Hard Headed

I've always said my kids are hard-headed. But this past week, both boys decided to prove me right. (Not that I needed proof.)

We've been visiting another church on and off a few times this summer, wondering if God would have us change where we attend. The kids have been resistant, because who at that age is okay with change?

Clay has probably been the most at ease, because he knows a bunch of kids from school who attend at the church we've been visiting. Spencer has been okay, because he's Spencer and can conquer the world. He has fussed a little, but nothing major.

Allison has cried twice when we've dropped her off for Sunday school... even though one of her school buddies is in class with her. And so is Spencer, for that matter. Of all the places I've dropped these children off (Sunday school, Awanas, VBS, BSF, kindergarten), she has never been a crier.

Still, that's how last Sunday started off. It was emotionally draining for me. We told the kids they could all go with us to "big church" instead of staying in children's church, and then we pulled Allison's clutched hands away from my waist and left her in her Sunday school class, bawling.

Once church time rolled around, we sat at the end of a row near the back. Spencer was in the very last seat, and he had a major case of the wiggles. The sanctuary was cold, too. So Spencer curled into a ball with his knees under his chin, feet on the chair. Then he pulled his shirt over his knees and tucked his arms in as well.

Within minutes, his wiggles resumed and he somehow rolled right out of his seat onto the floor. (Because, while Spongebob may have a square butt, my children do not.) Spencer smacked his forehead pretty solidly on the ground when he landed.

My memory at this point is all in slow motion. I looked down and realized Spencer's face was scrunched up, his mouth was open after sucking air in and he was getting ready to let all that air out in a giant wail. In the middle of the preacher's sermon about opposition happening when you are trying to do what the Lord leads you to do. Yes, preacher. Do tell.

While I pulled in a deep breath to control my frustration (I had just told Spencer to put his feet down off the chair and to sit still), I realized Spencer's mouth was full of blood.

That's when slow motion ended. I glanced at Bruce to make sure he saw the blood, and then I untangled Spencer from his shirt straitjacket and picked him up to carry him out of the church.

Two good things to note here. When Spencer gets ready to really wail, he loses his breath and takes forever to finally let it back out, so the shrieking began in earnest only once I was actually safely in the bathroom. And, despite all the blood in his mouth, my white shirt stayed white. Proof that God covers even the littlest details of our lives.

One more nice thing. Really nice, actually. Two different people, strangers from this new church, followed us and checked to make sure Spencer was okay.

He had bit his tongue. Big time.

Have you ever tried to hold a paper towel firmly to a crying child's tongue to stop bleeding? It takes awhile to work!

If I'd had my purse with me, I would have taken Spencer to the van and waited there for the rest of the family. Instead, I carried my boy with his rug-burned, pump-knotted forehead back into the sanctuary for the rest of the sermon.

On the drive home, Bruce asked the kids what they learned in Sunday school. Clay said something about Paul's missionary journeys. Allison mentioned David and Goliath.

And Spencer piped up and said, "I learned that you don't sit with your knees tucked under your shirt and your feet on the chair in church."

Last night was like Part II of a bad movie, just with a new star.

We went, first, to the school’s open house and found out who the kids’ teachers would be this year. Afterwards we went to the Moody’s house so that Roy and Bruce could load up Bruce’s truck with stuff to take to Cookeville. Brandon and Brandi bought a house there and are moving in today. Bruce and Roy left early this morning and picked up Bryan in Knoxville, so all the men are helping with the move.

There was a ladder flat on the ground in the front of the Moody’s yard and some furniture still waiting to be loaded. The kids were running around, playing with the Moody's German shepherd Rex and watching Bruce and Roy load up.

Then Clay walked backwards, tripped over the ladder and fell down and knocked his head against the corner of an oak nightstand. He instantly grabbed his head and started crying.

Sharon and I took him in the house to sit down because he said he was dizzy and it was cooler in the house. I told him to point to where it hurt on his head and I pulled his hair back… and noticed some blood. I didn’t think it was much, but by the time I parted all his hair, I found a pretty yucky gash. It was maybe an inch wide and probably a quarter of an inch deep. It looked like raw steak. I’m not used to seeing the inside of my kids' flesh. It never did gush blood though.

I went outside to get Bruce and he and Roy took a look at the gash. Up to that point, I had purposely never said the word "stitches". First, so Clay wouldn't hear it, but also so Spencer and Allison wouldn't and then repeat it to Clay. But Bruce saw the cut and said the magic word. Clay started his freak out session.

We were all pretty much thinking Clay was going to need a few stitches. But Sharon suggested I walk to her backyard neighbor and let him take a look. He’s some kind of medical professional. He took a look at Clay’s head and said if it was anywhere but in his hair, he would say take him in for stitches. But he suggested instead to take him home and then pull the edges of the wound together by pulling hair from each side and tying it in a knot over the top of the wound.

When we got home, I had Clay take a shower and wash his hair. There was blood caked all around the cut. Then I tried to knot his hair, but his hair is too silky and fine. It wouldn’t stay knotted.

I kept looking at that wound and thinking, “This really needs to be stitched.” But if I mentioned going to the hospital, Clay went nuts. He was shaking and crying so hard.

Finally, I got my scissors out and cut a big section of hair off, then took our hair trimmer and shaved part of his head around the wound. We had some butterfly bandages in our first aid kit in the camper, so Bruce brought them in and I basically pushed the wound edges together and taped them shut with the butterfly bandage. And then I put antibiotic ointment on the part of the wound that wasn’t covered by the butterfly and put a bandaid over top of that so nothing would get on the wound and it would stay clean. And so it wouldn’t bleed all over the pillow while Clay slept.

Poor kid. When we were done, he gave me a huge hug and said, “Thank you for not taking me to the hospital.”

It was a pretty traumatic evening for us both!

I'm praying it'll heal quickly without any infection. In the meantime, I’m treating him like a baby for a few days.

He had just decided to quit football on Thursday. It’s a good thing, too, because I probably wouldn’t let him play for a few more practices now anyway.

Now here's the part that just shows how warped our family is. When the whole thing started at the Moody's house, Spencer ran and found Roy’s camera to take a picture while Clay's wound was still open and oozing. We didn't take a picture though. I don't want to see that ever again.

Please, God, let us avoid stitches a whole lot longer! Forever would be nice.

Right about now I am thinking that perhaps Clay wanting his hair long was a good thing. Because most of that shag now hides his bald spot.

Back for a Bit

I've been on a technology hiatus. No real reason. I didn't make the conscious decision to take a break, but every time I sat down in front of the computer, I just didn't feel like taking the time to post on the blog. And I haven't been chained to Facebook lately either.

I have a bunch of pictures from the summer to post, but no time right now.

First, an update off of my last post. My medical tests came back normal. So, for now, I'm still off the medication I mentioned. I'll go back for blood work in a few months and see if everything continues as it should be instead of all whacked.

Second, Clay has started playing football, but I'm not sure if it's a going to be a lasting thing. He loved all the equipment once he brought it home. He had Spencer and Allison smacking all over him. "Go ahead. It won't hurt me a bit."

I think he enjoys the practices, too, with all the other guys. But I don't see his heart in this sport.

We don't typically let him quit something once he starts, but we'll probably make an exception this time. Especially since the team is practicing for another month before the first game. That and the fact that I resent the intrusion into our family life... practices four nights a week, for two hours, right when we normally sit down to supper.

I know some families are big time sports nuts. And for them, it works somehow. But we are not, and it doesn't.

I want my kids to play sports for fun and fitness and to learn a sense of sportsmanship. Beyond that, family time is more crucial. And I'm a huge proponent for family dinners together. Even if dinner is just sandwiches.

Stuff came to a head last night with Clay and we had to have a talk with him. He's giving it until the end of this week and then he has to make up his mind. Keep playing or quit. But if he quits, he has to tell the coach. We won't do it for him.

We'll see how it all plays out.

But for now it's time for an early dinner, without my husband, so that I can rush Clay out the door for practice. For two hours. In an area with no playground for the younger two to play at.

It'll be fun.

Sure it will.

Downer Doctor

I just got back from an annual doctor's appointment that I've been dreading. I'm not typically nervous about my appointments with my endocrinologist.

In fact, I know exactly what the doctor will do each time I go: check my peripheral vision, listen to my heart, prod around the area near my neck and collar bone, push at my ankles to check for swelling, ask me some personal questions and write an order for blood to be drawn. Every few years, I get an MRI as well.

I don't want to air my whole medical history. I only bring all this up because I'm irritated.

I take a medication for this particular ailment and have for more than a decade. Earlier this year, for the first time in a very long time, I read the pamphlet included with the drug. The one that lists every conceivable side effect. A few statements concerned me, so I called the doctor.

I didn't actually talk to the doctor. No. Because that would be too much like trying to reach The President directly. I wrote a note and faxed it to the office for the doctor to read.

Basically, I wanted to get off the medication.

I'm very hands-on about my health. I don't rely on insurance companies, hospital staff, doctors or nurses to know everything about what's going on with my body.

If there's anything that being a mom has taught me about doctors, it's that they don't know everything. They're just people. Highly educated, but often very rushed, people.

To ask to get off this medicine wasn't some flighty decision. I prayed hard about it before I made the request and quite often ever since I quit taking it. (The doctor gave his okay grudgingly. After thinking I was nuts.)

Based on results from my medical tests in past years, I have been praying that this particular issue is no longer an issue. I would like just a little miracle for me, please, Jesus.

Today's appointment, with its blood test and possible follow-up MRI, was only causing me some stress because I would find out if I get my miracle or not. Either way, I'm going to be A-Okay, because I know God's got my back. I'd just like to stop taking this medicine because I'm not a pill popper in general. And this particular medicine is stinkin' expensive!

Plus, I want to quit seeing this doctor altogether. He's okay. But I only see him once every two years - every other year I see his nurse practitioner. It's very hard to get an appointment with him.

I'd like to just have my family doctor oversee my care. I can get an appointment with him usually the day I call... worst case, within the same week.

All that background to frame today's appointment.

The doctor told me that I didn't need to be concerned about my previous medication causing the problems I'd read about since those things were only listed on the pamphlet because the drug is in a class of drugs that causes those problems. My particular drug did not.

Fine. Whatever. I still don't want to take something if I don't need it anymore. And unless my blood shows something that my body isn't making clear to me with other symptoms, then I'd like to hold out hope for my miracle, thank you very much.

Then he said, "Well, we'll check your levels and see if you need to get back on your medicine. Which I expect you will."

How rude would it be to stick out your tongue and shoot a raspberry at a medical professional?



I might have considered that response more thoroughly had I not been wearing my Third Day t-shirt. I think the Lord smiled down on me for my restraint.

I just hate it when someone rains on my parade! I'm still waiting for my miracle.

God can tell me "no" if He wants to.

A doctor cannot.

"For I am the LORD who heals you."
Exodus 15:26

Old Becomes New

A college friend posted a link on his Facebook status the other day to the following video. It's a group from Slovenia singing Toto's "Africa" completely a capella. It starts with a "thunderstorm".



I thought it was so cool that I had Bruce listen, and then all three kids, too. Seriously, I got tears in my eyes. I can't tell you how many times I listened to that song so many years ago. Good times!

I was pretty sure I had an old Toto cassette with that song on it. Yes, cassette.

When I told Clay about it, he actually said, "What's a cassette?"

I moved my imaginary walker over to the entertainment center and worried about my bad hip as I got down to search through several old cassettes.

Ah-ha! There it was. My Toto cassette. Along with cassettes from Chicago, Journey, INXS, Howard Jones, The Cars, Spandau Ballet and Paula Abdul (before AI fame).

And then I found my old Walkman. Good night, that thing has to be 20 years old. At least.

Clay was fascinated. Even more so after getting me some new AA batteries and discovering the thing still worked.

I put in the Toto cassette and let him hear the original "Africa". Then I let him hear Chicago's "Hard to Say I'm Sorry" but fast forwarded through its "Stay the Night".

We moved from the 80s music to the 90s with M.C. Hammer's "Can't Touch This".

Bruce pulled up the video on YouTube so Clay could see that crazy dance thing M.C. Hammer did that looks like a woman freaking out after she sees a mouse or roach on the floor. Bruce called it The Typewriter. Works for me.

I was struck that even though the dancers' clothing was tight and some of the moves were questionable, it's nothing like the junk that's in videos these days. For that matter, it was tame compared to some of today's commercials during daytime viewing.

After tuning ye olde Walkman to the local Christian radio station, I gave it to Clay.

If he treats it like gold, he MIGHT get an MP3 player. Someday.

We tucked the kids in bed and went back downstairs. When we go up to bed, we always peep in at the kids again.

Clay fell asleep like this:



Just like his mom. A long time ago. Before I got bifocals and dentures.

Our Goofy Trio

By some crazy, unexplainable miracle, we were all ready for church this morning early. One of the kids made a comment about me taking their picture.

It's been awhile since I've taken their picture on our front porch, which seems to be the place I herd them when I want a picture of them together while they are looking clean and normal.

I figured since one of them suggested the picture that I'd have great success in catching them all at their best.

Sometimes I'm just stupid.

Here's the best one.



I do not like Clay's hair like this. I try hard to not say much. I'm not perfect though, so it eeks out on occasion. I want it kept neat over his ears and in the back. He wants it longer. Last night, he came down from his shower saying he wanted it to look like Elvis' hair. I'm thinking he picked this up from someone at camp, because we are not Elvis fans in our house.

Anyway, he had it completely slicked back. And I liked it, which shocked me. Probably because I could see his gorgeous blue eyes more.

But for church this morning, he combed it flat over his forehead again.

UGH!

Too Quiet

While Clay has been at camp, I've noticed that Spencer and Allison have played very nicely together. Quietly.

Sometimes too quietly.

I had laundry, lots of laundry, to do. Way upstairs. While they played way downstairs in the basement playroom.

When I went to investigate, I caught them red-handed with my camera. Which they aren't supposed to touch.

Evidently, they have seen Bruce experimenting with his big camera and they wanted to try their hands at photography.

And the whole playroom became one giant prop (one giant mess!).

After shooting 142 pictures and draining the batteries completely, here are their highlights.

A little bit of practice with lighting. Notice the flashlight behind the stacked Tinker Toys, placed "just so" for proper back lighting.



A background setting. With most of their stuffed animals and Beanie Babies.



The accidental "butt" shot. Oops! Oh well. Great photographers always have their share of out takes.







Better clean up before mom finds out what we're up to. Uh-oh! How did that fall down?



Well, they got busted. And had to spend some time restoring order... but I let them keep it messy for a bit, because they were having so much fun.

But they did a good job cleaning up, too.

Clay at Camp

Kid's camp is about to kill me.

Dropping Clay off on Monday morning was hard. Up to the last minute he was saying he didn't want to go.

Once he was on the bus, he was horsing around just like everyone else, so I heaved a big sigh of relief.

Way too prematurely.

As the bus pulled out of the parking lot, he wouldn't even look at me. He was too busy pinching his eyes to keep from crying. He finally held up one hand to the window.

Then Allison started crying, because Clay was crying. And my sweet friend Kim started crying with me, too.

I think if I'd taken my high school gym teacher's advice and taken track back in the day, I might have chased that bus down, yanked my boy off and gone home with our tails tucked between our legs.

But I put my thinking cap on and thought that would only embarrass Clay. So I stifled.

Several friends who are helping at the camp all week updated me by cell phone calls throughout the day. And Clay was good.

So Momma was good.

One friend even let Clay hijack his cell to post a message to me via Facebook. It's times like those that make me love technology!

And then I got a call yesterday evening from the teenage girl I'd most like to kidnap and adopt as my own (she knows who she is... and so does her mom... love you both!). My Clay was not happy. And had not been for several hours by then. He had isolated himself from the group at craft time and again at supper time.

By then, it was nearing bed time. I figured bed times would be hard.

My teenage bud handed Clay her cell and I talked with him. I got a whimpering earful.

Nobody was playing with him. They were all playing poker (and at church camp! Horrors!!). No, he couldn't learn how to play. He wanted to come home. The quicker the better.

Yes, he ate well at supper. Yes, he was showering. And brushing his teeth.

It was cold. It had rained on them the whole time.

He was sleeping good, but waking up at 6 a.m., while everyone else was still asleep. (Not sure why that bothered him... that's exactly what happens at home most days!)

Then he started crying.

Oww! Knife into chest!

Why, oh why, did I make that kid go to camp?

Oh, yeah. Independence. He needs to learn to handle awkward situations. And because comfort is not always the best thing for growth. And what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Yeah. All that.

Highly overrated stuff!

But my one big question was answered: should I go visit him while he's at camp?

Uh... NO!

I got off the phone with him once he'd gotten a grip and stopped crying.

I had a hard time going to sleep last night. I fell asleep praying for Clay.

And woke up to a loud clap of thunder and lightning a little after 2 a.m.

I thought, "C'mon, Lord, cut that kid a break! Please don't let this storm be up there. Please let him sleep soundly through it if it is."

More praying for my boy.

I haven't heard from him today. Or anyone else at camp.

But I have some tips I'm going to share with him when he comes home.

These thoughts get me through unpleasant situations: This is temporary. In (fill-in-the-blank) hours, this will be history. I just have to hang on for a bit longer.

I can make it through a whole lot of yucky stuff by remembering all that. Stuff like doctor's visits. Medical tests. Children vomiting in tandem throughout the night. A horrible lecture. Airplane rides.

Having my homesick boy at camp.

For the record, in about 29 hours, this will all be over. It will be history. I just have to hang on for a bit longer.

Growing Pains

We have been busy, busy, busy... but most of the pictures I've taken were done on the fly, with my cell phone. And Bruce hasn't downloaded them yet.

I'll share them another time.

You know the summer time routine. Surely yours is something like mine.

Running to finish off the school year. Holding Clay's birthday party and attending a couple others. Starting Beth Moore's study of Esther. Decorating for Vacation Bible School. Teaching VBS. Leaving to go camping within minutes of dismantling the decorations for VBS. Swimming lessons. Library trips. Free movies at the local theater.

Aside from having no pictures to upload, and no time to blog anyway, I've also been bone dry on any kind of remotely deepish thoughts. I've had mainly surface level thoughts lately. And even those weren't good enough to share, which just gives you a clue of how very un-deep they have been.

My lack of share-worthy thoughts probably has something to do with the constant chatter of our three magpies, who shadow me nearly 24/7... right as I was getting used to a few hours of silence a day while they were at school. By the time I get used to their chatter, they'll be back in school and I'll be missing the sound of their voices along with the hugs and sloppy Popsicle kisses I've been getting. It's a sad little circle of me forever lagging behind as my children grow up.

Tomorrow I'll drop Clay off at our church. He's going to summer camp. For four days. And three nights.

I think I hate it.

I know he hates it. Right now anyway.

He's been dreading this since I first brought it up a couple of months ago. My dread has crept up more slowly and threatened to overwhelm me this afternoon as I packed for him. He has no idea I might very well cry a bit over this. And he never will, either. I'll wait until tomorrow night, when the younger two are tucked in bed and it's just me and Bruce, and my man can wipe me up from the puddle on the floor I'm sure to become.

I'm going to miss that boy.

He just turned 9.

And 9 is half way to 18. Clay told me that recently. As if I need reminding. (Or maybe he was just questioning my math abilities.)

How do parents do this letting go, bit by bit, business?

I guess it's a good thing. I certainly don't expect any of them to live with us still when they're 30.

No. Because that's when Bruce and I will re-visit our honeymoon, leaving our responsibilities at the drop of a hat, no real plans in mind, just "us" time.

Somebody please remind me of that in the next few days.

And do it often!