MORE GROWING PAINS

Tonight I have an appointment with a Marine recruiter.

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

I'm going to paint my helmet mauve.

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

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

He said yes, yes he had.

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

Oh! I kid.

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

Blah, blah, blah.

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

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

Oh, stop. That's not true either.

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

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

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

Moms? Can I get an Amen on that?

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

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

See, Blake has nothing to worry about tonight.

KEEPING UP WITH THE JONES'

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







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

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

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

This is my daughter.


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


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






Welcome to the gun show fellas.


Sorry Kayla.

LIFE IS GOOD

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

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

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

She actually gave birth on the island.

Alone.

With no epidural.

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

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


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

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

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

I'm stranded here, people.

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

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

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

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

Conditions here are truly harsh.

Yeah, I can relate.

WEARY

I have just returned from a visitation.

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

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

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

THE DING DONG DITCH...

But first, a Facebook thingee update.

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

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

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

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

In other news....

We were Ding Dong Ditched on Thursday night.

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

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

I know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PRAYERS...

I ask for your prayers.

A baby has died at the hands of his father.

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

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

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

I AM NEARLY WITHOUT WORDS...

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

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

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

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

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

That alone was enough to make this mama proud.

Then the four main awards were given out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HER MOTHER IS POSSESSED BY A DEMON...

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

Kayla stayed home today because she has a headache.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. What?

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

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

WHO'S THE LUCKY GIRL...?

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

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

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

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

I know.

How lucky can a girl get?

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

No no no no no no no.

Heidi did not say that.

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

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

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

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

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

I'm just sayin'.

ON DATING...

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

Blake, you are not the third parent around here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

First the rules went something like this:

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

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

Now, evidently Blake has amended his dating rules again:

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

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

Sorry, Kayla.

THE SOUTH BEACH DIET DROPOUT

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

Here's the thing about Paul.

He makes a lousy diet partner.

He simply does not whine enough.

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

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

He obviously doesn't get this dieting thing.

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

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

IT'S JUST NOT MEANT TO BE

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


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

My new Raspberry Rose cardigan arrived today.

It's Lime Sorbet.

NNNNNNAAAAAAYYYYGGGGH!

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

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

*sigh* It is so hard to be me.

ONE LINERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

In other news....

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tummy Slimmers, Tummy Slimmers, Tummy Slimmers.

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

I think that would be more fun.

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

COLOR ME CRAZY

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

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

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

So.

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

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

Moving on.

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

And he said sure.

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

Fast forward about two weeks.

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

We needed lots of pink and red.

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

They looked orange.

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

It looked green.

Then Mommy lost her mind.

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

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

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

CRAAAAAY - OOOOOO - LLLLAAAAA MMMMMAAAAAAARRRKERS.

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

CRAAAAAY - OOOOOO - LLLLAAAAAA MMMMMAAAARRRKERS.

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

And I stomped away in a self righteous snit.

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

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

Go figure.

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

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

Orange and green will do just fine.

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

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

I just want a pink sweater, people.

Or rather a Raspberry Rose cardigan and shell.

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

And I ordered it.

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

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

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

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

NNNAAAAAYGGGGH!!!

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

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

Because I don't. Not until March.

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

They are sending me another Lime Sorbet cardigan.

ANOTHER LIME SORBET CARDIGAN!!

The Lime Sorbet Cardigan that will not die.

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

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

Nice.

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

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

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

VOICES

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

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

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

The voices of your sisters.

The voices of the women of Christ.

The voices of the weaker sex.

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

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

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

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

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

SHOULD HE STAY OR SHOULD HE GO...?

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

Two reasons to pray for me:

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

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

Decisions, decisions...

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

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

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

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

BECAUSE SHE'S SO HELPFUL...

Tuesday night I made jambalaya for supper.

Poor Kayla had been asking for jambalaya for four weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm spelling it the way it sounds"

Jumb - uh - lie - yah.

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

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

All with cute little geometic exclamation points.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ON TEXTING...

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



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



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



What to do? What to do?

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

OH! Good one.



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



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



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



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



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



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



*cue Hallelujah Chorus now.*



Of course they have to pay for it.



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



And she answered "Yuck."



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



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



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