Really, I Don't Do Blood

I sit in my recliner and look at the middle child. He is sitting on the couch, Nintendo 3DS in one hand while the other hand holds a bag of ice to his face. Both of his elbows are wrapped in bandages, his jeans cover a knee that is pretty banged up, one eye is steadily turning black, and his chin has that road-rash shade of red. His knuckles are all skinned up; his wrists are bruised. The only thing not messed up is his hair and his attitude. Life can beat him  up, but he can still smile about it. Smile through the pain, that is.

I knew this day would come. You can't put a fifteen-year old daredevil on a longboard with hills all around and not expect some kind of collateral damage. Thank God he didn't break anything. Or get run over while he was down. Or hit his head. The list could go on and on. All I know is that I was in the midst of my own kind of mess at home when the oldest called me. Get some rags ready, Mom. He's tore up bad. I stood at that front door for a solid ten minutes watching for a truck to pull in, wondering what in the world would crawl out. Tore up? That implies a bloody mess to me. I stood there, mentally preparing myself for the moments to come.

He's your boy.
You have to face it.
Take care of him, then throw up later.

I had an old towel ready, three assorted first-aid kits, and a nervous stomach. I just don't deal well with injury-type stuff. I was it, though, so deal with it I knew I would. They pulled in and I took a deep breath. The passenger door opened and out stepped my second born. He looked at me, smiled, and then began the hobble that would bring him up the steps and through the front door. The closer he got the more I realized he wasn't actually dripping blood, he just looked bloody. I met him on the porch and began the mom-assessment of his injuries.

Nothing broken. No gaping wounds. Hair in place. We cleaned him up, bandaged him up, and fed him a couple of Advil. He told the story of his board and the hill and the moment he knew he was in trouble. I could almost see his instincts kicking in as he used his arms to protect his head and manipulated his body into a position that would let him somersault his way to an asphalt landing. He kept telling me not to worry, he was okay. No big deal, Mom. I wanted to clobber him.

That phone call and the ten minutes I stood waiting at the door resulted in an instant headache and a stomach full of knots. Once I saw that he was indeed okay and no emergency room trips would be needed, I thought about what all could have went wrong. We talked about helmets and head injuries and WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?? I wanted to go fast, Mom, and I did. Oh, Sweet Jesus. Thank You for protecting that boy of mine. Thank You for teaching him a lesson in all of this. Thank You that I didn't really clobber him or anyone else who was around.

My nerves are shot.
Just like the brakes on my van.
And this Pro-Bowl game is a joke.

I think it's time to call this weekend done.



And to my dearest middle,


You know I would never clobber you. I would just hug you and squeeze you really tight, but if you're gonna go for speed, son, you gotta wear a helmet. Head injuries mean shaved heads and you've got nicer hair than me. No sense risking that, you know. You are a treasure.


Love,
Mom

Planning My Funeral At The DMV

While spending an hour and a half in our local DMV completing the tedious task of renewing and exchanging plates, my husband and I covered a multitude of conversational topics. We talked about taxes and politics, kids and supper ideas, and the annoying woman in the back who would not stop complaining about how long everything was taking. While the rest of us were thinking, Join the club, lady, the employee behind the counter patiently reminded her, No profanity in this office, please. Eventually our conversation turned to the unavoidable end of life on earth as we know it, and I'm sure we were entertaining those around us as much as the still complaining lady in the back.

I want you to bury me in my uniform, said the husband, referring to his military Class A's. Not on your life, said I. That uniform stays with me.

I want to be buried in that uniform, period, he said. Fine, but the ribbons and badges come off before they put you in the ground. You gotta have something to pass down through the generations, was my response. Nope. Everything goes with me. I've seen that stuff in flea markets before. It goes with me, he insisted.

So be it, I sighed. Then the wedding ring stays with you, too.

Oh no, he said. You keep that. Don't put me in the ground with that thing on.

It is so staying on, I assured him. Till death do us part and beyond, buddy.

He looked at me and winked and mumbled something about never being rid of me. Meanwhile, I got to thinking about my own closet and what in the world I would be buried in. I mean, technically, I'm all for cremation, but that topic has stirred up more than enough trouble with those around me. Suffice it to say, if I go before anyone who has other plans, it will make no difference what I would prefer and really... I'm okay with that. I suppose a funeral is mainly for the living anyway, isn't it? No sense creating more havoc during a time that has enough difficulties of its own. At any rate, I mentioned that nothing in my closet that looked nice would fit me at this point. 

What would I be buried in? 

Not my own military uniform. That thing should be preserved for posterity's sake (and besides, the collar drives me crazy. No one would ever believe I looked at peace while wearing that). Not my black suit. Too tight. Jeans and a t-shirt? Comfy, but no. Look, said the man of compassion,  I'll just put a pink top on you with a pink sweater and you'll be happy. (This was said to score brownie points at the remembrance of my favorite color). I don't know, I said, that's just too big of a chance to leave it up to you. After all, I've dealt with my fair share of questionable birthday and Christmas gifts.  I thought about it some more and then a picture popped into my head.

My wedding dress! Bury me in my wedding dress!

He looked at me like I had lost my mind and then started laughing.

Yeah, I can see you wanting that.

I love that dress, I insisted.

I know you do, but your wedding dress? Bet that would be a first.

And fluff it up all around me, I told him.  It'll look like I'm floating on a cloud. Might as well make a statement and besides, I always have wanted to wear it one more time. Just do what you have to to make it fit.

So there you have it, kids.

Dad in his uniform. Mom in her gown.

End it like it all started.

*And yeah... I would rather my daughter or granddaughter or somebody wear my wedding gown rather than stuffing it in a pine box, but hey, it made for a good conversation. Anything to pass the time at the DMV. =)

Melting In The Rain

What a dreadfully dreary fog-filled-no-sunshine-present kind of gloomy day. Good grief. The forecasted high today was something like 69; tomorrow is supposed to be sunny and 72. At this rate, though, we'll be lucky if we break the 50-degree mark. Hope that isn't a sign of things to come with tomorrow's weather... and after a rainy weekend, too. If this keeps up, this girl is going to be having some serious weather-related issues. I need sunshine. Literally. Since my husband has been home these last six months (sheesh!) he has found me on more than one occasion sitting on the front porch steps in the afternoon. What are you doing? he'll ask (even though he can plainly see me surrounded by school papers and a laptop and the ever-present cup of coffee). Sittin' in the sunshine, I'll tell him. He'll give me that look that says he doesn't quite understand the way I think and then go about his business. Can you relate, though? Sunshine puts me at ease. Even on a tremendously hot day I've been known to escape the a/c for even a brief, five minutes of sun. It just makes me feel better.

Speaking of an unemployed husband of six months, I learned a term today for him in my economics class. Discouraged worker. Really? See what twenty-thousand in student loans will do for ya? Sheesh. (And yes, I do think that will be the word of the day). A discouraged worker is an unemployed worker when after six months of searching for employment becomes discouraged and thinks there is no job out them for him or her. Granted, I think he hit that after the fourth month, but hey... let's not argue with the textbook. My point in that process was probably after the first month, a dozen resumes, and an equal amount of no thank-you's. Lucky for me, though, I hit the numb part after the first year and now experience nothing more than the occasional,  paralyzing, horrific feeling of panic that sets in every time I look at the calendar and count back to that fateful day of July 3, 2009. Ain't life grand?

My computer is also giving me fits. Logging into facebook is something of a one-in-ten chance it will happen (not that big of deal) and receiving up-to-date email is sort of a challenge (could be a big deal). I have broken pages, slow pages, not going anywhere pages... you get the idea. Even Pandora is not cooperating with me. I was talking to the computer earlier this morning and when Pandora refused to let me skip a Christmas song I said, Fine. I'll just turn on the radio. Pandora did not respond to my strongly-worded threat so I shut it down and flipped on the radio. Commercial after commercial after commercial. Maybe it's time for me to invest in one of those funky i-pods my kids keep raving about. I could fill it with the likes of George Jones and Waylon Jennings and Barbara Mandrell (that would ensure the kids, or the husband, from ever wanting to borrow it, you see). Gotta plan things ahead around here.

I'm done with football (the Superbowl no longer interests me). I'm done with opinions regarding who somebody plans on voting for (just place your vote and move on with life). I'm done with ridiculously weak coffee (I do not recommend Wolfgang Puck's Breakfast in Bed Blend... thank goodness it was a sample pack). And lucky for you, my dear reader, I am done with this post.

Oh, and for the record, I am in no way depressed.
Just a little weary of the weather and moody technology.

Sheesh.

I Don't Go To Church Anymore (Well, technically I do... I just swiped the title because I liked it).

Around seven years ago or so, I taught one semester of a high school speech class. I didn't ask for it and I certainly was not looking forward to it. If nothing else, though, I am a team player and if the school needed a teacher for a class and asked me to do it, well... then it was just going to happen. This isn't one of those times when you dread doing something and later end up loving it, I can guarantee you that. It was a tough class to teach and I had more rough times in there than good. I made it through-- scratch that --WE made it through (the kids didn't want to be in there anymore than I did) and I can honestly say I walked away with a few good memories. I saw young people who hated standing before a crowd memorize and practice and deliver memorable speeches, both original and historical. And I learned a few things myself in the art of speaking that can easily be applied to writing. My favorite? The attention grabber.

We see them all the time in form of headlines enticed to keep the viewer (or reader) hanging around through one more commercial or pop-up advertisement. The titles of a book or the cover of a magazine will usually determine if the contents are going to peak our interest or not. I know for my own blog, an entry I had written with the title Hot Booties had more hits in the first three minutes than anything I had ever produced (and the booties referred to slippers, by the way, not the female posterior). Anyway, I love a good title that catches my eye so when I was scrolling through facebook the other day to see what others were posting, I was more than delighted to see the following title for a fellow blogger's latest entry:

I don't go to church any more.

I think she has hit on a good subject... certainly makes for good discussion anyway. That title reminded me of a t-shirt I saw someone wearing in the mall. On the front, the words said DON'T GO TO CHURCH which of course made me practically break my neck to see what kind of person would wear such a thing. I was put in my place, though, when I read the back: BE THE CHURCH. Yes, there really is such a difference. So, with me being me, I had to chime in and put my own thoughts down on paper (or on a thumb drive, in this case). Why do we go (or not go) to church? We all have our reasons and we all have valid points. If you're still here and haven't already closed me out due to complete disinterest, here was my response:

Why I Go To Church

I go to church simply because I want to, not because I have to. For me, there really is a big difference. I use to be a part of the have-to crowd… that somehow God was keeping score on me and the blessings in my life would depend on my attendance record for the month and whether or not I read my Sunday school lesson for the week. I quickly (or not so quickly) learned, however, that I could do everything right and still not feel like I was quite up to par. Of course, that’s how some people want it. Some congregations can be more brutal and more competitive than the stereotypical lunch table in a junior high cafeteria.

            Even so, I treasure the whole Sunday experience thing. Granted, we are in a church now that I can relate to: the songs are my grandma’s songs (Victory in Jesus, Unclouded Day), the congregation  is mixed (from what they wear to where they are from), and the pastor is someone who has not been spoon-fed the Bible his entire life (not that I’m knocking the man who has known and lived his calling since the age of three, but it’s refreshing to hear someone in their 60s say from the pulpit I have been where you’ve been!). Is it about entertainment? Sometimes, yes. Does that make it more real? Most of the time, no. I am a firm believer that all that entertainment can very easily confuse the real message.

            I am reminded of a woman whom I know who dances for a living (and I don’t mean the ballet either). She very enthusiastically gushed to me one day the attributes of a new church she was attending, “I love it! It’s like being at a club!” Or I think about youth groups that entice young people to attend based on themes taken straight from Hollywood. I’ve seen more than one kid disillusioned based on the raw hamburger they were encouraged to eat (Fear Factor) or the strange rap song they were admonished for not singing along with (American Idol). Just because we put the name of Jesus in neon lights or squeeze His Name into the chorus of a song does not make it all about Jesus. Lives aren’t transformed because the three-point sermon was so brilliantly spoken or the nice people at the tape table accepted our money with a “Bless You, Sister.” Lives are changed when Jesus becomes more real than the fog machines and spotlights and color-coordinated praise teams.

            My living room holds none of those show-stopper entertainment gadgets and my closet is severely lacking in color-coordinating anything (that fits anyway); but my Bible sits to the left of me yearning to be read and my spirit knows that God is with me whether I kneel before him at a church altar in trendy black heels or lock myself in the bathroom with desperate petitions pouring from my heart and soiled slippers on my feet. I don’t need a church building to worship a God in Whom I firmly believe in and depend on and hope for. I want a church building to worship while I wait. My choice. His glory. It’s why I go to church.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Any thoughts of your own? I could go on, but this is probably long enough as it is.
Besides, my coffee cup is empty. Wouldn't be surprised if yours is as well.
Thanks, Donna, for the inspiration and sorry I swiped your title.

I just love a good attention grabber. =)

Happy Kids

Listening to the topics of conversation that drift from the kitchen while two kids are doing dishes make my heart sing. I'vc heard everything from Why Are You Mad At Me to The Best Place To Hide Your Cell Phone At School. They've discussed to smell of carrot cake to the most efficient way to clean a pan, and why some kids are mean to some friend that is dating a guy that is no longer dating the guy. Sometimes these conversations are more stressful to me than music to my ears; tonight has been a beautiful thing. Of course, me sitting in the recliner while somebody else cleans the kitchen is always a beautiful thing.

Another thing that made me smile? One kid asking me if they could run a load of laundry. Seriously? Do all the laundry you want. Maybe I should put off washing clothes more often. And with that, I better quit while I'm ahead. Although if you could hear one particular kid singing to the cat right now, you would laugh, too.

And yes, I know... tomorrow the chances of all three of them arguing are very high.
That's why we take the good when we can get it. I know how this plays out.

River Walk

After sleeping in and missing church, we watched a dreadfully depressing (although historically accurate) movie set in Germany during World War II. The feeling in the room when the credits starting rolling at the end was one of complete hopelessness and utter despair. I instinctively knew our Sunday was in serious trouble.

That's it. Dad, we're getting out, said I. Where to? he replied.
The great outdoors. We need some sunshine, was my answer.

The scenery was fantastic.

The company even better.

Thank God for sunshine.

(and to the oldest, you were missed).

Miss USA And A Teenage Girl

"Stick thin."
"Rather large on top."
"Perfect singer."
"Probably a good dancer."

My thirteen-year old daughter's thoughts on the Miss USA competition.

"And they wonder why we have issues."
Her words, not mine.

"I would like to see one dress that is straight across."
Referring to the plunging necklines.

"She looks orange."
Spray tans.

"I hope she knows she would look a lot better if she sat straight up."
Slouchiness at the piano.

"I really don't like that dress. Looks like a rainbow puked on her."
Complete with sound effects.

"Walking chicken legs."
"I could be a dancer."
"That looks painful."
"Her hair looks perfect all the time."

My girl. Beautiful. Tall. Healthy. Dancing through the living room as I type.
So much potential. So many choices. So many things confusing the way she thinks.

"Can I mute it?"
"Have you ever seen that movie Fame?"
"I hope she knows the sleeves make her arms look kinda squirrel-wingish."
"I wanna see somebody on roller skates."

"I think people worry too much about their weight, Mom."

Well said, Daughter. Well said.

Although I'm still trying to figure out if squirrel-wingish is an actual word.

Roller Coaster Life

I love roller coasters, but I hate the height part of it. You know that clackety-clack sound that takes you to the tip-top part of a coaster? To me, that's the worst part. That and the eerie silence that coincides with the end of that clackety-clack sound. The tell-tale moment when the last car loses contact with the chain that sends the whole contraption plummeting down through twists and turns and speeding its way to no return... well, to the end of the ride anyway. The anticipation. The actual event. And the feeling at the end that cries, "I did it!" Ahhhh... makes me want to go ride one now even though I'm no where near one. I guess I'm thinking of roller coasters because that's how the day has been. Up and down. A twist here and a turn there.

Peaceful breakfast at a local place.
Stressful drive through the projects of downtown.

Relaxing five-minute nap on the couch.
Aggravating tax bill in the mail.

Joy at application for graduation notice.
Sadness at fee required for that application.

And so the day went, kinda back and forth for much of it. I took a two-hour exam that kept me in my seat for that full two hours... who cares if I really needed a bathroom break due to all the coffee I drank to prepare me for that exam. By the time I finished, my bangs were sticking straight up from the all the pulling of my hair that took place (so much for fixing it), my wedding rings were off because I can't stand jewelry when I'm hot or stressed (little tidbit for ya), and I had no time to spare before I headed to school for the daily kid- pick up (i.e. no time to hit the restroom).

Forty minutes later, back at the house, and all necessities taken care of,  I dyed a girl's beautiful head of hair her selected (temporary) color. We converted the front porch to a mini-salon, applied the color in the sunshine, and set the timer. All that effort and we're pretty sure it's the exact same color, maybe a little lighter. Oh well. Her hair smells like coconuts and reminds me of the beach. I'm debating if I would like to make a day trip there tomorrow just because. As much as I love roller coasters, I love the beach better. It's either that or the museum. Anything to get me away from a laundry basket and the computer.

The husband has taken care of getting me away from the kitchen. He took one look at me (after finding my wedding rings on the desk) and announced it would be a good night for pizza. And thanks to google and a little quick research, the youngest announced that one of my favorite clothing stores is near the museum. Combine that with a little birthday cash I've had stashed, and that plan might just beat out the beach. Come to think of it, I really don't care which direction I go as long as I go somewhere different. That's kind of the  fun with roller coasters, too. You go all different directions, but know exactly where you'll end up.

For me, I'll end up right back here.
On the couch. With the computer.
Serenaded by the oldest on the guitar.

No chicken exit in sight.

Smelly Choice Of Words

Everybody loves the cat, but nobody wants to clean up the crap.

That was my first thought of the day... well, my first thought when I walked into the kitchen anyway. I was going to use that for a title, but then thought the complete lack of tastefulness might be too much for an otherwise beautiful Sunday (not to mention un-pleasing to my mother). We all love our little (fat) kitty-cats full of fur and sunshine. Unfortunately, I'm the only one~ And I Do Mean The ONLY One ~that makes use of the litter scoop.

Yeah... that's probably more about my life than you need to know.

My actual first thought when I woke up was What is up with these dreams? For the last week or so, I have been having pretty consistent dreams about being in a classroom. In all of them, I am cleaning up or preparing stuff or doing something just to get things ready. Do you think that's a sign? Oh, and I'm usually giving someone a lecture about what they should be doing. Ha! That makes me laugh. Things might be weird or different in my dreams, but I am always true to myself.

Whatever the reason, my daily thought is Come on, Lord. Move somebody out of my way. No, I'm not asking for anyone to be sick or removed tragically or otherwise displaced, but face it... we all know that there comes a time for people to move on, and sometimes those people have a hard time moving (been there, done that). If He is preparing that way for me to move in somewhere, then He has to be preparing to move someone out. Or add something new. I am not going to get caught up in the details.

I've got enough crap to clean up on my own.

Sorry, Mom.  I couldn't resist.

How'd we end up with all these cats anyway?

Welcome To Story Hour

While reading my bible this morning, a particular phrase caught my eye.

They asked him, Who is the Man Who told you, Pick up your bed and walk? Now the invalid who had been healed did not know who it was, for Jesus had quietly gone away [had passed on unnoticed], since there was a crowd in the place. (John 5:12-13).

Did you catch it?

The story goes that there was a man who "suffered... a deep-seated and lingering disorder for thirty-eight years," (v. 5). Every day he hung out by the pool of Bethesda in Jerusalem hoping to be one of the lucky ones to make it to the water first when an angel of the Lord would stir things up... this meant a for-sure kind of healing (v. 2-4). Jesus walked by him one day, noticed him there, and (after listening to the guy explain why he could never make it the water first) told him to get up, roll up his bed, and walk. Not surprisingly, the man did just that (v. 6-9).

He goes on to tell others what happened. In verse 10, he is admonished for having the nerve to be healed on the Sabbath: It is the Sabbath, and you have no right to pick up your bed. He, in turn, tells them he was only doing what he was told to do. The Man Who healed me and gave me back my strength, He Himself said to me, Pick up your bed and walk! (v. 11). Now the kicker is that this guy had no idea that Jesus was... well, Jesus. When they (the nosy, self-righteous men) asked him who told him to get up and walk, the guy was clueless.

That takes me back to my original thought.

They asked him, Who is the Man Who told you, Pick up your bed and walk? Now the invalid who had been healed did not know who it was, for Jesus had quietly gone away [had passed on unnoticed], since there was a crowd in the place. (John 5:12-13).

According to the scriptures, this particular pool was a pretty crowded place. I guess it would be with all the sick and lame and blind gathered together with the hopes of experiencing a healing that would transform their lives. It just caught my attention. Made me reread it a couple of times and break out the pen to underline it and think on it some more.

Jesus passed on unnoticed.
In the midst of a hurting crowd.
The miraculous occurred.

No spot lights. No praise band. No three-point outlines or tape table by the front door.

Oops. Maybe I'm getting a little off track here. The point is, my point is... have I ever been in the midst of something and totally missed Him in my presence? Has He been right there and I walked on by expecting Him to be somewhere else? These are the things I think. Whatever His reason was for keeping things quiet that day, He sure ticked the people off about the whole Sabbath day-thing. People do have a tendency to get caught up in the rules and regulations and proper ways to do things, don't they?

Yeah. I may have lost half of you by now.
I just don't want to miss Him, that's all.
My miracle is at hand.

I Look Good In My Dreams

I woke up this morning, threw back a couple of cups of coffee, popped a roast in the slow cooker, and tied a red handkerchief around my head. For me, that can only mean one thing... serious cleaning is on the agenda for the day. With the help of the husband, we packed up Christmas, organized the attic, and got things back to their pre-holiday state. We've got bags for the trash, bags for Goodwill, and bags under my eyes (no makeup kinda day). My hair is flat, my nail polish chipped, and my feet sore.

Boy, am I glad that's over with.

Tomorrow the kids head back to school and I'll pick up where I left off in the middle of an economics class. Fourteen weeks to go. That's fourteen (give or take) assignments, fifty-some questions to fuddle my way through, and a couple more thousand dollars to add to the I.O.U. I caught myself daydreaming today about when I do officially finish. Needless to say, I can only hope I look half as good accepting the job of my dreams as I did in that brief, three-minute fantasy trip.

It was the happiest three minutes of my whole day. =)

Confetti Between My Toes

So the new year has begun. I'm exhausted already.

We stayed up too late with good times and good friends followed by the booming thunder of fireworks that popped and sparkled till well after midnight. The kids, most likely one in particular, covered the living room floor with confetti and had a horn blowing contest from the front porch with the people across the street. We still made it to church with time to spare this morning, had a filling lunch afterward that pretty much did me in, and drifted home with zero motivation.

The confetti is still on the floor.
The tree has yet to be undecorated.
And I think there may still be leftover (last night) pizza in a box on the counter.

I could really care less.

This is the last day of spring-like weather and windows wide open for at least a week or so. The wind is already starting to pick up bringing with it colder temperatures. I'm thinking all the mess that surrounds me will still be there tomorrow. A roast in the crock pot is sounding like a good plan. Of course, that means I'll have to find time to change out of these pajama pants to troll the aisles of the grocery store. That might be the biggest challenge of my day.

Life is pretty good, though, for this first day of January.
The message this morning was encouraging and timely.
And the Atlanta Falcons are off to a scarily awesome start.

Positive thinking, people.