The Final Post

Of an eventful year.

I graduated college. 

I played with a cat.

I scrapbooked.

I survived the daughter's first dance.

I survived the graduation of the oldest.

I visited my favorite place.

I read the Twilight Series and lost a month of my life.

I resisted the allure of little, sweet kittens.

I documented yet another repair of Dodge Grand Caravan.

I waited in long line at Chick-Fil-A.

I watched the daughter cut off her hair.

I watched a son cut off his hair.

I planted.

I sat.

I played with another cat.

Here's to the end of one year.

And the coming of the new.

You just never know what might be around the corner.

So This Is What Happened

One week ago today, the parents arrived shortly after the noon hour. Many happy hugs were exchanged and many wrapped presents were unloaded. We sat. We talked. We admired the Christmas tree. Around five o'clock that afternoon, I fired up the grill and exactly one hour later, set the table with pork chops and baked potatoes and steaming biscuits. We ate and talked and laughed and worried... my mom wasn't feeling good, but after a fifteen-hour drive with a short stay in an unfamiliar hotel, who could blame her? I helped her with dishes (and can I just add how much I enjoyed that?) and her next stop was a place on the couch to rest.

And then the stop after that was the emergency room at the hospital.

By one in the morning on a damp Christmas Eve, I had the most unfortunate experience of leaving my mother in a cramped hospital room approximately nine hundred miles from her home. I had planned on staying with her; my dad had planned on staying with her; but by the time we saw the room they had set her up in for observation, we both knew there would be no staying. I'll add walking out of that hospital to one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I'm sure staying in that hospital was one of the hardest things she's ever had to endure. It was a lousy start to a much anticipated visit.

We were back at her side in the morning- at least the part of the morning where there is light, and spent the entire day waiting for somebody to enlighten us on what was taking place in or around her heart. Supper was being served when she was told she wasn't going anywhere until some test or other was performed. Another heart-breaking experience. My dad and I headed back to the house to inform a now discouraged household that Granny wouldn't be with us Christmas morning. We vowed to dress up at least one kid like Santa and take presents to her and most of all, Smile! when we visited her the next day. For the second time in two nights, I cried like a baby in a dark, quiet room while the husband repeatedly apologized for moving us so far away.

Somehow, Santa Claus still managed to stuff some goodies into the three stockings of three teenagers in the midst of all this and we all prepared the next morning to spend our Christmas Day in that cramped hospital room. I was just stepping out of the shower when the husband peeked around the corner and said, You're mom called and said to come get her. I hurriedly halfway blow-dried my hair and had just sat down to my vanity (aptly named as the place to apply makeup) when the thought occurred, Who needs makeup at a time like this? Walking out of my bedroom to a now smiling family, I jokingly told my dad, Not one word about how I look, and we were out the door and in her hospital room within thirty minutes.

And by noon on Christmas Day, we were all gathered in our living room opening presents.

Only nobody really cared about the presents anymore.

The best present was sitting in a chair and helping me with dishes once again later that night

So what happened? Not a heart attack, but a heart out of whack. Something new decided to present itself that Sunday evening. That something will be checked out more thoroughly by her own doctor back home and hopefully, with medication, that something will be kept under control and finished with interfering with her life... especially when it comes to messing up her time with grandkids.

They hit the road just a little over an hour ago. The oldest and I stood on the front porch and watched until their taillights faded into the darkness of the street. I shut the door and turned the lock and let the tears fall.

Today is my birthday.

I Know I Said Farewell Yesterday, But...

Apparently I'm not done just yet. I mean, I thought I would back away from this computer for a while and yet here I sit. Oh well. My intentions don't always match up to future actions. The parents are on the way; they just made a pit stop to catch up on some sleep last night. If all goes well, we should be seeing them around noon. At least they're finally in the same time zone as me. So here I am. Clean house. Laundry done. Presents neatly arranged under the Christmas tree. Twiddling my thumbs.

I've never been the best at waiting.

One time during a prayer before supper, a beautiful child of mine uttered these words, And give my mom more patience. My eyes flew open and I said, Quick! Take that back! Don't ever ask the Lord for more patience! I forced a laugh to relieve the shocked look on the faces around me, but seriously... do any of you out there know what I mean? There was a time when I prayed for more patience. There was also a time when I prayed the prayer of Jabez. I'll not make that mistake again. I rarely pay attention to any of the latest prayer trends that cross my path anymore. Jabez ruined it for me.

Disclaimer: Click the above link to learn more about the prayer of Jabez and please understand, if you haven't figured me out yet, that most of my comments are sprinkled (okay, DOUSED) with sarcasm. I do stand by the theory, however, that it was that prayer about expanding my territory and all that that sparked the bright idea of a cross-country move into the husband's head years ago- which is why I now think before I pray ( go ahead and laugh) and the virtue of patience is just something that I accept I need to work on. I don't ask for it.

Moving on.

I have successfully twiddled away one full hour.
A second cup of coffee. A piece of cake. Looking out the window.

I think I'll go wake somebody up.

They love me around here. =)

Over & Out

One week after that awful Friday, I dropped my kids off at the high school for their last day before Christmas Break. They were loaded down with books for their final exams, gifts and cards and cookies for their friends, and big smiles with goodbye waves for their mom. Everything looks brighter on a Friday, especially the Friday before the big winter break. I came home to the local news detailing heightened security surrounding public schools and images of candlelit vigils for lives forever changed last week.

This is why the television is off and my attention drifts between what I think I want to write and the dirt and grime between the keyboard keys. One cat is cleaning his paws while the other cat chows down at the food bowl. I can smell the spice of a candle that's not even lit and hear the howl of the unusual wind currently assaulting our house. If I'm not mistaken, the Christmas tree on our front porch has just blown over again. Fragile limbs and vulnerable pine cones periodically tumble and clang their way down our metal roof.

And I'm going for another cup of coffee.

Even with all the nonsense taking place in our world today, I am excited for this coming week. Although there are few presents under our tree this year (the fewest our tree has ever seen), I can't wait for them to be opened. As I told our kids, this is the year of The Thoughtful Christmas Gift. We surrendered our credit cards, went cash only, and the result has been a pretty much stress-free holiday for the mom. When you've got nothing to spend, there's no sense getting out. When you don't get out, there's no traffic and crowds to deal with. When there's no traffic and crowds to deal with, there's no frustration. You get the idea.

Although I would like to get out tonight.

Even Holly Homemaker needs a break from the Christmas apron.

I'm anticipating a busy week with little time to blog. If the weather and health holds, my parents will be here in a few days and of all the things I plan on doing, sitting at this desk is not one of them. Of course, all that is subject to change pending my mood and computer availability, but just in case...

Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. And Everything In-Between.

Please, Load My Kid Up On Sugar And Send Them Home To Me

Normally this time of year, for the past four years, I get a little depressed (don't laugh). Maybe not so much depressed as in I can't face the world, but depressed as in mildly bummed out. I've blogged about it... you could probably look back and find at least one December post dedicated to this little stinker of a bug that sneaks up on me the week or so before Christmas.

The School Christmas Party.

Okay. Tacky or not, I loved the whole party in the classroom concept. Selfish or not, I adored the whole give the teacher a gift tradition. I miss the night-before-rush to fill all my own little red and green paper bags or plastic snowflake-themed cups with things like pencils and chocolate and candy canes to give out to the class. I miss sitting at my desk while my beloved students stood in line to watch my reaction when they ceremoniously presented me their individual gift.

Good Lord, I'm gonna cry.

And you all know it's not the gift, right?

I've still got the coffee cups and the hand-drawn cards and somewhere, I've still got the shark's tooth. Any number of my former students could walk through my house and see, though they might not remember, their own gift hanging on my wall or sitting on a shelf. From third grade to eighth grade, I really enjoyed them all.

Yep. It's that time of year again.

I think in honor of The School Christmas Party, I'm gonna fill a basket with candy canes and go visit some of the classes I've been substituting for... where I know it's party day... and where there's bound to be cupcakes and cookies and kids wildly out of control.

I think that's a splendid idea.

Obituary Of A Laptop

It's been six months since my laptop was put out of commission due to an uncooperative power button, a sincere attempt to fix it that only made things worse, and lots of....  well, I'm gonna stop right there. No need going to into all the statements that have been made to look at it or fix it or get the parts ordered. If you read my last post, then you know that we, as a family, are getting along uncommonly well. I'll spare the names and promises to prolong the peace and good humor that currently exists in my home.

However.

If I had known that my beloved laptop would still be collecting dust while taking up space behind my bedroom door, I would have gladly paid the questionable computer-fixer-guy at the flea market his requested one hundred and twenty-five bucks to fix the darn thing back in July.

Then again, it is only a laptop. Maybe I shouldn't place so much stock in the crazy gadget. I mean, it's only holding prisoner a resume or two, pictures, family fun stuff, essays, power points, and a working version of Microsoft Office. It's really not important to anyone but me. Surely my patience should be greater.

I used to think things like When I start getting a regular paycheck, I will buy a couple of new pillows and some rugs for the kitchen and maybe some jeans for the kids and definitely stock up that freezer.

Now I think to myself,

When I start getting a regular paycheck,
IF we haven't had our internet service terminated,
And the lights and water are still connected,
Assuming the refrigerator still contains a gallon or two of milk...
THEN I will have that blasted laptop fixed.

And everyone said, Amen.

What Church Is Not:

Rituals. Soundtracks. Outlines.


What Church Is:

A grown man taking his son in his arms, holding him, loving him, even after all that's been said. That same man bringing his other son into his embrace while the mother pulls the daughter up to complete the now crying, hugging, mushy group of a family. Holding his family tight and praying a prayer that I'm sure made  Jesus stand up and shout Glory!, I thought to myself,

This is church. Our living room. Silent except for sniffing. No audience. No outlines. No praise and worship band. An imperfect family seeking the wisdom of The Perfect One. A man who learned nothing from his earthly father leaning heavily on his Heavenly Father.

I gotta say, it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever experienced.



And with that, I've got to get ready for church. The building, that is.

Sunshine In The Dark

A little girl tugged on my shirt today, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered in my ear:

Jack always backtalks me, all day long, but he's not today cause he's scared of you.

Her eyes were wide. Her smile was huge.
I patted her on the back and told her I was glad to be of help.
She hugged me tight before she skipped back to her coloring sheet and crayons.

A bright spot in an otherwise depressing day.

I Could Be Something Great (If I Ever Got Out Of Bed)

I do some of my best writing at night.

In bed.
In my mind.

Complete essays. Deep insight. Intriguing theories.

Introduction.
Body.
Conclusion.

I can picture the written word clearly. I visualize the paragraphs, use good transitional sentences, and correct my grammar. I think of different opening lines and optional closing remarks. I convince myself that I'll remember it all in the morning and eventually drift off to sleep.

Then I wake up and remember nothing.

Oh, I remember tidbits here and there. It's like catching a glimpse of something great, like maybe the sun trying to peek through dark curtains on a dreary day, but never quite grasping the full, glorious picture. Such a mental block climbs beyond frustration. I really should get up when inspiration strikes, but that bed is too darn warm.

Such is the price of laziness.

Last night's masterpiece included a response to a recent blog I read via Pinterest. The young author presented her ten (or maybe fourteen?) surefire steps to a happy, healthy marriage. This female optimist has been married for three (or maybe five?) years and has no children. Judging from the pictures that accompanied her post, she and her husband are fresh out of college, attractive as in that athletic way, and in love with the world and everyone around them.

And if you know me, you can only imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind.

Well, okay... my thoughts were not that dire. I'm all for optimistic love. Really. I was there once, too. I'm still in love with the man and with the hope that never ends and with the knowledge that my God says it will all work out in the end. Life has a way of throwing those curve balls at you, though. Things you never saw coming. Things that if you had saw coming you might have cashed it in then for fear that you would never make it out alive.

But you do make it out. A little more beat up. Maybe some bruises. Definitely a scar or two. A war story all your own.

The husband says he thinks things are about to change for us. Maybe the tide is turning. He's been deep in his Bible of a night. Maybe he's reading about the end times. Maybe he's reading about Job. I don't ask. That's between him and the Lord and a direct violation of Optimistic Young Wife's Advice in Tip Number Seven (or maybe Tip Number Nine?). According to her, I'm suppose to ask him his thoughts on a daily basis.

Chuckle. Chuckle.

She'll learn and she'll tweak her own tips as the years progress and babies come and money goes. I should know. I tweak my own internal advice on a daily basis. I expect the unexpected.

And I've not been disappointed.

Now if I'd only get out of bed and transfer those nighttime writings from my mind to paper, I might actually get somewhere... and make a whole lot more sense in the process.

Bring On The Band!

'Tis the season for Christmas Parades.

Parade after parade after parade. Beauty queen of this school and that school and this game and that game. Mustang Clubs. Corvette Clubs. Old Car Clubs. Even a Jeep Club and a Haphazard-Thrown-Together-Motorcycle Club. Horses. Tractors. Random trucks with hand-painted signs announcing this, that, or other.

Marching Bands. Cheerleaders. Tap Dancers. The Jolly Big Guy On The Fire Truck At The End.

And a random, long-bearded old guy in a flannel shirt carrying the Confederate Flag.

There are days where I absolutely love where I live.

Boys With No Shirts (or more importantly, part two of a girly football game)

This post is dedicated to those of you anxiously awaiting an update on the Championship Powder Puff Football Game last night. Yeah... I'm laughing, too. I will, however, not only give that update, but also share my thoughts on half-naked teenage boys.

And some of you just sat up straighter.


First things first.

The freshmen girls did beat the sophomore team to secure their third place standing in this year's championship tournament. My girl stood her ground on defense with the rest of her team and endured the throat-clenching, hair-pulling, jersey-grabbing antics of an unorganized tenth grade offense. Final score was freshmen 12; sophomores ZERO. Woot Woot. We didn't hang around for the junior/senior game.


And now on to the more interesting stuff.

Last night was cold for our neck of the woods. We sat on a blanket (on the metal bleachers), huddled in a blanket, and watched others spend good money to warm their hands on slices of pizza or cups of hot chocolate. But even the brisk wind blowing could not stop groups of shirtless teenage boys from supporting their female classmates out on the field. On both sides, boys in pajama pants and shorts bravely faced the cold wearing nothing on top but coordinating body paint and letters proudly displaying their loyalty (F-R-E-S-H-M.... you get the idea). Hats on backwards, boomboxes playing, and flags waving, the girls were not lacking a cheerleading squad on either side.

When the freshmen girls scored the FIRST touchdown, their shirtless male counterparts made a victory lap around the track stopping only to wave their flag in the face of the sophomore boys. When the SECOND touchdown was made, the victory lap was repeated only to swap the flag-in-the-face move with all the freshmen boys dropping on the field to exhibit their strength in push-ups (to show their might over the sophomores, the daughter later informed me). While this was taking place, a sophomore boy snatched the flag of the freshmen.

Which led to a minor flag tussle.
Which got a teacher involved.
Which caused enough distraction for a freshman boy to snatch the boombox of the sophomores.
Which he promptly delivered to the group of shirtless senior boys sitting in the bleachers.
Which got another teacher involved.

Oh my goodness.

We laughed and clapped and completely forgot there was an actual game taking place on the field.

As the boombox-snatching freshman was escorted away from the scene of the crime, we went back to watching the game and the husband remarked that towards the end of the second half, the boys with only paint on their backs and chests to keep them warm were not as rowdy as they were in the beginning. The cold must have dampened their enthusiasm as hands were shoved into pajama pant pockets and they were more huddled together than chanting any great cheer. The final buzzer buzzed and the game was over. I think the boys disappeared faster than the girls who were, like last night, delivering their farewell hugs as they made their way off the field.

So, all in all, the last two nights have been a lot of fun. The daughter is already looking forward to next year and I gotta admit, I'm anxious to see what those boys come up with next.

And watching my girl play, too.

That's the most important part...

Right?

Powder Puff Dreams

For the first time in all of my kids' middle school/high school careers, we attended a sporting event for the sole purpose of watching one of our own take the field. I've never been envious of the notorious soccer mom running herself ragged to get from one game or event or class to another with all of her Nike-Reebok-Adidas wearing kids in tow, but I have to admit it was rather exciting to descend the concrete steps of those metal bleachers looking for a place to park myself. Equipped with a comfy blanket to sit on, we snatched a spot on the 50-yard line and as luck would have it, a trash-talking grandpa for the opposite team took up space right in front of us. The oldest broke open his motorcycle-riding-backpack that was stuffed with snacks, the husband began a verbal assessment of the opponent, and with the sound of a buzzer, the game was on.

Powder Puff Football.

It's the freshman year of the youngest. In the days leading up to her high school registration, she remarked to her dad that she intended to get the full high school experience. She sent me a text a few weeks ago announcing: I did it, Mom. Signed up for powder puff. What have I gotten myself into? Even as I admonished her for using her phone during school (It's study hall, Mom), I was at the same time cheering her on. You go, girl! 

So for the last week she has been at practice learning about football and taking defensive tactic training from her father. It's all been rather entertaining. She comes home from practice wound up about this sophomore or that senior and the girls who won't do anything because they're afraid of messing up their hair. She insisted we didn't need to be at the game last night because as she put it, We're gonna get killed, Mom.

Which brings me to another point.

Whose bright idea was it to pit the freshmen team against the seniors?

Yep. The senior girls took to the field in a intimidating formation that involved launching diapers and pacifiers and baby bottles at the huddled group of freshmen girls. It was rather sad and funny all at the same time. You don't need the details of the game- the seniors did win, but it was by no means a slaughter as predicted earlier by the daughter. We watched our baby girl take up her defensive stance and slightly prayed, Not the teeth, Lord. Protect the teeth ($5000 worth of orthodontics, you know). She held her own and we cheered them on. Even the trash-talking grandpa became eerily quiet as the clock wound down. When the final buzzer sounded and girls on the field hugged each other (as only girls in football jerseys can do), we gathered up our blanket and snacks and waited for our athlete to make her appearance. The husband leaned over and whispered to me, Well, at least we only had to do this one time.

Nope, I sadly shook my head. We're here tomorrow night, too. Losers play the losers; winners play the winners.

Those sophomores are going down.

Then I'll gladly hang up my soccer mom shoes.

At least till next year.

Memories, December, And Pictures To Go With It

The second of December? Good Lord. Where has the time gone? It seems like just yesterday I was trudging through knee-deep snow in the Rocky Mountains hoping to induce labor...  that and walking up and down a flight of steps during every commercial break of The Young and The Restless and As The World Turns (my soap opera days). I can't remember my exact due date with the oldest. I think it was November 27th at first and was later changed to December 9th, or something like that. Doesn't matter. He arrived just when he was suppose to, somewhere in the middle of those two guessing dates on the morning of December 4, 1993.

I remember the night before his birth so clearly that it's almost eerie. I'm sure I am not alone in that some memories are so exact, so right there, I swear my mind could fool myself if only for a short time. I was wearing a light blue and white-striped button down, short-sleeved shirt. The husband came home from his Army duties to a supper of Hamburger Helper Chili Mac and after the sun went down, we sat in a dark living room of our rented town home on the ugliest-couch-known-to-man looking at the twinkling lights on our first Christmas tree together. Around ten o'clock we went to bed and around eleven o'clock I knew something felt different. A few hours later, I called the maternity ward at the hospital, described what I was feeling to the friendly Air Force nurse, and was assured that I was not in labor.

She was wrong.

I remember the husband insisting we take our little baby carrier and my packed bag to the hospital when I finally woke him up and we left our home around three in the morning. I told him there was no need, the lady said it wasn't labor, and that they would probably give me something to help my stomach (keep in mind this was my first, my mom wasn't close by, and the book did not describe anything I was feeling). Ever the practical man, he said he wasn't making a trip back to get everything and he was pretty sure this was the big moment.

He was right.

That little boy showed up a little after six-thirty that morning and we made the happy calls to the grandparents. The next day, we loaded that little baby seat into the backseat of a Mustang where I hovered beside him terrified of all the passing cars on the freeway. I can still see us arriving back at our town home, setting our tiny little bundle still in his baby seat on that ugly couch, and looking at each other. We had nobody but us and I don't mind admitting that I felt utterly helpless. Nine months was suddenly not nearly enough time to prepare for our new family of three and our home felt a lot different than a fully staffed maternity ward. Thank God for that man. He sprang into action and by the end of that first hour had me settled into our not-so-ugly rocking-chair holding the most beautiful baby ever while he lined up bottles and stacked diapers and did everything else that needed to be done. It took a few more days of this same pattern before he looked at me and said, Wanna take him to see your parents?

And that's what we did... took a less-than-one-week-old baby on a fourteen-hour drive from the Rocky Mountains to the Midwest (in DECEMBER, of all times) and gave my mom and dad the surprise of their life.

One of my all-time favorite memories.

The tree we sat looking at on the evening of December 3rd.

Surprising my parents a week later.

The striped blue and white shirt and the ugly couch .

The not-so-ugly rocking chair.