Santa, Me, and My Mom As A Seamstress

Ahhhh... Christmas. A fellow blogger posted a black and white photo of himself with the big man and that image stirred up my own memories of childhood holidays.

My mom knew how to make me into one stylin' girl, that's a fact. For as long as I can remember, she made my clothes and even now, my favorite color is pink.

My own daughter, no doubt, will question the length of this dress. Yes, it's short and yes, I still have those same looking knobby knees.

Another beautifully-made dress... I love the apron with this one. Now maybe you understand why I love aprons to this day. It just makes the woman.

Another apron! Score! And yes, I still believe in Santa at this age and yes, this is the same Santa! Gotta love small towns and holiday traditions.

Obviously, I hope, the sophistication of my pantsuit should indicate that this will be the final picture of Santa and me. The man has to be wondering how many more years he will see that redheaded girl. I wonder if he looked for me the next year.



My parents worked hard to keep the dream alive and for that, I am forever thankful. Because of the memories I had, I carried those traditions on to my own family and have often said that the fun of the Christmas season was putting our little ones to bed after they had meticulously set out a plate of cookies and a cup of milk with the big guy in mind. The memories of those joyous squeals in the morning preceded by the pounding of little feet will always bring a smile to my face. My proudest moment, though, would have to be the year the reindeer left remnants of their midnight snack of carrots in the snow in full view of the living room window. Oh my. I can still see those kids, noses pressed to the cold glass, talking among themselves about Santa's reindeer. For me, that memory is equivalent to the year my grandpa told me he had seen the red glow of Rudolph's nose high in the winter sky on a Christmas Eve while he was locking up the doors of the factory. Even now, I remember the excitement and awe I felt as a child.

Those are the kinds of memories that time just cannot touch.
Kind of like the outfits my mom use to make me.

Forever cool.

Wrecked Plans

As I sit in my preferred spot this morning,

I smell two pies baking happily in the oven.
I hear the laundry whishing wearily in the machine.
I feel the steady warmth from the fire before me.

And I fight back the tears.

This week has not gone how I planned. For a month (or better), I planned. I gave notice, worked ahead of the game, dotted all my i's and crossed all the t's. Everything was in place for a much-needed trip home and yet, here I sit. It's been hard not to be ungrateful in a week set aside for thanksgiving.

So,

I have cleaned and decorated and, as aforementioned, am now baking.
I have once again taken up whispered conversations with the cat.
I have been in the same set of pajamas for what is now the third day.

Earlier, I surprised myself and the Lord by opening my Bible. Needless to say, for all my God has a plan talk, I have been slightly irritated with the sudden change in my plan. I was thinking that maybe there was a reason I had to stay behind... maybe something big was going to happen and I would be needed here. And yes, even as I write this I cannot help but notice my ego at play. It really is quite sad how full we humans can get with ourselves; as if something could dare happen if we are not present. We live in a world quite consumed with self-importance.

While reading in Psalms earlier, I was reminded that if I truly remember who I am, my need to understand the whys and hows of life make no sense whatsoever. It really is a waste of time. After this week has passed by, will I look back at wasted days or days well spent? I am choosing the latter. It's a struggle, that's for certain, but the last eight years of this ridiculous distance have been just that. Now that I think about it, my plan has never been the plan. I really should have learned this by now.

So, as this week of thanksgiving continues, I will check on the pies, finish the laundry (current pajamas included), keep my feet by the fire, and I will be thankful for all the resources that allow such luxuries.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Blame Game Lands Squarely On Me

Someone's been rereading my blog.

Mom?

I haven't posted anything for a while... not much to say, I suppose. As a matter of fact, I haven't done much of anything to, as they say, expand my mind.

I blame Netflix.

Before Netflix and the smartphone, my evening consisted of books. I was never much of television watcher- antenna-only at our house, so I typically would hit the power button after the news and settle in with whatever latest book I was reading. My book collection depended on what the library had to offer and I always had a stack nearby.

Wait.

I blame the Nook.

After I purchased my first Barnes & Noble Nook, with much excitement, I might add, the library became one of those places that I use to visit. I could read entire series without any interruption via middle-of-the-night online purchases. I could carry a hundred books with me anywhere I went in the slim work-of-wonder that fit into my pocketbook. I really did read at red lights.

But then again,

The Nook was not just for reading. Through the magic of wi-fi, I could skip through the land of Facebook or read emails that never told me anything of importance or play that funky word game with the yellow tiles and letters. I could watch movies (drat that Netflix) or laugh at stupidity (youtube anyone?) and successfully whittle away hours of my life.

So it's the Wi-Fi's fault.

Well, there might be some truth to that. Before wi-fi, I was tied to a desktop if I wanted to venture anywhere on the world wide web. Sure, I might be up and down a lot, but at least I managed to get something done. Nowadays I feel like I do a lot of everything without accomplishing a thing. I play along with that "super busy" thing while growing numb to the glow from the light of LEDs.

That blasted phone.

I mean, seriously, When did the phone become a fifth limb? Yes, the thing is SMART. I have used Google Maps to direct me more than once. Shopping for bargains is a piece of cake. Bored while waiting at the dentist? Skip those "How to Care for Your Teeth" brochures and zone out in the land of Pinterest. I just can't stop there, though.

I take my phone to bed. I've been know to take it to the bathroom.

Although, now that I think about it, I remember a house we use to live in that had an actual wall phone located conveniently in the bathroom. That feature was beyond cool. I could bathe the kids while gossiping with a friend and never have to leave the room.

Yeah. That's a way to stay focused.

As I write this, I am disappointed in myself. I love to read. I hate fads.
And yet, I have given up a true love for what everyone else is doing.

I am so not impressed.

Something is going to have to change.

And it's going to start tonight with an actual BOOK.

The Magical Power of a Blood Red Moon (Some Sarcasm Intended)

Two blog posts on two consecutive calendar days?

This can only mean one of two things:
The moon is full, or my to-grade folder is officially empty.

Lest we give that big ole moon any more air time, we'll go with the empty folder theory. The good Lord knows that will only last until first period tomorrow anyway.

Teaching is a funny thing.

You love it.
You dread it.
You live for it.
You run from it.

The youngest was sharing her woes tonight about trying to get people to listen to her when she is trying to tell them how something should be done. As she finished her tale of the uncooperative bunch she was working with, she mentioned, as an after-thought, that maybe she should reconsider her goal of becoming a teacher.

No kidding, little sister.

I spent at least five hours (FIVE HOURS) on Sunday doing nothing but lesson plans. Yes, I have plans from previous years, but I'm always looking for something new. Something more interesting to share. Kids are a tough crowd, of that you can be certain. During the week, I typically stay after school at least ninety minutes after the final bell rings writing the next day's work on the board, sifting through classroom assignments, and (yes, sometimes it's true) staring blankly out of my second story window wondering what life is like in the office across the street. I straighten desks, pray over desks, and stub my toes on desks on almost a daily basis. I walk the empty hallways and see scraps of notebook paper litter the floors, lonely lunch boxes that have been left behind, and the occasional favorite jacket that I know someone will be missing the in the morning.

I exhale deeply every time I lock my classroom door and walk away.

I am one of many.

There is no rhyme or reason to what we do. It's simply a job for some; a passion for others. We all have our callings in life. Not one is to be set above another. Our gifts are unique. Our purpose divine. Some days the good outweighs the bad, and some days the bad threatens to send us running for the hills.

Such is this thing called education.

So hang in there, little sister. When the bunch is uncooperative, it can be challenging, but there are those days... more often than not, when that bunch is right where you want them to be.

Listening. Questioning. Exploring.

And, every so often,

When you least expect it,

The moon grows big.
The moon glows red.

And the to-grade folder is empty.



It really is a beautiful life.

I See Dead People

How's that for an attention-getter?

But seriously, I do... kinda.

Last night in my dreams, I was making the journey back home to attend my grandmother's funeral. I know it was a dream simply because a fifteen-hour drive took me about six, and even though the purpose of the trip was to attend her funeral, my grandma was still very much alive.

You gotta love dreams.

I saw my aunts sitting around the table and hugged every one of their necks. I talked with my grandma about recipes while we sat on her front porch swing. I visited with my dad as we all made our way to the graveside service and stood among the familiar stones for family and friends. We were obviously there for someone, but I have no idea who... maybe it was just a good excuse to go home.

I woke up thinking about our little white house that we left and wondered how our lives might be different if we had never moved. Would our oldest still live three hours away from us or just down the road? What would things be like for our middle and youngest? Would the husband still be in law enforcement? Would I still be teaching in the same classroom in the same school where I painted desks and swept endless drywall dust and wrote scriptures that went into the foundation?

What ifs can be a dangerous thing.

Granted, I also dreamed last night that I was in the production of Annie. Daddy Warbucks had just bought out the theater for some movie and we were happily passing around the popcorn and Starbucks (seriously). For that reason alone, I can't get too hung up about the details of my midnight wanderings and wonder why.

I look at dreams as a gift. I get to see people who have went on and visit places I have long since left. I get to take a break from reality and for about seven or eight hours, time really has no meaning and distance has no length. There is nothing to stop me from being where I really want to be. Let's face it... time might march on, but the heart knows what was left behind. Thank goodness the Lord knows what lies ahead.

I will leave the whys up to Him.

Sweet dreams.




*In case you're curious, the photo above was taken by yours truly in Savannah, Georgia.
  Beautiful, isn't it?

From the Mouth of Hope

Rarely do I write about classroom experiences for one simple reason...

I would surely offend someone.

This particular moment in time, however, demands attention and for that reason, I'm going to break one of my self-imposed rules and write about a class I was honored to lead on Friday. Every year, if the eleventh of September happens to fall on a weekday, I venture away from my lesson plans and focus on the events of that fateful Tuesday now fourteen years ago. I begin each class period by allowing about five minutes for students to write about what they already know (or think they know) regarding 9/11. While they are writing, I write September 11, 2001, in the middle of a clean white board. I then ask for students to begin describing that day using only one or two words. Invariably, this train starts off slow and then picks up so much speed that I have a hard time keeping up with it. As words are called out, I write them on the board in various places with the goal being to connect everything to the date of September 11th.

It works out much cooler than my lame attempt to describe it.

At any rate, the expected words come pretty quick.

Twin Towers.
Planes.
Fire.
Hijackers.

Then I start asking for specifics.

Bin Laden.
New York.
Pentagon.
Pennsylvania.

In between all these, I will hear other words that I may not have expected.

Depressing.
Overwhelming.
Confusing.
Despair.

During one afternoon class, though, I heard a word that stopped me still in my tracks. I was facing the board, marker poised to write, when I just had to lower my head and thank the good Lord in Heaven for allowing me to be right where I was at that moment.

The word?

HOMEGOING.

Homegoing. Even now it's a word that my spell check keeps underlining in a red squiggly line. It doesn't sound right. It doesn't seem like it should be right.

But it is so right.

You see, this student understood that as tragic as the events of that day were for those of us left standing on this side, September 11, 2001, was a day of celebration for those who stepped to the other side in faith on that fateful Tuesday morning. It was, in fact, a homegoing. Out of all my years, I've never witnessed such a positive outlook and attitude.

May we always be reminded that we know not what each new day might bring. It may be just another ordinary day out of what often seems to be a neverending week, or it may be the very day that we rejoice in an eternal life while the rest of the world looks on in terror that can often come from this life.

I hope this crazy made some kind of sense.

The note I was handed the morning of September 11, 2001.

Capturing September

September has tiptoed its way into my life.

It came quietly, whispering its way through the willows and sticking tight to the shadows. I've got to respect it for not loudly announcing its approach or mocking me as it peeked around the corners. I've got to admire it for not holding back so as to unnaturally stop time.

But even so,

I wish it had held off a little longer.

I've never been one for regrets. With very few exceptions, the choices I have made have been my own. I live with it all... good decisions and bad mistakes... and accept them all for making me who I am today. September, though, is a time that fills me with regret.

Regret that I didn't call more, leave sooner, sit longer.

Today as I set the table with autumn dishes and decorated the house with autumn knickknacks, I thought of my dad as he was a year ago. His final autumn was rapidly closing in and none of us really had a clue. How could he go so fast? I remember a brief conversation we had in what would turn out to be the last day he could really talk to us.

His grandchildren were telling him goodbye.
The reality of what was to be was settling in.
And he looked at me and asked if I had anything to say.

How do you respond in that moment?
How do you sum up a lifetime in words?

At first I simply shook my head no while my heart screamed not to let the moment pass. So I thanked him for all he had ever done for me, told him how proud I was to be his daughter, and assured him for the countless time that I loved him.

Nine days later he was gone.

If I were to write a book dedicated to the last twelve months of my life, I do not think I could begin to capture the emotion of each "first without my dad." In a way, I am glad to put this year behind me and in another way, I want to grab a hold of September and not let it pass.

It was the month of September when I moved away and left my dad.
And it was the month of September that he flew away and left me.

May we never take for granted the seasons of our lives.

Nope. Not Today.

My mom and I have this thing going as we trudge through the first year without my dad. We'll talk about things we need to do, things that would have us moving forward, and just when we think that it finally might be the day to do this or do that... we simply say,

Nope, not today.

With her, it's been big things. Monumental milestones that she alone must face. Things like taking care of paperwork, grocery shopping for one, emptying out his sock drawer.

She's made it through the first two on that short example of a list. She's the strongest woman I know. The third, however, is proving to be a challenge. When she mentioned she had thought about it today and then promptly changed her mind after opening the drawer, I said what we have all said through it all,

That day will come.

I wonder when my day will come. The thing I am stuck on has to be the one thing that makes absolutely no sense. In the trunk of my car are three severely rumpled and very wrinkled suits (as if rumpled and wrinkled are not the same thing). I've had these suits in the trunk of my car since late September with one very clear destination in mind- the dry cleaners.

So why are they still in my car? I have no explanation really. It's become something of a family joke (which, by the way, brings no offer of anyone else dropping them off). For whatever reason, it is the mom responsibility which would be all fine and dandy if this mom would only respond. Every time I drive past the dry cleaners (which is quite often) and the thought crosses my mind to swing in and drop them off (which seems logical), I think to myself,

Nope, not today.

Why am I wedged in this do-nothing zone about suits, of all things? I remember getting ready to head home last year for what I knew was to be the final lap of my dad's journey and making sure all the males in the family knew where their suits were located. I gave strict instructions for socks, belts, and ties. I left nothing to chance and never factored in that I would be the one slacking after the fact.

I was so proud of myself today. After a week's worth of school antics that left me in tears three out of five days, my goal this weekend was to make a noticeable dent on something I could control... the growing madness within the home. By this morning, laundry was finished and put away, rooms were dusted and vacuumed, and my dad's picture was firmly in place within a shadow box my mom had given me a few months before. I shed a few tears as I pinned a note he had written me under his picture and shed a few more as I tucked his memorial service card inside his Bible. It was all good, though. It felt good... until the family piled into my car for dinner and the later retrieval of leftover pizza from my trunk reminded us all of what was still in there.


Yes, I know.
No, not yet.

No, I don't know what I'm waiting on.

Not one of ours, but certainly what one would look like on a hanger right now.

Hey, this is about no one but me. No complaints about the family members. I would be saying something, too, if the shoe (or in this case, suit) was on the other guy. I already said it makes no sense. The only thing I can venture to guess is that I've got a little too much on my plate right now and those suits are not a priority. That seems the acceptable explanation anyway.

But at some point, it will be the day. It'll have to be the day. I mean, a grown woman just can't keep driving around with male clothes in her car...

At least not without a good cover story.

Speechless

I'm the kind of person who does not mess with bowls when it comes to ice cream. The carton and a spoon is all that's needed to make the experience unique. I pride myself on being able to simply take a few bites (as in about fifteen) before sighing happily and pushing the sweetness away. It takes talent, I know.

Life in these parts has been on fast forward for the last couple of weeks. School is in full swing and my feet have a hard time finding comfort in my fluffiest of slippers. I haven't cooked a meal since last Friday and that was solely because of a birthday. I'm not sure what kinds of atrocities lurk behind my refrigerator door and I'm pretty sure the dishcloth by my sink has grown its own zip code.

I'm having a hard time caring. Oh, I did make a half-hearted effort tonight to take care of the dishes and vacuum the cat fur and tackle the litter box. I set the trash outside and hung up my work clothes (today's outfit anyway) and watered the struggling plant on the back porch. I called my mom and listened to the husband and meandered around the internet. I finished a case brief and submitted it late, watched a video on conquistadors just for the sheer fun of it, and fixed a cup of coffee to accompany the ice cream and the spoon... and yet, in all the madness, I cannot escape the very thing my mom and I talked about tonight.

It's almost been a year.

Taken during a visit soon after I moved away. We were going to church
 to listen to the preacher who would end up speaking at my dad's service. 

And this is where I run out of words.

In Black and White

Years ago when the oldest was four, the middle was two, and the youngest was still in the womb, I began writing in three separate journals. In the first, I opened up with tales of a t-ball game and the parental pride that goes along with it. In the second, I detailed a peek into the life of a toddler and the challenges of bedtime. In the third, I simply opened with "Dear Baby" because although the upcoming birthday was just two months away, we didn't know if the fluffy blankets would be purchased in pink or blue.

Last night, the oldest came home for a visit and I found myself digging into a cedar chest of treasures. I had never shown the kids these journals, but seeing as how the entire family was in the same room for the moment, I seized the day, so to speak, and handed them each their own special book. What followed was laughs and questions and memories.

The oldest read his quietly. The middle read his aloud.
The youngest just marveled at how much her big brothers loved her.

There were tales of new words and phrases being spoken, the ever-present paddle that was never far from reach, and even a few drawings and outlines of hands and feet. Each read the story of the day they asked Jesus into their heart. Each read the story of grandparents who have since left this world. Each read stories of special friends and special pets and special days.

Each read the story of them.

Although I did not make an entry every night- after all, not long into the story of the youngest was I able to actually call her by name and welcome her into the world... life with three kids under the age of five did not allow for a lot of downtime; but I still found some time, however, to carve out for them their own little slice of something special. All in all, the three books covered a time span of seven years.

Years that I now wonder where in the world time went.

They read those journals from beginning to end. As I collected them back to tuck away into our treasure chest, they thanked me and remarked how much they enjoyed reading them. As I tried to sleep last night, I wondered why I ever stopped writing to them. Life, I'm sure. In fact, now that I think about it, it wasn't too long after the last entries that our world took a turn in the form of The Great Move. Life became less about preserving our memories and more about preserving our sanity. The books were closed and the pen was capped.

But you know what? I'm gonna pick up where I left off. There will come a day when those books will be my words those kids hear in their head. I'm going to do my best to keep them laughing.

The oldest is twenty-one. The middle is nineteen.
The youngest is days away from seventeen.

There's plenty of stories left to tell.




Your mom and dad love you, kids.

Celebrating Dad

Recently my mom gave me a shadow box to create a keepsake for my dad. It's a really neat concept and today I ventured out to Hobby Lobby with the intentions of buying some decorative pieces to fix it up. My thinking this week has been that I would spend Father's Day creating this beautiful, sentimental box that I could display in our living room. It seemed like an ideal plan until I actually found myself in the craft store today wandering aisles and thinking about what I was doing. Looking at all that beautiful "father' stuff and thinking about what I could incorporate into the box only solidified what I was actually doing...  sealing the fact that I was trying to do something fatherly because I no longer had a father to call.

I know, I know. Depressing at the very least, right? I'm gonna be honest, though, and fully admit for all those experiencing the same thing I am enduring at the moment... Father's Day is currently at the top of my list for "All Things Sucky" right now.

(as I just lost a few readers due to my total lack-of-class use of a not-so-real word).

Look, I don't know how else to put it. This one just kind of snuck up on me. I wasn't prepared for the complete lack of preparedness I feel for this one particular Sunday in June. I want my father back. Period. I mean, I think I knew last Father's Day that time was winding down- in fact, my blog entry from this time last year (found here), leaves no question to that train of thought- but, still... it is frustrating and disheartening nonetheless. So, I find myself on that dangerously, slippery line between self-pity and self-determination.

I look at the husband as he chuckles at something he is reading online. I think about how when the kids were younger, much younger, I would help them create or decorate or buy something for their dad for Father's Day and how I haven't had to do that for quite some time. Even now, the two youngest are discussing where they are taking him to eat tomorrow. I know they have already shopped on their own and have a gift or two tucked away that he will be sure to react with genuine surprise tomorrow. The oldest, who could not make it home this weekend, has already called to talk to his dad once this week and will no doubt call again tomorrow.

And that gives me cause to celebrate.

I think about all the Father's Day(s) I did have with my dad and I can only hope that I sincerely appreciated them all. I remember a sixth grade student I had years ago who lost his father a week before Father's Day and know that I have no reason to complain. I consider the kids I know today who are not even sure where their fathers are and shake my head in bewilderment.

I may or may not work on that shadow box tomorrow. When I mentioned it to my mom earlier today, she simply said, "You'll do it when you're ready." That is one thing our family is finding out for sure as we muddle through this year of "firsts" without the man who was such a big part of our lives... everything comes in due time. There is no fixed schedule for mourning; no exact time to do anything. Rushing only complicates things and "closure" is not a door that shuts easily. My mother demonstrated this perfectly a few months ago when she cleaned what has always been known as "Dad's Room". Some things had to go, but some things remained the same.

Such a beautiful reminder of the hope we carry, We shall meet again.





Happy Father's Day to the ones who are here,
the ones who have went on, and the ones who are yet to be.

In A World Of Wi-Fi

Between trying to figure out this blasted Windows 8 and Office365, I am nearing the edge of pure madness. I do not handle change well.

Wait.

Let me rephrase that...
I do not handle unnecessary change well.

There is a difference.

I have papers to write, deadlines to meet, and a headache from all the nonsense my computer screen is throwing at me. Seriously. Can't we all just get along? I mean, I know my laptop can't hear me, but my pleas for mercy overflow nonetheless. {Sigh}. It doesn't matter. My cries fall on deaf ears, or keyboard as it would be, and I find myself wandering into the ever-comforting glow of the blog neighborhood.

Now this I understand.

The husband looks at me from time to time and smiles. Poor guy. He thinks I am working away when really I am just sitting here thinking about that stupid car commercial we watched earlier. You might have seen it. A Chevy and a Ford are compared (imagine that) with one having the wonders of wi-fi and smiling kids zoned out on tablets and smiling parents high on the silence. The flipside of this is the less fortunate having to deal with no wi-fi on the road and less than quiet kids. I suppose the message is the virtual world is a happy world.

As the commercial faded out and the gloom of the world came back on in the form of the six o'clock news, the husband made what I considered to be a very profound statement,

"I'm glad we never had any of that and our kids learned how to talk with us."

I thought about that as we sat in silence. I can remember having three little kids crammed into a vehicle and wishing beyond wishing that we had those new-fangled  DVD systems for the car. We knew others that did and they all raved about the peace and quiet such systems brought to any excursion, no matter how long or short. Once, for a brief period and for a reason I can't recall, we borrowed some kind of contraption for a road trip. I can't really say if we liked it or not... that's one of those memories that have faded along with the pitter-patter of little feet. The point is, I suppose, is that instead of logging out of life and signing into the constant glow of a computer screen, our kids ultimately had nothing better to do than to talk to us.

Sometimes loud.
Sometimes whiny.

But always real.

Today we have three young adults who, oddly enough, seem to actually enjoy conversations with us old folks. Maybe it has to do with all those books we read to them as kids. Maybe it something with all those meals we ate around a table.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's because we could never afford all that entertainment stuff and were forced to acknowledge life head on and not muffle it through the foam and cords of headphones. A stretch, I'm sure, but something to think about, I'm certain. If nothing else, it took my mind off my own reality if even for a short time.

Now,

Back to my own problems.
Your prayers are appreciated.

Image provided by keyword "Windows 8 Nightmare." Thanks, frustrated user. I can totally relate.

The Procrastination Queen

While the rest of the world discusses Bruce Jenner and other oddities of the universe, another noteworthy event took place today that would otherwise go unnoticed except for me and this marvel of a thing called blogging at my fingertips...

A scrapbook was finished.

I've never been one to boast about being an "on time" kinda girl. Slow and steady wins the race, as the saying goes. I definitely fall into that category. It's who I am. Of course, the downside of all this procrastination is that this scrapbook for the oldest was finished just in time (?) to start the one for the middle so I can try to get to the one for the youngest. Keep in mind the middle graduated last year and the youngest graduates next year.

That's 2014 and 2016, in case you're keeping track-
And puts the finish line somewhere around 2020.

At least I've got a game plan.

My Undoing

Few things in life drive me crazy. I mean, I'm relatively a calm person. I don't get overly anxious. I don't do drama (unless you count that stint in the eighth grade). I pretty much keep it simple.

This fly, however.

This hovering, buzzing, teasing fly is going to drive me INSANE.

It taunts me as I sit on the couch. It follows me to the kitchen and wreaks havoc while my hands are otherwise occupied. It has even managed to annoy the cats.

This fly, people, has got to go DOWN.



Really? you ask.
Is this all you've got? you wonder.



Well,

I could tell you how I have roamed the house today arguing with emotions while the laundry was folded. Or I could mention the fact that I became one of THOSE people who pump gas in their pajama pants.

But then, that might make you rethink my opening remarks.

Maybe it's not the FLY making me insane.

Maybe it's life at the moment.


Nah.

It's the fly.






Absolutely.

Summer Plans

For some strange reason known only to God Himself, I was up early today.

No alarm.
No where to be.

Wide awake.

I entertained myself by watching mindless television (are there really any fans of The View out there?), attempted to remove the acrylic from my nails (no amount of YouTube videos can help with this one), and cleaned our bathroom with straight-out bleach (no sense saving the nails at that point). I have sang karaoke to the cats, fishtail-braided my hair, and made a run to the post office that conveniently passed by a Starbucks.

Thus begins my summer vacation.

Last year summer was all about my dad. What I would give to be making that long drive back to spend just one more month of June with him. I would stay longer and worry less. I would watch NASCAR and westerns and let him try to explain C-Span to me just one more time.

And yet here we are in a different year. Time certainly does march forward. This summer I will say good-bye to the middle and launch the youngest on her final high school year. I will welcome visits with the oldest while the husband and I learn to live with what is becoming an increasingly empty house.

I will clean out bedrooms.
I will conquer Windows 8.
I will take back the front porch.

And you better believe, I will be sleeping late.

It's how I do summer.

I Will Not Go Quietly. Will You?

My focus should be on creating exams and writing papers and possibly (just possibly) folding the clothes in the basket of clean laundry that sits beside me. I could run the dishwasher or go for a walk or (slight gasp) actually read a book non-school related.

Bake a cake.
Call my mom.

Finish that scrapbook from 2012.

Instead of the many, many things that I could be doing, I find my mind wandering between World War II questions and the current world situation. I eat a bowl of cereal and think about our boy and instantly feel sick. My emotions have run amok.

This boy of ours. About to join the ranks of those defending our freedom. Adamant that he wants no big to-do about his departure. Willing to quietly slip away and conquer a dream he's had for quite some time.

While his mother, on the other hand, wants to scream from the rooftops just to see if anyone's listening. Wants to grab the local idiot and shake them by the neck and say,

This life is not about you.

Running your mouth screaming freedom of speech.
    Destroying property claiming freedom of expression.
        Taking God out of my country citing freedom of religion.

All while we idly stand by and overdose on reality television.

I have no time for celebrity foolishness or talk show opinions. I don't share political propaganda via social media. I am by no means perfect, but may heaven help me if I bury my head in the sand.

The words of Dwight D. Eisenhower ring loudly in my ears. Speaking to those soldiers who were about to embark on the greatest military invasion the world has ever known, he said (in part*),

Your task will not be an easy one.

 Your enemy is well trained, well equipped, and battle-hardened.

 He will fight savagely.

I have full confidence in your courage,

 devotion to duty, and skill in battle. 

We will accept nothing less than full victory. 

Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God

 upon this great and noble undertaking. 

I cannot help but reflect on how those words still ring true today. June 6, 1944, may be well behind us, but the battle is ever before us. Let us not wait until Memorial Day or Independence Day or Veteran's Day to support a country, a flag, a cause for which much blood was shed.

Vietnam Wall. Photo by me. Sacrifice by many.

I am tired of making excuses, tired of worrying whom I might offend, and tired of the media giving valuable air time to fools making a mockery of their freedom.

Period.



*You can read or listen to Eisenhower's full speech HERE.

Sleep On That

So I can tell it's going to be one of those nights. A night if I don't talk, I won't sleep, and by talking... I mean writing. It is, after all, how we non-talkative people survive, We want to talk when there's no one around to hear us talk or maybe, just maybe, we use that as an excuse because we really don't want to run the risk of someone actually talking back.

Yes. I am exhausting myself.

I am drowning in a sea of negativity.
Overwhelmed by constant whining.
And totally taken under by complaining.

Grown-ups can be so annoying.

What ever happened to finishing well? Doing our best? Putting others before ourselves? I'm reminded of a song I use to sing with a 4th - 6th grade class: JOY.

Jesus and
Others and
You.

When will we ever learn that when we put ourselves first, it is always going to fall short. I don't know how to put this mildly... it rather stinks. There's a stench in the air when we try to take center stage. Period. The last time I checked, it wasn't suppose to be about us.

I know, I know. This particular post probably has its own stench about it. My mind has just been flooded the last few days. Flooded with memories. Flooded with reminders. Flooded with lessons learned when I forgot that it wasn't all about me. I despise seeing others struggle with the same thing, especially when they don't even recognize struggle.

ADULTS, haughty with their nose in the air, convinced that there is no authority over them. KIDS, indignant to authority because they are imitating those same adults in their life.

Rebellion runs rampant and the good people of the world shake their head and wonder why (slight hint of sarcasm there). As a wise man once said, "When kids are out of control, they are in control." That statement ought to stop a few of us in our tracks.

I was reminded today of a couple of scriptures:

As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another. Proverbs 27:17.
As water reflects the face, so one's life reflects the heart. Proverbs 27:19.
One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin. Proverbs 18:24.

I could keep going. Proverbs, after all, has a lot going on. I suppose my point- scratch that- HIS point has been made. We need to be careful. Our actions matter. CHARACTER MATTERS. Nobody buys your baloney when the stink from the rind runs them off.

Or something like that.

Finish WELL, people. Put Jesus first. Imitate HIM. Put others second. SERVE them. Put yourself last...

And bask in the gratefulness.

God is good.

I am thankful for Him, my family, my country, my friends, and my job.

I pray the lessons I have learned, I will never forget.




Now, I can sleep.

Growing Pains That Feel Good

Typically I would bemoan the fact that my kids are growing up... you know, the "I'm so proud of them, but where have my babies gone" song. Trust me, I know that one well. Today, however, I found myself singing a different kind of tune.

The kind that lowered our phone bill.

A month or so ago (I do tend to get a little behind on these things), the middle proudly made his own cell phone purchase with his own cell phone plan. "I've got this, Mom," he said. Indeed, he did. When I made the customer service call today to officially drop his line from our family plan, the nice lady asked me why I was cancelling that particular service. I simply said, "My boy is moving on and taking care of it himself."

What a grand feeling.

In addition to that happiness at the end of the rainbow, the oldest told me recently that I can drop him from our insurance because, to paraphrase and echo the words of his brother, "I've got this, Mom."

It really doesn't take much to make me smile.

Ode to the Waffle House

The time has changed.

The clock dutifully adjusted.

This is the day of springing forward... and a whole lot of people grumbling.

I, for one, have never really minded the whole clock-changing thing. After all, it's just time, and an hour at that. We humans have a knack for whittling away an hour on a daily basis.

Mindless television.
Mindless internet.

Mindless gossip after church on Sunday.

Of course, the latter always includes that all-saving phrase, "I'm just asking so I know better how to pray." We all know that good Christians don't gossip; they make prayer lists and utilize a prayer chain to spread the word about a marriage gone bad or a job lost to an addiction.

Back to the time issue, though, before I have my own name added to that prayer list...

Time is a funny thing. We can use it to our advantage or let it remind us of our failures. I know this is going to be the oddest comparison, but consider this.

Waffle House.

In my opinion (I heard you laugh), Waffle House has got the art of time and organization down to a science. Case in point: the oldest has been home this weekend and yesterday he and I sat at the counter of a local Waffle House during a hectic breakfast hour. If you've never been in such an establishment, the only way I can describe it to you is it's like being in the middle of a very busy kitchen. There are no walls separating the customers from the cooks and any time I've been there, it's entertainment at its finest. Orders are being called out, eggs are being cracked open, and plates are being washed. As we sat there yesterday watching these people doing their jobs (and doing them cheerfully, I might add), I remarked how many employees there were in that small behind-the-counter space.

I counted ten.

Ten people working in what appeared to be a perfectly orchestrated event. Everyone had a job. They squeezed by each other, laughed it off if something went wrong, and stayed focused on the tasks at hand. I'm telling you, there has to be a study somewhere on the leadership style that trains this kind of staff and work ethic at Waffle House. When you can get your pecan waffle served hot right off the griddle in the midst of a dozen other orders being completed at the same time... well, somebody knows how to manage time.

Maybe the whole Waffle House scenario is not the best comparison to the whole losing-an-hour thing that we woke up to today, but I think it does serve as a good reminder that it's up to us to make the most out the time we're given. Whining and debating about an hour here or there does us no good. It is just a clock.

And that clock is reminding me that it's time to get moving.

I'm suddenly in the mood for another waffle.

Read At Your Own Risk (which means "avoid at all costs"if you're feeling good about love right now)

Oh, man.

It's that time of the year with the red and the pink and the flowers and the chocolate and all the other stuff (have you seen that stupid, huge teddy bear for sale on television that the ladies are lovin' on in a creepy sort of way?). All of it, creepy or not, reminds single people that they're single and married people that they're married.

As if we needed reminders.

Typically I would venture back in time and repost my rather opinionated It Stinks To Be Single Day (a good read, says the author), but I think I'll venture out on a limb for this one.

How do I really feel?

I would really like for my dashing husband to swoop into my workplace wearing a suit and tie with a dozen pink roses in his hand. Why my workplace? So everybody can see how much I am loved, of course. After all, what good is love if we can't parade it in front of those less fortunate?

(and the mean monster of sarcasm rears its ugly head)

So... that's the dream. Here's the reality.

My dashing husband will not show up at my workplace because he will be, well... working. If he did show up in a suit and tie, I would wonder who died. And if a dozen pink roses were in his hand?

Well, I would most likely be written up for that infamous three-letter abbreviation known as

Public
Display (of)
Affection.

After all, pink roses are my weakness and I am rather in love with the man.

Listen,

I'm a girl. I'm all for romance, but come on... romance isn't romance if it's forced and especially if it's because your significant other is only doing it because they don't want to hear from you if they don't.

Like that made any sense.

Am I bitter? Not really. I've done the whole dozen roses/teddy bear/chocolate thing in the dark corners of my past. That fool (ahem, young man) only loved me when it was for a convenient, public display. I'll have no part of that again.

Do I wish my husband would surprise me with flowers more often? Sure. I'm not an idiot, but I'm also not a whiner (don't laugh). Flowers aren't cheap and there are other ways for him to show me he cares*.

Am I jealous of others already posting their feel-good love updates? Maybe. Like I said, I do like all that girly stuff, but I just don't get the mushy stuff put out there for the purpose of likes and/or comments.

I know, I know. You are not posting that stuff for the purpose of likes and/or comments. You're just so much in love that you want to share it with the world via all avenues of social media.

(and with that, I am certain to have offended someone)

A thousand apologies. You're right. I am jealous.

(down with you, sarcasm!)

But seriously,

And I promise this is it...

My thoughts this week are with my mother and uncle who will be missing their sweethearts this Saturday. My thoughts this week are with my aunt who will mark a full year without her sweetheart on Saturday. And my thoughts this week are with those who struggle with the question of why they are still alone (or feel alone) through this cruel and commercialized season of pink and red that will finally climax on Saturday.

Make no mistake.

I love love.

I just don't love the nonsense.




*And just to prove to some of you that I'm not entirely heartless, here's a picture of the best Valentine's Day gift ever from my sweetheart. Granted, it's covered with dust and hasn't seen the light of day for a good two years or so, but that's my own fault. Even when I fight the cobwebs to look at it, I can't help but smile when I remember what was genuinely a perfect day that occurred in the midst of a rather difficult storm.

My Pink Valentine Bike, circa 2011

Ahhhhhhh.... I really do have a sentimental side.


Happy It Stinks To Be Single Day!  =)

The Calendar Shows No Mercy

Last Friday I received a somewhat frantic call from the home front that went something like this,

Our internet has been shut off.

Now I won't give away the family member with the noticeable tremor in the voice, but suffice it to say, there was the faintest whisper of terror at the suggestion of no Netflix for the weekend. I was still at work trying to get a handle on a stack of papers to grade, but I did pause for a moment to ponder the situation.

When did I last pay that bill?

Through the power of mobile banking, a quick check revealed that last time was, in fact, December.

December?

December.

No wonder they cut that baby off.

When I tell you that my life turned upside down the moment my dad left this world, I mean it. I can't seem to focus on anything of importance, I obviously have lost all track of time, and things that use to be at the top of my to-do list (paying bills, for instance) have fallen by the wayside. I think things I shouldn't, visualize things I shouldn't, and (truth be told) say things I shouldn't. It's like the back end of a roller coaster car got knocked off track and I, the only passenger, am praying like crazy that I don't go tumbling down with it. As much as I love a good thrill ride, I am ready to put this one to rest.

Needless to say, one phone call later and a rather swift withdrawal of funds through the wonder of electronic banking, our internet was back on before the signs of withdrawal became too evident and it's a good thing...

One unstable person at a time is all we can handle around here.

Define Crazy

I looked in the dictionary. Several of them, different centuries, all Webster. Crazy is one definition that doesn't change much over time.

Deranged.

Decrepit.

Insane.

In none of those definitions did I find the phrase only affects women, and yet women are the ones I hear who most often refer to themselves as crazy.

Crazy Mom.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.

Crazy (Word I Can't Say On A Blog My Mom Reads).

Why is that? 

I've been reading several stories lately about women who have evidently lost their minds over things like kids and husbands, dishes and laundry, co-workers and grocery clerks. All these women share a common theme that can sometimes accompany crazy...

Jail time.

I get it. We get crazy over things we are passionate about, but crazy to the point of the infamous mug shot in an orange jumpsuit? Who has that kind of time (or energy, for that matter)? And yes, I know the phrase "Mess with my kid and you mess with me." Like I said, I do get it, but come on... craziness for the sake of being crazy is just plain

CRAZY.

Take a deep breath. Think it over. Come up with a solid game plan that- and I'm just throwing this out there- does not involve social media and your crazy self. 

It's Superbowl Sunday, people. Eat a chicken wing, drink a cold beverage, and leave the crazy to what I anticipate the halftime show being tonight.

Walmart Lines Are So Long I Get Completely Philosophical (Or Something Like That)

You know, I knew that sooner or later I would go here.

I just didn't expect to go here today.

While waiting for what seemed forever and a lifetime in the Walmart check-out line, I observed many, many things. Kids, mostly unsupervised, bouncing from one end of the line to another. Gawking at candy. Crawling on the floor. Whining about blankets. Totally and undeniably annoying.

There was one boy with who I instantly fell in love with- might have been his red hair, but he mostly stood close to who I assume to be his great-grandmother and pretended he was knee-deep in a jungle somewhere, machine gun sounds at all. When it came time for granny to load her items onto the the check-out thing, he helped and stacked and beamed with pride when she dropped something and he picked it up for her. When she told him to put on his coat, he dutifully zipped it up and patiently stood guard while she paid for her purchases.

Man, did that make me think of my own little boys.

There were magazine covers screaming immorality from every glossy issue and since we're on the subject, can someone please tell me how Cosmopolitan gets away without having to sport a brown wrapper to conceal its obviously very adult themes in every issue? Good Lord. There are things that just don't need to be in the check-out line, people. Seriously, if there are problems in that department, go home and google it in the privacy of your home.

But I digress.

If you've paid any attention to headlines in the past six months or so, then you have no doubt heard about the young lady diagnosed with terminal brain cancer who chose to end her life on her own terms, so to speak. Without a doubt, there are arguments for both sides of this discussion and I am not here to spark the debate on that. What I am here for, however, is to present a very public thank you to my father for not making that decision, no matter how unpleasant the ending may have been. You see, there was the beauty of life in all that unpleasantness.

As I stood in that check-out line watching a little red-headed boy and thinking about the young woman's life that ended way too soon (her choice or not), I unlocked the treasure chest of memories tucked back in the recesses of my mind and pictured my daddy as he was in those final days. No, he would not have wanted things to be the way they were, but if he had ended his journey in his own timing, we would have missed the gift of his passing. He didn't just go to sleep, he literally left this world. We witnessed it just as you and I would watch someone walk out a door.

I miss my father terribly, and yet when I think about that moment, my heart is at peace in knowing all is well. And no, I don't know how I would react if a doctor's report was to paint a traumatic ending to my life here on earth; I can only pray and believe that God's grace would be sufficient to see me through to His timing and not my own. Surely where we are weak, He is strong. If He is for me, who can be against me?

By my God, I can leap over a wall.

Even if that wall is death.

I know what waits on the other side.

If you are struggling with God's timing, whatever the situation may be, I would encourage you to stand strong and just... wait. Even as I stood in that line and thought about how our little family of five has grown from babies to toddlers to teenagers to independent young adults, I was reminded that nothing stays the same forever. Situations that we feel locked in have a way of changing faster than that Seattle-Green Bay game last night (and if you're not into football, I'll translate that into "pretty darn quick").

I truly believe His timing is perfect.

And redheads rock the world.

For you cause my lamp to be lighted and to shine;

 the Lord my God illumines my darkness.

 For by You I can run through a troop,

 and by my God I can leap over a wall.

 As for God, His way is perfect!

 The word of the Lord is tested and tried;

 He is a shield to all those who take refuge

 and put their trust in Him.

 For who is God except the Lord?

 Or who is the Rock save our God? 

Psalm 18: 28-31

A Reason To Pause

In a day that's been full of a whole lot of (professional) busy work, (personal) goal-setting laziness, and good ole (American) football, I would be amiss if I let one important tidbit of information slip by...

The little lady pictured here left this world behind seven years ago today. If you're new to the neighborhood and want to learn more about her (and I don't know why you wouldn't), check out the entries located under grandma in my mood section on the left side of this page. She was quite the inspiration, I can promise you that.

She's the reason I accepted Christ.
The reason my daughter is quite the seamstress.
The reason I know that, as a matter of fact, you can freeze gallons of milk.

And she is missed every day.

Things That Make Me Happy

Showing a video to two separate eighth grade classes...

and hearing not a peep as it played.



May we never forget.
May we always honor.



May we continue to teach.