will have on young lives.

In the grand scheme of things, losing the mess hall is really no big deal, I guess. Thankfully, nobody was injured. The kids will still obviously have a great time, though I'm sure they've needed to retrain their feet on which path to take when the meal time bell rings. Memories will still be made. New traditions will be born.

Memories and traditions. As long as these are present, I guess we can do without a building.

LET'S GO CAMPING...

When Kayla entered the second grade she was over the moon with excitement because she knew the upcoming summer would be her first opportunity to go to church camp.

She had seen how much fun her brother had at the little mini camp for elementary students (three nights) and she was excited to have her turn.

Plus, she thought it would be totally awesome to go four days without brushing her teeth. After all, that's what Blake had done and he looked quite happy (albeit a little green in the mouth)when we picked him up.

Church camp was scheduled for June. About April of that year, we got the news that they had moved the starting age back a year. Now, instead of entering the third grade to be a beginning camper, kids had to be entering the fourth grade.

THAT'S NOT FAIR!! There was crying. There was grumbling. There was a slight temper tantrum.

Then Paul told me I had to pull myself together because I was frightening the children.

Kayla had really been looking forward to church camp. REALLY. LOOKING. FORWARD. TO. IT.

And because I'm the terrible mother that I am, I had really been looking forward to both of my kids going to church camp for the same few days.

Only because I wanted them to grow in their faith and learn lots of Bible verses, of course.

Yeah, that's it.

Well another mom and I approached the director and asked if there was any way...any way AT ALL... that they would let the little kids come. After all, they had been planning for this and looking forward to "going into the third grade so we can go to church camp!!!"

Being the wise man that he was, the director said, Yes, send the little ones.

*cue hallelujah chorus now*

That was the beginning of Kayla's absolute passion for church camp. For the last three weeks, she has counted down the days by writing on the mirror in her bedroom.

Yesterday, she and Amanda got to load up and head out to camp.

Ahhh! Look how happy they look.

Hey girls! Are you going to read your Bibles every day and stay away from the boys?

Um...yeah...of course we are silly mother!

Aside from their enthusiasm, what impressed me the most was Amanda's collection of shoes. She managed to out-shoe even Kayla:

This does not show her other pair of Converse (plaid) the Vans she was wearing (are they called Vans?) or the ridiculously cute canvas ballet flats under all the flip flops.

*note to self: take shopping trip to Shoe Carnival

Amanda, you are a girl after my own heart.

FIRST STEPS

Today at 11:21 a.m. we received this text from Blake, who was in St. Louis:

I'm enlisted and sworn in to the Marine Corps.

Being the pushy parents that we are, we had asked his recruiter to meet us at the office when Blake returned to town so that we could get a couple of pictures. This is, after all, the beginning of quite a journey for our boy.

Judging by the look on Blake's face, I'm guessing he knew these photos would immediately end up on this blog. Sorry Son.

Sergeant Gibson was obviously blissfully unaware of that fact.

But look at that uniform. This nice young sergeant donned his dress blues on a Saturday evening and opened his office so he could indulge a mother who was at risk of dissolving into a puddle of tears right there in the Marine Recruiting Center. Not only that, but he brought his pretty young wife, who is expecting their first child, with him.

Blake's scheduled ship date: June 14, 2010.

Suddenly a year seems very very short.

I WANT YOU!

Dear Uncle Sam,

I WANT YOU!

I've always liked that sign of yours.

Well, you aren't getting me, but you're getting something better. You're getting my son.

If all goes as planned he will be enlisting in the Marines this weekend, which I suppose will make me, from here on out, a little partial to the United States Marine Corps.

But, truth be told, it really doesn't matter to me. Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines - all of the men and women who choose one of these careers is choosing an honorable, selfless, dangerous, and sacrificial path for their future.

Each uniform gives me goose bumps. Each uniform is a sign of sacrifice.

But do you know? Do you know the gift you are receiving when a mother signs those papers? Do you know that when a mother signs those papers she gets a lump in her throat and her chest feels so tight she fears she will stop breathing? Do you know that when a mother signs those papers, she would rather walk through a war unarmed than send her child away to be trained to fight? Do you know that when a mother signs those papers, you might as well wrap her heart in body armor and drop it into the middle of a mine field?

Or forget the body armor. It doesn't matter.

Do you know that when a mother signs those papers she might actually, for a split second, forget how to spell her name? For a split second the lines on the paper become a little blurry.

I know that what you see in my son is a young, healthy teenager who is eager to serve. You see a kid who is ready to be shaped and molded; broken down and rebuilt into a member of the mightiest military force in the world.

But do you know what I see when I sign him over to you? I see the tiny baby boy who stole my heart nearly eighteen years. I see the chubby five year old who used to PLAY at fighting battles, not a young man who will be TRAINED to fight them.

So why do we do it? Why do we mothers sign those papers? We do it because, for nearly eighteen years, we have prayed over our children. We have worried over them. We have shaped and molded and wondered if we are doing any of it right. But mostly, we have watched and listened. We have learned about our children. We have learned to read the signs - the signs that tell us that this is indeed what he wants to do, what he needs to do. We watch him and we see that he is more enthusiastic about this military choice than he's been about anything. We watch him and see that he is content. We see a peace about him that wasn't there before.

And so we sign those papers because we know that he will go with or without our signature, with or without our blessing. And we so desperately want our sons and daughters to leave our homes with a sense of peace, knowing that their parents are backing them a thousand percent. We sign them because there is no way in this world we want to alienate our child by not accepting his career choice.

So, in less than a year, my son will be heeding your call, Uncle Sam. Less than a year. Every parent in the world can tell you how quickly a year passes when it comes to our children. I will blink my eyes and he will be starting a new chapter in his life - a chapter that he will author himself, as it should be.

I just wanted to remind you, Uncle Sam, that our sons and daughters are our most priceless treasures; and when you receive them for your service I hope you treat them as such.

And speaking of daughters...I have one. And history has not yet recorded a battle as vicious as the one you will see if you dare to set your sights on her.

I'm just sayin'.

Sincerely,
Almost a Marine Mom,
HW

DOG DAYS

It is not uncommon for Paul to come home from work and say something like "So-and-So had a baby and I said you'd bring a meal. What day is good for you?"

The kids like this arrangement because it means mom is going to cook. I like this arrangement because it means I get to shop for baby clothes (one cannot arrive without a gift, CAN ONE?) It also means I get to cuddle a new baby when we take the meal.

It's a win-win situation.

It is also not uncommon for Paul to come home from work and say "Since S0-and-So is from Zimbabwe (or Belize, or Columbia, or England) and they have no family in town, I said we'd watch their baby (or kids) for the night so they could go out."

This also is a win-win situation because it means I get to cuddle a baby (or play with a REALLY cute 6 year old or chase a REALLY busy 2-year-old) all evening, and our international friends get a night away from the kids.

This international babysitting experience has taught me a few things:

1) Newborn baby love is international. It is painfully sweet across the globe.

2) Roly Poly baby thighs are ridiculously cute in any language.

3) The Terrible Twos are not exclusive to these great United States.

This morning Paul volunteered my babysitting services yet again:

SIT! STAY! WHERE ARE YOU GOING? PAAAAUUUULLLLL!

Meet Cert - pronounced CHAYERT. Cert's "mom" is from the Czech Republic (in keeping with our international theme) and in Czech, his name means "Little devil; or imp."

Cert's name really does not suit him. Number one, he's not little. Number two, he really isn't a devil. He's actually quite sweet. He's a little Scooby Doo-ish.

RUH-ROH!

Cert's "Dad" works with Paul and since he is being transferred to Europe, they are having a Realtors' tea at their house this morning and needed a place for Cert to hang out.

"Heidi and Kayla can watch him. They won't mind a bit."

Um....well, okaaaaay. But since Kayla was playing softball until ten last night, Heidi is the only one up and around for this babysitting gig.

I actually got Cert to sit still for 4 minutes when he found one of Cookie's raw hide chewies. It was not at all pleasant to watch him eat this thing. Plus he was a little rude about it. He didn't even ask "uh...does this chewie belong to anybody?" He just grabbed it and started chomping. I'd like to think my dog had better manners than that when she was a guest in someone's home.

Then I insisted that I get a picture of the two dogs together before Paul left for work.

Okay, but you're not leaving for work until I get a picture of the two dogs. This is blog-worthy you know.

As you can see, the photo session went quite well:

Eboneee and IIIIIIvory live together in perfect haaar-mony. Side by side on my piano keyboard. Oooh-Oooh!! Why can't we.....

Cookie and Cert are old friends. Every time Cert walks by our house he makes an automatic turn up our drive so that he and Cookie can sniff each other's....well... you know what dogs do to greet each other.

But there's something about inviting him into the house that just hasn't sat right with Cookie. It's like inviting a new dog into the pack.

Oh, wait. That's exactly what we've done.

I think she's planning to file a complaint with PETA.

For the time being, though, it seems the two dogs have reached an understanding.

Cookie will guard the front door. And pout.




And Cert will keep watch at the back window.

And Paul will most certainly be bringing dinner home tonight.

FAMINE, PLAGUE AND PESTILENCE

See my Tickled Pink Super Bells? The ones on the left of the purple...the um...purple...um, well I don't know what the purple ones are, but OF COURSE you can't see my Tickled Pink Super Bells:



Because the bunnies ate them.



See my orange Impatiens?

Of course you can't see them because, well I don't know if the bunnies ate them or not but they are gone too. My neighbor has confirmed, however, that the bunnies have eaten my white clematis blooms:

See? No white clematis blooms. See that empty barren flower bed next to the clematis vines? Well we decided we needed to dig up everything in this flower bed and start over. And when I say WE, I really mean *I* decided we needed to dig up everything in this flower bed and start over. So last Sunday evening we cleared out the whole bloomin' mess.

And when I saw WE cleared out the whole bloomin' mess, I mean PAUL cleared out the whole bloomin' mess, so we can start over.

While I took Kayla out to practice driving.

So the neighbors to the south of us, who happen to be VERY diligent lawn care people get to look at our dried up barren flower bed until we get busy and replace the old stuff. We have no idea what we're going to put in there.

I'm thinking something in a nice elegant plastic.

This poor neglected flower bed truly adds insult to injury for our very lawn-minded neighbors, because all winter and spring, they got to look at this, our side garage door:

Yes, we have become THOSE neighbors. We are determined to bring down the property values on our cul-de-sac if it's the last thing we do.

When I was telling our neighbor how our freshly painted door began peeling almost immediately after the painter left, he said "Well, earlier in the spring I saw the Virgin Mary in it."

UH! If he had told us that sooner we could have taken our door on tour and made some quick cash.

But, now that I have accepted that there is no money to be made off my door, and now that the weather is fit for painting again, the door guy is here today to make good on his work. Unless, of course, any of you can see an image in that peeling paint that might prove valuable.

Anybody?

As for the dead flowers surrounding my house? While last year I was aghast at all threats to kill the rabbits who were eating all the blooms in the neighborhood - after all they weren't eating MY flowers - this year I'm searching for a big can of BUNNY-BE-GONE.

In the mean time we have lots of work to do - new bushes, new flowers, new mulch, new door.

And if we don't get all this beautifying done soon....new neighbors.

TEAM LEADERS

Kayla's Summer Youth League Softball team (which is part of the Country Girls Softball League) consists of girls who are entering grades 8,9 and 10 in the next school year. This makes Kayla and her friends the senior members of the team. As is appropriate with that status, they decided to approach their first game last night with all seriousness and maturity:





*note the regulation socks....Kayla - pitcher; Maggie - catcher; Becky - first base.

As the younger members started arriving, I decided to find the "older" girls and encourage them to introduce themselves and make the younger girls feel welcome.

In every high school sport my kids have participated in, I've been very impressed with how the upperclassmen take the new kids under their wings and make them feel instantly like part of the team. This was true for football when Blake was a freshman and in both of the sports Kayla was involved in this year The juniors and seniors take the younger ones to dinner, they invite them to movies and cookouts, they offer them rides. It's always been a very inclusive group no matter what the program. I wanted to encourage our girls to pay it forward with this kind of attitude.

I was a little concerned however, when this is where I found the older girls:

*Kayla, Shannon, Maggie, Becky

Hey new girls! Meet your team leaders...um...yeah...don't listen to a thing they tell you.

No need to worry, though. While we were in line for shaved ice after the game (because it's not summer until you've had a shaved ice) the mom of one of the younger girls told me how sweet it was that the older girls went up and down the bench and introduced themselves to the new ones and spoke to each younger player. She said she had been a little concerned that her daughter would be playing with high school students.

Had she seen them on the playground earlier she might have packed her daughter up and driven away for good....

FLIP FLOP

We have a flip flop lover in the house.

She loves her flip flops so much she'll actually take a new pair and rub them against her face and make little purring noises.

Then when she's done totally embracing the flip flop she'll try them on and ask "Isn't this, like, the BEST. COLOR. EV. VER?"

P.S. Kayla loves flip flops too.

A BEGINNING AND AN END

Kayla has finished her first year of high school softball.

This week she will begin her final season of Summer Youth League softball.

This...
...is just beginning.


While this:

...is coming to an end. Seriously, how cute is she?

While the high school games are exciting and fast paced, there was something so sweet and fun about those early games when the girls could barely be trusted to run the bases in the right direction.

The utter excitement of just being on the field with other girls was enough to make them giddy. At one game, when the girls were in about first grade, we watched one of our girls make it to second base and, because she was so excited to be there, she threw her arms around the second baseman and hugged her until they both nearly toppled over in a fit of giggles.

Of course there was also the time, that same season, when our team staged a walk out in the middle of a game. There was thunder in the distance and the girls were getting nervous.

"MOOOOOMMMMMYYYY!" The third basement whined.

"You're fine, it's just thunder and it's far away...."

But she was not to be convinced. After a few more rumbles, she threw her glove to the ground and marched off the field.

"I'm NOT PLAYING in a storm!"

Soon the second basement abandoned her glove and followed her team mate. Then we lost our short stop. Within minutes half the team was in tears over the storm moving in.

Which wasn't actually moving in.

It was then that the coaches-slash-dads all threw their hands up and called the game off. Perhaps the only thing worse than losing a game is losing your team.

GAME CALLED DUE TO TEARS.

It's much different now.

Now when bad weather moves in we sit on metal bleachers while our girls swing metal bats, surrounded by a chain link fence, and we listen to our girls say "They better not call this game."

"We totally could play in this." "I hope we get to play in the rain." "Yeah, we could, like, slide in the mud."

While we moms make comments like "If that ump had any sense at all, he'd call this game right now. It's foolish - FOOLISH I TELL YOU - for us to be out here in this weather. Why, I have half a mind to drag my daughter off that field right now."

Except our daughters' wrath at being pulled from a game would be much more painful to endure than being struck by lightning.

PROXY

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine actually said to me "I would rather go to the gynecologist than shop at the mall."

I was able to quickly set aside my shock - SHOCK! I tell you - and think of a way that her attitude could benefit me.

ME ME ME ME ME.

So I said to her "Oh, well then. What are you doing on May 13th at 1:30? Because I think we can work something out."

Since I had an appointment today - you know, THAAAAT appointment - I thought I could go to the mall and shop for some fun sandals and a couple of flirty tops, and she could take my place in the stirrups.

After all she said she'd RATHER do that.

I thought I had stumbled upon a great concept.

Pap Smear by Proxy.

During the civil war wealthy families could actually pay somebody to go fight in place of their men folk.

This would be the same thing, except instead of any money changing hands it would be more of a barter system. You go see the doctor for me and I'll check out the sale at Kohl's for you.

Sadly my friend and I never came to an agreement on the initiation of my proxy idea.

Somehow I think she's not as disappointed about that as I am.

OVERSTOCK

I surely must be the only housewife in the country who is constantly in trouble for keeping too much food in the house. A well stocked freezer (or overstocked, depending on how you look at it) really bothers Paul.

REALLY. BOTHERS. HIM.

There's too much food in this house! He grumbles when he opens the freezer.

Yes dear.

We are not buying any more groceries until we've eaten everything in the freezer!

Yes, dear.

Are we expecting a blizzard?

You complain now, but when that blizzard hits and we can't get out for three days, who's going to be complaining then? Huh? HUH?


This past Saturday, when I couldn't be bothered to make lunch before heading to my cousin's wedding, Paul dug out an old chicken pot pie. And since that was pretty good he dug out another one for lunch on Sunday.

He has decided to take it upon himself to empty the freezer of all of our old food, one meal at a time.

And turn his body into a science experiment while he does it.

How old is that pot pie you're eating? I ask, my hand on the phone ready to dial 911.

Old.

Yesterday morning, I noticed he was carrying a plastic bag out the door on his way to work.

Oh, you're taking your lunch today?

Yes. I'm going to eat everything in the freezer that has expired.

Because he'd rather eat old food than throw it away.

But then I noticed something red in the bag. Weight Watchers Smart Ones Red.

But....pfthhht....UH!...you can't....WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING?

I'm taking these frozen entrees to work so I'll have lunch all week.

Not my Weight Watchers meals you're not. Don't you be takin' my Weigh Watchers Fruit Inspirations meals. They're not old. Besides, I saw that ice cream you ate last night; there's no way you're counting calories.
PUT DOWN THE SACK AND STEP AWAY FROM THE FROZEN ENTREES.

Fine. I'll take these corn dogs. He says as he digs in the freezer all over again.

I wouldn't do that. The kids eat those after school. I mean if YOU want to tell the kids you're eating all their corn dogs....

Well there's gotta be something in here that has expired.

MUST. EAT. OLD. FOOD.

Come to think of it, he's asked me to meet him for lunch today. I've been thinking we'd be going to an actual restaurant. Maybe he's planning to heat up all that old food in the microwave at work so we can sit in the car and eat it together.

I better call him and clarify his plans.

TREASURES

I used to have this beautiful Willow Tree Nativity Set.

In fact, I had it until this past Tuesday.

I was walking through the garage on Tuesday morning, on my way to plant flowers, when I noticed an odd looking toy on the floor.

Hmm. What's this? I asked my dog as I wandered over to investigate.

Then my poor dog actually stuck her ears out, parallel to the ground, and cocked her head to one side when she heard the noises that came out of my throat.

Nyaaaah! I whined as I picked up the camel's head.

Looking around, I saw the carnage scattered all over the garage floor, even under the van.

Noooo! I had found the back end of the camel.

Oh Lord! not the shepherd boy - as I cradled his dismembered arm in my hand.

Finally, among the pieces that couldn't be identified, I found the ear of a little black lamb.

Why? Why? Why?

Seems the box containing the nativity set had fallen from the storage shelves in the garage, shattering several supporting cast members of the nativity.

I decided there was not a lot to do about it until July when the stores start putting out their Christmas decorations. Paul, however, had different ideas. He went online to see what he could do to replace my treasures. Turns out he was able to buy a Willow Tree Nativity Companion Kit that contains a camel, a shepherd boy and two little black lambs.

And just like that, he ordered it for me.

What, I ask you, do you do with a man as sweet as that?

NOW THAT'S FUNNY

Listen to this...

Our minister asked if we might be interested in helping with a class on parenting. You know, now that we have teenagers, we might have some helpful tidbits to impart to those in an earlier phase of this parenting journey.

I can hear it now:

Paul and Heidi what can you tell us about being effective parents?

*crickets*

Um...

Well....gee....uh...

D'oh!

*rolling eyes heavenward searching for words*

Hmmm....

*scratching forehead*

Let us get back to you on that.
********************************************************************************

On another note. I have also recently found out that said minister has come across my blog and reads it occasionally.

*gulp*

Now I am frantically searching my archives for anything mean, cruel or inappropriate that I may have typed.

I know I called some Las Vegas prostitute a tramp once right here on this blog. See, she had gone on the morning news shows and said the great thing about this country was that she could build a business of her own and become financially successful, while serving the needs of countless men.

So I went on this rant and let my fingers get carried away on the keyboard and actually called her a tramp. Maybe twice.

*hanging head in shame.*

And then there's the time I said "hellacious," because that's the kind of evening I was having.
But at least then I asked my ones of readers if I could say "hellacious," on this blog, before actually using the word "hellacious." A few times.

I don't even want to think about the time I wrote crap crap crap - TWICE - because my papers blew out of my hands and into a muddy field right outside Staples, causing me to run through that muddy field trapping papers with my feet and wiping who-knows-what off of them before I requested 100 copies of each.

As much as I try to keep this blog-o-mine rated "G," sometimes I let my snarky side shine through.

And look where that's landed me?

THE THREE STOOGES DON'T GO TO PROM

What do you do when you are having a wedding reception on prom night and you need somebody to shuttle your guests back and forth between the reception site and their cars?


Why, you hire three 17-year-old boys who have no interest in going to prom, of course.




*Drew, Blake, Cody



The cousin of one of Blake's classmates was recently married in his homeland of Greece. They held their reception two nights ago and, since Blake and his friends were free, they agreed to be the parking attendants-slash-shuttle drivers for the evening.

Because, really, if you need somebody to drive a golf cart back and forth through your neighborhood, is there a better person for the job than a teenage boy?

But wait. What if any of those guests get out of line?

No problem. They'll just pull out the big sunglasses and show 'em who's boss.


Hey Blake - CHiPs called. Ponch wants his shades back.

THE INFIRMARY

Two years ago Kayla sprained her ankle during track practice; she ended up on crutches.

The injury itself was not as painful as the nurse's orders, however.

"No flip flops!" she told the heartbroken patient.

Because Paul wasn't with me at the doctor's office for that injury, I said we'd take some crutches from them and they could bill us.

Poor Kayla. If her father had been with us that day, he would have carved two tree branches into "Y" shapes and made her hobble around like an injured character from Gunsmoke.

A couple weeks ago, Kayla injured her foot while sliding into home during a softball game. And, no, she wasn't safe. After another visit to the clinic and an x-ray, she was ordered to be on crutches for at least four days.

The crutches I had bought two years ago, however, were too short for her.

"Walgreen's has crutches. I checked," I told Paul.

"I'm not buying a new set of crutches for her to use for four days," he replied, clutching his wallet to his chest, as he dug a new hole in which to bury it.

"Honey, she's a freshman. There WILL be more injuries. I promise you we'll get our money's worth out of them if we buy new crutches," I reasoned. But he was not to be swayed.

After one day on crutches which were too short for her, however, Kayla gained the sympathy of her father, who agreed to get her a pair that fit.

He marched into the school office and asked the secretary if they keep crutches on hand for sports injuries.

Sure enough, the trainer had some crutches.

Sure enough, Paul was able to find a way to get our daughter free medical equipment, which is being stored in our dining room.


I like to call this decorating style "orthopedic chic."


When we were explaining the free crutches to a friend of ours, he said "Oh you should have come to me. We have crutches of all sizes," as his hand climbed an imaginary staircase to illustrate the options we would have.

Between him and our friends who bring antibiotics back from Mexico, we might never have to see a doctor again.

SPEAKING OF THE SWINE FLU...

Yesterday I was back in our little grade school again to make another ArtPals presentation.

The print I introduced to them was Prince Balthazar Carlos on a Pony by Diego Velasquez - painted in 1634-1635.

Riveting, huh?

Since the painting was of a little prince on a horse, I decided to take some fabric that would show the children the kinds of things a prince might wear in that time. I took some satin and velvet, some golden ribbon. In the first classroom, I held up the fabric and explained that this was the kind of fabric a little prince's clothes might have been made of.

Then I handed the soft and shiny fabric to a little boy and told the kids to pass it up and down the rows so everybody could handle it. Because little ones like to touch things.

Let me just say. My mind is no longer in tune with that of a seven year old. I don't know if my mind could ever have been prepared for what I saw these children do to that fabric.

Each child took the fabric and ran his or her little hand over it while making cute little ooh, ahh noises.

And then each child put the fabric up to his or her cute little face and proceeded to wipe it across said face like a towel.

One little boy decided to run the fabric across his head after he'd wiped his face on it.

I...

I just...

It's just that...

Um...er....

I was paralyzed.

I was struck dumb.

As the fabric made it's way up and down the rows, having suddenly been turned into a communal bath towel, all I could think of was the swine flu. If any of those kids was feeling the least bit fluish I was going to start craving corn cobs and watermelon rinds by midnight.

I really don't want to get sick.

Boys and Girls, do NOT put the fabric on your face or heads. Please, just touch the fabric with your hands. No, not on your face. Keep it in your hands. NOT THE FACE!!!!

But the pull was too great. Once the first child had put the fabric on his face, no amount of pleading or threatening, was going to keep the other children from putting it on their faces.

Guess what.

The other classes didn't get to touch the fabric.