Saving Sunday

I thought about posting something nostalgic yesterday, but time got away from me- which is rather ironic because yesterday, I did absolutely nothing except cook lunch, then dinner, and cleaned up in-between. In other words, time was on my side. The couch and I have been reuniting as of late and let me tell you, it's been a long time coming.

A few weekends ago, I remarked to the husband that I had developed a love/hate relationship with the weekend. To be more specific, Sunday had become the day of dread simply because Monday was the train wreck that could not be avoided. As a result, Sunday was spent watching the clock and bemoaning each passing hour and every bit of work-work that I had to cram into that given day.

(Work-work as in paycheck work, not the payless work found in everyday housework... definitely worth making the distinction).

So, the man in whom I have become so dependent on to keep me sane grew silent- which is unusual in itself, took a long breath, and looked me straight in the eye. Being the dreamer that I am, I anticipated his next words to be something along the line of "Well, just quit."

I was also once a sixteen year-old girl who was convinced my dad was going to find a way to get that 1986 Mustang GT Convertible, white with red leather interior, from the showroom floor just for me- or, at the very least, bring home that snazzy, red Pontiac Fiero from the used lot.

Like I said, I'm a bit of a dreamer. 

Alas, much like the unattainable dream of a sports car at sixteen, the husband did not tell me to quit or produce a winning lotto ticket or empathize with me for even a minute. To my teary tirade of what a mess Sunday has become for me mentally, he simply and matter-of-factly stated, "Then take your Sunday back."

With those words, which were oddly enough said on a Sunday morning, he turned and walked away, leaving me reeling in wave after wave of emotion and thought. Take my Sunday back? Such a ludicrous phrase, and yet I couldn't help but wonder. It sounded just crazy enough to work. After all, the man has never led me astray to date. I took his words to heart and two weekends later, I have done just that. I'm still in the beginning phase and not totally convinced that I'll be able to keep this up, but I am much more relaxed and as a result, determined to make this the new normal. I have also been more focused during the actual week knowing that, as Ecclesiastes says, there's a time for everything.

For the record, the first Sunday was rough. Every hour I would head to my laptop just to remind myself, "Nope." I fought off feelings of guilt and laziness and a general sense of "not good enough." But I also cooked a guiltless dinner for my family because I wasn't cranky and took my time cleaning because there was nothing sitting in a queue for the printer to print. I went to bed relatively relaxed and still managed to have a successful Monday even though I had not spent the Sunday prior staring at a screen.

So that's why the couch and I have become reunited. I've watched tv and read an actual book and napped at random times. I even decided to jump on this cobweb-encrusted blog as you can see (or read). If I keep this up, those freed-up Sundays might just produce that spark for which I've been waiting.

Better rest up.

Side Note: It's been a little over 2 months now, but Benny Boy left us for greener pastures and unlimited birds to chase. Those who have been around here for a while will know him. He was always my writing buddy and my constant companion back during those long days at home. I miss him dearly.

Dad

Well, here we are with another Father's Day fixin' to roll around. A few days ago, I sat on my living room floor sifting though pictures and reading things my dad had wrote. He struggled with so many ailments in the last decade or so of his life. More than once his writings mention the care of his wife (my mom) and how he marveled at her patience with him. He endured three (?) back surgeries and open heart surgery and stents and nerve damage and... just so, so many things. He hated all the medicine he took and how it made him feel.

He loved his mom and his brothers and sister. He loved my mom and my brother and me. He loved his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He pretty much loved anyone we brought into his life. To prove that, he made lists of the best days in life and the worst days in life. Family, in one way or another, was tied into every single one of the best days, and the loss of particular family members are included in the worst days. My brother and I moving away from our home state are on that worst days list, as well. It's a hard reality to accept.

I still struggle wrapping my mind around how quickly he left us. If I were to make a worst list, that would most likely take up the top five spots. Even now, I think back on that summer of 2014 when we, as a family, encouraged him to at least try the chemo. I can distinctly remember him asking me what I thought about it. The doctor had given him eighteen months without treatment. I said if it would give him more time, then why not try it? I couldn't bear the thought of him not being in my life. He did try it, and was gone three months later. We should have just let him be.

But, that is that and it's all behind us now. His pain and suffering and worry ended without much fanfare on this side of things, but we know the angels welcomed him home on the other side. I've said it before and I'll say it again... the biggest gift my father left us was knowing, without any doubt, in Whom he had placed his trust. I could ramble on- much to the delight of the theme of this blog, but in doing so I would only be repeating what has been said so many times (and am only repeating it now, I am certain). If you want to read more about my dad and my thoughts on who he was as my father and who I am now without him, just look on the left under Moodiness and find the label that says "dad". That will keep you occupied for a while.

For now, there are many reasons for me to still celebrate Father's Day. My dad's laugh and smile and wit shines brightly through all of us still here. We all carry some mannerism of his in one form or another. He would get the biggest kick out of our family as it is now. So, in a weird sort of way, I guess that's why I wanted to write this. I cannot call him or send him a card or buy him the latest dad t-shirt or gadget, but I can remind myself and others that my dad was right up there with the best of them.

And the top spot of my best list in life.

Don't Blink

If my life were truly a book, this would be where Part III begins.

Our kids, the ones I have written about so much- the ones who have consumed by life and my sleep and my pocketbook, are officially grown. Granted, they've been grown for a while, but now it's like grown-grown. It's such a bittersweet thing- something I would not trade for anything, and yet something that causes me to pause and reflect. The youngest has left the nest.

You see, she got this crazy idea that she was ready to go- much like her older brothers moved on years ago, and all my cooking and laundry-doing could not convince her to stay at home. I walk around a house that is full of moving boxes in her bedroom and her half-eaten ice cream in the freezer and wonder what in the world I am suppose to do now. It's not a sad feeling, just a different one.

I try to grasp how quickly the time flew by. Over twenty-seven years of babies and houses and jobs. First days of school and graduation diplomas. Laughter. Tears. Happiness. Anger. Successes and disappointments. All those things that make a house full of people a home full of love. What an honor it was to raise those children. What a privilege it has been to watch them fall in love.

So here we are. Part III. New beginnings all the way around. I found my way back to this blog because for me, writing is the best therapy. The husband says I should turn her room into an office and finally complete that book or work on that doctorate or make crafty things to sell. I think I should probably start with cleaning the house...

That'll keep me busy long enough to plot my next move.

Time Will Tell, Little Grasshopper

Note- I started this entry somewhere towards the end of May. For reasons known only to me and my mood at the time, I delayed finishing it. I felt like I was rambling a bit, but now that I think about it, what is the purpose of this blog if not for mid-day ramblings of thoughts that meander their way through my mind? Anyway, rereading it now does not change a thing. I think the same as I did three weeks ago. Life moves on. I'm gonna go with it as is, with the exception of adding a side note at the end.

Here goes nothing. 

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

For the last week, I have been bringing home bits of a classroom one trunk load at a time. What remained at this time yesterday is currently in the car and at this time tomorrow, I will have officially closed the door one final time.

And I'm not sure what to feel.

I'm a little sentimental. I've made friends. I've loved kids. I'm also a little guilty. I am leaving by choice, after all. It's been a wild ride since the fall of 2012. As I sat in my classroom today- empty and quiet, I laughed a bit when I remembered how much I wanted to be there. For that job I had prayed.

And for the record, it was a job I did not get. I applied and was denied. Subbed and eventually hired. Receptionist. Secretary. Cook. Teacher. Principal. All in the same location, mind you. I've had many a full circle moment in my life.

The Lord and I have talked about this particular route often. To try to put into words how I feel never really describes the true picture. There are some things the heart cannot explain or for that matter, describe in a way that doesn't sound... well, just not clear. HE has helped me in every situation, every role I have been assigned or chosen or settled.

I know I'm dedicated.
I know I've given it my all.

But I might always wonder if I did enough.

There was a time, a very long time ago, when a lady prayed for me at church. She said my life was like a tree, full of leaves and brimming with fruit. As she looked at me, she said you must be a teacher. At the time, I was not... far from it, in fact. Now you can think what you want, but I can promise you that the woman looked me square in the eye and said that all those leaves, all that fruit, represented children. She said my life would be full of children.

Krystle. Mary. Sam,
Huey, Llani, Shae.
Adam. Jesse. Ashton.

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

It was at this point that I stopped writing that last go 'round. After all, I asked myself, how can I possibly name every student who impacted me in some way or another? Shouldn't I save that for a potential retirement speech one day?  Besides, the thought occurs to me anyway that my life is full of children. My own. Those three consume most every waking thought. I wonder about them. I worry about them. I enjoy thinking about them. They crack me up every time we are together. They are my greatest accomplishment.

Those kids in the classroom, though. They are extended family whether they want to be or not, and just like extended family, I am glad to see them come along and more glad to see them go (don't act like you don't think the same thing every holiday season). The classroom setting may change, but the teacher-student dynamic does not.

And thus the reason for all those leaves on that vision of a tree.

I don't know what my future holds. I pick up a key to my new classroom tomorrow while also talking to the powers who be about some volunteer work at a local museum. I might be on the downhill slide of this roller coaster we call education, or I might just be catching my second wind. As I tell any kid in my life, time will tell, little grasshopper.

Time will tell.

There's a whole lot of love yet to give.

My current coffee shop view. I heart summer break.

The Month Of May

May is a pretty confusing month for me.

It's the last month of the school year. So that's an easy one.
Score.

It's the month our youngest son was born.
Double score.

Mother's Day, Memorial Day, and Cinco de Mayo (for which only Americans "celebrate").
Score, score, and (kinda?) score.

It's also the month we bid farewell to a tiny one we never got to meet. It's the month of my dad's birthday that no longer carries the need for a phone call to the local radio station. And, tying in with that last one, it's the month he received a diagnosis that was so detrimental, I can tell you where I was and what I was wearing when I received the call.

There is no scoring on either one of those. Three days in May that are, indeed, rather depressing... not that we're keeping score.

(lol?)

Recap?

Let's start with the end of the school year. I have often wondered why "Teacher Appreciation Week" is part of the month of May. Trust me, in May, every teacher is good. Tired. Exhausted. Completely over every kid in the class, but good. The end is in the sight. Lesson plans are a formality in which we're not even sure anyone is paying attention. Grades are merely a last-ditch effort for saving that one kid from summer school. We are seriously just going through the motions... much like that last week before Christmas Break. Teacher Appreciation Day/Week/Month (however you wanna roll) should fall somewhere in that post-Christmas, January-apocalypse, February-praying-to-the-snow-gods* calendar pit where you re-evaluate your life choices and momentarily contemplate teaching in the penitentiary** just to ease the mind-numbing reality of being surrounded by students who already think they're in spring break while still complaining of freezing, mid-50s temperatures.***

(I apparently had to get that off my chest).

On to our youngest son. {Sigh} We have been blessed beyond measure. To brag on one would be to brag on all three. Each one brings us great joy... this one just happens to have a birthday in May.

Mother's Day. Memorial Day. Cinco de Mayo. Each one nothing more than a reason to eat, drink, and be merry (although the meaning of the first two is so much more understood than the latter). Lucky for you, however, I am in no mood for a history lesson today.

May 5, 1995. The day we said good-bye to the one who surely bore the trademark red hair. We'll leave that with no more. It hurts too much to ponder and life does move on. Some day we will meet again and even so, our cup overflows. I have never asked why.

May 7, 1947. May 23, 2014. What would mark the beginning for my dad and the totally unnecessary detour that marked his ending date. Again, we'll not camp out here, but for entirely different reasons. If I ask why on anything, this will be the one.

You see, I feel like he could have saved me from so much. He had a way of asking questions without really asking questions. I remember when I told him that I had agreed to move his beloved grandchildren (and let's not forget me) nine-hundred miles away. He never questioned me. Never told me I shouldn't. Just said keep this in mind and be sure you think about this. He and my mom both set the perfect example of how not to interfere, but simply let grown ups make grown-up decisions, even if it went against their very desire. A line of thinking totally way off base (for this particular entry) and most likely better reserved for the posthumous So-That's-What-She-Really-Wanted-To-Say! book.

Even so. The thread of my being holds true.

I'm in an upside-down world;
A conundrum of sorts.

Beautiful, confusing, hopeful.
A riddle yet to be solved.

Much like the month of May.

* I do not believe in snow gods. I believe in the one true God (although I have been known to agree to a "snow/ice dance" with one particular parent).

** I have no doubt these are great positions with excellent benefits and students motivated to learn. No offense intended. Seriously. Hook me up.

*** I, too, think that mid-50s are entirely too cold and every effort should be made to locate an electrical socket for the plug-in blanket I keep on stand-by no matter where I go.

And, finally, although I was weary of asterisks, if I ever do write a book, it'll be a doozy. You can bet every teacher's end-of-the-year smile on that one.

My Socks Never Match

I went to bed at 7:00 in the evening and was back up somewhere around 9:30. After fighting it for a bit, I decided to give in to the fact that,

Yes, as a matter of fact, I am wide awake.

On my way tiptoeing out of the bedroom in the darkness, I picked up a sweater off the floor (I am that person), felt around for my glasses while knocking a curling iron off the vanity (again, that person), and pulled out the first two socks from my throw-'em-all-in-there sock drawer (totally that person).

And now, here I sit.

Two completely different socks that do not even share the same zip code of fashion or style and a sweater that I'm pretty sure is wrong-side-out complete the do-I-even-own-a-matching-set-of-pajamas look. I've got a cup of hot cocoa that has already gone lukewarm because this house is cold, but I also have a cat on my lap who is a rather convenient form of warmth. I debated starting a fire, but decided that I didn't want to commit to all that. Midnight is my goal for returning to slumber and a heated blanket.

I have scrolled through Facebook and learned primarily one thing. People are freezing. The weather is always a hot topic (get it?) and whether the temp is single digits or barely below the freezing point, sharing that fact along with exclamation points, snowflake emojis, and winter-themed hashtags is just a way of social media life. I find I am well-informed of the temps across the country. Thankfully, it would appear that we're all in for a warm-up, so prepare to adjust your emojis and hashtags accordingly.

I've caught up on reading my favorite blogs from people I know and people I don't know. I've priced airline tickets for a trip home. I've looked for a few weekend-getaways. I've trolled a few people (don't judge), conducted a few job searches (don't freak), and got lost somewhere in the midst of all that on Amazon (just nod your head). I've even put in a few grades and paid at least one bill. This last hour may have well been my most productive hour of the entire day.

But alas, I am slowing down. My eyes are tired and my feet are cold. My legs are growing numb from the warm ball of fur who is currently sacked out. This post has served no other reason than to pass the time and maybe, possibly, give you something to read while you're up in the middle of the night. It may very well be the one thing that actually puts you to sleep.

I just hope your sock drawer is more organized than mine.

Minor Breakdowns, Random Lists, and Black Velvet

I feel it only fair to say that on the last day of school before Christmas Break began, I spent a solid fifteen minutes sitting in my car, in the school parking lot, crying (admittedly) a bit uncontrollably. Overwhelmed. Frustrated. Tired. Asking the Lord to change my direction or change my heart. Just throwing that out there first so when you read this feel-good, life-is-great entry that follows, you'll understand that my life, like yours, no doubt- can be quite the roller coaster. That is the reason I take the time to preserve memories like this. We all need reminders.



I am currently sitting on my front porch in 70-degree weather finishing up lesson plans and answering emails (or at least thinking about answering emails) and fully soaking up the remaining hours of what has truly been a wonderful Christmas Break. Those who know me would probably say that I say every Christmas Break is the best one ever, but this one has definitely been one for the books.

What made this particular break so incredible had everything to do with a folded-up, yellow sheet of legal paper I keep in a safe*. I've mentioned it enough that the family knows about it, and I take it out on occasion. It's a list and although I did not date it, I can guess that I must have been around twenty- maybe twenty-one, when I wrote it based on the content. The title seems a bit dramatic, but believe me, I was a bit dramatic in real life at the time.

25 Things I Want To Do Before I Die

All these years later when I look at that list, the 20-year old me makes the 48-year old me smile. I like to think that's a good thing. The top two things listed are to get married and have a baby (check and check). From there it's everything from seeing the ocean to riding a motorcycle to visiting Hawaii. As I've done things, I've marked them off with the date it was accomplished. Some things were easy to do, and some things will simply never happen. I'm okay with that. It's not a do-or-die kinda bucket list.. just the wish list of a young girl leaving her hometown for the first time. Amidst the wide variety of things written, #24 states: 

See the ballet, The Nutcracker, in a black velvet dress.

I'm not entirely sure what prompted this one. Having grown up in a small town, I suppose it sounded sophisticated and worldly and everything I aspired to be at that time. Whatever the motivation, there it sat, written in blue ink and waiting for the time it would be marked off. I know this is not a particularly hard thing to accomplish, but there rarely seems to be a time in life when money and opportunity are in the same place at the same time.

But the stars had aligned for this one.

The youngest directed me to tickets (for her and me) at a local theater for the Great Russian Nutcracker performed by the Moscow Ballet. She went on to insist that I "do it right" and found a beautiful, floor-length black velvet dress that fit me like a dream. To make it all extra special, the date of the ballet ended up being on my birthday. I spent most of that afternoon getting ready- even the husband sported a tie for the birthday dinner with the family before the performance. I seriously felt like I was going to the prom as I walked into a local restaurant while wearing what amounted to a formal dress, but I was so happy that I did not care. This was my moment and I was determined to enjoy every bit of it.

I'm a bit of a birthday diva, I suppose.

After a wonderful dinner with all the kids, our sweet girl gave up her ticket at the last minute so her beloved "pops" could escort me to the ballet. Her instructions were quite strict- he was not allowed to make fun of it in anyway- she knows her blue-collar father well, and off we went. I may or may not have panicked when I saw people walking into the theater in jeans (what kind of world is this anyway?), but with encouragement from the fella and a "who cares" text from the daughter, I proceeded to have the time of my life.

And I've had many a great time in my life.

As I sat through the Second Act, the fella staying quiet as per his instructions, my eyes filled with tears. As silly as it may sound, my life- the good and the bad, rolled through my mind as I sat there, all wrapped up in black velvet with the hand of the man I love holding mine. All I could think of was how beautiful my life has been. There have been dark days, dark years, and yes, a few dark Christmas seasons... but it may very well be those dark times that cause me to embrace the light, to cherish the good, and to hold tight to the moments that make me stand in awe. It was, indeed, an awesome moment and a wonderful memory made as I checked off #24 later that night.

I suppose the reason I write this, along with that sad disclaimer at the top, goes back to those last days spent with my father. I've often wondered how his mind processed the reality of a life approaching the final sunset. He was always one to offer advice or give an opinion, and when asked if he had had a good life (yes, we seriously had this conversation), he said the words that are forever in my ear: We've had good times and bad times, and I wouldn't trade any of it for a dime.

Well said, Dad. I won't ever forget.

The good always outweighs the bad, tears do give way to laughter, and the dreams of a 20-year old are never too far removed to be fulfilled.

I've got the picture to prove it.

*By the term safe, I am referring to a secure location used to store my sentimental stuff and not valuables that would be worth anyone's life or prison time, just so we're all clear. I'm a school teacher, remember. There are no valuables. =)

Controlled Chaos

I have learned much during my years of teaching, but probably the most important thing I have learned is just to slow down and enjoy the journey. Yes, there is a balance in there and it's not the easiest thing to find or maintain.

Boundaries have to exist.
Procedures must be established.
Structure can never be overrated.

But kids do not stay kids forever.

No matter the age or the classroom, teachers spend a lot of time with their students. A lot of time. During that time, we learn about their struggles and fears; we share in their triumphs and milestones; we hurt for them when they hurt. Often times, most times, all the time, we take them home with us in our hearts. More than once have students occupied my dreams.

And I am not alone.

If you know a teacher, you'll find that his or her conversations almost always revolve around their students. My family has lived each school year with me since the youngest was three years old, and that youngster is now a year and a half away from having her own classroom one day. I am excited for her and worried for her, all the same time. This journey in education is not an easy one.

We all know the stereotypes for teachers. Some people think we are terribly underpaid and for the most part, I would agree enthusiastically. Granted, as the middle will often say (at least I think he's the one), nobody really gets paid what they think they're worth. Besides, the Lord has never let me go hungry. Other people think we have too many breaks and/or too much time off and to that I would say, no, nope, and notta. Because you see, those breaks and days off aren't really days off, at least not as many as you might think. And, if I may be brutally honest here, those days and breaks are entirely necessary to the mental health of every teacher you know and most likely the reason they keep signing those contracts.

I mean, that and the kids.

To put this in perspective, Christmas Break is just a few weeks away for me and while I will most definitely be doing Christmas-y things, I will also be grading high school exams, calculating semester grades, tweaking note presentations, researching historical documentaries, checking state standards,  writing lesson plans, and writing senseless papers that correlate with overpriced courses somebody deemed necessary to maintain teacher certification. I do the same thing during the summer, minus, of course, all the days that I successfully procrastinate what needs to be done until the PANIC MONSTER rests squarely on my shoulders. It is the life of a teacher.

Back to the students, though.

They entertain me. They aggravate me. They make me laugh and on more than one occasion, have made me cry. They will never know the impact they make on my life; not just me impacting them through what is hopefully a stellar lesson. One reason that I am so excited for the youngest to embark on her own teaching career is because I want her to have those same experiences. Her life will be changed in a way she can never anticipate- even though those low days can be very hard to overcome. Like most things in life, however, the good will far outweigh the bad and those are the very memories that I personally keep tucked away close to my heart.

So back to the slowing down part.

This has not been a typical week on the second and third floors of this land we call high school. As if the upcoming Christmas Break was not enough of a distraction, I decided to put lesson plans on hold and just let the kids (aka young adults) create. I opened up my classroom during planning periods and as a result, have had plenty of company throughout the day. I've watched painters paint and crafters craft. I've heard talkers talk and laughers laugh, and yes... a few bickering sessions here and there. If I looked (or listened) to all of this with the wrong perspective- and maybe wrong isn't the right word; but there was a time this chaos would have overwhelmed me. For now, I am looking at it differently.

Controlled chaos.

A glitter-loving former teacher friend of mine from long ago would be pleased, I think. I always admired her way of enjoying her students through a glitter-infused classroom even while she gave them an excellent education. Hopefully I'm learning to find my own sense of balance. Maybe it's the kind of thing that comes with experience. After all, I have been reminding the young people in my life that come Monday, things get serious as we wrap up a semester and prepare for exams. You could almost look at that as dark days ahead.

But then again, Christmas Break is coming.








By the way, if you are a procrastinator like me, fix yourself a cup of coffee and go back to the link embedded in PANIC MONSTER above. Maybe you will be able to relate and in that way, my weirdness will seem a little less weird.

Laugh A Lot (and out loud)

With the exception of this particular day in this particular picture taken in April of this year, I have laughed more in the last two months than I have in the last two years.

There's a lesson in that, kids.

I could say so many things. For some time now, I would not say those things out of consideration for others. Now I choose not to say those things because there is no need. The older I get, the more I walk through, and the more I see around me... well, the more I am convinced that this life is seriously too short to live unhappy. Trying to explain myself, my actions, my path simply became too exhausting.

And there is just no time for that.

Even if others don't get it- even if they don't get me. What else is new? I don't get most adults, to tell the truth, so I figure it all evens out in the end. The one thing I do get is the One who has never left me, who is always one step ahead of me, who loves me recklessly. It makes no sense, and yet it makes perfect sense.

We are all created with purpose. There is a plan. I will never grow weary of saying that and I will never be convinced that it is not true. We all have a place and though seasons in life may change, His plan for us never expires. It never fades out. That plan takes us over mountains, around blind corners, down the straight stretches and, oddly enough, across detours that often turn out to be the most scenic routes.

Yes, happiness is fleeting. It is an emotion that, like opinions, can change with the wind. Choosing happiness, however, is a tangible thing. I look at it as calibrating a compass (if that is even a real thing). Setting my mind, your mind, on things above (Col. 3:2). And to be fair, I have also cried much in the last two months. Go figure that one out. I cry because I am so inadequate, and I laugh because He makes me more-than-adequate.

I suppose all that could tie in with the joy vs. happiness lesson. We'll save that for another day. For now, laugh often and not only that, laugh so others can hear. They might think you strange, but that's okay.

He is laughing right along with you.

A cheerful disposition is good for your health; and gloom and doom leave you bone-tired (Pro. 17:22).

I Have Been Waiting For You

I have not posted anything new since...

Well, I don't know. I didn't look. Most thoughts on most days, I've just been keeping to myself. Job security, you know. But, today. Today something happened that if I didn't write about and share for the whole world (or at least the small and sparse neighborhood that my blog followers reside in)-

Well, if I didn't put it out there, then that would totally be on me.

And that would not be good.

In the Bible class I teach, we have been talking about leadership and accountability and joy in the journey. Yes, they all go together; and no, I still have not a clue why the good Lord has placed me where He has chosen.

Me? Teaching a Bible class? Of impressionable high school girls?

Seriously.

But as I presented a lesson this morning, my thoughts wandered back to an event that took place earlier in the morning. An event that very much reminded me God is always with me. He is always there for me. He is always prepared for me. And the thought occurred, if I don't share that story through the gift of writing He has given me (don't laugh), then shame on me.

So this is how it went down.

I woke up to the fella of the house grumbling. Cat #1 left an unsavory sight very close to the litter box; like, right next to the litter box- but not in the litter box. Catch my drift? Cat #2, based on the color of what was left behind (totally separate incident, by the way) left another kind of an unsavory mess on our beautiful, gray couch. Evidently, it was the night of the cats and not one of them had a happy intestinal system.

The fella tackled the litter box debacle. I tackled the couch. Neither of us were happy. Good morning to us all.

I arrived to work somewhat calm. After I cleaned the couch and before I assembled the required ingredients for a presentable image (concealer, hair spray, that kind of stuff), I hit the play button on some mellow worship music and tried to settle down. I kept the same thing playing, courtesy of Bluetooth, on my drive to work. When I put the car in neutral, music still playing, I stayed motionless in my seat trying to absorb every ounce of peace before I opened the door- I teach high school, you know. Watching the clock tick away, I knew I had reached the point of no return- being on time, that is; and popped the trunk, opened the door, and began to gather my belongings.

This is where it gets interesting.

I slung my pocketbook over my shoulder, tucked a full coffee cup in the crook of my arm, held a plate full of leftovers in my hand of the same arm, and pulled my ever-so-handy-dandy pink roller bag-thing with my free hand.

Do you even get that picture?

It took me about five steps with coffee already spilling onto my beautiful pink sweater (yeah, I'm a fan of pink) to realize this was never going to work. I had too far to walk to even pretend that I had a chance in you-know-what of making this happen. I knew I would have to sacrifice something.

Pocketbook? Pink roller bag? Nope. Needed both of those to function for the day. Plate full of leftovers? Man, that was so tempting, but I knew that making that choice would come back to haunt me at 12:35 pm when the lunch bell rang.

Full cup of coffee? Specially brewed at home with my favorite creamer?

Good Lord, say it isn't so.

It was so, and with a sigh and a resolute acknowledgement of acceptance, I retraced my steps back to the car and placed my coffee inside. The thought occurred that maybe I would have to time to come back out and retrieve it before the morning bell, but the thought also occurred...

No. No way that will happen.

So I made my decision and was halfway through the parking lot when I looked up to see a smiling face and heard these six simple words:

I have been waiting for you. 

Now, I didn't hear the audible voice of God at the moment, but as the words of a sweet, smiling girl fell upon my ears, it was as if the Lord spoke to my heart saying the same thing.

I have been waiting for you.
I am prepared for you.

You have to understand that I don't often, if ever, have someone standing at the curb waiting for me. But today, there she was... waiting. My little friend who I have come to love so much surely followed the leading of the Lord when she wandered out that way looking for me.

Looking for me.

Within the space of about five minutes and hugs and words of  I miss you, I had an extra set of hands that helped me with everything from that coffee cup in my car to keeping me company along the way. You have to understand that because of logistics and such, we do not see each other that often. I will forever understand and appreciate that this was no coincidental encounter. It was an appointment and a reminder, and one I am so glad I didn't miss.

I would gladly clean up cat nonsense any day of the week or hour of the day to have that moment again.

Dedicated to my buddy and friend, SB. Thank you for the inspiration.

Is It Wrong to Save Pictures of Another Man?

I was cleaning over the weekend and decided to focus most of my energy on the dust bunnies that have taken up residence in my bedroom. Because I had no intention of getting out of the house, I kept my pajamas on, hair pulled up, and left the contacts on the bathroom shelf. This may seem insignificant, but trust me... that last part is what sets up this story. I folded clothes and put up clothes, sorted papers into what's important and what's not important (until I need it later, of course), and made a pile of birthday cards, Christmas cards, and Mother's Day cards.

Yes, it's been a while since I cleaned.

I pulled boxes down from the top shelf to put away keepsakes and was looking at old pictures and graduation tassels and all those things that make up a life. These are the things that I have always pictured my grandchildren sorting through some day as they attempt to "figure the old woman out". There was a particular stash of photos (tied with a ribbon, of course) of the husband as he was when we first met. Young. Military. Hair. I smiled to myself as I thought of those memories and flipped through the pictures one by one and that's when I saw it. Well, that's when I saw him, to be more specific.

Another man.

I took off my glasses to get a better look. You see, a year or so ago I was advised by the eye doctor to get bifocals. I can't see anything far away. Zip. Zilch. Nothing but a blur. That's old news. I've been like that since the fourth grade. What is new, however, is this brutally, cruel inability to see anything close up. I will squint and stretch my arm out to no avail. If I have my contacts in, reading glasses- like the kind you find on the rack at Walmart, are required to make sense of what I'm looking at; if I have my regular glasses on with no contacts, I just take them off so I can see.

It is beyond irritating.

I am fairly certain that when this particular picture was so carefully and painstakingly tucked away into my special box of special memories, I had my contacts in. If you are keeping up with this rambling, then you understand that if I didn't have on reading glasses, my vision would have been fuzzy at best. Because I was now cleaning and reminiscing with my regular glasses on, I instantly knew that something was not right in my special world. I took my glasses off and peered closely at the picture of the fellow who was smiling at me.

Lord have mercy, that was not the husband.

The young man had dark hair and was dressed in an Army uniform, much like my own man would have been in our youth. It looked like him. Kinda. I laughed all the way across the house as I thrust the picture into the face of the husband and asked, "Who is this man and why am I keeping a picture of him?" His eyes flashed recognition in a matter of seconds as he rattled off his name and asked where in the world I had found it. I told him my story and we both came to the conclusion that at some point, it had to have fallen out of an album or something and from there... well, obviously I mistook the fellow for the husband and lovingly placed him in my ribbon-tied stash.

A long story, I know, and probably one of those that just isn't funny if you're not the one in it. Nevertheless, I tend to find meaning in everything and my take from this story was two-fold:

A). Maybe bifocals aren't the devil, and
B). This is how family tales get started.

If, in fact, my future grandchildren were trying to figure me out long after I'm gone, can you imagine the stories that would have unfolded due to the discovery of grandma's mystery man? I suppose it would have spiced up a rather ordinary life.



*Dedicated to my own grandma, no mystery man in her life,
 but two good men who loved her. Gone from this world nine years today.

My Brain Is Tired

I have a hard time with what should be the simplest of decisions. Some things I am quick to act on and strangely enough, those are usually the life-altering kind of decisions. Other things I tend to camp out on for a long time. Those are the types of things that really don't matter in the long run.

Case in point: a new cell phone.

My current phone has featured a cracked screen for well over a year now. It's a lovely kind of crack, the kind that starts in one corner and spider-webs out across the screen. I've lived with it because (1) the phone is paid for and (2) I really don't care. It hasn't bothered me too terribly much. I can see what I need to see and if I'm watching a video or looking at a picture, I can flip the phone to where the crack is least intrusive.

Sounds dumb even as I write it.

A few weeks ago, however, I discovered a word search game that has successfully changed my mind on how I cope with a cracked screen. What once was not so much a bother is now very much a bother. Q's look like D's and E's might be C's. When I mentioned to the family that this could be very well be the last straw and it was time for a new phone, they looked at me like I was crazy. Really? This is what does it?

Yes. Forget the fact that the phone shuts off randomly for no reason and has crashed at least once and freezes up at the most inopportune times. I really didn't care.

But now, oddly enough, I do care.

So I have spent the last two weeks researching and reviewing and rechecking the budget to see what I can afford. I won't get locked into another contract and I won't be paying monthly payments and/or interest. Needless to say, regardless of what carrier or what brand, the options become severely limited. You would think my selection would have been pretty quick.

Not a chance.

I have made up my mind and changed my mind. I sought the advice of a son and the wisdom of a daughter. When the husband was asked, his simple reply was always You know what the checkbook looks like, which translates to Don't bother me with whatever you are going to do anyway.

Truth.

So, in the end, after adding to the virtual cart and removing from the virtual cart at least three days in a row, it was the daily walk to the mailbox that won me over. I told myself that I was wasting time, that there were word games to play, and that I would not rest easy tomorrow if I did not go for what I could afford today. Five minutes later, the transaction was complete.

What I decided on is not the moral or point of the story here. It's the fact that I struggled over the decision for so long. What was black and white became very fuzzy as I tried to unscramble all the reasonings and motivations in my mind and then put them back together... and in the end, the result was just as I knew it would be in the very beginning. I complicated what should have been very simple.

We humans are very good at that.

I don't make resolutions for the new year, but if I were to try to improve on something this year, it would be that I don't use up so much precious time on the smallest of details. It may or may not work, but shaving off a few days here and there could very well add a few days to my life.

Decisions exhaust me.

Heath & Angel

For a short time, a very short time, I was known as the second half to Heath and Angel. We dated for two weeks when I knew I was in love with him (kept that part to myself) and when he gave me a card a few weeks later that said he loved me, I asked him to marry me. No sense burning daylight, as my grandma would say. We married a few months after that and by the time the anniversary of that impromptu marriage proposal had rolled around, our firstborn had joined us. From that point on, we were simply Mom and Dad.

A little over a week ago, our second child (of three) left the proverbial nest to live on his own. We talked about how we had went from just the two of us to a family of three, then four, then five; and how it now seems we are living life in reverse... from five to four to three. Our youngest plans to stay with us through college, but we are both aware of how quickly those college years will fly.

Soon it will be back down to two.

I know we don't have as many kids as some or lack in what others would consider a remarkable story, but then again, I consider our story quite remarkable. When I was twenty-two, I fell head-over-heels in love with a fella who made me laugh. A few days ago, he still had me laughing on my forty-sixth birthday. We'll always be Mom and Dad in our little corner of the world, but it kinda feels like we're getting back to Heath and Angel and that, as corny as it may sound, makes me grin from ear to ear. Might as well enjoy it before we get to the "grand" part of the names.

I love these seasons of life.

Don't Rush Me

It's Christmas morning.

So far today, I have squeezed into new pajamas one size too small (Christmas gift, you know); dropped a cookie sheet on my big toe (upsetting the elf in the living room, I'm sure); and popped a cherry pie in the oven (thanks ever be to Marie Callender and her frozen pie wonders). Before my coffee really kicks in, I will have went a round with a ham and a sheet of aluminum foil and wondered (for the umpteenth time) why on earth I told the kids I would have Christmas dinner ready at noon.

Gotta work on that thinking before speaking thing.

We opened presents last night with everyone together, minus one girlfriend, and I successfully prolonged the much-anticipated event by insisting that gifts were opened one at a time (a strategy the husband questioned me on). My feeling was this, we have all had a good year around here. There have been lean years in the past... okay, mostly all lean years, and although there is no doubt every Christmas has went down in the books as a good Christmas, I wanted this particular good Christmas to last.

So one-at-a-time we went.

By doing so, I got to see the smile on the face of the oldest when he peeled back the paper from a sign reaffirming his much beloved Second Amendment. The last two Christmases (is that even a word?) he lived three hours northeast of us. This Christmas he lives three minutes northwest of us. I am so thankful that boy is back home working a job he loves.

The middle patiently unwrapped individual gift cards from his sister that will take a dent out of his constant desire to eat from the always convenient local drive-thrus. He announced last week that he was moving out of our house and in with his brother. I will miss hearing the lock turn on the front door and knowing he is behind it at the end of a work day, but I am so thankful we raised two boys who get along.

The eyes of the youngest practically teared up when she unwrapped tissue paper from a cat-themed organizer. When someone initially asked her what the gift was, she simply said she didn't know, but it had a cat paw on it. She is learning the hardships of holding down a job while tackling college courses and although the stress can be overwhelming, she hasn't cracked yet. I am so thankful for her perseverance.

The husband was proud of his new "Dad" sign to hang on his shed. I obviously loved my one-size-too-small pajamas. My mom shared stories of my dad's battle with a backyard mole... a story that was inspired by a gift from one of the grandkids. A girlfriend smiled at her beautiful new necklace and a boyfriend modeled his new cowboy hat for us.

And that's just a sampling.

As my dad said in his final days, "We've had good times and bad times. I wouldn't trade any of it for a dime." I have come to understand that the bad times make the good times all the more sweet, and that if it takes a solid hour of the mother insisting that each person has their moment in the living-room spotlight, then so be it. That's why I offered cocoa in the beginning.

I don't want to miss a thing.

Christmas 1999

The Great Move 2007-2016 (but more importantly, my grandma)

Labor Day Weekend is a weekend that doesn't go unnoticed around our house and not for the hamburgers or summer-goodbyes or those ever-present, always-happening mattress sales. We mark Labor Day for an entirely different reason and it's usually brought up in conversation the week prior to that good excuse for a three-day weekend.

Labor Day Weekend, for us, is the weekend of The Great Move.

I won't go into a lot of detail about that event for this particular post. If you know me, you know the struggle. If you've been around the blog long enough, you know the story. There really is no good reason for rehashing decisions, increased mortgages, and moving trucks.

Although I will say that while driving along the interstate yesterday, a moving truck was spotted and I couldn't help but think back to that big, yellow Pinzke truck and the devastated woman who was following behind that big, ugly yellow thing in the family car.

But anyway.

What I have been thinking about was that long good-bye to my grandma. Standing on her front porch, knowing she was old, knowing how much distance would be between us, not knowing the future... that is the moment that has been on my mind this weekend. I was the last of our family to step away from her and I can still remember how difficult that seemingly small act was that particular Tuesday morning. I had her china wrapped in layers of bubble wrap- she didn't want to wait on that one, and I had all those precious memories of her and me stored, like layers, in my mind. It was if I was taking that long good-bye hug, wrapping it in its own protective layer, and silently closing a well-used file drawer.

I did get to see her again just three months later for two wonderful weeks at the end of December. Again, if you know me, you know that story and if you don't, search the labels on the left of this post for grandma and find the 2011 post titled "Five Minutes Late". It's a heartbreaker, but it's all true and it's all life. While I remember those last weeks and the special moments the Lord gave us before He called her home, it is the memory of that moving-away goodbye hug that whispers to me from time and time and takes me back to a little front porch in a little hometown.

It's been nine years (nine years!) since that goodbye. From where I sit at my kitchen table, there is a sewing machine to my left with stacks of fabric squares destined to become a quilt. That's the mark of my grandma on my youngest child. To my right is her china, long unwrapped from the layers of bubble wrap and quietly waiting for the next holiday when the kids know, without me having to say a word, that those dishes do not go in the dishwasher. In the dryer right now are washcloths- threadbare, but hanging on, that she made. I look up and see my current last name painstakingly crocheted into a rectangle that looks like lace. There's two more of those in an envelope already made by her long ago with the strict instructions to give them to my sons on their respective wedding days.

And in my heart, just like in the hearts of my kids and parents and aunts and uncles and many cousins, lives the presence of the very Savior that she was so sure to teach us all about and model in her everyday life... right up until her exit from this world and entrance into the next.

So while this weekend could cause me to think on any variety of things and the way things were and the way things are, I am reminded of the little, old woman who was shorter than me and whose house always smelled like onions and mothballs and that, my friend, leaves no room for regret.



Until we meet again on another front porch, Grandma.
I look forward to sitting with you at a different kind of table.

Things That Make A Life

The youngest sent me a text earlier this evening that simply stated,

I've cracked open the cedar chest.

I read her words out loud to the husband as he was driving us home. Don't get sucked in, was his reply. When I walked in the door and saw photo albums strewn about, I tried my best to walk away. I changed my clothes, thought about how inviting the bed looked, pondered the laundry still in the dryer, and finally gave up all those thoughts of nonsense and found an empty spot on the floor.

Who was I kidding anyway?

I looked through one photo album after another and periodically removed my glasses so I could have a closer look. I must have been looking rather intently at one particular picture because that know-it-all of a husband quietly remarked, You know you were there for all that, right? Duh. Yeah. Of course... but where did that time go?

My life in a cedar chest.

Baby pictures of me. Baby pictures of our babies. My old Girl Scout sash. My favorite book as a young girl. My first pair of glasses from the fourth grade. Baby dolls and baby clothes. Notes my mom wrote me. Cards my dad gave me. My high school graduation cap and gown. Yearbooks. A glass piggy bank my grandpa gave me. A musical piano my brother gave me. The bride and groom topper from our wedding cake. Basic training certificates. Handmade gifts. The list goes on and on.

That baby of ours, the one that will turn the rather grown-up age of eighteen tomorrow, handed me a small manuscript in a clear kind of report cover you can buy at any Walmart and said, Mom, you may never be famous, but you sure can write good (or something to that effect). I took what she had and immediately recognized it as something I wrote many years ago about the struggles of being a fairly new wife and a young mother to three kids under the age of five. She said she sorta skimmed through it and was asking my permission to read it in its entirety. I said yes while at the same time hoping there was nothing in there that would scare her silly. After all, reality is always so much more frightening than any work of fiction.

I know we don't take anything with us when we leave this world, but what we leave this world can do more than just collect dust. After all, somewhere along the way there will be someone who will knock off that dust and discover a life.

And when they see mine, I hope they see a life well lived.

Farewell to Summer Break

As summer vacation winds down and I am forced to think upon things more academic and related to my bi-monthly paycheck, I have been thinking about things accomplished and things left undone these last two months. To be honest, I have spent too much time in my pajamas re-watching favorite episodes of The Office and my favorite YouTube channel, React. When I do dress in real-people clothes and venture out into the ridiculously hot summer hell (there just is no other word for it), I hang out with friends over ridiculously long lunches where none of the problems of the world are solved, but we have a lot of fun trading stories about our grown kids.

It's just what moms do.

I look around my house from the seat I have occupied for most of this summer and am thoroughly satisfied. Cats are napping. Fans are humming. Ice from the machine in the freezer pops from time to time. I hear the sound of the motorcycle of the oldest as he makes his way in from work knowing that the other two men in the family will shortly follow. They come in hot (not a one has a/c) and typically with a work story or two to tell. I look forward to this end of the workday routine.

I've not been to the beach or lake and only momentarily dipped my feet into a pool. No great loss there for me. My skin does not handle the sun and my temperament does not handle the heat so we're all good as far as I'm concerned. I've not ridden one roller coaster or visited one museum. I haven't hiked a mountain or bicycled a path or even chased the setting sun riding shotgun next to the husband. I'm telling you, it's just too darn hot and I am just not that motivated.

So this is where I ask myself, what have I done?

Well, lunch, but we already established that.

Mom. I got to spend two wonderful weeks with my mother. We shopped and watched When Calls the Heart and visited the Grand Ole Opry with the youngest.

Papers. I've written quite a few papers. In fact, just yesterday I finished a marvelous piece (sarcasm?) on the State of Illinois Budget for the Fiscal Year 2011. Seriously. I like to party hard around here.

Reading. I've read quite a few books that range from the last (mostly unknown) battles of the Civil War to a fictional work about a horrifying plane crash that left three people stranded on an island for a year and a half. Good stuff.

Netflix. Whether you love it or hate it, I utilize my monthly fee by watching documentary after documentary and again, the aforementioned The Office and When Calls the Heart. If a show makes me smile, I am guaranteed to watch it over and over.

Napping. Well, yeah. Self explanatory.

I could go on, but I am starting to bore myself. Some might look at this and remark at how lazy I really am, but hey, I've never professed to be overly ambitious. I did attend a week-long seminar for my profession and wrote two extremely brutal (as in boring) book reports on the Supreme Court (also necessary for the profession) and have even been planning a lesson or two so I wouldn't say I've been entirely useless.

Just sorta-kinda.

That's my kind of summer vacation.

Grief is an Ocean

This has been a week of me missing my dad. I mean, I always do, but it hit me hard on Monday and has continued throughout the week.

That's what I get for cleaning.

You see, it was the very act of cleaning that triggered the whole thing. My mom had brought me out a set of glasses when she visited during the first two weeks of June and those glasses have sat in the same spot where I set them when we brought in her stuff. Even the white bag they were in was dusty.

Cause that's how I roll.

Apparently something unnatural in the universe sparked a cleaning gene hidden deep within me around noon on Monday. Yes, noon on Monday. I remember it vividly because the husband needed work shirts and other necessities and I gave him my word I would take care of it Monday (promised on Saturday). I didn't want him to come home after work to find me still in my pajamas with nothing accomplished, so around noon on Monday I decided to start laundry.

Oh, the joys of summer break.

It was while I was sorting laundry in the kitchen that I decided maybe I would actually clean the kitchen and as I was putting away glasses from the dishwasher I thought about that bag my mom left me. No time like the present, I thought, and I lifted the bag to the counter to begin unwrapping my mom's serious wrapping job of those glasses.

I knew the glasses were plastic so with the unusual weight of the first one I picked up, I wondered what surprise she had included that I had procrastinated in finding. Even before I uncovered it, though, the realization hit me that it was the very mug that I had asked to keep when I had visited her back in April.

And that's when the wave hit.

Grief is like an ocean. In the beginning, right when my dad's life was ending, the waves were huge, like standing at the edge of the Atlantic on a windy day when the clouds are low and dark and rumbling. There seemed to be no break in the white-capped, rolling waves as they made their way toward land and toward my heart. Time went by and just like the ocean itself, the waves became calmer- always present, but not quite so threatening.

Maybe it was because that blasted Facebook has been reminding me of memories from two years ago:

Dad's first chemo treatment tomorrow. Please pray for a miracle.
Dad's very tired and so is Mom. Thank you for praying for a miracle.
I refuse to believe a report from man. I am expecting a miracle.

You get the idea.

So on Monday just shortly after noon when I was holding a mug in my hand that the youngest had presented to my dad as a gift in more hopeful times, an unexpected wave came crashing in while I wasn't looking and just about knocked me off my feet. I fought through the tears as I put away the glasses and cursed the very thought that had me cleaning in the first place. I thought of my mom and my admiration for her grew even more. The size of the waves she has withstood... and is still standing.

I still don't know what to make of this world without my dad in it. I don't know that it will ever feel the same. Even so,  I hear him in the words of my kids and in their laughter and questionable jokes. Some days it's almost the same as having him nearby. Almost, but not quite.  I suppose that is the consequence of having someone who meant so much no longer breathing the same air.

And, as we have learned, the consequence of my deciding to clean on a Monday at noon.

No wonder I'm such a procrastinator.

The Worry Tree

Years ago, when the husband worked in law enforcement, he planted a tree in our front yard. I'm sure he didn't plan it at the time- after all, we just thought the front yard needed a little something extra; but that tree would come to represent him leaving his worries behind before he came into the house. This past week with all of its drama and heartache and nonsense that have flooded every newsfeed known to mankind has caused my thoughts to wander back to the era of the worry tree.

I am pretty sure he got the idea from something he had read. I seem to recall reading or hearing about a similar tale at some point in my life. It doesn't really matter, though, because as we all know, the best ideas are bound to be repeated. This was a good idea.

After he would step out of his patrol car and before he would come into the house, he would pause for the briefest of moments and mentally hang his worries on that tree. Worries that were images, burdens, and thoughts of despair.

In other words, humanity at its worse.

He would hang the unpleasantness of the job on a limb that certainly would have never been able to bear the true weight of such a thing and would proceed to walk inside the house, weary and hungry, and hug each of us one by one. I could not help but to think this week of the wives and children in Dallas who would not be receiving those same kind of hugs ever again and my heart literally broke.

I can remember one particular night during his career when I paced the floor waiting for that man of mine to come home. I had heard tales of a particular call that involved gunfire and even when he personally called me to assure me all was well, I did not believe it until I physically had him within reach. I can distinctly remember him looking at me ever so seriously and quietly saying, "I will always come home."

But we all know that promise does not always end well.

And so I had those memories swirling through my overactive brain as I was watching the events of Dallas unfold the other night. Lives that were cut short because they went to work that day. Families who would forever be changed because of the delusion of one man. Since that night, every talking head in America seems to have a solution on what we should do and what lives matter and what steps we can take to heal our land.  The truth remains that  regulations and protests and hashtags will do nothing to solve the evil in the heart of man.

The husband works no more in law enforcement (although his ears perk up every time he hears a siren and I know in his mind, he is racing toward another call). We have long since moved from that little house in a little town with a little tree out front. To my knowledge, none of our current trees serve to bear his burdens before he comes inside the house to hug each---- well, just me now. We pray for our country as we pray for those who serve to protect, assist, and defend; and we worry what the future holds for our children's children.

I can only think of one tree that can bear that kind of burden.

And it was made into a cross.

Not Finished Yet

Oh my. Thank you for the comments on that last entry. For the THREE of you (my fan base is wide, I know) who are fellow bloggers and therefore have earned my admiration by default, thanks for sharing your comments on the subject. I'm glad to know your thoughts.

And to my MOM, who is my number one fan, I had NO idea that you check this page regularly (did you say DAILY?) for updates. I feel as if I have let you down. You must have wondered if I had run out of things to say.

Never.

Let's start with today. This weekend. Needless to say, I am actually looking forward to Monday and my classroom. From this vantage point, it looks like an oasis. Normal. Organized chaos. A light at the end of the tunnel.

I am exhausted. Yesterday I was drowning in readings on administrative law while waiting for updates on that big brother of mine. There is nothing quite as hard as having family members in a hospital that you have no hope of visiting- that distance gets us every time. I accomplished absolutely nothing around the house. Absolutely nothing (with the exception of the aggravating run to the grocery store that I made for the sole purpose of venting a little steam... those Walmart aisles will rearrange the focus of your anger in a heartbeat).

Today was the birthday of the middle. I love that kid (as I do all, of course). We had a big family lunch, pulled off a fairly awesome birthday surprise, and ended the day with a cake glowing from the light of twenty candles. Granted, it was after nine in the evening by this point and we ran out of ice cream by the time it got to me and three of the twenty candles were the kind that sparked and flared and never did quite go out, but hey, that just served to present the boy with a challenge that he couldn't quite refuse.

Good times.

Today was also the first in the graduation festivities of the youngest. Can someone please tell me when that happened? I told the husband that looking at her in her cap and gown reminded me of her younger years playing dress-up. It was almost as if I felt I should be telling her to take it off, like it didn't quite belong.

But belong on her, it did.

Baccalaureate tonight.
Honors night later this week.
Graduation in under three weeks.

College up next.

May the good Lord see us through.