Catch Up

For most of the last week, I've relied on shorter, more impersonal posts or posts that I jotted down before Spring Break and only put up last week. Spring Break was just busy with family time, which is as it should be. Now I'll play a little catch up.

Here are the pictures from our time camping, which lasted almost the full week.

What's camping without a campfire?



A little football between friends, Tyler and Clay.



Spencer spent nearly the whole week wearing his bike helmet, even if he wasn't biking. Because it makes more sense to keep it on so that you can hop on your bike at a moment's notice. Anyway, his hair showed constant sweat tracks consistent with helmet head. I don't think you can see it too well in this picture, one of a handful of times that the helmet was actually removed. But you can see a bit of Spencer's true nature here. He's a pistol.



We eventually got kicked off of the playground. Evidently, that part of the park is not open until the first of April. Go figure. One would think that the campers could enjoy ALL of the facilities, but not so. Still, a bit of fun was had by all before our unceremonious exit.







And here is a picture of poor Spencer after I socked him in the nose with the ball. Who knew that innocent-looking plaything could be so lethal?



After a bit of hugging time, he was as good as new, though.

Allison enjoyed digging in the dirt with rocks.



And all three of them started a rousing game of volleyball, played with a beach ball provided by another boy who was camping, too. But in no time, Allison's interest waned and she was back to playing in the dirt while the boys continued the game.



Bruce took Friday off from work and towed the camper back to our house early in the morning. When he got home, he kept the kids while I headed to Cookeville to visit my family there.

Grandpa was given the option on Thursday, after more than a week and a half in the hospital, to have a feeding tube inserted. He refused and was then transported to a nearby nursing home to finish recuperating from the pneumonia.

When I arrived late Friday afternoon, grandpa seemed disoriented, tired and still very ill. The coughing hurt to watch and hear. He did some physical therapy, too, which is good. The original thought was for him to spend about two weeks in the nursing home, regaining his strength, but the physical therapist said it might take longer to get him back on his feet.

That is not going to be easy. Each time I visited grandpa, he made some statement about "getting out of here" or how he didn't plan to be there the following week.

Grandpa is sleeping a lot, coughing more, and eating very little. It's terrible to see one of the strongest men I've ever known in that state. And it's worse to realize how much he hates it.

He is supposed to be drinking only water that has been thickened to a gel-like state, to prevent him from swallowing it wrong and the liquid going down into his lungs.

But he's stubborn and not above being sneaky when it suits his purpose. Before I left to come home Sunday afternoon, he told me he convinced some guy who worked there, but didn't know better, to get him a glass of water. So I went to the nursing station and "told on" him. I asked them to keep all their staff better informed and write something stating that he could not have water.

When I went back to his room, he kept asking me to get him some water. It nearly killed me to refuse.

But I am not above being sneaky when it suits my purpose either, so I tried to guilt him into seeing things my way by saying, "If I give you water and it goes down wrong, you'll get sicker and be here longer. How do you think that would make me feel?"

I could tell I was really frustrating him. And it is not normal for our roles to be so reversed, so it frustrated me as well. It was the worst time I had visiting with him the whole weekend.

Finally, he cut me some slack and I could see his usual humor slip through. He told me I was being bossy. I shot back, "Who do you think I get that from?"

And then even later, he said he was going to "tell on" me. To my 5-year-old daughter and his great granddaughter, who he really favors more than he should but I can't bring myself to discourage. (My boys don't realize it, so it's fine.) He planned to inform Allison of how mean I was being. I told him she was already well aware of that fact from firsthand experience.

It was a bittersweet visit. I stayed at grandpa's empty house between times at the nursing home. And while I always long for some rare silence while in my own home, I realized how very lonely total solitude can be. And how that is exactly what my grandpa has to look forward to when (if) he gets back home.

I did have some good discussion with my older brother and dad over the weekend. And I got to pick at my nephews a bit and see them behave like total Big Boys while eating at a Chinese restaurant with me and their daddy when my sister-in-law worked late one evening. I also made time for lunch with Bruce's brother and his wife, which is always so nice.

Still, within 20 minutes of returning home, I went upstairs alone to our master bath and just bawled like a baby. Sometimes it just feels overwhelming to know there's nothing you can do to ease someone else's discomfort, except pray. And I'm sure that's how Bruce felt when he found me a few minutes later and just held me while I continued to sob.

Early Sunday morning before visiting grandpa, I had a breakfast of coffee and a bagel. I flipped on the TV and watched a televised church service since I was missing services at my own church. The Bible verses for the sermon were no coincidence.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."
Matthew 11:28-30

A Quandary

Bruce sent the following pictures to me in an e-mail. I don't know any details about what's going on, other than what is obvious.

My first thought was, "Somebody call Jeff Foxworthy. Quick! You might be a redneck if..."





No question about it. This just can't be good.

All redneck jokes aside, this is exactly why I can't live in a mobile home. For certain, during transport to our chosen site, something similar to this would happen.

100th Post

This marks my 100th post, so I thought I'd do a "100 Things About Me" like I've seen on some other sites.

You are sure to find something in here that you don't know about me. I know there's one thing that even my parents and spouse don't know. At the end, guess which one it is.

Here goes. For those inquiring minds out there. (All three of you.)

100. I was born in Wichita, but because the military moved us soon after, I don’t remember a thing about it.

99. Even though I don’t think it’s a typical tourist mecca, I’d like to get back to Wichita some day and see what it’s like.

98. My husband has been to Wichita on a business trip. He sent me pictures via e-mail while he was there. I don’t think he was overly impressed.

97. When I was a teenager, I thought everything about me was boring and average. Brown hair – blah. Brown eyes – blah, blah. Skinny – blah, blah, blah. Nothing really stood out and made an impression.

96. I could use a little bit more “boring” and “average” in my day now that I am Mom to three kids.

95. I’d like for my hair to still be naturally brown, and not brown because of the work of a hair stylist.

94. I also wouldn’t mind being that skinny again. My teen diet of chocolate, candy and chips doesn’t work so well for me now. And while things definitely stand out now, they are those things that ought not to.

93. I like my brown eyes now. I just wish they could see better. One of these days, I’m hoping to have Lasik surgery to remedy that.

92. Lasik surgery scares me. A guy I used to work with had the surgery and claimed that you can smell the laser burning your eye. That bothers me. A lot.

91. I like crow’s feet. They don’t mean you’re old. They mean you’ve laughed a lot.

90. Because my mom is German, and my dad was in the military, we lived in Germany for five years. While there, I tried such foods as blood sausage, pickled herring and liver-ball soup.

89. I like them all and would eat them again.

88. Because my parent’s adventurous attitudes about food transferred to me, I’ve also eaten alligator, squid, octopus, shark and oysters.

87. I didn’t like the oysters. I’m not fond of food sliding down my throat like it has a mind of its own.

86. I didn’t try snails. My dad did. I thought it looked too familiar… like the duck poop I had seen surrounding a local lake in one of the areas we lived when I was a kid.

85. One of my favorite drinks when I was little was Welch’s grape soda. I’d walk, with change in pocket, from our house to the temporary military housing where there was a coke machine. I’d buy my grape soda, and walk home on a cloud while drinking my purple bliss. That was simple happiness to an eight-year-old.

84. I also really liked Shirley Temples. At one time, my mom worked at the NCO Club at one of the bases where we lived. The bartender fixed me lots of Shirley Temples, which is basically just Sprite with a floating maraschino cherry and cherry juice.

83. The bartender also gave me lots of change so I could play “Fly Like an Eagle” over and over again on the jukebox machine.

82. During that time of my life, I developed a strong addiction for Coffeemate Creamer. While mom was doing her job, I’d sneak the little individual packets of Coffeemate off the tables and hide in a corner, eating it.

81. Today, my coffee is really more creamer than coffee. Bruce teases me and says it doesn’t even look like coffee, but more like hot chocolate. So I tease back and say, “I like my coffee like I like my men. Hot and white.” It’s just pure silliness, but we smile about it.

80. I’ve never broken any bones in my body.

79. That’s probably because I’m a big chicken and don’t get in enough situations where bone breaking might occur.

78. Reading is one of my favorite things. I get that from my dad.

77. When I was a teenager, my personal bestseller’s list always included the latest Archie comic books.

76. I like Jughead. But not Veronica. What does Archie even see in her?

75. Reading encourages my slug-like behavior, I know. But my brain gets exercised. And I don’t sweat.

74. I do not like to sweat. It tickles when a drop slides down your back. And I don’t like scratching a tickle and pulling back wet fingertips.

73. I like to garden, although I don’t have my own garden.

72. Sweating while gardening is less disgusting than sweating at any other time. I don’t know why that is, it just is.

71. My grandpa’s house is where I learned my earliest gardening skills.

70. I can dig ‘taters like nobody’s business. But there is nothing quite so nasty as squishing your hand into a rotten potato and drawing it back only to have it reek like death.

69. I love picking tomatoes. They’re easy to see on the vine, and big enough to grasp easily. And when you wash your hands afterwards, the lather turns green. I don’t know why, but I like it.

68. Nobody makes fried okra like my grandma did. Nobody.

67. Fried is the only way to eat okra. It’s the only cooking method that decreases the snail-like slime that comes naturally to that particular veggie.

66. While my mom, grandma, and Oma are (or were) all fantastic cooks, I got married not knowing how to fix much more than Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.

65. After almost 14 years of marriage, I’ve become a very good cook. So says my husband. My kids, not so much, but they go through picky phases so I excuse their disdain.

64. On occasion, I even make a meal better than my mother-in-law.

63. Those times are so rare that I write them on the calendar.

62. I have kept every calendar since our first child, Clay, was born.

61. It’s my personal method of journaling. Because what new mom has the time to jot down every little thing her precious children do?

60. I have never looked back at those saved calendars to recall anything my children have done.

59. But I might. One day. And they’ll be there when that day comes. Dusty, perhaps, but available nonetheless.

58. I’m a packrat. And not even a recovering one.

57. I have high Martha-Stewart-and-Emilie-Barnes type hope that one day I’ll be free of this vice.

56. But for now, I’m still stacking up countless copies of Southern Living magazines.

55. There is nothing in my home that even vaguely resembles anything that I’ve seen in the pages of Southern Living.

54. Southern Living is to me what Playboy is to Hugh Hefner. Except I don’t own Southern Living magazine. And Hef has the money to make his dreams happen.

53. There is also nothing in our home that remotely resembles anything in Playboy.

52. Not that I know what’s in Playboy.

51. I do know what’s in Playgirl. When my best friend and I both turned 18, we went to the local bookstore and perused a copy. Our main goal was to have someone card us so we could show we were 18.

50. I sometimes over share. Like I just did.

49. I enjoy hearing laughter, especially my family’s.

48. Bruce’s laugh is one of the first things I loved about him.

47. I’m not afraid to laugh at myself. Or have others laugh at me. If something’s funny, it’s funny, no matter to whom it happens.

46. I never laugh at another person in a way that might be hurtful. That’s not funny; it’s cruel.

45. I’ve been laughed at in that cruel way.

44. That’s okay though, because I’m smarter than those who laughed. And that’s funny to me, too.

43. I don’t like needles. The shot kind. I’m okay with the sewing kind.

42. My brothers attempted to scar me for life when they found out about my needle phobia by getting my grandpa’s empty syringes that he used to vaccinate his cattle and chasing me around the house with them.

41. I do not like to be chased with syringes, with or without needles attached.

40. I used to faint each and every time I got a shot or had blood drawn.

39. I even fainted once after watching my dog get a shot.

38. I no longer have the phobia, but only because I developed a couple of health issues that require having blood drawn on a regular basis.

37. I still get light-headed when my kids get shots though.

36. I had to pull over while driving following an appointment with the pediatrician after Spencer and Allison got their immunizations for kindergarten. Spencer reminded me of the incident not too long ago.

35. I think my kids are the best kids anywhere. No, really. My kids really are better than your kids. For me. Your kids are better for you.

34. I don’t think my kids are angels. I’d have to be deaf, dumb and blind to think that. But they are great kids.

33. I don’t always tell him or show him often enough, but most days of the week I realize that Bruce is the best man for me. I’m not sure anyone else could handle me. I’m not high-maintenance in the least when it comes to upkeep, but I’ve been known to behave like a Diva at times.

32. My mother-in-law let me borrow the book, “Liberated Through Submission,” by P.B. Wilson.

31. My mother-in-law knows me very well.

30. She loves me anyway.

29. I am the only granddaughter on both my mother’s and father’s sides of the family.

28. My children are not in that position on either side of the family.

27. But they get the bonus of having aunts, uncles, and cousins to call their own.

26. I can speak German. Probably on about an upper elementary school level. I understand it fluently, though.

25. I am also fluent in Mom-ese. But not Whin-ese. I refuse to learn that language no matter how much my daughter tries to teach me.

24. I like to travel. By car. Trains and boats are okay, too.

23. I don’t like flying. Despite all the time on Air Force bases as a kid, and “hopping” flights from the states to Germany and vice versa, I don’t care for airports. And I don’t like the sensation of flying.

22. I do, however, like the feeling of having my ears pop when the plane ascends and descends.

21. But I can get that feeling in a car if I drive really fast down the mountain from Monterey to Cookeville when I go visit my family.

20. It has been 18 years since I’ve gotten a ticket from an officer.

19. It’s only a matter of time. Even though I’m a good driver, I slip up on occasion.

18. I’ve never been arrested.

17. I have been in jail though. (Check out your local Citizens Academy for an experience that will be truly enlightening. You’ll have new respect for law enforcement officials.)

16. Of all the writers of the Bible, I identify most with Paul. Paul was super bold in his faith. He walked his talk – no ifs, ands or buts. I don’t necessarily share those traits.

15. But the part of him that I “get” is the part where Paul said in Romans 7, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do…. I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do – this I keep on doing.”

14. When I was in elementary school, I wanted to be a veterinarian when I grew up. I love animals.

13. My dream of being a vet ended after a school field trip to a vet’s office, at which we were shown a glass jar full of formaldehyde and a dog heart infested with heart worms. It looked like spaghetti. Without the sauce.

12. After that I decided my best bet would be to get married right out of high school and start a family. College scared me.

11. The problem with that plan was that by the time I’d finished high school, I’d only had one serious boyfriend, and he was an ocean away at that point, in Germany.

10. Plan C, a career in journalism, came as a fluke.

9. My best friend in high school and I had passed many a note during our various classes together. She is the person who first suggested to me that I do something with writing. So on to college I went.

8. The moral of that story is that it is not always a bad thing to write notes in class. Just don’t get caught.

7. I’ve been sent to the principal’s office twice. The first time was in first grade when I peeped over one of the stalls in the bathroom by standing on the toilet seat. There wasn’t anybody even in the other stall. I have no idea what I was thinking. As luck would have it, a very mean teacher came in and caught me red handed. The second time was in high school. For talking in class. Are you shocked? Neither were my parents.

6. I was late to learn to talk. My dad says that I didn’t talk until I turned almost three…. And that I haven’t shut up since then.

5. I’m making up for lost time.

4. I love music.

3. I tried playing the flute for a bit when I was in fifth grade. Did you know you have to really practice to get any good at that? I wasn’t ever any good, so I quit.

2. I took choir classes instead. I practice singing a lot. In the shower. In the car. While loading the dishwasher. I’m not necessarily good at it, but I haven’t quit.

1. Now I’m quitting. 100 Things About Me is really too much. Shew!

I Knew It!

I am an original!

HowManyOfMe.com

There is 1 person with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

Oh, I just feel so special right now.

How about you? How many people share your name?

Camping Over Spring Break

We've been semi out-of-the-loop the last few days because we've been camping at a nearby park. It's been the perfect beginning of the season for several reasons.

The park is close enough for us to head home daily to check the mail, feed the dog and fish, grab the newspaper, catch an afternoon nap in our regular beds (on Sunday) and do a few loads of laundry. But it's far enough away that we aren't tied to our phones, TiVo and computer.

I came home today with the kids (Bruce is not off from work this week) because it's too cold for them to run around outside all day like they have been the last few days. It's actually been snowing on and off most of the day. Crazy spring weather! I got some necessary housecleaning done, whereas during any other family vacation that wouldn't have happened.

Our kids have been enjoying this first camping excursion of the year largely because we know so many other campers up there. There are three other families from church whose kids are close to ours in age - the Duncans, the Fullers and the Holdways. Clay's two best buddies are camping with us, but he's had to share them a bit with Spencer and Allison.

Once, Allison was playing on the playground alone with Nick and Tyler, and Tyler's daddy Danny said, "You better watch out for that!" I laughed and said, "Are you kidding me? If this keeps up, she'll think of them only as extra brothers, and they'll be completely safe." But later that evening, Allison was tagging along after Nick pretty mercilessly. I even had to tell her to quit hugging on him! Silly girl.

The next day, she had bigger fish to fry! She hugged on Carolyn more than me, and sat on Danny's lap more than Bruce's. I think we could be replaced. For a bit anyway.

I have loved this trip with three of my favorite mommy friends there for me to gab with. It has been so wonderful. For me to have uninterrupted talking time with Carolyn, Amy and Kim, we're usually meeting over a meal at a restaurant with our husbands at home watching the kids. But for these sweet days, we've been chatting amidst campfires, s'mores and our grubby, squealing-with-glee children.

Here's a couple brief highlights (or lowlights, depending on your view):

Bruce made a little boy cry. The little guy had been ugly to all three of our kids over the course of a few hours to the point that they didn't want anything to do with him anymore. He came back around to play with them again and Bruce told him pointblank, "You've been mean and now they don't want to play with you anymore." He wailed off into the distance when Bruce asked him if he needed to speak with the little boy's parents.

We were hanging out with the Duncans when their daughter walked up with a face smeared with blood. Bruce and I thought she had doctored her face up with egg dye or something to play a joke on us. But, no, it was real blood. Hers, in fact. Her nose had a small nick on it from being beaned with a hard-boiled Easter egg by her brother. It wasn't a high point for the Duncans, but it was definitely memorable!

We all camper-hopped, checking out the differences between each of our homes away from home. It's amazing how different each one is. And how cozy they become.

We played Hearts last night with the Duncans inside a shack at the campground. At one point, Carolyn looked over my shoulder and said, "Who is that?" It completely freaked me out, thinking of someone peeping in the windows at us. Sure enough, there were some kids with flashlights outside, trying to be spooky. Turns out they were the older Holdway and Fuller boys. I should have let Allison after them. One bear hug from a little girl and I'm sure they'd have hightailed it out of there!

Okay, the hugest (don't check the grammar books for that one!) camping breakthrough so far happened Sunday morning when, for the first time, we didn't burn what we fixed in the gas oven. Yee-haw! I am learning to cook in the smaller space, which is great considering that our family vacation to the Outer Banks this summer is looming ahead and I've heard there are not a plethora of restaurants in that area.

Another great thing about camping close to home is that I've been able to keep tabs on my grandpa via the phone calls I make daily to his hospital room. I haven't talked to him today because he's awaiting word from his doctor about being moved to the rehab portion of the hospital. He seems to be doing better. I'm still waiting to decide about my visit there later this week... when to go, with kids or without, etc.

Bruce is on his way home from work and we are meeting his parents for supper before taking them out to the campsite.

I'll post pictures later. Bruce has taken a few.

Narnia

We haven't seen Hollywood's version of the C.S. Lewis classic, "The Chronicles of Narnia." I own the DVD, but I haven't opened it yet to watch with the kids. I think they're a bit young for the hyper-stimulating images that I expect from a movie generated by non-Christians.

But I've never read the books and I really wanted to, with my kids.

A couple of months ago, I borrowed my brother-in-law's books of the series. All seven of them. The Magician's Nephew; The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe; The Horse and His Boy; Prince Caspian; The Voyage of The 'Dawn Treader'; The Silver Chair; and The Last Battle.

I started reading them with the kids. Beginning, of course, with The Magician's Nephew. We didn't get very far. It just seemed too big of a task. And we always seem too busy to sit down for lengthy reading sessions. Our lifestyle right now is much more conducive to short, sit-down sessions with Dr. Seuss.

So I cheated. I returned my brother-in-law's books to the bookshelf in his room at my in-law's house. And I went to our local library and checked out Focus on The Family Radio Theatre's CD audiodrama of the series. There are seven sets of CDs, just like there are seven books.

Here's a compilation of the whole shebang that christianbook.com sells.



We're in the car a lot. More than I'd like to be. I thought these CDs would be a great way to circumvent the whole tussle over which radio station we should listen to (see this post here).

It has worked like a charm. I no longer hear clamoring when we get in the car to listen to Electric. No. Instead I get, "Turn on the CD! Let's see what happens next." We all love it!

Each CD set is wonderful. We're getting ready to start the third story, The Horse and His Boy. I highly recommend them to anyone else who would like to get the "real deal" and not the Hollywood hyped-up version.

One day, we'll watch "Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe" and "Prince Caspian". But for now, I like that my kids are limited to their own imagination in visualizing the suspenseful scenes. Their minds are much purer than what Hollywood dishes out.

Blessed Easter

Praise God, another Easter.

We should feel the hope of Easter in our hearts at all times. Still, there is just something special and holy about this day.

No more words from me. Just a video with a song by Newsong, who put it far better than I could.

The Package

I just received a package from my mom for Easter from Germany. It looked suspiciously like it had been tampered with. You know how that United States Postal Service is! (That's just a little friendly jab in the direction of my mother-in-law, since she is a long-time employee of the USPS.)

Sure enough, upon greater inspection, I could see where Mom had taped the box shut with clear tape. And right on top of that, someone had whipped a new layer of thinner, but reinforced tape.

This is what my mom sent me.



It's my grandmother's cooking pot. Nothing exceptional about it, except that mom kept it for me when she went through my Oma's things before the sale of her house. Just a little memento for me with the added bonus of being usable.

But here's how Mom labeled the package.



Okay. I guess if I saw a package that was shipping "pot" I'd check it out, too.

Proofreading

The video to follow is hugely funny to me, because I've spent a lot of years editing the pre-publication newspaper articles of various colleague's, "fixing" grammar and punctuation on college papers for friends, and red-inking official work papers for my sweet spouse.

Truth be told, I'm a bit out of practice. But I read a lot, and I still catch things in books, in newspapers, on billboards. That doesn't mean I write perfectly. Just that I like to pick apart the work of others.

I don't do it to be mean or critical. It's simply a challenge to me. In some ways, it's a game. I enjoy it as much as I like a Sudoku puzzle, a computer game of Mahjong or the newspaper's edition of a crossword puzzle. It's just fun.

And there are plenty of things to laugh about when you really catch a doozy while proofreading. Lest you think that I am exempt from making horrible errors, I'll share this little tidbit. I have written about numerous "pubic" meetings in newspaper articles, before fellow reporters or a good editor got me back on track so that my story was focused on a "public" meeting.

And outside of reporting, there are two ladies in my life who I communicate with regularly, and whose names constantly get turned into typos. (My typos are highly complimentary, though, in these cases.) My friend Greta often gets addressed first as Great, and our fine church secretary, Betsy, comes out originally as Besty. I personally think these are not typos so much as my brain just characterizing their names, because Greta is Great, and Betsy is the Best-y.

I'm getting excited now to share this. (Everyone has a quirky passion, right?) On to the clip.

But first, the warning. Make sure your kids aren't around when you watch it. There are no curse words, but there are words that, trust me, you aren't going to want to explain. And there are some double entendres going on as well.


Okay, okay. Even if most of you hate it, I know my dad will like it. He is a great reader, is big on working crossword puzzles, and enjoys a good laugh!

Spencer's Prayers

Isaiah 11:6
"The wolf will live with the lamb,

the leopard will lie down with the goat;

the calf and the lion and the yearling together;

and a little child will lead them." (NIV)

Spencer is a treasure in how he prays to the Lord.

This child, who has not yet come to the point of asking Jesus into his heart, talks to God like He's right beside him. Like He's his best friend. Like we all ought to pray.

Last week, he had a conversation with God during prayer time that went like this:

"God, could you please help me not to have any nightmares tonight? Because they're bad. They scare me. Especially that one about the snakes. I've had that one twice now. And I don't like it. So please don't let me dream that one tonight."

It was so genuine. Why do we adults lose that sometimes?

Well, last night's prayer was equally precious. He said:

"Lord, thanks for dying on the cross, for our sins. That was good. And thanks for Mary crying about it when she saw you on the cross. Because that just showed how much she loved you."

Obviously that little guy has been listening in Sunday school, BSF and Awanas. I'm so glad that the good stuff sticks, too, and not just the bad stuff.

When he finished his prayer, I looked at him and said, "You know, Spencer, you have a gift, the way you pray. Jesus must smile every time you open your mouth to talk to Him."

And I got rewarded with the shiniest smile I've seen in a long time on that sweet face.

Thankful Thursday - Health Care Professionals

I'm getting a late start today. I called my grandpa at his hospital room earlier this morning. I've been doing it each morning since he was admitted for pneumonia on Monday. He's in a hospital that is a little over three hours from my home, so calling is the best I can do for now.

He sounded tired. And he went into coughing spasms while we spoke, which has probably been going on all along, but it's the first time I heard it. It sounded gut wrenching. I hated it.

Grandpa is not sleeping well in unfamiliar surroundings. He's not eating well because his appetite is minimal right now. And I know he does not like being in a hospital, having someone care for him. He's always been extremely self-sufficient and proud.

But this Thankful Thursday, I am just blessed knowing that he's being watched and cared for by professionals in the health care field. I feel a peace knowing he is being given medication to kill off the germs invading his body.

I like knowing he has nurses talking to him several times a day, even if just for a bit. My grandpa is very social. Actually, he's a big 89-year-old flirt. It felt good when he told me on Tuesday, "I've got some pretty... well, actually they aren't that attractive, but they're good nurses."

That just cracked me up. My grandpa's eyesight has been declining since before I was born. If Angelina Jolie and Dr. Ruth were standing in front of him, he likely wouldn't be able to see the difference. (He would say that he could feel the difference. Really. He has said that. In public. My brothers and I cringe, but he's harmless. He just likes getting people riled up. Most especially his grandkids. And waitresses. And nurses. Pretty much anyone who'll take the bait.)

Before he went into the hospital, Grandpa very stubbornly refused the suggestion from my older brother that we get some type of home health care for him. He is unsteady on his feet due to medications he takes. He also has arthritis. And feet that have been "bad" since he fell out of a barn decades ago and broke nearly every bone in them. (He drove himself to the hospital following that incident. He had to. My grandmother never drove. She never even had a license, as far as I know.)

In any case, he had been falling often in the week prior to his hospital admission. And he'd be on the floor sometimes for hours before someone realized he needed aid. He got a cold while attending my aunt's funeral a little more than a week before all the falling started. Between the falls and the cold, it's no wonder he ended up with pneumonia.

But that pneumonia landed him in the hospital. And now, all of a sudden, he's okay with us getting home health care. Once he gets home.

Some of his acquiescence may come from his acceptance of his own imitations. But I'm sure some of it also comes from his interactions with the hospital staff. I think he's tired of being lonely. And having someone check on him at home will give him regular opportunities to be silly and get someone riled up good. It's just in his nature.

I could never be a nurse. I'm too squeamish!

But I am so thankful for those called into that profession who have a love for helping people. A big shout out to all my nursing friends, too. You know who you are. You may not be The Nurse helping my grandpa, but you've done it for others countless times.

Our Little Author

Clay just got home and I was looking through his work from this past week. I just had to share this little assignment.

His teacher's instructions were as follows:
You and your two best friends are going on an adventure! Where would you go and what would you do? What exciting things would happen to all of you?

Clay wrote the following (misspellings are his, not mine.):
My freind Nick fuller and Tyler Dunken will go too an undiscoverd island. We tried to find out somthing we all like, we got the anser reading. We named it Reading Island. We walked a while but walked only in circles. Then we found out other people lived here. So that is really disaponting.

I loved it.

Maybe it is something only a Momma can be proud of, but that's all good. My pride, my boy, my blog! See how that works?

The Big Race

You can see that I am not a die-hard Nascar fan, since it's taken me three whole days to post anything about the race. There are things I enjoy about the races, and a few things I don't. Bruce has done his best to indoctrinate me, but ever since Clay has expressed a more genuine interest, I've been let off the hook.

I generally don't go to the races when Bruce gets tickets through work if those tickets are for seating in the stands. He takes another race enthusiast along for that ride.

I go when he gets suite tickets. I'm spoiled that way, I know. I am a wienie who is not willing to brave the cold, the rain, the snow, or the heat and humidity, depending on the season in which a particular race occurs. (If I were okay with that, I'd follow in my mother-in-law's shoes and be a mail carrier and make some money in spite of the weather. Not going to happen for a race though.)

Here are a few things I like about the races.

First and foremost will always be that, a little over five years ago, during the weekend of the fall race, my OB/GYN decided inducing our twins would be good. The interstate exit for the race track is between our house and the hospital in which our little twinkies were born. I was 37 1/2 weeks along, and had been having irregular contractions for a couple of weeks. To say that I was huge is a vast understatement. We watched the race in the comforts of the hospital that year.

Back to this year. Here's the play-by-play from a wishy-washy fan.

The crowds are unbelievable during race weekend. But we have a great route planned, so we've never spent more than 30 minutes getting to or from the track. Of course, that's not including walking time from our free parking spaces in the boonies to the track. (It was good exercise!)

My highlight pre-race was "winning" a couple of Sharpie pens. Is it even possible to run a household smoothly without at least three good Sharpies in varying sizes? Different colors than black are just a bonus. I got a pink one and Bruce got a purple one, but we all know they're both mine.

Below is where we played the lame game that was actually simply an attempt at making the masses do something in order to give them something for free in the hopes that they will appreciate the value of the item given.



These buses and helicopters were for the drivers and their team members. So that they could make a clean getaway at the end of the race. I've never noticed that area before at other races, so I thought it was interesting. Sorry if you don't.



I love this picture that Bruce took. (Actually, he took all of these.) I get very sentimental and patriotic at the races. Well, pretty much any time our flag is unfurled. I don't know if it's from my dad's service in the Air Force or what, but I am a proud American. (I love my German heritage almost as much!)



Here are all the teams, lined up during the National Anthem.



Ahh, the jets. They're just awesome! (Again, maybe because of all the years I lived on Air Force bases? Maybe.)



My driver, #48, Jimmie Johnson. And I don't like him just because he's eye candy. That's an extra. I like him because he shows self control in interviews, even after wrecks and other mild catastrophes. I don't care for hot-head drivers.

I'm a mom who's trying to teach her kids self control, a trait that is difficult for me. But shove a camera in my face for the nation to see my reaction and I'm confident that I'll be as sweet as pie. If grown men can't simmer down for a 30-second televised interview, I just have no respect for them. And I can't root for someone if I have no respect for them, no matter how entertaining their antics appear to others.

Mark Martin used to be my favorite driver, but he doesn't race every time now. He's a class act!



Bruce took this one for Clay, who really likes #9, Kasey Kahne. If only he didn't drive for Budweiser. Oh well, I stuck by Mark Martin when he drove for Viagra. (On that note, for a very funny story about that particular product, go to my friend Cassie's page and see yesterday's post. I guarantee you a laugh!)

I really enjoy watching the pit crews. They are super fast! You just can't help but be impressed. I bet their wives love the jobs their pit crew husbands have when it's pouring rain and they get a flat. So handy to have a pro along.



One other noteworthy thing to mention from the race is that Bruce got a beer shower from the tanked guy behind us when the girl he was flirting with cracked some joke. It was funny to me, but not to Bruce. I didn't laugh where he could see. I laughed on the inside. Because I love him. And he's bigger than me. And gives way uglier looks when he's mad.

It was funny though. Not the beer-mixed-with-spit spewing on my spouse. No, that's not funny. That's just yucky. But it's one of those things that you usually only see on TV. And the expression on Bruce's face when he turned around to face the guy... Nothing but funny there!

Oh, I have to tell this, too. We got the suite tickets for free, and they served free food and drinks up there. I told Bruce he got away with a very cheap date with the wife.

We had completely forgotten any cash, or we would have probably parked closer and paid for it. But instead we parked oh-so-far-away.

And when we got back to the truck after the race, there was a little pink ticket in a baggie under the wiper. For $15. For parking against the flow of traffic.

But we still avoided traffic and drove home in 30 minutes. You just have to see the positive side.

In Search of Eden

The book I just finished was so good I had to share.

It feels like I've been reading it for a very long time, and I have. Longer than usual, but you know, life happens. My mom actually bought it for me when she was visiting in the fall, but I just got around to starting it last month.

Here's the book.



I liked the front cover. But what really drew me in to the book was its setting. Most of the story takes place in Abingdon, Virginia, a place I love.

Many spots local to Abingdon were mentioned. The Creeper Trail. The Pepper Mill restaurant. The Barter Theatre. And others. The author, Linda Nichols, even mentioned the Highlands Festival, which is just a super time to visit the area and happens this year from July 26 through August 10. (You can find out more here.)

The story is intensly "ugly" in some areas and really poignant in others. It's very well put together. And the main characters feel real.

You'll like it!

Please Pray

My 89-year-old grandpa was admitted to the hospital this afternoon with pneumonia. He lives alone and has been falling often this past week, sometimes lying on the floor for hours before he could crawl to the phone to call for help.

He should be in the hospital for only three days, but he is sick, tired, sore and depressed after my aunt's death 10 days ago.

He's not keen on us doing much in the way of extra health care for him. And he's very stubborn.

Would you please say a prayer for him?

Thanks.

St. Patrick's Day - A Special Anniversary

I really like St. Patrick's Day. I was always pretty good about remembering to wear green in school and rarely got pinched, but that's not why I like this day. It's special to me because on it, 14 years ago, Bruce asked me to marry him.

Not on Valentine's Day. And not on the day that would have marked our first date. No, that would be too cliche for my man. He picked St. Patrick's Day. (He's never been one for obvious sentimentality.)

I'm fairly certain he had no idea that it was even St. Patrick's Day when he proposed. The actual day that would have marked our first date came later in the week, but the engagement ring was burning a hole in his pocket, he later told me. He had planned to go the sentimental route, to please me, but just couldn't quite make it that long.

In my warped mind, I like it better this way. I like for things to be different, unique, even odd. Trying to fit in the cookie-cutter mold never worked much for me anyway.

I don't remember what we did with most of our day, 14 years ago. We were spending the weekend at his parent's house, away from where we attended college. That evening, we were alone in the den in their basement, with a fire blazing in the fireplace and CMT playing on the television. (I had a brief country music phase around that time that was Bruce inspired. Say what you want, but to this day I hold firm on the opinion that Diamond Rio and Sawyer Brown ROCK!!)

Bruce and I talked. We slow danced a bit. Several kisses thrown in there, too. And then he got on his knee and held a velvet box out to me as he asked me to marry him.

And I got mad. Because I thought he was yanking my chain in the worst way. I even said, "Bruce, this is not a funny joke."

He assured me he was not kidding. (We'd been dating for two years, and we'd talked about marriage. But I can be gullible at times, and I take things that people say very literally; Bruce had had a little too much fun with that for me to take him seriously all the time.)

I was still hesitant. I thought that box would certainly contain a pink plastic ring that he'd gotten from the nearest bubble gum machine. And, boy, was I prepared to let him have it if that was the case!

A few more moments passed before I believed him. But only after opening the box and seeing a sparkling ring that he had chosen perfectly after a talk we'd had about what kind of ring I'd like. (Understated, not too big because it would look gaudy on my small hand. But big enough to at least appear like he loved me enough to shell out a few big bucks. Simple, because I don't like very ornate things. They usually require too much time to clean.)

So I said "yes," we hugged and kissed some more, a couple tears gathered on the edges of our eyes, and we smiled like goofy dorks who had no idea what we'd just gotten ourselves signed up for. We didn't have a clue.

And for the next four months we planned my graduation from college and our wedding, found a job for me in the same town where he had secured an engineering co-op position for a year, signed a lease on a nice little apartment, and burned up the phone lines and highways trying to get a good grip on the immediate future.



Sweet memories!

My Superpower

If you're here visiting for the Blog Party, click here for my post about that. Please feel free to browse as well.

Prepare to be amazed.

I've been mostly serious in my last few posts and it's taxed my brain a bit. It's time for a little silliness. Because it's Friday.

Your Superpower Should Be Mind Reading You are brilliant, insightful, and intuitive. You understand people better than they would like to be understood. Highly sensitive, you are good at putting together seemingly irrelevant details. You figure out what's going on before anyone knows that anything is going on! Why you would be a good superhero: You don't care what people think, and you'd do whatever needed to be done. Your biggest problem as a superhero: Feeling even more isolated than you do now.

Oh, how true! My superpower should be mind-reading. Sadly, it's not. But it should be! Bruce would be a much happier man if it were.

As to the rest of the description of my superpowers, there are times when I am highly sensitive. But it's never pretty. Certainly not hero-type behavior.

I deal daily with irrelevant details. Which laundry load should be washed first? PB & J or ham & cheese for lunch? Dust, vacuum or blog? Spongebob, Fetch or Barbie Mariposa?

And if I could really figure out what was going on before anyone else, I wouldn't have a blood stain on my den carpet, glue on my kitchen table or pencil marks on the wall. I would also likely not have spent $15 at PetSmart in the last month, constantly replacing dead fish with no apparent cause of death.

But that part about why I'd be a good superhero? All true. I mostly don't care what others think (unless I think I'll be a stumbling block. In utmost seriousness, I care deeply about my witness and testimony). And I do buckle down and do what needs to be done.

Isolated? Are you kidding me? I can't even go to the bathroom for 30 seconds without interruption. I'd love some isolation. Just for half a day even.

Oh, yeah, I'm a superhero. Tell me something I don't already know.

But my hero skills are more along these lines.

Able to stumble haphazardly over mini Lego villages after stepping on one almost microscopic piece and cringing. But the village remains intact. And that's what really matters.

Single-handedly capable of swiping a sticky mouth free of chocolate and Q-tipping a clogged nose free of goo.

Proven ability to fly from one child's room to another to catch vomit in a bucket when all three come down with the stomach virus in the same week.

I am, in fact, Wonder Woman. Aren't all moms?

Find out your superpower by clicking here. And tell me all about it by leaving a comment. You non-blogging lurkers can reply using the anonymous option. If you want to, type your first name at the end of your note, so I'll know who has what superpower. You never know when we supermoms might need to band together to save the world. Or at least to save supper (by swapping recipes or something equally tricky.).

Thankful Thursday - The Small Details

If you're here visiting for the Blog Party, click here for my post about that. Please feel free to browse as well.


I know last week's Thankful Thursday was all about my Bruce. He is pretty great most days. (But don't tell him. He does have issues with his ego. I want to keep him as humble as possible.)

Today's post is about specific things that happened, or didn't happen, while Bruce was on his business trip for which I am thankful.

I am thankful that the Wii remote wasn't permanently broken when Spencer got so excited while playing that he threw it across the room. I'm also, in a small way, thankful that it happened, so that I had a very good reason to put the Wii in "time-out" while Bruce was gone, because the kids weren't playing nicely with it anyway. And the timing was also good, because it happened on Tuesday, so I got the rest of the week until Sunday night with no Wii-inspired fights.

I am also thankful that our puppy Dixie is better trained than we often give her credit for. Last Wednesday when I was feeding her, I noticed the cover of her shock collar (that zaps her if she gets too close to the boundary of the underground fence) was missing. "Oh well," I thought, "at least it's still working." On Thursday, as I was feeding her, I found a 9-Volt battery lying in the yard, with wires hanging off of it. Sure enough, it was from her collar, which was by then as dead as roadkill. "Oh well," I thought, "let's hope the weight of the collar is enough to convince her that she's still in danger of being shocked if she tries to make a break for it." And it was. For the other three days that Bruce was gone, our sweet puppy was unprotected from leaving the yard. But she's a good girl, and she stayed put. So much better for my nerves that way.

And one more. During my week of single-parenting, I'm thankful that my kids went to bed each night without a fuss. Some times, bedtime is a long endeavor. One or more kid will come downstairs more than once for one thing or another. It gets frustrating. But while I was on my own, in desperate need of the quiet in the evenings, my kiddos not only stayed in their rooms but also actually fell asleep earlier than usual, which they really needed in order to fight the emotions of Bruce being gone.

Have I ever told you how great my kids are? And my Mr. Fix it Husband? (The Wii and the dog's collar are as good as new now. I'm happier about the collar than the game, I admit.)

We're so blessed. Even in the small things. How great is that?

"From his abundance we have all received one gracious blessing after another." John 1:16.

Healing the Blind

If you're here visiting for the Blog Party, click here for my post about that. Please feel free to browse as well.

Quick question. Did you know that Jesus not only healed people, but also vegetables? Well, if you want to get technical, fruits.

It's true, according to my daughter.

Each Wednesday, I take my younger two to Bible Study Fellowship. They have their own class with other children, while I have time with adult women.

We're in Matthew this year at BSF. Today, we were specifically in Matthew 20 with part of what we discussed being the healing of the two blind men in verses 29-34. But the kids learned about another blind man.

When I picked up my two, I asked about their lesson. I already knew exactly who they learned about, but I like to make sure they're paying attention enough to recall information to me.

And so my question was, "What did you learn about today?"

Spencer replied. "About a man that Jesus healed from being blind."

Another question from me. "What was his name?"

This time Allison answered. With this. "Bar-Tomato."

Um, yes. Bartimaeus.

Oh well, a rose by any other name is still a rose.

Kindergarten Registration

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I couldn't sleep last night. I was plenty tired, but just couldn't drift off.

I kept thinking about this morning and what was coming. I registered my babies for kindergarten today. They are so ready. And 90 percent of the time, I am, too.

But last night at midnight, I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready at 1 a.m. either. By 2 a.m. I'm not sure if I was ready, but I passed out anyway, thankfully.

We held Spencer and Allison back from starting kindergarten last fall, although technically they were of age to do so. Their birthday falls within a couple weeks of the cut off date. But we heard about little boys not being as geared for academic settings as little girls. (Generalities, folks, I know, but still...) With our two youngest being twins of the opposite gender, I didn't want to face the possibility, a few years down the road, of one child being ready to progress to the next grade while the other wasn't.

There were other considerations as well. Spencer is wild. It's his nature. He's geared with only about a 5 percent capability to process danger, so very few things scare him. And that really scares me! Anyway, before putting him into a school setting, we felt he needed more time to mature into a body that could sit still a little longer and a spirit that could obey more willingly.

He's the kind of kid that could easily be labeled with hyperactivity or ADHD. And I'll do all I can to prevent that.

Bruce and I differ vastly on the whole hyperactivity/ADHD thing. He thinks it's simply a disciplinary issue. I don't.

My younger brother, Chris, was diagnosed with hyperactivity as a kid. I've seen it at work in a kid, and in a family. I saw dietary changes work to my brother's advantage. I saw Ritalin work to his teacher's advantage. And I saw him labeled as a special ed kid.

I watched Chris be relegated to a separate hallway in high school. One that most kids used simply as passageway to another part of the building, but that housed many of the classrooms for the Sped kids (that's what they were called. Speds.). I hated it for him.

It's not the having hyperactivity or ADHD that bothers me. That is, in my mind, manageable. It's the labeling that gets me. I don't want to deal with that. There are so many ways we're all labeled in life anyway, this is just one that's my pet peeve. I'll homeschool again before medicating my child to make him or her fit better in a classroom setting.

But I've gone off on a tangent. So unlike me!

Other reasons we held them back were so that they'd be among the oldest in their class and not the youngest. This was wisely pointed out to me by my mother-in-law. Later on, our kids will be some of the first to drive in their class. I have far more control over my kids' experiences behind the wheel than I do over their future friends' car time. It's easier to say, "Sorry, no keys for you," than to keep them from hopping into their buddy's car. If their friends don't have car access before they do, I'm good with that. I'm very good with that.

Plus, and here's a big one, now we have three years between Clay starting college and Spencer and Allison starting. Ideally, we'll only pay tuition for all three for one year. Realistically, that's probably not likely, but for now I prefer to live in my fantasy.

And we had a couple of personal things to address at home before sending them to school. They were still napping daily last year when school started. They stopped around Christmas time.

Spencer was still carrying his cloth as a Linus-blanket last August; and Allison was still sucking her thumb. Both kicked their respective habits early this year.

And, prepare yourself, I was still wiping their hineys after Number Twos. Without saying any more, we've covered that territory in the last couple of weeks as well.

Today while registering them, I saw how ready they really are. While we waited, they showed far more restraint than other kids there. (It could have been a fluke. I am prepared to admit that. But, again, my fantasy... let me live it.) This past year has matured them both. That extra year has been a blessing for them.

But for a brief moment, around 1:30 a.m. last night (technically this morning), I considered homeschooling them for kindergarten, like I did Clay. I pushed the thought aside though. In this instance, it would be selfish. It would simply be my way to hold on to them just a bit longer.

Clay wanted to be homeschooled. It was good for him, and so it was good for me.

It would be stifling for Spencer. He needs time away from a mommy whose personality his so closely mimics. (He's got plenty of Bruce in him too, though, so I can't claim all that gumption!) He will do well to have a teacher who is more structured than I am, but less controlling.

And for Allison it would simply be unfair. She has longed to be in Big School. She, too, craves the independence. And she needs some more little girl friends. Mommy is great, but it's been a long time since Mommy was five.

And, the two need time apart from each other to learn. We'll request that they have separate classes, so that neither of them will coast off of the other one's knowledge. And so they won't feel free to lash out at each other in a school setting. (They can save that for home! Lucky me, the referee.)

We gave them an extra year to mature. I wonder if the next four and a half months will be enough for me to grow up so that I can let them go without crying on the first day of school?

Okay, I'll be adult enough to wait until they won't see me cry.

I Need It

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I just read something I have to share. And I must share it because it's in my own defense. And since I didn't originally write it or say it, it actually has some credibility.

A couple days ago I blogged a silly little rant about the results of a fun Pooh-inspired quiz. (Yes, as in Winnie the Pooh. Only the most sophisticated of reading material will ever be discussed on this blog. We're very highbrow here.) To read the original blog entry about that, click here.

I wasn't sure I appreciated the playful results. (No matter how true.)

And now, to show you that being talkative has genuine merit, I give you the following:

"If you've ever been told you talk too much, keep this comeback in mind: chatting with relatives or friends (either in person or over the phone) can boost your brainpower, a new study has found. Plus, discussing a social issue for only 10 minutes improves your memory just as much as more traditional intellectual activities, like doing crossword puzzles." (Taken from Family Circle magazine's April 1, 2008, issue.)

There you go. I talk a lot because I'm trying to get smarter. And, quite frankly, I need it. Because the older my children get, the stupider I become.

For the record, I still think I'm at least part Eeyore.

Gotta Love 'Em

If you're here visiting for the Blog Party, click here for my post about that. Please feel free to browse as well.

My kids have driven me nuts today. I'm certain they totally understand that Bruce's homecoming is just around the corner, and they've had just about enough of me.

Grouch, grouch, grouch. All day long. From them. Not me.

But right at this moment, the house is silent except for the hum of the heat pump and the clicking as I type. Oh, and the ever-present chugging of the washer and dryer.

And why is the house so silent, you ask?

Because I have each of them behind locked doors. Just kidding.

My in-laws have all three of my kiddos at a church fellowship. And I am home. Alone. Not to be confused with the movie, "Home Alone," in which there is still a kid present. Nope. Not here. Not now. No kids.

Can you see my smiling face?

Well, look closer then, because it is here.

Oh, I love my babies. And they really have been pretty normal this whole week that their daddy has been gone. And by normal, I mean normal. Not perfect. And not even "good" all the time. Just normal. Sometimes sweet enough to scoop 'em up with a spoon and swallow them whole, and other times so rotten I'd like to spit them into the kitchen sink.

Because they have been little red, horned devils today, I warned them in the biggest way I could to behave while with their grandparents. I reminded them that they are the two adults that used to spank daddy, so they have plenty of practice.

To which they all replied, "Oh, we'll be good."

And Spencer added, "We love Meemaw and Peepaw. We're always good for them."

Huh? Well, what about me? And so I asked. And I know better, but I did it anyway. It was reflexive. It just happened.

I said, laughing, "Well, what about me? Why aren't you good for me all the time? Don't you love me?"

And Allison said, "Oh, we love you. But Meemaw is just a better person than you."

And so that is how you wipe the smile off of Mommy's face.

Boogers, I tell you. Every one of them!

I'm going to enjoy my peace now.

Blog Party

I heard about this shin-dig on a friend's blog, so I hopped around and did a little research.

I like the idea of meeting more fellow bloggers, because women, at home, with unlimited access to computers can be a very dangerous thing. (I'm thinking shopping here, although that's not my downfall. Well, unless you count buying books off of Amazon!)

I've been blogging only since last September. This started out as a way for our families to keep in touch and know what we're up to with our crew. But now it's often a way for me to keep things in perspective, to try to find some humor in the "blech" situations in life, and to remember the things I'm most thankful for.

I've been blessed by the posts of other Christian women bloggers so much that I now haunt their sites regularly. Go back and read a few of my posts if you have the time. Maybe you'll decide this blog is "haunt" worthy.

Party on!

P.S. You can go to 5 Minutes for Mom to check out other party participants, and to see a list of some great prizes.

My top three favorite prizes are all books.

Prize #88 Ethan Allen's Style Book provided by Southern Hospitality.

Prize #8 50 Nights of Family Fun provided by Essential Family Living.

Prize #116 True Believer by Nicholas Sparks provided by Amy at Signs, Miracles and Wonders.

I also like the following prizes:
#80 (scripture doll),
#32 (Livin' the Dream t-shirt),
#96 (Good Pails to Have),
#23 (t-shirt by PMKU),
#38 (custom made teacher notecards) and
#49 ($10 gift certificate to CBD).

Good stuff, ladies. Go check it out!

More Than I Can Handle?

Clay had baseball practice this afternoon, within 15 minutes of when he walked in the door from school. It takes right at 15 minutes to get to the field. I didn't want to take him, but he missed yesterday's practice, his team's first, to go to church instead. Plus, it was an almost balmy 60-ish degrees outside, so we went.

It was a rush to get out the door, and I couldn't find his lefty glove. We took Spencer's right-handed glove, and I told him to do the best he could.

They're doing some kind of construction around the fields, so on top of areas made muddy by recent rain, there were ditches partially filled with gravel, and mounds of gravel and stone that my younger two were told to steer clear of.

A little playhouse-type structure was there, and Spencer and Allison played on it sweetly with one little boy, who was probably younger than mine are. I noticed another little fella, all boy, climbing the bleachers, running around them, picking up sticks.

At one point, Spencer walked up to the little loner boy and asked him if he wanted to race. And that little... child... reared his leg back and full-force kicked Spencer. I know my jaw dropped, but I didn't say anything, because I really wanted to see Spencer's reaction. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

I was so proud of him, because I know that boy of mine. If his mind had been in it, it could have gotten ugly. Thank the Lord for the blessing that Spencer lashes out only at his family (because he knows that we'll still love him when all the dust settles, maybe?).

I waited for a couple of minutes and called Spencer over and whispered in his ear that he did just great with the way he handled that situation. He started to defend himself, but I said, "Spence, I saw the whole thing. I know what he did. You were right to just walk away instead of being ugly back."

From that point on I watched Mean Boy constantly. He was awful. He grabbed a long stick, dipped it in a mud puddle and tried to fling that junk on the other little boy that my two were playing with. Good Boy's momma caught that incident before it got out of hand.

I glanced away for a few seconds only to check on Clay's practice, and Allison started shrieking. Thinking the worst, I pivoted around. And she was knee deep in mud. She was beside herself. Absolutely insulted that mud would dare to attach itself to her princess-like frame. I do believe that every person within a mile turned to see if she was dying, because it sure sounded like she was.

I just said, "Allison, it's mud. Calm down."

Did she? Nope.

The bathroom doors were, of course, all locked. Nobody warned me that it was my day to entertain Mr. Murphy. Him and his stupid laws!

After walking to the van, and using a tissue to clean her up (you can imagine how far I got with that!), we walked back to the play structure. As we approached, Spencer again went up to Mean Boy. He was convinced he knew him from "church," he said. And Mean Boy again jerked that little leg back to kick. Having been burned once, Spencer was fast enough to dodge it this time. And he again walked away.

I was done with that kid. He had on a jersey with his name conveniently printed on the back, so I loudly said, "Hey (and his name, that I won't write, in case any of you know him), stop that kicking right now. That's mean."

Well, finally Mean Boy's dad turned around and paid attention to his little hellion. But he did absolutely nothing, except stare at me, probably wondering why I had said his son's name and chastised him. I didn't look back. Confrontation of that sort makes me not like me so much. I'm a little too good at it.

Several more minutes passed. Practice had already been underway for an hour.

Mean Boy climbed on top of one of the piles of gravel, and Spencer attempted to follow him. I'd already told my kids to stay off the gravel. Obviously it was there for workers and not for kids to spread it all over the playground, although certainly the workers might have had the forethought to place it some place less tempting for kids.

But the power struggle was on. Spencer shuffled about, not quite scaling the rock pile, but certainly not going back to the play area. So I said he had to come to me and sit on the ground and be bored since he couldn't play in the play area and stay off the gravel. As he turned toward me, Mean Boy moved in his general vicinity with his stick, and Spencer tried to get away... but lost his footing in a mud puddle.

Down he went.



And for the second time within an hour, one of my children screamed as if to bring the heavens down.

My reaction was not great. I turned around so I wasn't facing Spencer, because I just couldn't assess the damage yet. I took a very deep breath, and clamped my mouth shut. Tight. My eyes rolled back and shut, and my face lifted to the clouds. Because I was thinking, "What Lord? My kid? Really? Mine, and not the one who has been terrorizing every other kid for the last bit? Come on! Where is the love?!"

Spencer's whole back was covered, from the nape of his neck to his shoes.

And it just kept getting better. Somehow, my son, who I was so proud of moments before... blamed me!

He's five. Not yet smart enough to know when to clamp his own mouth shut. So he let it loose. Loudly. All over Mommy!

I marched over and grabbed his muddy stick of an arm and took him back to the bathrooms. The locked bathrooms. Well, fine! It was enclosed enough. I stripped his britches down and swatted him a few times. (It's bad when I call pants "britches" because that's my grandma coming out in me. And she used switches. Very well. On my dad. And my brothers. Rarely on me. But only because I didn't get caught.)

Even Spencer's underwear was muddy. And now, because I'd spanked him, so was I.

His ire shifted to Mean Boy, and he was reaming that kid, all safely out of hearing range, thankfully. I pointed out to him that his mud bath was no body's fault but his own, because if he had obeyed me to begin with, he'd have been playing nicely in the mulched play area, nowhere near the mud. He cried several minutes but started to calm down as the cold mud began to chill him.

We walked back to the practice field, and I glanced up to see a familiar face. Someone who was in my Bible Study Fellowship group last year. I said a weak "hi" that she halfheartedly reciprocated. Anyone with eyes could see that I had my hands full with two mud-coated kids.

And the next thing I know, my friend from BSF calls out to Mean Boy. She called him by name, waved, and then walked to stand beside the kid's dad. No! She couldn't possibly be his mother. Since we share prayer concerns in our BSF groups, I had probably prayed for that child the preceding year. I must not have been diligent enough!!

Practice was at an hour and a half by then. I went to the coach, said I needed the schedule, and Clay, because we were going home right then.

Spencer and Allison stripped in the trunk of the van. Allison from the waist down, but she got to keep her panties on. But Spencer lost every shred of clothing he had. Even his socks were caked with the stuff.

On the way home we passed a state trooper, and I prayed, "Lord, please. Not today. This can't possibly be made to look good." Can you imagine? One half naked child and another completely naked child, both with smudged cheeks showing obvious tear tracks down the middle. I could be in jail tonight with lots to explain. And no husband nearby to bail me out. My in-laws would have loved getting that call!

Still, all things considered, I could see the humor in it. When we got home, I sent Clay up to the bathroom with the younger two to turn on the shower for them while I gathered all the muddy clothes out of the back of the van. I threw the whole muddy mess in my washing machine.

When everyone was clean, we had a late supper. It was a hodge podge meal, but it was on the table quickly. They ate while I cleaned a head of lettuce, because I felt like having salad.

And then the crazy sink rebelled and clogged. I spent about five minutes unclogging it.

Finally, we were all finished eating and came into the den to relax. Got a fire going in the fireplace. Started watching an episode of America's Funniest Home Videos. And one of the kids went to the bathroom...

...and now my toilet is clogged, waiting for me to stop typing and get in there with a plunger.

I still see the humor. Kind of.