Really, I Don't Do Blood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



And to my dearest middle,


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


Love,
Mom

Planning My Funeral At The DMV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would I be buried in? 

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

My wedding dress! Bury me in my wedding dress!

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

Yeah, I can see you wanting that.

I love that dress, I insisted.

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

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

So there you have it, kids.

Dad in his uniform. Mom in her gown.

End it like it all started.

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

Melting In The Rain

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

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

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

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

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

Sheesh.

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

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

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

I don't go to church any more.

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

Why I Go To Church

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just love a good attention grabber. =)

Happy Kids

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

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

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

River Walk

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

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

The scenery was fantastic.

The company even better.

Thank God for sunshine.

(and to the oldest, you were missed).

Miss USA And A Teenage Girl

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

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

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

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

"She looks orange."
Spray tans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well said, Daughter. Well said.

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