Tuesday

I'm looking out on what our local weather guy has deemed a blustery day. The forecast this morning included smiling warnings to bundle up! and I've seen no less than seven stocking caps, three scarves, and one pair of mittens so far this morning. Is it really that cold out? No, but then again, I know what a blustery day is suppose to feel like. I remember the days of long johns under the clothes and the mandatory two pair of socks. I'll take southern cold over mid-western cold any day.

The weather is the big headline, though, isn't it? I hate it for the people being affected by the latest big wind to blow in off the ocean... times like this make me rethink that fictional house on the beach (the one that exists inside my head anyway). The only good that has come from the latest turn of events is that the media has something else to talk about besides politics, Lindsey Lohan, and Octomom. When you think about it, it must be pretty tough to come up with enough stuff to talk about in this constant news-hungry world. I mean, I don't ever remember thinking, Boy, I wish I could watch/read/listen to news twenty-four hours a day; but evidently somebody out there had that thought (and I bet it was the same person who decided Lindsay Lohan and Octomom were newsworthy to begin with).

Anyway.

Last night we did the parent-teacher thing and collected a few report cards. I presented this account to my mom: No Drama. No Lecture. No Tears. The two remaining school-age kids are doing very well as they muddle through their high school years. In fact, I was so relaxed afterward that I willingly watched an hour of The Voice. I'm not a fan of any kind of music show that does not include a live singer in a cowboy hat, but it was entertaining nonetheless. Actually, I think I might like that show better than the rest of the wanna-be-a-star series. Listening to the opinions of the kids as they watch it is entertainment enough. That's about as much television as I can take on a week night.

And that's about all I can do for right now.

It's just another Tuesday. Life goes on.

Fading October

Where has the month gone?

In a few short days, I'll get another paycheck.
In a few short days, I'll be back home with no paycheck.

My days go by something like this:

5:30 am.  The alarm goes off and I groan.
5:40 am.  The alarm goes off and I moan.
5:55 am.  Reality sets in.

I must get up.
I have to get up.
I am glad to get up.

8:00 am.  The kids are at school and I am where I need to be.
4:30 pm.  The kids are at home and I am not far behind them.

The front porch swing.
Good clothes still on; shoes are not.
Cup of coffee in hand. 

9:00 pm.  My day is done.

Supper is over. 
I have talked to everyone I want to talk to.
The nook battery is low.

The Lord and I discuss what the next month will bring- well, mainly I discuss it and He mostly stays silent. He sure is big on this trust thing. When the year first began, I remember thinking this will be the year everything changes. Now that the year is almost over, my thoughts are shifting towards THAT will be the year everything changes. And He is probably thinking will she ever get it?

Someday, Lord. Someday.

When I Grow Up, I Will Live In Washington State And Have Twelve Children (hysterical laughing in the background)

I am a mom of three kids. Back when I dreamed of being a mom of three kids- well, technically I dreamed about being a mom of twelve kids, but then I had one, went for two, and decided three was a good place to stop... but anyway, back when I dreamed of being a mom, I dreamed of a busy, busy world full of chocolate chip cookies and ice cold milk. My kids would love me and hug me and wish me a daily farewell with a kiss on the cheek. They would seek me out for advice and listen intently to my stories and write about me in school essays. In short, I would be the center of their world.

You can stop laughing now.

You know, for a while, that's not too far off from how it was. With the exception of the My Mom Is My Hero essay, I do believe that for quite some time I was nothing short of Supermom to my kids. I knew the dream was coming to an end, however, when one particular day the standard kiss-on-the-cheek goodbye was masterfully avoided by one of my little sweet ones. Since that time, it's been nothing but downhill and just the way it should be. I'm no longer the primary cookie baker and I can't keep enough milk in the house to offer it ice cold. While I'm pretty confident I am loved and hugs really aren't that rare, I don't know if my advice is really adhered to or merely endured. And my stories? Well, I think somewhere along the way they stopped listening.

Hence, the birth of this blog.

Twelve kids? I also wanted to marry my high school sweetheart and live in the Northwest.

I've never really been good with setting goals and following through.

For my husband of might-as-well-say twenty years,
My three teenagers who do not to shrink from my hugs,
And my newly adopted southern home,

Some of the best-laid plans really aren't the best plans at all.

In Case You've Ever Wondered, Ice Water Does NOT Promote Sleep

The husband has been having trouble with his elbow and has lately been seen around the house with a gallon-sized ziplock full of crushed ice attached to his arm. I went to bed before him last night to browse my nook, make a play or two on Words With Friends, and play a round of Scrabble (notice no reading was involved). I was fully relaxed and slightly drowsy and just getting ready to turn off the light when he walked in and put his melted bag of ice on my leg. He thought he was being funny.

He wasn't.

The bag opened unexpectedly as only a ziplock bag can do and what was suppose to be a funny move turned into a torrent of freezing water all over me. The conversation that followed is not important and probably shouldn't be repeated anyway. What is important is that after that event, I was no longer fully relaxed and slightly drowsy even though the light was now off. I was wide awake and full of thoughts that only a dark, quiet house can entertain.

Friends. There are friends and then there are good friends. I am thankful for the good friends.
Groceries. Sub sandwiches and pizza dip. Chili. Lasagna. Our meals for the next three nights.
Bills. Sometimes you just gotta know when to cut your losses and hope for the best.
Jobs. Praying. Believing. Waiting.

Fleas. Is that another stupid flea biting me?!?

Somewhere in the midst of cursing those pesky fleas and wondering if pizza dip at 11:30 at night would be a bad idea and thinking about what tomorrow might bring, I went to sleep.

A deep, dreamless sleep that lasted until the alarm went off at 5:30 a.m.
And then the thoughts started all over again. It's gonna be one of those days.

That man better not come after me again with a bag of ice. =)

Alopecia Areata: Faith, Hair, and A Girl (#4)

Yesterday the girl asked me to help her dye her hair. Her long, thick, takes-two-boxes-to-even-hope-to-change-the-color kind of hair. Why she wants to change it is beyond me, but I guess she is like any other girl, myself included. We lightened it up a bit back in the summer. She wanted to try to go a little lighter (aka blonder) "just for a while, Mom." So we armed ourselves with old shirts, old towels, plastic gloves, and went to work. I didn't look at the clock to see what time we started, but by the time I wrapped her head in plastic, I was completely worn out. My goodness, that girl has a lot of hair.

She asked me a while back if I was ever going to write anymore about her and her hair. I wonder if this counts. There's not a whole lot more I can add to the hair story (click on the alopecia areata label at the bottom of this post if you have no idea what I'm talking about). I mean, her hair was there and then it wasn't and then it was. As I had my fingers in that head of hair yesterday, though, that same familiar feeling crept up from somewhere deep inside.

Please don't ever let that happen again.

She told me last week that she was losing some eyelashes. It wasn't so much of a statement, however; it was more of a question. I could see that look in her eye that was seeking reassurance. An answer. Do you think it's that again, Mom? She didn't speak those words, but they were there just under the thinly veiled surface. At least they were to me. I have to admit, that is always in the back of my mind. I gave her the first answer that popped into my head.

It's probably from washing off your eye make-up. I'm guessing you're not very gentle.

She smiled and sighed and said I was probably right. The girl doesn't wear much make-up at all, but she is a self-taught expert on the virtues of mascara. She can tell you which little tube will give you the most bang for your buck and provide detailed instructions on how to properly apply the black goop. She is all girl. So we settled on that explanation and moved on and talked about other things.

I'm telling you, though, I watch that girl's head like a hawk, probably more than she knows. There have been times when I have noticed a little receding of the hairline taking place. For instance, the husband and I both saw it again about four years ago after we moved and our beloved grandma died. Although not much is known about this unexplained hair loss, stress is believed to be some sort of a trigger. All I know to do is not make a big deal out of it and speak the same scripture from the second part of Nahum 1:9... this affliction shall not rise up a second time.

What more can you do? And what more can you say?
Her hair is beautiful, but her true beauty lies within. That's all any of us can hope for.

The Curse of the Opossum

I am thankful for the husband every day, but I'm especially thankful for his presence any time there's an insect problem or a backed-up sewage system or an uncooperative vehicle. As of last night, I have one more interesting item to add to the list.

A renegade opossum.

We had just went to bed when the middle knocked on our door with the unusual announcement of a opossum on the back porch. The back screened-in porch. Where the cats were. Yeah... that got our attention real quick.

He was right. As we looked out our back door, there was the freakish-looking, always-creeps-me-out, blood-red eyes of the uninvited guest looking back at us. His (her?) focus was on the cheap, dry cat food I had just put out for the cats. When the weather is nice, we will sometimes leave the indoor cats on the protected (or so we thought) back porch. Of course, there's that pesky hole that's been in the bottom of the screen door for forever, but that shouldn't have been a problem, right?

Wrong.

You can only appreciate the humor that followed if you have been there before or have a good imagination or know our family. The husband grabbed his .22 while the middle rescued the indifferent cats from whatever tragedy might have been waiting. The opossum took one look at the now-armed man and scurried through the hole by which he (she?) entered. In no time, this stealer-of-the-cat-food was cornered, angered, and was no more (and we'll interrupt this description to excuse those of you who might be horrified at the thought of one less opossum on this earth).

What was funny is the fact that just as the shot was fired, I was headed to the room of the youngest to tell her not to panic. About that time, she met me with big, questioning eyes. All I offered was a simple explanation:  Dad. Opossum. Back porch. She shrugged her shoulders in acknowledgement and headed back to bed. That made me laugh. Evidently nothing is surprising in this family. The middle assisted in the burial, the mystery of the recent trash can scavenger was solved, and we all went to bed.

Where I dreamed I was a friend of Barack Obama and a University of Georgia football fan.
And now you know why I called this little tale The Curse of the Opossum.

Horrible, horrible dreams.

It's All The Husband's Fault

Well, my mind has been on home lately.

Guess I best get these thoughts out of my system so I can move on.

Last night all three kids scattered and left the husband and me to ourselves. We went to our favorite little barbecue place and sat outside side-by-side at a picnic table eating and watching traffic go by. This is one thing I love about the south, I said indicating the enormous sandwich I was partially through, the barbecue. I love mustard-based barbecue. Who knew?

That and the tea, he said. I always told you there was no other place you could get this kind of tea. With that remark, we lifted our sweet teas and toasted one another to the weight we have both put on in the last five years. There's always a price to pay, you know.

I listened as he told me more stories of growing up in the Deep South (more south than where we are right now... apparently that's important to note). He always hated Midwestern winters and always stood a little straighter at the sight of a Confederate flag and always said he wanted to move home one day. It's just too bad that his idea of home and my idea of home are almost a thousand miles apart.

Oh well. Been there, done that.

So today, in my hometown, my mom sits with my dad while my brother and his wife visit. There's a festival taking place that turns that little bitty town into a massive crush of too many people. I don't miss that part so much, just the part where we would walk to town in the mid-to-late afternoon and buy fried foods and look at overpriced booths with no money in our pockets (that would've already been spent on funnel cakes).

I miss listening to my dad sing songs that make no sense and hearing my brother laugh and watching my mom putter around in the kitchen. Sheesh. I'm gonna have to put the brakes on this one. This is getting nowhere fast. But you do understand, if you've been around this virtual spot for very long, why I look forward to fifteen-hour trips home (takes longer the older we get) and why Saturdays are the absolute worst for me and why I have a label dedicated to homesickness.

Some things will never change.

And just to be clear, the title is a joke between the man and me. I knew what I was getting into the day I said I DO almost twenty years ago. If anything, blame it on the accent. That's what caught my attention. =)

If You're A Faithful Couponer, I'll Apologize In Advance

You know, I think about coupons. I'll browse through them every now and then, cut carefully around the dotted lines, and set 'em aside with the very best of intentions. On the rarest of occasions, I'll even actually redeem the blasted things. For the most part, though, all those coupons are good for are cluttering up my desk and collecting dust.

Please don't tell me about binders and page protectors or even handy little wallet-sized organizers that I can file by the expiration date. Believe me, I'm all about dividing stuff and color coding and artsy little labels. I can organize till Jesus comes back and have fun doing it, but all the little crafty ideas of this world will not motivate me to utilized the penny-pinching power of the coupon. I simply don't have the patience.

I know, I know. The convenience of technology. Coupon sites and coupon printing and coupon clubs. No thank you. I've done the e-coupon thing on my grocery customer tracking loyalty card... that's worked every blue moon or so. It's just that most of the time when I actually get to the store, the generic brand (without the coupon) is still cheaper anyway, thus reinforcing the fact that my computer time could have been better spent on more meaningful tasks like facebook or pinterest or blogging.

Yes, I've moaned and groaned because we're tight on money. That may never change. On the plus side, though, I'm not complaining about paper cuts or the cost of printer ink or the impatient lady behind me in the check-out line who let me know in more ways than one she was not impressed with my four-inch binder of coupon glory.

Yeah... so that's never been me. But I have seen those same ladies taking up space in the aisle while they sort through their couponopedia. Of course, I can't brag about how much I've saved either or stock my would-be garage with enough deodorant to supply the entire western hemisphere for the next thirty years, but hey... we've all got our goals in life, right?

And if you're one of those ladies, you're probably telling yourself that I'm just jealous.
You could be right. I think I'm about out of deodorant. I know I don't have a coupon for that.