So.
My last post? I deleted it for a couple of different reasons, but not before reading your very sweet comments of encouragement and empathy.
Thank you.
And thank you to those of you who sent e-mails to encourage me and to let me know I was being prayed for.
While I certainly don't intend to take joy in others' sorrows, I found some comfort in learning that some of you have also been through very dark times - or are living in a dark time now. Just knowing that my little stumble into the valley is something others experience - that I'm not a complete weakling for giving in to this - is comforting.
Reading of your experiences has brought a couple of questions to mind:
1. Why are we women so hard on ourselves and insist on walking through the valley alone? I have my own theory on this but I'll keep it to myself for now.
2. Have I sent the women in my life a message that makes them hesitate to seek help from me in their darkest times. Have I sent a message that says I won't be a source of light when they are sitting in darkness? There has to be something that keeps us from seeking help from each other. Am I exhibiting that "something?" I want to examine myself and know if I'm lacking in that area. I want to know if I've passed up an opportunity to minister to a sister. Because there are a lot of people out there who are in a dark place right now. Are they seeking help? Do they wish somebody would notice and nobody has?
I realize that sometimes we don't want help and I'll admit I'm like that. When I'm feeling hopeless and helpless it is very easy for me to turn inward and want to remove myself from the world until the pain passes. Most of the time, at least.
Are you like that? Tell me. Tell me why you think we women are so hard on ourselves and why we don't allow ourselves to ask for help.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
TIGGERIFIC......
…you can either be an Eeyore or a Tigger. Remember them from Winnie the Pooh? Eeyore always has a dark rain cloud hovering nearby while Tigger obliviously bounces on his tail in a overly happy state of mind; Eeyore=gloom and despair, Tigger=a hurricane of happiness. Randy Pausch - The Final Lecture.
***************************************
A few years ago, Kayla's softball coach created The Tigger Award, to be given to the player who exhibited a consistent positive attitude, sportsmanship, and a constant smile regardless of how the game was going.
Tonight at the softball awards night, my girl was given the Tigger Award
She signed her name on Tigger and added the year she received it. Tigger will now reside at our house for a year and then be passed on to the next Tiggerific player at next year's awards night.
During this season, Kayla hit a triple during the same game as she executed a triple play.
Two games later she hit one over the fence for a two-run-homer. And we were so excited at those games and all the others, just to watch her play and do her best.
Obviously there are girls who had better stats than Kayla this year and those girls rightfully won awards for their athletic accomplishments.
But I love the Tigger Award. Even though it's not a shiny trophy or a plaque on which her name is engraved. I love the Tigger Award because it confirms to me what I've suspected all season.
That my girl has let her light shine. On the pitcher's mound. In the batters box as she came up to bat each inning. As she ran the bases. Regardless of the score, regardless of the weather, regardless of the mood of the crowd, my girl was calm, cool and collected.
And smiling.
There were times she'd walk out to the mound and I'd say to Paul "wonder what's made her so happy tonight."
And really, she was usually smiling when she came out of the dugout. Whether it was to bat or to pitch; she was smiling.
May it always be so.
As she finishes her sophomore year and starts the magic days of summer, I wish for her to be swept away in a Hurricane of Happiness.
I have a feeling she will start the joyous breezes blowing all on her own.
Congratulations sweet Kayla Beth. We are so proud of you.
***************************************
A few years ago, Kayla's softball coach created The Tigger Award, to be given to the player who exhibited a consistent positive attitude, sportsmanship, and a constant smile regardless of how the game was going.
Tonight at the softball awards night, my girl was given the Tigger Award
She signed her name on Tigger and added the year she received it. Tigger will now reside at our house for a year and then be passed on to the next Tiggerific player at next year's awards night.During this season, Kayla hit a triple during the same game as she executed a triple play.
Two games later she hit one over the fence for a two-run-homer. And we were so excited at those games and all the others, just to watch her play and do her best.
Obviously there are girls who had better stats than Kayla this year and those girls rightfully won awards for their athletic accomplishments.
But I love the Tigger Award. Even though it's not a shiny trophy or a plaque on which her name is engraved. I love the Tigger Award because it confirms to me what I've suspected all season.
That my girl has let her light shine. On the pitcher's mound. In the batters box as she came up to bat each inning. As she ran the bases. Regardless of the score, regardless of the weather, regardless of the mood of the crowd, my girl was calm, cool and collected.
And smiling.
There were times she'd walk out to the mound and I'd say to Paul "wonder what's made her so happy tonight."
And really, she was usually smiling when she came out of the dugout. Whether it was to bat or to pitch; she was smiling.
May it always be so.
As she finishes her sophomore year and starts the magic days of summer, I wish for her to be swept away in a Hurricane of Happiness.
I have a feeling she will start the joyous breezes blowing all on her own.
Congratulations sweet Kayla Beth. We are so proud of you.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
TO RECEIVE IS TO BE HUMBLED
Last week was a hard week. A really hard week.
It seems, on Monday morning, the dread had set in before I even opened my eyes.
It was Blake's last week of school...his last week at home.
The weather matched my mood. Dark. Cold. Cloudy.
I had told myself that it was just something I was going to have to get through - this week of waiting. Waiting to say goodbye.
As I moped around most of the day, flitting from one activity to another, unaware if I completed any or not; I did happen to check facebook (of course) and noticed a little note that said something like "need to drop something by your house this afternoon. Will you be home?"
Seeing as how the note was from my dearest friend, Janette, I said well, of course I'd be home.
I had no idea what she'd need to bring me. Perhaps pictures from her weekend away? A card?
Having settled in on the mindless task of ironing while I watched Dr. Phil (I know. I know....but I said it was a bad week) I kept one eye on the clock waiting for her to arrive.
And when she arrived, the dam broke. The lump in my throat that had been holding back the tears dissolved and the tears began to flow.
Because her arms were loaded down with food. Food to feed my family for most of the week.
Food to feed my spirit. Chicken and noodles, mashed potatoes, pulled pork barbecue (and buns), watermelon, fresh crunchy veggies, two kinds of cookies.
She knew.
She knew that my heavy heart had probably rendered me too weary to think about the mundane task of fixing supper for my family. She knew I was carrying a burden.
And even though she can't carry my burden for me, she carried me for a while.
And it is so sweetly humbling to be loved like that.
After a week of similarly sweet notes, e-mails, cards and calls from other friends, I was blessed again with the touch of a loving hand.
Literally.
In our church, a time is set aside each Sunday for us to meet privately with our elders for prayer concerns. During this time today I was absorbed in song, absorbed in the peace that music brings, when I looked up to see a woman walking toward me with her hand outstretched. She took me hand and said "Come on. Let's go pray." And she lead me by the hand to one of our leaders and he prayed over us.
She knew. She knew my heavy heart today, a mere two hours after saying goodbye to my son. She knew because she is a Marine Mom and it wasn't so long ago that she said goodbye to her boy and wondered when she would next hear his voice.
And as that sweet Godly man put his arms around us - the two Marine Moms as he called us - and prayed for our hearts, prayed for our boys, I felt so incredibly blessed.
Again, it is so sweetly humbling to be loved like that.
My week has been sandwiched between two incredible acts of love and concern, peppered in between with just enough kind words and surprising gestures to keep my heart above the dark waters of despair.
The doers of these acts? They are all moms. This is not to say that a childless woman could not or would not bring me comfort; but this time I have been lifted up by moms.
Because moms know.
Regardless of how a child moves into our hearts, we moms know that once they move themselves in and embed themselves, once they wrap their arms and legs around our hearts and grow roots there - well, no matter the reason for trying to extricate them - it is nearly impossible.
Whether it's time or not, whether they want to move on or not, whether we want them to move on or not, it is just plain hard to pull ourselves from the hold our children have on our hearts.
And these women know that. Their encouragement and love have been humbling. I cannot repay it this time. And so I choose to just receive.
Receive their love and enjoy it and the humility that comes with it.
It seems, on Monday morning, the dread had set in before I even opened my eyes.
It was Blake's last week of school...his last week at home.
The weather matched my mood. Dark. Cold. Cloudy.
I had told myself that it was just something I was going to have to get through - this week of waiting. Waiting to say goodbye.
As I moped around most of the day, flitting from one activity to another, unaware if I completed any or not; I did happen to check facebook (of course) and noticed a little note that said something like "need to drop something by your house this afternoon. Will you be home?"
Seeing as how the note was from my dearest friend, Janette, I said well, of course I'd be home.
I had no idea what she'd need to bring me. Perhaps pictures from her weekend away? A card?
Having settled in on the mindless task of ironing while I watched Dr. Phil (I know. I know....but I said it was a bad week) I kept one eye on the clock waiting for her to arrive.
And when she arrived, the dam broke. The lump in my throat that had been holding back the tears dissolved and the tears began to flow.
Because her arms were loaded down with food. Food to feed my family for most of the week.
Food to feed my spirit. Chicken and noodles, mashed potatoes, pulled pork barbecue (and buns), watermelon, fresh crunchy veggies, two kinds of cookies.
She knew.
She knew that my heavy heart had probably rendered me too weary to think about the mundane task of fixing supper for my family. She knew I was carrying a burden.
And even though she can't carry my burden for me, she carried me for a while.
And it is so sweetly humbling to be loved like that.
After a week of similarly sweet notes, e-mails, cards and calls from other friends, I was blessed again with the touch of a loving hand.
Literally.
In our church, a time is set aside each Sunday for us to meet privately with our elders for prayer concerns. During this time today I was absorbed in song, absorbed in the peace that music brings, when I looked up to see a woman walking toward me with her hand outstretched. She took me hand and said "Come on. Let's go pray." And she lead me by the hand to one of our leaders and he prayed over us.
She knew. She knew my heavy heart today, a mere two hours after saying goodbye to my son. She knew because she is a Marine Mom and it wasn't so long ago that she said goodbye to her boy and wondered when she would next hear his voice.
And as that sweet Godly man put his arms around us - the two Marine Moms as he called us - and prayed for our hearts, prayed for our boys, I felt so incredibly blessed.
Again, it is so sweetly humbling to be loved like that.
My week has been sandwiched between two incredible acts of love and concern, peppered in between with just enough kind words and surprising gestures to keep my heart above the dark waters of despair.
The doers of these acts? They are all moms. This is not to say that a childless woman could not or would not bring me comfort; but this time I have been lifted up by moms.
Because moms know.
Regardless of how a child moves into our hearts, we moms know that once they move themselves in and embed themselves, once they wrap their arms and legs around our hearts and grow roots there - well, no matter the reason for trying to extricate them - it is nearly impossible.
Whether it's time or not, whether they want to move on or not, whether we want them to move on or not, it is just plain hard to pull ourselves from the hold our children have on our hearts.
And these women know that. Their encouragement and love have been humbling. I cannot repay it this time. And so I choose to just receive.
Receive their love and enjoy it and the humility that comes with it.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
HE MISSED OUT ON THE FASHION JEAN
Yesterday before the softball game I had to tell him "Look. When Kayla and I helped you pick out those jeans, we really thought they were for certain occasions - like dates and stuff. Not sitting on muddy bleachers and doing yard work."
He gave me a look and changed his jeans.
Today I had to tell him "Um...I simply cannot let this continue. You can't go like that. You need to change the shirt or the pants. Something. Let's show Kayla."
Kayla's response? "Ooooh. It's so true." At which point he skulked up the steps to change his pants.
I've had a lot of conversations like this with him over the years and it just doesn't sink in. I usually just let it go but sometimes I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. I don't want him leaving the house looking like he got dressed while wearing a blindfold. Because, let's face it. People will blame me. They know who is ultimately in charge of his clothing.
I mean, seriously. How old should a man be before he doesn't need help getting dressed anymore?
Because my husband is 44 and he still has to have our daughter and me guide him, wardrobically* speaking, when he leaves the house.
*****************************************************
He gave me a look and changed his jeans.
Today I had to tell him "Um...I simply cannot let this continue. You can't go like that. You need to change the shirt or the pants. Something. Let's show Kayla."
Kayla's response? "Ooooh. It's so true." At which point he skulked up the steps to change his pants.
I've had a lot of conversations like this with him over the years and it just doesn't sink in. I usually just let it go but sometimes I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. I don't want him leaving the house looking like he got dressed while wearing a blindfold. Because, let's face it. People will blame me. They know who is ultimately in charge of his clothing.
I mean, seriously. How old should a man be before he doesn't need help getting dressed anymore?
Because my husband is 44 and he still has to have our daughter and me guide him, wardrobically* speaking, when he leaves the house.
*****************************************************
*Wardrobically - {ward - ROBE - i - kly} - of or having to do with a wardrobe, the victories and defeats thereof. 'The poor girl had a beautiful face but was wardrobically challenged.'
Friday, April 16, 2010
DRIVING MISS CRAZY
It seems a gale force wind has entered our home and is blowing the pages of our calendar - turning, turning, turning them so quickly it's as though they've been caught in the winds of a tornado.
And I am desperately trying to stop those pages from turning - wanting to throw myself against the kitchen wall on which the calendar hangs, hoping to flatten said calendar so that the pages will remain still.
Why oh why are we parents unable to stop time?
We parents who, it seems yesterday, were watching the clock wondering if this day would ever end, if we would ever get past this stage, then this stage, then this stage. Long days, short years.
Time - it sure is ticking away here at the house of W.
In two days my baby girl will be Sweet Sixteen. A couple of days after that, she will obtain her drivers license.
Who, I ask you, thought it was a good idea to give babies a license to drive?
Ridiculous.
Four weeks after our Sweet Sixteen celebration, my baby boy leaves for boot camp.
Who, I ask you, thought it was a good idea to put babies in combat boots and arm them with M-16s?
Ridiculous.
But lest we be overwhelmed with melancholy during these next few weeks - the weeks between our younger child getting her license and our older child leaving the nest - we find ourselves distracted by some upcoming excitement.
Because for those four weeks?
WE'RE MAKING THEM SHARE A CAR.
WITH EACH OTHER.
Any of you care to guess how well this decision has been received?
We are the meanest parents in the world.
*high fives all around*
Each of our children has brought their case to me in hopes that I could somehow convince their father to purchase another vehicle for those four weeks.
Each of them has, almost identically, thrown his or her hands in the air and proclaimed "This is not going to work."
To which I reply with great empathy:
"Well, make it work."
Feel free to use that bit of wisdom any time you want.
Kayla is enjoying a slight victory, however, because I have proclaimed that softball games and practices take priority. Since Blake is in no extra curricular activities at this time, he will be at the mercy of the girls' softball schedule when it comes to use of the vehicle.
Blake has used all of his debate and negotiating skills to get us to change our minds but I have held firm.
"You've given rides to your buddies for nearly three years. Make those hooligans reciprocate for a few weeks."
His argument, while heartbreaking, has left me unable to stand upright, so hard do I laugh when he brings it to me.
Since he appears unwilling to swallow his pride and drive my mini van it seems his only option, according to him, is to walk to school and hitch hike 7 miles up a major highway.
I told him that was fine as long as he wasn't tardy.
Or he could....you know...ride the bus...if he doesn't want to ride with his sister.
This is when he informed me that he can't ride the bus. This won't work either:
"Mom, when I was a freshman I really gave this one senior a hard time for riding the bus. I was like 'why are you on the bus? Aren't you like 18? Why don't you drive to school? How about getting a job so you can buy a car?' Now I'm that senior riding the bus, with no job and no car of my own."
And, being the mean mom that I am, I had to point out the irony of his situation.
Again, our conversation left me laughing mercilessly at my poor son's dilemma. I even saw one corner of his mouth turn upward in what could almost be called half a smile. That boy of mine loves to push my buttons.
Yeah. I really look forward to the next five weeks. Watching my two offspring peacefully negotiate use of the third vehicle that is available for them to drive.
I suspect the excitement will only be surpassed by that of the spectators of the Roman Gladiator fights.
By May 23, the Coliseum will have nothing on us.
I, though, intend to remain calm and encourage my kids to "use their words" and "inside voices" as they come to a loving mutually agreeable arrangement.
All while sipping tequila and stabbing my eye with an ice pick.
And I am desperately trying to stop those pages from turning - wanting to throw myself against the kitchen wall on which the calendar hangs, hoping to flatten said calendar so that the pages will remain still.
Why oh why are we parents unable to stop time?
We parents who, it seems yesterday, were watching the clock wondering if this day would ever end, if we would ever get past this stage, then this stage, then this stage. Long days, short years.
Time - it sure is ticking away here at the house of W.
In two days my baby girl will be Sweet Sixteen. A couple of days after that, she will obtain her drivers license.
Who, I ask you, thought it was a good idea to give babies a license to drive?
Ridiculous.
Four weeks after our Sweet Sixteen celebration, my baby boy leaves for boot camp.
Who, I ask you, thought it was a good idea to put babies in combat boots and arm them with M-16s?
Ridiculous.
But lest we be overwhelmed with melancholy during these next few weeks - the weeks between our younger child getting her license and our older child leaving the nest - we find ourselves distracted by some upcoming excitement.
Because for those four weeks?
WE'RE MAKING THEM SHARE A CAR.
WITH EACH OTHER.
Any of you care to guess how well this decision has been received?
We are the meanest parents in the world.
*high fives all around*
Each of our children has brought their case to me in hopes that I could somehow convince their father to purchase another vehicle for those four weeks.
Each of them has, almost identically, thrown his or her hands in the air and proclaimed "This is not going to work."
To which I reply with great empathy:
"Well, make it work."
Feel free to use that bit of wisdom any time you want.
Kayla is enjoying a slight victory, however, because I have proclaimed that softball games and practices take priority. Since Blake is in no extra curricular activities at this time, he will be at the mercy of the girls' softball schedule when it comes to use of the vehicle.
Blake has used all of his debate and negotiating skills to get us to change our minds but I have held firm.
"You've given rides to your buddies for nearly three years. Make those hooligans reciprocate for a few weeks."
His argument, while heartbreaking, has left me unable to stand upright, so hard do I laugh when he brings it to me.
Since he appears unwilling to swallow his pride and drive my mini van it seems his only option, according to him, is to walk to school and hitch hike 7 miles up a major highway.
I told him that was fine as long as he wasn't tardy.
Or he could....you know...ride the bus...if he doesn't want to ride with his sister.
This is when he informed me that he can't ride the bus. This won't work either:
"Mom, when I was a freshman I really gave this one senior a hard time for riding the bus. I was like 'why are you on the bus? Aren't you like 18? Why don't you drive to school? How about getting a job so you can buy a car?' Now I'm that senior riding the bus, with no job and no car of my own."
And, being the mean mom that I am, I had to point out the irony of his situation.
Again, our conversation left me laughing mercilessly at my poor son's dilemma. I even saw one corner of his mouth turn upward in what could almost be called half a smile. That boy of mine loves to push my buttons.
Yeah. I really look forward to the next five weeks. Watching my two offspring peacefully negotiate use of the third vehicle that is available for them to drive.
I suspect the excitement will only be surpassed by that of the spectators of the Roman Gladiator fights.
By May 23, the Coliseum will have nothing on us.
I, though, intend to remain calm and encourage my kids to "use their words" and "inside voices" as they come to a loving mutually agreeable arrangement.
All while sipping tequila and stabbing my eye with an ice pick.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
ON QUITTING
First, though, kudos to coach Applebee for giving the softball team such a treat today.
Apparently, when the game was cancelled today (due to thunderstorms, hail, and tornado sirens) the coach told the girls there would be practice anyway.
So they entered the gym and SURPRISE!!! They were going to have a pickle ball tournament instead of doing softball drills.
Do your kids play pickle ball?
My kids have explained it to me but I can't remember the details. It might have been invented here...I don't know.
I hope so, though, 'cause I want our community to be known for something besides The Soybean Capital of the World.
Pickle Ball capital will surely bring in more tourists.
Oh! And then? After Pickle Ball, the coaches treated the girls to ice cream sundaes in the cafetorium.
Okay then, where was I?
Oh yeah, quitting.
So last week (Tuesday I think) Kayla had a game at a rather large school 7 miles from us.
I was especially eager to go to this game because this school had just recently been featured on the local news for some sort of "mob action" amongst its students. You know. Gang stuff.
And I was having a really tough week, so I was all like "bring it on...I'm ready to rumble." Plus it might be kind of nice to make the local news.
So I put on my very best gangsta look - jeans and a black twinset with a very chic plaid scarf to keep my neck warm against the strong winds - and drove my mini van to said school, parked and walked across the parking lot thinking "Nobody better mess with me or I'm likely to .....well....probably call my friend J-net crying like a baby...." But anyway.
So then.
My in-laws were already at the game, along with Paul's great aunt and her developmentally delayed adult son, whom I think is just so fun and sweet. He likes to pick on me. So after he told me he was going to pick me up and throw me over the fence into the ball diamond, he whipped his camera out of his pocket and proceeded to snap several pictures of me.
None of the pictures show my whole face but they do show my twinset and scarf so I requested a copy of each one. I'm thinking Christmas cards.
Once the camera was put away, I was able to concentrate on the game. The Varsity girls did quite well - we were winning by so much, in fact, that our coach instructed our runners to get some intentional outs by leaving the base early - a mercy move - to move the game along.
I was excited for the JV game. Blake was home resting comfortably under the very competent care of Cubby and I was enjoying the brisk but pleasant outdoors.
And it turns out that our JV girls were going to be playing quite well also - we had two outs before we started scoring, and then we scored twelve runs before the inning was out. Once again, the coach instructed our runner on first to leave the base early to get an out, so that we could move that inning along.
My girl pitched quite well and the defense kept their opponents scoreless.
First inning over. Score: twelve to zero.
Before we could start the second inning, though, the opposing coach walked out to the field and told the umpire "That's it for us. My pitcher is tired and she has a lot more games this week."
Wait, what?
You mean you can do that?
You can just, like, quit, when you're tired? Even if the game isn't over? Even when there's still enough light left to play another inning or two?
You can just, like, decide that it's over?
Ummmm. I was so confused.
So our girls had donned their uniforms, packed their gear, boarded the bus and prepared for a game, all to be told their pitcher was tired?
I left my son at home healing from oral surgery to come to a game that was going to be called off because the pitcher was tired?
My in-laws drove 40 miles to sit on the bleachers in the howling wind and dropping temperatures to watch their grand daughter play ball only to have her game be called after one inning? BECAUSE THEIR PITCHER WAS TIRED?
THEIR PITCHER WAS TIRED?
Well, my daughter was tired too. She had played a double header the previous Saturday, pitched a game just the previous night and had two more games scheduled that week.
You don't think she was tired???
And more importantly, I WAS EXHAUSTED!!!
I was shocked that a coach would stop a game because they were getting beat so badly.
And believe me, our team knows about getting beat. The next night, our girls got their tails kicked. I mean, it was NOT PRETTY.
But did they quit? Did they stop trying? No. No they did not. Sure it was painful, but they hung in there and finished.
Here's the thing. Not only do I think this decision to call the game was a very poor example for the team - it taught them that when things are a little tough, you pack up and go home instead of seeing things through - but it was also discourteous.
It was inconsiderate of them not to allow our girls to play the game they had come to play. Sure we had all only driven a few miles. But we all showed up. The parents made time in their schedules to be there for their daughters; but, more importantly, the girls showed up ready to play ball. And that's what they wanted to do.
So that evening was a good news/bad news kind of night.
Good news - our girls won
Bad news - they only played one inning
Good news - we got home earlier than usual
Bad news - I had nothing ready for dinner
Good news - I wasn't involved in any "mob action"
Bad news - I won't be on the local news any time soon.
There's always next season.
Apparently, when the game was cancelled today (due to thunderstorms, hail, and tornado sirens) the coach told the girls there would be practice anyway.
So they entered the gym and SURPRISE!!! They were going to have a pickle ball tournament instead of doing softball drills.
Do your kids play pickle ball?
My kids have explained it to me but I can't remember the details. It might have been invented here...I don't know.
I hope so, though, 'cause I want our community to be known for something besides The Soybean Capital of the World.
Pickle Ball capital will surely bring in more tourists.
Oh! And then? After Pickle Ball, the coaches treated the girls to ice cream sundaes in the cafetorium.
Okay then, where was I?
Oh yeah, quitting.
So last week (Tuesday I think) Kayla had a game at a rather large school 7 miles from us.
I was especially eager to go to this game because this school had just recently been featured on the local news for some sort of "mob action" amongst its students. You know. Gang stuff.
And I was having a really tough week, so I was all like "bring it on...I'm ready to rumble." Plus it might be kind of nice to make the local news.
So I put on my very best gangsta look - jeans and a black twinset with a very chic plaid scarf to keep my neck warm against the strong winds - and drove my mini van to said school, parked and walked across the parking lot thinking "Nobody better mess with me or I'm likely to .....well....probably call my friend J-net crying like a baby...." But anyway.
So then.
My in-laws were already at the game, along with Paul's great aunt and her developmentally delayed adult son, whom I think is just so fun and sweet. He likes to pick on me. So after he told me he was going to pick me up and throw me over the fence into the ball diamond, he whipped his camera out of his pocket and proceeded to snap several pictures of me.
None of the pictures show my whole face but they do show my twinset and scarf so I requested a copy of each one. I'm thinking Christmas cards.
Once the camera was put away, I was able to concentrate on the game. The Varsity girls did quite well - we were winning by so much, in fact, that our coach instructed our runners to get some intentional outs by leaving the base early - a mercy move - to move the game along.
I was excited for the JV game. Blake was home resting comfortably under the very competent care of Cubby and I was enjoying the brisk but pleasant outdoors.
And it turns out that our JV girls were going to be playing quite well also - we had two outs before we started scoring, and then we scored twelve runs before the inning was out. Once again, the coach instructed our runner on first to leave the base early to get an out, so that we could move that inning along.
My girl pitched quite well and the defense kept their opponents scoreless.
First inning over. Score: twelve to zero.
Before we could start the second inning, though, the opposing coach walked out to the field and told the umpire "That's it for us. My pitcher is tired and she has a lot more games this week."
Wait, what?
You mean you can do that?
You can just, like, quit, when you're tired? Even if the game isn't over? Even when there's still enough light left to play another inning or two?
You can just, like, decide that it's over?
Ummmm. I was so confused.
So our girls had donned their uniforms, packed their gear, boarded the bus and prepared for a game, all to be told their pitcher was tired?
I left my son at home healing from oral surgery to come to a game that was going to be called off because the pitcher was tired?
My in-laws drove 40 miles to sit on the bleachers in the howling wind and dropping temperatures to watch their grand daughter play ball only to have her game be called after one inning? BECAUSE THEIR PITCHER WAS TIRED?
THEIR PITCHER WAS TIRED?
Well, my daughter was tired too. She had played a double header the previous Saturday, pitched a game just the previous night and had two more games scheduled that week.
You don't think she was tired???
And more importantly, I WAS EXHAUSTED!!!
I was shocked that a coach would stop a game because they were getting beat so badly.
And believe me, our team knows about getting beat. The next night, our girls got their tails kicked. I mean, it was NOT PRETTY.
But did they quit? Did they stop trying? No. No they did not. Sure it was painful, but they hung in there and finished.
Here's the thing. Not only do I think this decision to call the game was a very poor example for the team - it taught them that when things are a little tough, you pack up and go home instead of seeing things through - but it was also discourteous.
It was inconsiderate of them not to allow our girls to play the game they had come to play. Sure we had all only driven a few miles. But we all showed up. The parents made time in their schedules to be there for their daughters; but, more importantly, the girls showed up ready to play ball. And that's what they wanted to do.
So that evening was a good news/bad news kind of night.
Good news - our girls won
Bad news - they only played one inning
Good news - we got home earlier than usual
Bad news - I had nothing ready for dinner
Good news - I wasn't involved in any "mob action"
Bad news - I won't be on the local news any time soon.
There's always next season.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
TEENAGERS IN ACTION
It is obvious from the fact that my son is still speaking to me that he has not read my previous post. Of course, he just started speaking today after his surgery so I'm not in the clear yet.
Something tells me, though, that he has more on his mind than reading his mother's blog.
Like salvaging what is left of his spring break now that he can eat and speak again.
Which leads me to just that - Blake's apparent success at making the most of the remaining days of his spring break. Said success would not be possible without two of his friends.
Yesterday Cubby came over to visit. Since I was done packing bloody gauze into the craters left in Blake's mouth, I left and went to Kayla's softball game 15 minutes away. I was glad Cubby was coming over. Cubby is a big guy and I knew he could easily pick Blake up off the floor and throw him onto the couch, should Blake happen to faint from blood loss or severe hunger.
Thankfully neither happened.
Instead I received a text from Blake, while I sat in the bleachers: ''Cub driving me to mall." Since Blake can't drive until Thursday Cubby offered to take him to the mall to visit Gamestop and to get him out of the house.
Now, isn't that sweet? Is that the kind of behavior teenage boys are known for?
I say NO! NO it is not. Teenagers DO have hearts. Teenagers are not always self centered.
I *heart* teenagers with heart. I *heart* Cubby.
And it doesn't end there. After the girls softball game, Blake's fellow Marine Recruit, Carmen, asked if she could stop by and have a visit. So Blake, Cubby and Carmen settled in the basement and watched movies and ate strawberry cake.
Well, Carmen and Cubby ate strawberry cake. Blake ate oatmeal and sprite.
So then.
This afternoon, Carmen had offered to drive Blake to their weekly Marine meeting (Poolie night), so she came by a little early and suggested they take a walk around the neighborhood beforehand. So they did.
Then she drove him to Poolie Night and then to DQ, where Blake ate a sandwich and a mister misty freeze and bought Carmen a mister misty (cause she didn't want dinner).
Again, I ask you....are these the actions of a self-centered teenager?
I say NO! NO, they are not! I *heart* Carmen
And now, Cubby is back in our basement with Blake and they are playing video games and watching movies and Cubby is spending the night.
And neither Cubby nor Carmen has even made fun of his chipmunk cheeks.
But seriously, folks. I've been so thankful for Blake's friends this week. He's been such a good sport but I know he's been miserable. And it's so good to see teenagers that take it upon themselves to do good for one of their own.
I am worn out. There is not one clean glass in my cupboard. Thankfully, I ran the dishwasher this morning and there ARE clean glasses in it; I just haven't had time to empty the dishwasher. my floors are dirty. The laundry is backed up. Kayla and I have eaten fast food three nights in a row. It's been a busy week, with the surgery, the gauze management (every thirty minutes the first day), helping Blake swallow his meds (because his face was completely numb and I literally had to place the pills in his mouth and help him pour water down his throat); softball games four nights this week, Easter shopping, birthday shopping for Paul, and a husband that is stuck at work 14 hours a day, I'll admit I'm worn out.
But even though my body is weary, my heart is energized from watching these teenagers in action. Somewhere out there are two families who should be very proud of their kids, and I intend to tell them that.
***************************************
Disclaimer #1: There is absolutely nothing going on - dating wise - between Blake and Carmen. Carmen has a boyfriend who is away at boot camp. And Blake is not interested in her "that way." They are just buddies.
Disclaimer #2: Despite Blake's testimony that he could easily get $10 a pill for our unused Tylenol with codeine tablets ($30, according to Cubby) at the kids' high school, I do not intend to let the kids sell them outside the cafetorium; our negotiations broke down when I demanded a full %50 cut. I did consider it for a while (OH STOP! YOU KNOW I'M KIDDING) because we DO have oral surgery to pay for and....well....I want a new sofa....but decided it would be a terrible example for my kids. Plus Blake totally needs to spend all of his time in the classroom, not in the halls selling pharmaceuticals. After all, he doesn't even WANT to be a pharmacist.......
Something tells me, though, that he has more on his mind than reading his mother's blog.
Like salvaging what is left of his spring break now that he can eat and speak again.
Which leads me to just that - Blake's apparent success at making the most of the remaining days of his spring break. Said success would not be possible without two of his friends.
Yesterday Cubby came over to visit. Since I was done packing bloody gauze into the craters left in Blake's mouth, I left and went to Kayla's softball game 15 minutes away. I was glad Cubby was coming over. Cubby is a big guy and I knew he could easily pick Blake up off the floor and throw him onto the couch, should Blake happen to faint from blood loss or severe hunger.
Thankfully neither happened.
Instead I received a text from Blake, while I sat in the bleachers: ''Cub driving me to mall." Since Blake can't drive until Thursday Cubby offered to take him to the mall to visit Gamestop and to get him out of the house.
Now, isn't that sweet? Is that the kind of behavior teenage boys are known for?
I say NO! NO it is not. Teenagers DO have hearts. Teenagers are not always self centered.
I *heart* teenagers with heart. I *heart* Cubby.
And it doesn't end there. After the girls softball game, Blake's fellow Marine Recruit, Carmen, asked if she could stop by and have a visit. So Blake, Cubby and Carmen settled in the basement and watched movies and ate strawberry cake.
Well, Carmen and Cubby ate strawberry cake. Blake ate oatmeal and sprite.
So then.
This afternoon, Carmen had offered to drive Blake to their weekly Marine meeting (Poolie night), so she came by a little early and suggested they take a walk around the neighborhood beforehand. So they did.
Then she drove him to Poolie Night and then to DQ, where Blake ate a sandwich and a mister misty freeze and bought Carmen a mister misty (cause she didn't want dinner).
Again, I ask you....are these the actions of a self-centered teenager?
I say NO! NO, they are not! I *heart* Carmen
And now, Cubby is back in our basement with Blake and they are playing video games and watching movies and Cubby is spending the night.
And neither Cubby nor Carmen has even made fun of his chipmunk cheeks.
But seriously, folks. I've been so thankful for Blake's friends this week. He's been such a good sport but I know he's been miserable. And it's so good to see teenagers that take it upon themselves to do good for one of their own.
I am worn out. There is not one clean glass in my cupboard. Thankfully, I ran the dishwasher this morning and there ARE clean glasses in it; I just haven't had time to empty the dishwasher. my floors are dirty. The laundry is backed up. Kayla and I have eaten fast food three nights in a row. It's been a busy week, with the surgery, the gauze management (every thirty minutes the first day), helping Blake swallow his meds (because his face was completely numb and I literally had to place the pills in his mouth and help him pour water down his throat); softball games four nights this week, Easter shopping, birthday shopping for Paul, and a husband that is stuck at work 14 hours a day, I'll admit I'm worn out.
But even though my body is weary, my heart is energized from watching these teenagers in action. Somewhere out there are two families who should be very proud of their kids, and I intend to tell them that.
***************************************
Disclaimer #1: There is absolutely nothing going on - dating wise - between Blake and Carmen. Carmen has a boyfriend who is away at boot camp. And Blake is not interested in her "that way." They are just buddies.
Disclaimer #2: Despite Blake's testimony that he could easily get $10 a pill for our unused Tylenol with codeine tablets ($30, according to Cubby) at the kids' high school, I do not intend to let the kids sell them outside the cafetorium; our negotiations broke down when I demanded a full %50 cut. I did consider it for a while (OH STOP! YOU KNOW I'M KIDDING) because we DO have oral surgery to pay for and....well....I want a new sofa....but decided it would be a terrible example for my kids. Plus Blake totally needs to spend all of his time in the classroom, not in the halls selling pharmaceuticals. After all, he doesn't even WANT to be a pharmacist.......
Monday, March 29, 2010
ORAL SURGERY, TEXTING AND OBAMACARE
My sweet son had all four wisdom teeth extracted this morning.
I am exhausted for many reasons.
I did not sleep well last night because, even though he is almost 19 years old, I lay awake most of the night praying for his comfort and worrying about complications.
The surgeon was running late today. SURPRISE!!! a surgeon who is not on schedule.
When we got back to his office, we realized why he was running late.
Boy can that doctor talk.
And boy does he talk fast. So fast it wore me out trying to listen to him.
I was picturing a child who had eaten his whole Easter basket full of candy, downed a RedBull and then spent the day with Grandma.
I've never seen a doctor so passionate about his work.
By the time he finished with his consultation with us, I felt my eye twitching and I noticed that Blake was having a hard time keeping a straight face. Also, I completely forgot everything he said to us.
He did tell us that patients react to anesthesia in one of four ways:
-weepy, which could escalate into "wailing of Biblical proportions"
-child of the sixties...mellow and thoroughly happy with the drugs they've been given
-loopy and overly friendly....flirting with the nurses
-cussing like a sailor...which will lead the parents of said patient to attempt to crawl under the bed
Then the doctor clasped all our hands and began praying with us - praying that Blake would recover well and that he himself would do a good job for this patient brought to him. Maybe that's why I forgot everything he said to us....my mind was on this wonderful testimony of his faith.
I also realized then why Dr. K spoke so fast and with such enthusiasm - the man is high on God.
I then spent my time in the waiting room praying that Blake did not awaken from his procedure cussing like a sailor, or in our case, a marine. I also prayed that he did not try to cop a feel on one of the nurses, especially since one of the nurses was the mother of his homecoming date.
Thirty minutes later, we were escorted back to his recovery room. One look at him in bed and we knew which category of anesthesia reaction he met....MELLOW AND HIGH AS A KITE. Our son is a child of the sixties
Things were looking PRIT. TEEE groovy for our boy. He seemed to be especially enthralled with the lights and other shiny objects.
He saw us in the doorway and smiled real big and gave us a big thumbs up. I never thought I'd be so happy that my son was a stoner.
He continued with the smiles and. thumbs up sign for several minutes until he told us (through sign language) that he wanted to write us notes.
He wrote us such messages as;
drugs are sweet
doctor is cool
drugs are awesome
How did they get me in here
and my favorite
liberals suck.
Now we are home changing gauze packing every 30 minutes and administering drugs every two hours.
And I am falling in love with texting all over again.
If I'm not in the room with him, Blake texts me for what he needs. If I am in the room with him, he types a text, lets me reads it, then deletes it.
When his Tylenol with codeine kicked in and he fell asleep, I lay down on my bed for a while to catch a little nap. I awoke to my phone vibrating and Blake texting me "new gauze, please."
Texting is the best new medical aid of the 21st century.
But I seriously doubt Obamacare will cover it as a legitimate medical expense.
I am exhausted for many reasons.
I did not sleep well last night because, even though he is almost 19 years old, I lay awake most of the night praying for his comfort and worrying about complications.
The surgeon was running late today. SURPRISE!!! a surgeon who is not on schedule.
When we got back to his office, we realized why he was running late.
Boy can that doctor talk.
And boy does he talk fast. So fast it wore me out trying to listen to him.
I was picturing a child who had eaten his whole Easter basket full of candy, downed a RedBull and then spent the day with Grandma.
I've never seen a doctor so passionate about his work.
By the time he finished with his consultation with us, I felt my eye twitching and I noticed that Blake was having a hard time keeping a straight face. Also, I completely forgot everything he said to us.
He did tell us that patients react to anesthesia in one of four ways:
-weepy, which could escalate into "wailing of Biblical proportions"
-child of the sixties...mellow and thoroughly happy with the drugs they've been given
-loopy and overly friendly....flirting with the nurses
-cussing like a sailor...which will lead the parents of said patient to attempt to crawl under the bed
Then the doctor clasped all our hands and began praying with us - praying that Blake would recover well and that he himself would do a good job for this patient brought to him. Maybe that's why I forgot everything he said to us....my mind was on this wonderful testimony of his faith.
I also realized then why Dr. K spoke so fast and with such enthusiasm - the man is high on God.
I then spent my time in the waiting room praying that Blake did not awaken from his procedure cussing like a sailor, or in our case, a marine. I also prayed that he did not try to cop a feel on one of the nurses, especially since one of the nurses was the mother of his homecoming date.
Thirty minutes later, we were escorted back to his recovery room. One look at him in bed and we knew which category of anesthesia reaction he met....MELLOW AND HIGH AS A KITE. Our son is a child of the sixties
Things were looking PRIT. TEEE groovy for our boy. He seemed to be especially enthralled with the lights and other shiny objects.
He saw us in the doorway and smiled real big and gave us a big thumbs up. I never thought I'd be so happy that my son was a stoner.
He continued with the smiles and. thumbs up sign for several minutes until he told us (through sign language) that he wanted to write us notes.
He wrote us such messages as;
drugs are sweet
doctor is cool
drugs are awesome
How did they get me in here
and my favorite
liberals suck.
Now we are home changing gauze packing every 30 minutes and administering drugs every two hours.
And I am falling in love with texting all over again.
If I'm not in the room with him, Blake texts me for what he needs. If I am in the room with him, he types a text, lets me reads it, then deletes it.
When his Tylenol with codeine kicked in and he fell asleep, I lay down on my bed for a while to catch a little nap. I awoke to my phone vibrating and Blake texting me "new gauze, please."
Texting is the best new medical aid of the 21st century.
But I seriously doubt Obamacare will cover it as a legitimate medical expense.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
GIVING CREDIT
Nobody says it better than Antique Mommy.
The fact of the matter is that for some time now, I’ve been feeling like Forrest Gump in that scene where he is jogging down the highway out in the desert with all those people following him and he just stops. He’s been running hard for five years and one day, he just stops. He doesn’t really know why. It just seems right. He turns and tells all the people that he’s tired now and he’s going home.
That’s sort of how I’ve been feeling about blogging lately, just sort of called away, feeling like it’s time to slow down, be quiet, do something else, invest elsewhere. I don’t plan to stop completely, I don’t think so anyway, but I’m going to take away some of the time and energy I give to this blog and invest it in my photography and elsewhere. Is that called balance? I don’t know.
**************************************
Not that I have a photography hobby but there are other things going on, other places I need to spend my time. Plus, I just can't get any thoughts to meld together into anything blog-worthy.
Perhaps now that I've used Antique Mommy's words (and she certainly has some of the best words I've ever read) - my mind will be jumpstarted.
Perhaps not.
The fact of the matter is that for some time now, I’ve been feeling like Forrest Gump in that scene where he is jogging down the highway out in the desert with all those people following him and he just stops. He’s been running hard for five years and one day, he just stops. He doesn’t really know why. It just seems right. He turns and tells all the people that he’s tired now and he’s going home.
That’s sort of how I’ve been feeling about blogging lately, just sort of called away, feeling like it’s time to slow down, be quiet, do something else, invest elsewhere. I don’t plan to stop completely, I don’t think so anyway, but I’m going to take away some of the time and energy I give to this blog and invest it in my photography and elsewhere. Is that called balance? I don’t know.
**************************************
Not that I have a photography hobby but there are other things going on, other places I need to spend my time. Plus, I just can't get any thoughts to meld together into anything blog-worthy.
Perhaps now that I've used Antique Mommy's words (and she certainly has some of the best words I've ever read) - my mind will be jumpstarted.
Perhaps not.
Friday, February 19, 2010
DOUBLE DONUT DATE
I'm sitting in my kitchen drinking a cup of coffee and waiting for my son to come downstairs and eat donuts with me.
Because that's what really good mothers do. They eat donuts with their children.
Blake is missing school today so he can drive to the University of Illinois and support his wrestling team mates who are competing in the state tournament.
GO BOMBERS!!
So I took Kayla to school today. When I got up this morning she asked if we could stop at Casey's on the way to school and get a couple of donuts. Did I tell you? We have a new Casey's near the school - woot!
So I said of course we would stop for Donuts. Because I'm sacrificial like that. I make myself eat donuts. For the Children.
Then her brother came downstairs and mumbled something like "hey mom, how 'bout you bring some donuts from Casey's?" I told him I was already on it.
Are you starting to pick up on the fact that our family likes donuts?
So then. Kayla and I ran into Casey's to pick out our donuts and while I was at the donut case I felt a little tap on my shoulder and when I turned around there was one of Kayla's classmates smiling at me and saying "hey, Mrs. Woolard." Hey, Devin. I love love love it when my kids' friends make a point to speak to me when they see me in public.
You like me....you really like me.....
{{I would like to take this moment to give a little shout out to the teachers and administrators at my kids' school: When you see my daughter in the cafetorium eating donuts and diet pepsi before school, please know that she had a banana before she left home. She also has access to other fresh fruit, healthy cereals and yogurt. The fact that she chooses donuts and diet pepsi is something I'm going to blame on her father for now. M'kay?}}
Now back to my donut date with my daughter. Let me just ask you, is there anything a sixteen-year-old girl likes more than bling? Probably not. Now imagine her delight when she finds a donut with bling on it. Seriously. She found a donut with silver sprinkles. And it was oh so shiny and sweet looking. It was so shiny and captivating, she could barely place it on the counter so I could pay for it.
It was so shiny and captivating that when she told me she forgot to bring her Junior Class Schedule for next year (and it's due today) and I said "That's it! Give me your donuts." She said "NOT MY SHINY ONE!!"
I'm going to have a whole gross of shiny donuts made so that when she gets upset about something I can say "Kayla...Honey...look at your donut and breathe. Watch. The. Donut."
Anyway, after my sweet and shiny 30 minutes with my daughter this morning, I came home and yelled up the stairs "Blake!!! Donuts!!" and got no response. So then I sighed and did what I hate to do.
I texted him: DONUTS.
And he still hasn't come down to enjoy his donuts with me. Should I be offended? I'm being stood up for the second half of my Double Donut Date.
His reluctance to join me has worked to my favor in one regard. It's given me the chance to remove the Chocolate Iced With Peanuts from the box and set it aside for myself.
Because that's what mothers get to do. They get to steal the good donuts.
And let me tell you. Wrestler or not, I could totally find a way to pin that kid if he tries to take my Chocolate Iced With Peanuts.
*************************************************************************
In other news.
With the state wrestling tournament going on today and tomorrow, Kayla has made an excellent point.
Wrestling does not have a huge following. I understand that. People have basketball and volleyball and all sorts of other commitments. Wrestling is not a sport a lot of people are familiar with and so they don't enjoy watching it. Totally understandable.
But, and here is Kayla's point, the students who didn't care to follow and support the wrestlers when they were working their way to the state tournament are suddenly very enthusiastic for our state bound wrestlers - because it's a day away from school to go watch the tournament at the University of Illinois.
And that has some of the loyal followers a little ticked off. So I'd like to thank the few students who supported our boys.
First, the beauties - Kayla, Hannah, Andrea, Becky, Mrs. Barnes, Miss J-net.
And the beasts (who Blake calls his Crew) - Drew, Jake, Taylor and Brian. There has never been a more vocal and enthusiastic fan than Drew. Oh how we love hearing Drew in the stands when our boys are on the mats...and on the podium getting their medals.
Thanks Beauties and Beasts. You are the best.
As for the rest of the students who are interested in the state tournament - I'm thinking of The Little Red Hen. They really wanted nothing to do with making a state bound wrestler, but they certainly want to enjoy the experience of the State Tournament - and missing a day of school to do so.
One good thing to come of this will be that people can see how hard our wrestlers work - what a difficult and intense sport it is. Hopefully they will see that it does involve strategy and planning, patience and quick thinking.
And maybe those extra fans will inspire our boys to reach the top in the tournament this weekend.
Good luck Chris (140), Andrew (189), Aaron (215) and Trent (285).
You Wrestlers Wrock!!!
Because that's what really good mothers do. They eat donuts with their children.
Blake is missing school today so he can drive to the University of Illinois and support his wrestling team mates who are competing in the state tournament.
GO BOMBERS!!
So I took Kayla to school today. When I got up this morning she asked if we could stop at Casey's on the way to school and get a couple of donuts. Did I tell you? We have a new Casey's near the school - woot!
So I said of course we would stop for Donuts. Because I'm sacrificial like that. I make myself eat donuts. For the Children.
Then her brother came downstairs and mumbled something like "hey mom, how 'bout you bring some donuts from Casey's?" I told him I was already on it.
Are you starting to pick up on the fact that our family likes donuts?
So then. Kayla and I ran into Casey's to pick out our donuts and while I was at the donut case I felt a little tap on my shoulder and when I turned around there was one of Kayla's classmates smiling at me and saying "hey, Mrs. Woolard." Hey, Devin. I love love love it when my kids' friends make a point to speak to me when they see me in public.
You like me....you really like me.....
{{I would like to take this moment to give a little shout out to the teachers and administrators at my kids' school: When you see my daughter in the cafetorium eating donuts and diet pepsi before school, please know that she had a banana before she left home. She also has access to other fresh fruit, healthy cereals and yogurt. The fact that she chooses donuts and diet pepsi is something I'm going to blame on her father for now. M'kay?}}
Now back to my donut date with my daughter. Let me just ask you, is there anything a sixteen-year-old girl likes more than bling? Probably not. Now imagine her delight when she finds a donut with bling on it. Seriously. She found a donut with silver sprinkles. And it was oh so shiny and sweet looking. It was so shiny and captivating, she could barely place it on the counter so I could pay for it.
It was so shiny and captivating that when she told me she forgot to bring her Junior Class Schedule for next year (and it's due today) and I said "That's it! Give me your donuts." She said "NOT MY SHINY ONE!!"
I'm going to have a whole gross of shiny donuts made so that when she gets upset about something I can say "Kayla...Honey...look at your donut and breathe. Watch. The. Donut."
Anyway, after my sweet and shiny 30 minutes with my daughter this morning, I came home and yelled up the stairs "Blake!!! Donuts!!" and got no response. So then I sighed and did what I hate to do.
I texted him: DONUTS.
And he still hasn't come down to enjoy his donuts with me. Should I be offended? I'm being stood up for the second half of my Double Donut Date.
His reluctance to join me has worked to my favor in one regard. It's given me the chance to remove the Chocolate Iced With Peanuts from the box and set it aside for myself.
Because that's what mothers get to do. They get to steal the good donuts.
And let me tell you. Wrestler or not, I could totally find a way to pin that kid if he tries to take my Chocolate Iced With Peanuts.
*************************************************************************
In other news.
With the state wrestling tournament going on today and tomorrow, Kayla has made an excellent point.
Wrestling does not have a huge following. I understand that. People have basketball and volleyball and all sorts of other commitments. Wrestling is not a sport a lot of people are familiar with and so they don't enjoy watching it. Totally understandable.
But, and here is Kayla's point, the students who didn't care to follow and support the wrestlers when they were working their way to the state tournament are suddenly very enthusiastic for our state bound wrestlers - because it's a day away from school to go watch the tournament at the University of Illinois.
And that has some of the loyal followers a little ticked off. So I'd like to thank the few students who supported our boys.
First, the beauties - Kayla, Hannah, Andrea, Becky, Mrs. Barnes, Miss J-net.
And the beasts (who Blake calls his Crew) - Drew, Jake, Taylor and Brian. There has never been a more vocal and enthusiastic fan than Drew. Oh how we love hearing Drew in the stands when our boys are on the mats...and on the podium getting their medals.
Thanks Beauties and Beasts. You are the best.
As for the rest of the students who are interested in the state tournament - I'm thinking of The Little Red Hen. They really wanted nothing to do with making a state bound wrestler, but they certainly want to enjoy the experience of the State Tournament - and missing a day of school to do so.
One good thing to come of this will be that people can see how hard our wrestlers work - what a difficult and intense sport it is. Hopefully they will see that it does involve strategy and planning, patience and quick thinking.
And maybe those extra fans will inspire our boys to reach the top in the tournament this weekend.
Good luck Chris (140), Andrew (189), Aaron (215) and Trent (285).
You Wrestlers Wrock!!!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
PERFECTLY LOVED
Today my husband gave me a box of chocolates - COLD STONE CREAMERY chocolates (who knew?) - and a video (New In Town) in honor of Valentines Day. I love them both, just as I love the card he gave me.
I also got received a card from my children. A card that says "For letting us know we didn't need to be perfect in order to be perfectly loved, thanks Mom. You're Wonderful."
I am in awe of that sentiment.
I love this card for two reasons:
Number one, it is from my children.
Number two, it makes me feel like I've done something right.
I've made mistakes as a mother but I will not list them because there is not enough memory on this or any computer to record them all.
But one thing I have always hoped to do with my children is let them know that I love them NO MATTER WHAT.
I have never expected perfection from my kids; and that's a good thing because they are not perfect. And that works out just fine because they are being raised by two parents who are not perfect.
But as they get closer to leaving our home (99 days, in fact, for Blake) I hope, more than anything, that they remember one thing.
That, no matter what, I have loved them.
With all the mistakes I've made in this journey of motherhood, I choose to believe that I've done one thing well.
I've loved them.
I've loved them as fiercely, as strongly, as perfectly as I know how to love.
I've loved them through temper tantrums, discipline issues, poor grades, calls from teachers, and issues too personal to mention on this blog.
I've been angry with them. I've lost my patience with them. I've slapped my forehead and wondered how I would get us out of the current mess. But always the Good Lord has helped me remember that I love them - that even though they aren't perfect - I perfectly love them. And He has helped me to remember that I must tell them that. And so I do - daily.
Neither of my kids has been the star of an athletic team. Neither of my kids will be valedictorian of their class. They have both made mistakes - some bigger than others.
But if I might speak a little too highly of myself for a moment....I know that they know they are loved. They are perfectly loved.
They are perfectly loved by a far from perfect mother.
When life has kicked them in the teeth; when things don't seem to be going their way; when they think they just aren't measuring up in a world that is far too competitive for young people; I wan t them to know that they are not perfect but they are perfectly loved.
And my hope for them is that the knowledge of that love will be their soft place to fall when life has knocked them down.
I also got received a card from my children. A card that says "For letting us know we didn't need to be perfect in order to be perfectly loved, thanks Mom. You're Wonderful."
I am in awe of that sentiment.
I love this card for two reasons:
Number one, it is from my children.
Number two, it makes me feel like I've done something right.
I've made mistakes as a mother but I will not list them because there is not enough memory on this or any computer to record them all.
But one thing I have always hoped to do with my children is let them know that I love them NO MATTER WHAT.
I have never expected perfection from my kids; and that's a good thing because they are not perfect. And that works out just fine because they are being raised by two parents who are not perfect.
But as they get closer to leaving our home (99 days, in fact, for Blake) I hope, more than anything, that they remember one thing.
That, no matter what, I have loved them.
With all the mistakes I've made in this journey of motherhood, I choose to believe that I've done one thing well.
I've loved them.
I've loved them as fiercely, as strongly, as perfectly as I know how to love.
I've loved them through temper tantrums, discipline issues, poor grades, calls from teachers, and issues too personal to mention on this blog.
I've been angry with them. I've lost my patience with them. I've slapped my forehead and wondered how I would get us out of the current mess. But always the Good Lord has helped me remember that I love them - that even though they aren't perfect - I perfectly love them. And He has helped me to remember that I must tell them that. And so I do - daily.
Neither of my kids has been the star of an athletic team. Neither of my kids will be valedictorian of their class. They have both made mistakes - some bigger than others.
But if I might speak a little too highly of myself for a moment....I know that they know they are loved. They are perfectly loved.
They are perfectly loved by a far from perfect mother.
When life has kicked them in the teeth; when things don't seem to be going their way; when they think they just aren't measuring up in a world that is far too competitive for young people; I wan t them to know that they are not perfect but they are perfectly loved.
And my hope for them is that the knowledge of that love will be their soft place to fall when life has knocked them down.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
EVERYBODY DESERVES A MOMENT LIKE THIS
Today at Blake's regional wrestling meet I watched the sweetest victory I think I'll ever have opportunity to witness.
And it had nothing to do with my son.
The interesting thing is that the boy who achieved this victory was going to be a subject of my post tonight anyway. But not because he had actually won a match.
Because he hadn't.
The only wins to his name until today had been wins due to forfeit.
Because this boy, Brandon, is our 103 guy. Except he isn't...103 pounds that is.
He weighs 85 pounds.
He is living with a liver disease and he is quite small. He looks frail and tired. His skin and eyes are yellow.
This is Brandon - the one with his back to the camera.
We have never seen Brandon run from a fight, even though he knows he's going to get on the mats and face an opponent who is nearly twenty pounds larger than he. He runs out at the beginning of each match like he knows he's going to set the world on fire with his strength.
And when he is pinned in 20, 30, 40 seconds - after giving it his all...well, he shakes his opponent's hand and gladly shakes the hands of the coaches before he jogs off the mats again.
I've never seen his parents at a meet. I have seen him at the concession stand without enough money to pay for his snacks. But always there is somebody from the team digging into their pockets saying "I'll get Brandon's." The team takes care of him.
Brandon fills my heart. He's a fighter. He's a little guy with a big desire to simply go out and do his best.
Today was a big meet. Only those wrestlers who placed third or above would advance. For the rest, it would be their last meet of the season. I suppose, like in all the other meets, the coaches and team sent Brandon out to the mat expecting another loss out of him. Not that he doesn't fight like mad to win, but he just isn't strong enough to conquer his opponents. He is, after all, an 85 pounder in a 103 world.
But today was different.
Today Brandon came up against an opponent his size.
And Brandon made it through the first period.
And when that buzzer sounded at the end of the first period, his team mates were on their feet. The state ranked wrestlers, the tattoo covered 189 guy, the guys who could carry Brandon with one arm...they were on their feet punching the air with their fists. They were yelling 'til they were hoarse, they were coaching him from the sidelines - 15 pumped up, testosterone filled voices encouraging him, telling him HE WAS GOING TO DO IT.
I doubt the actual coaches' voices could be heard, so loud were the fans and the team.
This wrestler had never made it past the first period.
This wrestler had turned it into a match.
The second period came and went. His opponent started yelling - grunting - so furiously was Brandon working him over.
The wrestling team could not be contained. Their little guy who took this weight class because "they had nobody else," was setting the stage for this phase of their meet. Even if he did not win, he had made it further than he ever had this season.
Our little 85 pounder had become a giant.
The buzzer rang a second time and Brandon was going to make it to the third period.
More fist pumping from his team mates. More yelling from nearly hoarse, sweaty, bulging muscled young men who cannot believe what this little guy is doing for their team.
More calm forward leaning posturing from the coaches who had never been in the position to direct Brandon through 3 periods before.
Our crowd is on their feet.
BRANDON!! BRANDON!! BRANDON!! YOU CAN DO THIS BRANDON!! YOU CAN HOLD ON!!
I can only imagine how long those last 2 minutes were for him. He knew victory was near, but so unaccustomed was he to it he was confused. He did not know what move to make next to pin his opponent.
S0 he just held him. And held him and held him. With every bit of strength his tired little body had left, he held him. For nearly twenty five seconds, until the final buzzer, he held him.
What an incredibly long 25 seconds.
BRANDON!! BRANDON!! HOLD HIM!! YOU'VE GOT HIM!! HOLD ON!!
And then the final buzzer sounded and our small crowd erupted. Our wrestlers did more jumping and fist pumping.
With a final score of five to four, Brandon had won.
He gets a win to his name now. This box score is not going to say 'win by forfeit.' It will say 'win by decision:5-4.'
He got to raise his hand in victory today - a victory he fought for, not a victory brought on by lack of an opponent.
He gets to advance to sectionals next week because he won third place in his bracket. He stood on the podium and received his medal.
And he got more high fives and hugs than any wrestler at the meet today.
And because his mother wasn't there, I felt it was my duty to let happy tears go ahead and run down my cheeks - just for a moment.
Everybody deserves a moment like this. A moment that will keep them awake at night, so excited are they every time they remember it.
"Remember the time I won that match....my first win? When nobody thought I could do it? When I thought I couldn't do it?"
Who knows what this moment will inspire Brandon to try next?
Today is my birthday. I spent it sitting on the bleachers watching a very long wrestling meet.
And I got to watch a sweet young boy inspire a gym full of wrestlers and their parents with a victory none of us imagined when we awoke this morning.
Happy Birthday to me. What a sweet sweet day.
And it had nothing to do with my son.
The interesting thing is that the boy who achieved this victory was going to be a subject of my post tonight anyway. But not because he had actually won a match.
Because he hadn't.
The only wins to his name until today had been wins due to forfeit.
Because this boy, Brandon, is our 103 guy. Except he isn't...103 pounds that is.
He weighs 85 pounds.
He is living with a liver disease and he is quite small. He looks frail and tired. His skin and eyes are yellow.
This is Brandon - the one with his back to the camera.
We have never seen Brandon run from a fight, even though he knows he's going to get on the mats and face an opponent who is nearly twenty pounds larger than he. He runs out at the beginning of each match like he knows he's going to set the world on fire with his strength.And when he is pinned in 20, 30, 40 seconds - after giving it his all...well, he shakes his opponent's hand and gladly shakes the hands of the coaches before he jogs off the mats again.
I've never seen his parents at a meet. I have seen him at the concession stand without enough money to pay for his snacks. But always there is somebody from the team digging into their pockets saying "I'll get Brandon's." The team takes care of him.
Brandon fills my heart. He's a fighter. He's a little guy with a big desire to simply go out and do his best.
Today was a big meet. Only those wrestlers who placed third or above would advance. For the rest, it would be their last meet of the season. I suppose, like in all the other meets, the coaches and team sent Brandon out to the mat expecting another loss out of him. Not that he doesn't fight like mad to win, but he just isn't strong enough to conquer his opponents. He is, after all, an 85 pounder in a 103 world.
But today was different.
Today Brandon came up against an opponent his size.
And Brandon made it through the first period.
And when that buzzer sounded at the end of the first period, his team mates were on their feet. The state ranked wrestlers, the tattoo covered 189 guy, the guys who could carry Brandon with one arm...they were on their feet punching the air with their fists. They were yelling 'til they were hoarse, they were coaching him from the sidelines - 15 pumped up, testosterone filled voices encouraging him, telling him HE WAS GOING TO DO IT.
I doubt the actual coaches' voices could be heard, so loud were the fans and the team.
This wrestler had never made it past the first period.
This wrestler had turned it into a match.
The second period came and went. His opponent started yelling - grunting - so furiously was Brandon working him over.
The wrestling team could not be contained. Their little guy who took this weight class because "they had nobody else," was setting the stage for this phase of their meet. Even if he did not win, he had made it further than he ever had this season.
Our little 85 pounder had become a giant.
The buzzer rang a second time and Brandon was going to make it to the third period.
More fist pumping from his team mates. More yelling from nearly hoarse, sweaty, bulging muscled young men who cannot believe what this little guy is doing for their team.
More calm forward leaning posturing from the coaches who had never been in the position to direct Brandon through 3 periods before.
Our crowd is on their feet.
BRANDON!! BRANDON!! BRANDON!! YOU CAN DO THIS BRANDON!! YOU CAN HOLD ON!!
I can only imagine how long those last 2 minutes were for him. He knew victory was near, but so unaccustomed was he to it he was confused. He did not know what move to make next to pin his opponent.
S0 he just held him. And held him and held him. With every bit of strength his tired little body had left, he held him. For nearly twenty five seconds, until the final buzzer, he held him.
What an incredibly long 25 seconds.
BRANDON!! BRANDON!! HOLD HIM!! YOU'VE GOT HIM!! HOLD ON!!
And then the final buzzer sounded and our small crowd erupted. Our wrestlers did more jumping and fist pumping.
With a final score of five to four, Brandon had won.
He gets a win to his name now. This box score is not going to say 'win by forfeit.' It will say 'win by decision:5-4.'
He got to raise his hand in victory today - a victory he fought for, not a victory brought on by lack of an opponent.
He gets to advance to sectionals next week because he won third place in his bracket. He stood on the podium and received his medal.
And he got more high fives and hugs than any wrestler at the meet today.
And because his mother wasn't there, I felt it was my duty to let happy tears go ahead and run down my cheeks - just for a moment.
Everybody deserves a moment like this. A moment that will keep them awake at night, so excited are they every time they remember it.
"Remember the time I won that match....my first win? When nobody thought I could do it? When I thought I couldn't do it?"
Who knows what this moment will inspire Brandon to try next?
Today is my birthday. I spent it sitting on the bleachers watching a very long wrestling meet.
And I got to watch a sweet young boy inspire a gym full of wrestlers and their parents with a victory none of us imagined when we awoke this morning.
Happy Birthday to me. What a sweet sweet day.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
A GIRL AND HER PHONE - A LOVE STORY
A few months ago, a certain teenage girl in our household began having trouble with her cell phone.
Again.
It probably had something to do with the fact that said cell phone had been dropped from the bleachers at a wrestling meet. And not onto a wrestling mat as one would hope but onto the hard wood floors from about 20 rows up.
So then.
Her father and I told her that until we decided when and if her phone would be replaced she would have to.....gasp....use the land line.
This caused much confusion and distress......
That squiggly cord thing....the mere massiveness of it....the fact that it could not be carried in her pocket.
Yes we are indeed cruel parents.
Of course we parents decided that the phone would be replaced but not by a new one. Then came the difficult decision as to which parent would enter the cell phone store and take care of this. We thought of doing rock, paper, scissors. We considered arm wrestling.
But then I merely spoke one sentence to Kayla's father and the decision was made:
I. AM. NOT. ENTERING. THAT. CELL. PHONE. STORE. AGAIN. TO. GET. HER. ANOTHER. PHONE.
And it was said through clenched teeth. Worked like a charm.
This caused our teenager even more distress because she knew she might end up with two tin cans on a string if her dad was in charge of her replacement. So to prepare for the humiliation, we practiced with two cups and a ribbon.
Things began to fall apart when she realized one cannot text on a plastic cup.
Sweet Mercy. This girl was beyond distraught. She had no phone. She had no way to text her friends. All she had at her disposal was...gasp...the land line.
My phone! My phone! My sweet constant companion - my phone! 
Ah - sweet contentment.
Then came the difficult days of waiting.
Oh the torture of waiting for a cell phone to arrive in the mail.
Up on the couch she jumped.
Again.
It probably had something to do with the fact that said cell phone had been dropped from the bleachers at a wrestling meet. And not onto a wrestling mat as one would hope but onto the hard wood floors from about 20 rows up.
So then.
Her father and I told her that until we decided when and if her phone would be replaced she would have to.....gasp....use the land line.
This caused much confusion and distress......
That squiggly cord thing....the mere massiveness of it....the fact that it could not be carried in her pocket.Yes we are indeed cruel parents.
Of course we parents decided that the phone would be replaced but not by a new one. Then came the difficult decision as to which parent would enter the cell phone store and take care of this. We thought of doing rock, paper, scissors. We considered arm wrestling.
But then I merely spoke one sentence to Kayla's father and the decision was made:
I. AM. NOT. ENTERING. THAT. CELL. PHONE. STORE. AGAIN. TO. GET. HER. ANOTHER. PHONE.
And it was said through clenched teeth. Worked like a charm.
This caused our teenager even more distress because she knew she might end up with two tin cans on a string if her dad was in charge of her replacement. So to prepare for the humiliation, we practiced with two cups and a ribbon.
Things began to fall apart when she realized one cannot text on a plastic cup.
Sweet Mercy. This girl was beyond distraught. She had no phone. She had no way to text her friends. All she had at her disposal was...gasp...the land line.
My phone! My phone! My sweet constant companion - my phone!It was really quite pathetic.
Once her father had been to the cell phone store and realized that the phone could be replaced with a slightly used model for a mere $12 shipping charge, I decided that she and I could share my cell phone until hers arrived in the mail.
And then the clouds parted. The birds began to sing. And joy was returned to the W house.
Ah - sweet contentment.Then came the difficult days of waiting.
Oh the torture of waiting for a cell phone to arrive in the mail.
Every day after school (for three whole days) my tortured soul of a daughter would come in and desperately ask "Did my phone come?"
And, oh, the ache in my heart when I'd have to say "No dear. It did not come today. Just be strong a little longer. YOU CAN DO IT. And remember, I am here for you during these dark days."
And then (hallelujah chorus) the phone arrived in the mail and our daughter, for a brief mindless moment turned into Tom Cruise on the Oprah show:
Up on the couch she jumped. I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!! My phone. My phone is back!!
And then she vowed to treat her constant companion cell phone with much better care and tenderness, as it deserved.
The End.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
CHANGE OF HEART?
As I sit in our living room and watch the news coverage of the tragedy in Haiti, I think of the two women last summer who told me in no uncertain terms that my son's choice to become a Marine was a huge disappointment. As though their narrow minded opinion should be enough for me to alienate my son.
You see, in their words "The Marines are the ones who are trained to kill," and I should make my son choose another branch of service...a branch of the armed services that does not train their members to kill.
Oh, the irony.
Anyway, I am sitting here watching my television and I see more Marines landing in Haiti to deliver relief packages to the victims of the devastating earthquake. They are delivering lifesaving food, water, medication, blankets. They are setting up safe zones. They are using their language specialists (because not all Marines merely shoot to kill) to communicate with the locals so that these efforts can be run with the efficiency of any U.S. Military operation. And they are doing so in a country whose own government seems to have disappeared when its people need it the most.
Yes, some of these Marines are carrying their weapons; but they are also carrying hope to these people whose window of hope is rapidly closing. We are seeing pictures of military personnel carrying babies to safety. We are seeing news stories of Naval ships docking and setting up hospitals for the injured. We are seeing members of the U.S. Army organize food lines.
These young men and women who have chosen a career that earns them disparaging remarks are jumping on planes and helicopters to fly to a country in devastation. They are leaving their families to save somebody else's.
And it is not to fight. It is not to kill.
It is to save lives.
It is to deliver the most basic supplies that you and I have at our fingertips.
It is to do what they have been trained to do.
Because our military personnel, even our Marines, are not merely trained to kill. They are trained to survive. And they are trained to help others survive. They are trained to be ready at a moment's notice to go wherever their government sends them and perform the task set before them. And they will do it.
Because these are the young men and women who have allowed themselves to be broken down and rebuilt into the forces our world calls upon in a tragedy.
And when this humanitarian task is done, they will come home to relieved spouses and parents and children.
And people who choose to look at each of them as nothing more than a person who has been trained to kill.
In a year or so, my son may be one of those Marines landing in a devastated country to deliver humanitarian aid.
And in a year or so, my son may be one of those Marines landing in a war zone. Yes he will have been trained to kill. I certainly hope and pray he will not have to use those skills. But I'll say it here and now; if it ever comes to a choice between my son and the enemy at the other end of his weapon, I choose my son. And if it ever comes to a choice between his brother in uniform or the enemy he has been trained to fight, my son will choose his brother; just as his fellow Marine will choose him.
That is what war is, and as long as man populates the earth, we will see the ugliness of war. And as long as there is war, we must have men and women trained to fight them.
But as we are seeing on the news this week, these men and women are not just fighters. They are not merely takers of life. They are also givers of life.
I am hoping that those who are disparaging of military service will see these images of our humanitarian forces and soften their hearts - just as the victims - young and old - of the Haitian earthquake are sure to soften these tough Marines, Sailors and Soldiers.
You see, in their words "The Marines are the ones who are trained to kill," and I should make my son choose another branch of service...a branch of the armed services that does not train their members to kill.
Oh, the irony.
Anyway, I am sitting here watching my television and I see more Marines landing in Haiti to deliver relief packages to the victims of the devastating earthquake. They are delivering lifesaving food, water, medication, blankets. They are setting up safe zones. They are using their language specialists (because not all Marines merely shoot to kill) to communicate with the locals so that these efforts can be run with the efficiency of any U.S. Military operation. And they are doing so in a country whose own government seems to have disappeared when its people need it the most.
Yes, some of these Marines are carrying their weapons; but they are also carrying hope to these people whose window of hope is rapidly closing. We are seeing pictures of military personnel carrying babies to safety. We are seeing news stories of Naval ships docking and setting up hospitals for the injured. We are seeing members of the U.S. Army organize food lines.
These young men and women who have chosen a career that earns them disparaging remarks are jumping on planes and helicopters to fly to a country in devastation. They are leaving their families to save somebody else's.
And it is not to fight. It is not to kill.
It is to save lives.
It is to deliver the most basic supplies that you and I have at our fingertips.
It is to do what they have been trained to do.
Because our military personnel, even our Marines, are not merely trained to kill. They are trained to survive. And they are trained to help others survive. They are trained to be ready at a moment's notice to go wherever their government sends them and perform the task set before them. And they will do it.
Because these are the young men and women who have allowed themselves to be broken down and rebuilt into the forces our world calls upon in a tragedy.
And when this humanitarian task is done, they will come home to relieved spouses and parents and children.
And people who choose to look at each of them as nothing more than a person who has been trained to kill.
In a year or so, my son may be one of those Marines landing in a devastated country to deliver humanitarian aid.
And in a year or so, my son may be one of those Marines landing in a war zone. Yes he will have been trained to kill. I certainly hope and pray he will not have to use those skills. But I'll say it here and now; if it ever comes to a choice between my son and the enemy at the other end of his weapon, I choose my son. And if it ever comes to a choice between his brother in uniform or the enemy he has been trained to fight, my son will choose his brother; just as his fellow Marine will choose him.
That is what war is, and as long as man populates the earth, we will see the ugliness of war. And as long as there is war, we must have men and women trained to fight them.
But as we are seeing on the news this week, these men and women are not just fighters. They are not merely takers of life. They are also givers of life.
I am hoping that those who are disparaging of military service will see these images of our humanitarian forces and soften their hearts - just as the victims - young and old - of the Haitian earthquake are sure to soften these tough Marines, Sailors and Soldiers.
Friday, December 18, 2009
MY HEART - PART II
This one:
This one truly taught me the meaning of the word "breathtaking;" so thrilled was I to have a second chance at motherhood, I'd stand over her crib and stare at her, soak her in, realizing moments later that I had forgotten to breathe once again.
This one's passion, simply put, is life.
Her first words were "...and me!" and she said them often as she followed her big brother through the house trying to mimic his every move. Those words were soon followed by "I do it myself." And she meant it. She will take on any project, any assignment, and laugh her way through it while giving it her all.
I'm in love with her joy for life. I'm in love with the privilege of sitting back and watching her enjoy this party that is life for her. I'm in love with the fact that she allows me to have a front row seat on her journey. I'm in love with her.
This one has men in her life that will turn the world upside down for her. She may not always like it. She might not like it, at the moment, when her brother goes to school dances and watches her the whole time. She might not like it, at the moment, that he teases her about the boys in her life. But deep down, I know she realizes how lucky she is to have her own security staff of one looking out for her. And I know she is proud of him. I know that she is proud of the man he is. I know that she is proud to call him her brother.
This one had her daddy wrapped around her little finger from the moment the doctor said "It's a girl." He wants to tell her "no." He needs to tell her "no." But he struggles with it. He really does.
Because when she wraps those arms around his shoulders, she also wraps her eyes and dimples around his heart. And then....
Well then he is rendered helpless. And the princess is granted the kingdom. Again. But seriously. Look at that smile. Look at those dimples...that hair blowing in the wind. I suppose many dads would be turned into a helpless pile of goo when faced with that.
This one thrives on being with others. Her mood might take a slight dip if her heart isn't kept full with the presence of those she loves. Just as my mood might take a slight dip if my heart isn't kept full with her presence. Sure, we need time apart. But my day is just a little darker when I haven't seen her smile and felt her energy.
Sometimes I think I want a day alone. Sometimes I think I don't mind having the house to myself. But then she walks in at the end of the day and I realize that I love a rainy day until the sun comes out again.
And I realize I have missed the sunshine all along.
This one truly taught me the meaning of the word "breathtaking;" so thrilled was I to have a second chance at motherhood, I'd stand over her crib and stare at her, soak her in, realizing moments later that I had forgotten to breathe once again.This one's passion, simply put, is life.
Her first words were "...and me!" and she said them often as she followed her big brother through the house trying to mimic his every move. Those words were soon followed by "I do it myself." And she meant it. She will take on any project, any assignment, and laugh her way through it while giving it her all.And that laugh. My stars, that laugh! By the time she was three, her laugh was bigger than she was. And now it makes me weak in the knees. It's deep and true. Thankfully we get to hear that laugh many times a day, every day.
I'm in love with her joy for life. I'm in love with the privilege of sitting back and watching her enjoy this party that is life for her. I'm in love with the fact that she allows me to have a front row seat on her journey. I'm in love with her.
This one has men in her life that will turn the world upside down for her. She may not always like it. She might not like it, at the moment, when her brother goes to school dances and watches her the whole time. She might not like it, at the moment, that he teases her about the boys in her life. But deep down, I know she realizes how lucky she is to have her own security staff of one looking out for her. And I know she is proud of him. I know that she is proud of the man he is. I know that she is proud to call him her brother.
This one had her daddy wrapped around her little finger from the moment the doctor said "It's a girl." He wants to tell her "no." He needs to tell her "no." But he struggles with it. He really does.
Because when she wraps those arms around his shoulders, she also wraps her eyes and dimples around his heart. And then....
Well then he is rendered helpless. And the princess is granted the kingdom. Again. But seriously. Look at that smile. Look at those dimples...that hair blowing in the wind. I suppose many dads would be turned into a helpless pile of goo when faced with that. This one thrives on being with others. Her mood might take a slight dip if her heart isn't kept full with the presence of those she loves. Just as my mood might take a slight dip if my heart isn't kept full with her presence. Sure, we need time apart. But my day is just a little darker when I haven't seen her smile and felt her energy.
Sometimes I think I want a day alone. Sometimes I think I don't mind having the house to myself. But then she walks in at the end of the day and I realize that I love a rainy day until the sun comes out again.
And I realize I have missed the sunshine all along. This one. I don't know what her path in life is. But I know it will be a path bordered with laughter and light. I know that she will make life the joyous party it is meant to be.
I know that she is my heart.
***********************************************
Early photos by Lynn Austin - L.A. Photography
Current photos by Jenna Stahl - Daily Life Photography
Monday, December 14, 2009
Monday, December 07, 2009
MY HEART - PART I
This one:
This one initiated me into that wonderful, maddening, frightening, mysterious, joyous club we call motherhood.
All mothers know that when we first hold our child in our arms, we experience our heart living outside our bodies. What we don't know at that first glance, that first touch, is that we will blink once, twice, three times - and they will be grown, with one foot outside the nest, eager to jump and fly without us. Does anybody tell us that? I suppose we wouldn't believe them anyway, so wrapped up are we in sleepless nights, bottles, colic, fevers, first smiles, first teeth, first steps, first words. There are days we think we will not survive the baby stage.
This one initiated me into that wonderful, maddening, frightening, mysterious, joyous club we call motherhood.
All mothers know that when we first hold our child in our arms, we experience our heart living outside our bodies. What we don't know at that first glance, that first touch, is that we will blink once, twice, three times - and they will be grown, with one foot outside the nest, eager to jump and fly without us. Does anybody tell us that? I suppose we wouldn't believe them anyway, so wrapped up are we in sleepless nights, bottles, colic, fevers, first smiles, first teeth, first steps, first words. There are days we think we will not survive the baby stage.And then we blink again and they are grown. Like this one:
This one who started out talking with a vengeance, using phrases bigger than he was as a toddler. Somewhere along the way, though, he morphed into a man of few words. He is the strong silent type I guess.
But when he speaks you can count on his words to be well thought out and full of passion. Usually. You can count on them to be self deprecating. You can count on his words to leave no doubt in your mind where he stands on a subject. Subjects like protecting the unborn and supporting our military. Subjects like loyalty and fairness.
But make no mistake; this young man who is so passionate and independent; this young man who is several inches taller than his dad, absolutely adores this man:
I have learned, with this tall lanky son of mine, that physical height has nothing to do with the people you look up to in your walk through life. He has made mistakes, this son of mine. He has hit a bump or two on the road to adulthood. Who of us hasn't?
But he has come out the other side a little bit stronger, a little bit wiser, a little bit more willing to laugh at himself. And carrying a little bit more character with him than many adults he knows; though his spirit might have been a little bit bruised in the process.
He will look out for the underdog. He will take the lost one, the weak one, the new one, under his wing.
This one who started out talking with a vengeance, using phrases bigger than he was as a toddler. Somewhere along the way, though, he morphed into a man of few words. He is the strong silent type I guess. 
But when he speaks you can count on his words to be well thought out and full of passion. Usually. You can count on them to be self deprecating. You can count on his words to leave no doubt in your mind where he stands on a subject. Subjects like protecting the unborn and supporting our military. Subjects like loyalty and fairness.
But make no mistake; this young man who is so passionate and independent; this young man who is several inches taller than his dad, absolutely adores this man:
I have learned, with this tall lanky son of mine, that physical height has nothing to do with the people you look up to in your walk through life. He has made mistakes, this son of mine. He has hit a bump or two on the road to adulthood. Who of us hasn't?But he has come out the other side a little bit stronger, a little bit wiser, a little bit more willing to laugh at himself. And carrying a little bit more character with him than many adults he knows; though his spirit might have been a little bit bruised in the process.
He will look out for the underdog. He will take the lost one, the weak one, the new one, under his wing. But in his youthful eagerness to keep all things equal, he might also strive to take the arrogant one down a notch or two. But once that is done, he takes the newly humbled one under his wing and gives them a special kind of respect.
He doesn't talk to his little sister a lot. He doesn't talk to anybody a lot.
But, again, make no mistake. He would take on the world for her. He threatens to have his shotgun in hand when boys come to the house. There are rumors that he's had "little talks" with boys he doesn't deem worthy of our girl. He has little respect for young men who do not treat girls well; especially if these young men have little sisters of their own.
He doesn't talk to his little sister a lot. He doesn't talk to anybody a lot.
But, again, make no mistake. He would take on the world for her. He threatens to have his shotgun in hand when boys come to the house. There are rumors that he's had "little talks" with boys he doesn't deem worthy of our girl. He has little respect for young men who do not treat girls well; especially if these young men have little sisters of their own. Eighteen and a half years ago, when I held this one in my arms for the first time; as I rubbed his round fuzz-covered head, I had no idea of the man he would become.
And now? Now I'm getting a glimpse. I know he has a desire to serve his country - a desire so strong that it could not be quashed by this fearful mother's pleadings. I know that he has learned from his mistakes. I know that he is eager to be out on his own and face the challenges that life has to offer.
I know that he is my heart.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
VOLUNTEERS
Maddy spent the weekend with us. You know. Cousin Maddy? My cousin's daughter? The one who makes Kayla absolutely miserable when she's around. Seriously, look at these unhappy girls, just before they left for the mall:
See Kayla's scarf? Well, it isn't. Kayla's that is. It's Maddy's. She had bought it at the mall the day before. Yes, they go to the mall every day when they're together. Anyway, I liked it so much I asked the girls to pick one up for me on chapter 2 of their mall trip.
They didn't have the same one, so they picked a different one out for me:
Poor Maddy. An old woman wants to dress like her. By the way, Maddy's dad is very tall. So is Maddy.
See Kayla's scarf? Well, it isn't. Kayla's that is. It's Maddy's. She had bought it at the mall the day before. Yes, they go to the mall every day when they're together. Anyway, I liked it so much I asked the girls to pick one up for me on chapter 2 of their mall trip.They didn't have the same one, so they picked a different one out for me:
Poor Maddy. An old woman wants to dress like her. By the way, Maddy's dad is very tall. So is Maddy.Before we took Maddy home last night, amongst much wailing and begging and pleading that we not separate them for another week, the girls were giving me some advice on how to rearrange the basement so that they would be more comfortable down there.
Not that they aren't grateful for the space and all (so they said) but they had some good ideas on how we could better utilize our space and give them room to actually let five girls lie on the floor while watching television.
Silly me. I thought providing a couch and two recliners was nice enough, but NOOOO-uh....they want plenty of floor space.
They suggested that I simply move the two large bookshelves and the three small bookshelves (all of which are full of books), take all the pictures off of one wall to make room for the television stand, and rearrange the furniture; and that would make the basement much more conducive to a happy slumber party.
I took that to mean they were willing and eager to do all that moving and shifting.
So Friday, when Maddy returns (if the girls can make it that long between visits), I'm assuming they will both have their muscles primed and be ready to lift, scoot, and pivot - all while I supervise with a cup of coffee in my hand.
And surely, they are willing to do that because they've asked if they can have a New Year's Eve party here. With boys.
Pray for us.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
BUSTED
The only television we have on the main floor of our house is a little 13-inch one in our kitchen. We do not have one in our family room up here because when we finished our basement, I decided we'd put the main TV down there for the kids and make the main floor television-free.
Each of the kids has a television in their rooms, which I know makes us lousy indulgent parents.
Commence with food throwing now.
So then. Last night, I was really looking forward to watching the series finale of MONK because I've always loved that show. LOVE. IT. I was unable to watch most of this season because of football concession duties.
*sigh* The things we sacrifice for our children.
The main TV in the basement was occupied by our daughter and some friends, so I decided I was going to sneak into Blake's room and watch MONK on his television.
So after wrestling practice I quizzed him a little more intensely about his plans for the evening:
Hang out with Drew, eat somewhere, go to see Blind Side at ten.
"So, you won't be home 'til around midnight, correct?"
"Yeah, prolly."
So at eight o'clock, Paul and I went into his room and totally hi-jacked his television. I even brought an extra pillow in an propped myself on his bed.
That kid has a pretty good situation going on in there.
About twenty minutes into the show, we heard car doors slam, then a key in the front door.....
Then two teenage boys walking into our house.
Paul and I looked at each other.
"What are they doing here?"
"He promised me he'd be gone until midnight?"
"Why can't we teach our kids to stay out all night?"
"He's totally ruining my MONK farewell....!"
So I met Blake at the bottom of the steps and told him that Dad and I were watching MONK in his room because we had no place else to watch it.
"No, no, no, no....MOOOOM-uh! We have these games we rented and we need to play them before the movie at ten. Seriously, I'm gonna have to ask you to get out of my room. This is just wrong."
"But, Blake, I made you brownies. I set aside a torpedo sandwich for you guys. Look! FOOD! It's only forty more minutes...You said you'd be gone. I thought I could count on you to be gone all evening."
"Please, mom. We need to be in there"
Well, seeing the urgency of his timeline and his obligations, I relented and told Paul we had to clear out.
So we moped down to the kitchen and tried to cuddle on a bar stool in front of the television. (We didn't go to Kayla's room because her TV is much smaller, and we knew we'd likely be interrupted in there too. These kids just keep finding us.)
In an attempt to make things more romantic, I did offer to turn on a stove burner so we'd at least have a fire going while we watched TV on our bar stool.
The good news is the ending of MONK was wonderful.
The bad news? We are buying a television for the upstairs family room after Christmas.
Each of the kids has a television in their rooms, which I know makes us lousy indulgent parents.
Commence with food throwing now.
So then. Last night, I was really looking forward to watching the series finale of MONK because I've always loved that show. LOVE. IT. I was unable to watch most of this season because of football concession duties.
*sigh* The things we sacrifice for our children.
The main TV in the basement was occupied by our daughter and some friends, so I decided I was going to sneak into Blake's room and watch MONK on his television.
So after wrestling practice I quizzed him a little more intensely about his plans for the evening:
Hang out with Drew, eat somewhere, go to see Blind Side at ten.
"So, you won't be home 'til around midnight, correct?"
"Yeah, prolly."
So at eight o'clock, Paul and I went into his room and totally hi-jacked his television. I even brought an extra pillow in an propped myself on his bed.
That kid has a pretty good situation going on in there.
About twenty minutes into the show, we heard car doors slam, then a key in the front door.....
Then two teenage boys walking into our house.
Paul and I looked at each other.
"What are they doing here?"
"He promised me he'd be gone until midnight?"
"Why can't we teach our kids to stay out all night?"
"He's totally ruining my MONK farewell....!"
So I met Blake at the bottom of the steps and told him that Dad and I were watching MONK in his room because we had no place else to watch it.
"No, no, no, no....MOOOOM-uh! We have these games we rented and we need to play them before the movie at ten. Seriously, I'm gonna have to ask you to get out of my room. This is just wrong."
"But, Blake, I made you brownies. I set aside a torpedo sandwich for you guys. Look! FOOD! It's only forty more minutes...You said you'd be gone. I thought I could count on you to be gone all evening."
"Please, mom. We need to be in there"
Well, seeing the urgency of his timeline and his obligations, I relented and told Paul we had to clear out.
So we moped down to the kitchen and tried to cuddle on a bar stool in front of the television. (We didn't go to Kayla's room because her TV is much smaller, and we knew we'd likely be interrupted in there too. These kids just keep finding us.)
In an attempt to make things more romantic, I did offer to turn on a stove burner so we'd at least have a fire going while we watched TV on our bar stool.
The good news is the ending of MONK was wonderful.
The bad news? We are buying a television for the upstairs family room after Christmas.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
OUCH....or HOW MANY TIMES CAN I TYPE THE WORD "SPIT"
Eighteen and a half years ago, after delivering Blake via c-section, and after lying flat on my back for 12 hours, a nurse helped me brush my teeth. I was finally able to sit upright and she held a little basin under my chin while I brushed.
Interestingly, when I went to spit my toothpaste into the basin, it merely dribbled weakly down my chin instead of hitting the basin. Not that it mattered. I had said goodbye to my dignity upon entering the hospital the day before.
Since my abdominal muscles had been traumatized and I was still somewhat numb from the spinal block, I had no spitting power. There was no oomph to my spitting.
Never having been much of a spitter (much to my brothers' chagrin) I had no idea how important abdominal muscles were to spitting.
It was one of the first lessons motherhood taught me.
Now I find myself in the same boat, being unable to spit well.
Because I have a huge canker sore on the side of my tongue, a smaller one on the inside of my lower lip, and one forming on the inside of my upper lip.
The sore on my tongue has nearly left me incapacitated. It's like having strep throat on my tongue.
It hurts to talk. It hurts to chew. It hurts to swallow food, medicine, and my own spit. When I try to spit my toothpaste into the bathroom sink, it merely dribbles into the basin in a pitiful stream of Crest Whitening. There's not enough force behind it to even hit the drain.
I warned my husband last night,that it was beginning to hurt when I talked. Seeing the dread on his face that I would remain silent for the next five to seven days (surely it was dread) I assured him that I would soldier on and talk through the pain.
Anything for my beloved.
Today, though, I changed my mind. I do not want to talk. I have taken to printing e-mails regarding our family Christmas parties and marking them with "FYI" and placing them in front of him. Normally, I would follow him down to his man cave and fill him in on all the details, but today he gets a memo. Just like at the office.
Funny, though, my inability to talk seems to have hit at the same time as a profound lack of hearing on my husband's part. The few things I have said to him this evening, he responds to with "what?" I do not know if this is because, in my effort to talk somewhat painlessly, I may sound a little bit like Quasimodo, or if he is torturing me just for fun and finds it amusing to watch me grimace while I speak to him.
Surely he wouldn't be torturing me, would he? I mean it is the Christmas season.
I am rinsing my mouth with a peroxide mixture. I'm rinsing with tea (the tannin is supposed to speed the drying of the sores) and I'm eating ice cream and mashed potatoes. And I am praying for fast healing.
In the meantime, my family is just going to have to get along without my voice for a few days.
I'm totally counting it as their main Christmas present.
Interestingly, when I went to spit my toothpaste into the basin, it merely dribbled weakly down my chin instead of hitting the basin. Not that it mattered. I had said goodbye to my dignity upon entering the hospital the day before.
Since my abdominal muscles had been traumatized and I was still somewhat numb from the spinal block, I had no spitting power. There was no oomph to my spitting.
Never having been much of a spitter (much to my brothers' chagrin) I had no idea how important abdominal muscles were to spitting.
It was one of the first lessons motherhood taught me.
Now I find myself in the same boat, being unable to spit well.
Because I have a huge canker sore on the side of my tongue, a smaller one on the inside of my lower lip, and one forming on the inside of my upper lip.
The sore on my tongue has nearly left me incapacitated. It's like having strep throat on my tongue.
It hurts to talk. It hurts to chew. It hurts to swallow food, medicine, and my own spit. When I try to spit my toothpaste into the bathroom sink, it merely dribbles into the basin in a pitiful stream of Crest Whitening. There's not enough force behind it to even hit the drain.
I warned my husband last night,that it was beginning to hurt when I talked. Seeing the dread on his face that I would remain silent for the next five to seven days (surely it was dread) I assured him that I would soldier on and talk through the pain.
Anything for my beloved.
Today, though, I changed my mind. I do not want to talk. I have taken to printing e-mails regarding our family Christmas parties and marking them with "FYI" and placing them in front of him. Normally, I would follow him down to his man cave and fill him in on all the details, but today he gets a memo. Just like at the office.
Funny, though, my inability to talk seems to have hit at the same time as a profound lack of hearing on my husband's part. The few things I have said to him this evening, he responds to with "what?" I do not know if this is because, in my effort to talk somewhat painlessly, I may sound a little bit like Quasimodo, or if he is torturing me just for fun and finds it amusing to watch me grimace while I speak to him.
Surely he wouldn't be torturing me, would he? I mean it is the Christmas season.
I am rinsing my mouth with a peroxide mixture. I'm rinsing with tea (the tannin is supposed to speed the drying of the sores) and I'm eating ice cream and mashed potatoes. And I am praying for fast healing.
In the meantime, my family is just going to have to get along without my voice for a few days.
I'm totally counting it as their main Christmas present.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)