idontbelieveingrammar

what is the zipcode for heaven?

2012-01-31T19:10:00.000-08:00

I am in a new bible study and we had homework last week.
And I love homework. As long as it isn’t the kind I am supposed to grade.
But this was a kind of weird assignment.
We were supposed to write a letter to God, describing essentially what we think our “good and beautiful life” (which also happens to be the name of the book) would look like for us.
And this stumped me for multiple reasons.
a) I’m pretty sure God doesn’t have a PO box.
b) It felt something like writing a letter to Santa, a bucket list and a bunch of new year’s resolutions all in one.
c) There was the possibility of having to read it loud. And I am somehow ok with hitting publish on blogger for potentially hundreds to read (ok, a few dozen). but reading outloud to a handful of people that are actually in the same room with me, makes me want to break out into hives.
d) Until rather recently writing (and blogging) used to come easy to me. I could spit one posts almost daily without breaking a sweat. But lately, I can’t even get out one a week. And it isn’t that I’m suddenly busier. I am busy. I was before too. The simple and honest answer is that I’m just not writing anything. And it isn’t the writing I’m struggling with so much as it is the naked. And it turns out I can’t really write without being naked. (don’t worry. I am speaking 100% figuratively. I am fully dressed in pj pants and a sweatshirt while I type this). This girl is sorting through some vulnerability issues.
But I wrote it anyways. Dear Santa, bucket list and new years resolutions and all.
And. I read good size chunks of it outloud. And I didn’t get hives.
So I figured I should get double duty out of it and post some of it here. Fully dressed.

It would be easy to say that I’d like a life of ease. That is the “good life” right? Money. Travel. And a housekeeper. A life where my kids don’t get skinned knees or the flu, my papers are always graded, I only hit green lights and I never leave my fly down (which may or may not have been how I taught the better part of my morning yesterday). And beautiful, sure – I’d like veneers on my teeth, the mole on my face removed, a better haircut and new highlights and to trim down a few sizes. That would be a start. An upgraded wardrobe and pedicure couldn’t hurt either. And maybe I mean all that a little. Who wouldn’t? But something tells me that I’d be bored. A good life is lived. Foughten for. Broken and Renewed. Taken plenty of chances. Knows grace. Sometimes has done without. In other words, a good life is probably occasionally a hard one.

Mostly I think I’d like to love extravagantly. Recklessly. And I’m even a little surprised to catch myself saying that because I know all too well. Over and over, how much that can hurt. Because loving like that isn’t safe. It doesn’t hold back. It isn’t always returned. And it means occasionally being crushed. I want to love anyways. Again and again. When it is easy and when it is hard. Because He does.

And for my kids. Any mom can tell you they want the best for their kids. But. I’m not sure I’d say that. And I catch myself wanting to buy them nice things, but I’d also hope that they sometimes wear hand me downs. Or drive a used car. That instead of being the coolest kid in class that maybe they instead are the one who stands up for the kid who no one else wants to sit next to. I want them to fall down occasionally. To lose. To fail. To get their heart broken. And those things almost feel mean to write, but instead of having kids who get what they want and never get hurt, I’d rather have ones that know how to get back up. How to try again. How to do better next time. How to adapt and change and recover. I want kids who know how to study and to sweat and to save and to serve and to say they are sorry. But most importantly, to never doubt that they are loved. By me and their God.

And the book we are reading, says that everyone wants to be happy. And I can’t really argue with that. But what I mostly want is joy in the times that I am not. Because there are plenty of those. To have a faith so strong that something good within me can’t be shaken. And I want to matter. Not so much that I want to be important, but I want to matter by doing important things for other people. Even if they aren’t the kind so things other people consider important. Noticing them. Feeding them. Looking them in the eye. Asking their name. Whether it is my student. Or the checkout lady at Target or the homeless woman on the corner asking for gas money.

I really like my couch. And have hours of Tivo saved and shelves and shelves of books. But I’m thinking I should spend less time on my couch, and more time playing outside with my kids. Cleaning out my garage. Running a marathon. Helping someone move. Hiking up a mountain with my husband. I think a good life is likely a sweaty one.

When I’m 80, and look back. I hope my husband is still by my side. Holding my hand listening to the same old stories and jokes and rubbing my feet. That my passport has lots of stamps on it. That I’ve seen and served in all kinds of places. I hope I’ve tried all kinds of weird things and made friends with all kinds of unusual characters. I hope I’ve become one of those unusual characters myself. I hope my kids have grown and are pursuing their own adventures and that they always knew I loved them the best. I hope I’ve laughed more than I’ve cried. Given away far more than I’ve saved and that I let very little be wasted.

Specifically, I hope I’ve taken the leap and published something. That I’ve reigned in my mouth and learned when to stop drinking and talking. That I stop letting fear win. To make wiser choices with my words, my money and that I can remember where I put my car keys. I want to stop wrestling with the same sins. To have more of those hard conversations. To listen without interrupting. To pray without falling asleep. To love without expectation. That one day my car won’t look like a fast food trash can. To be better at standing up for myself and to keep standing up for people I love.

So basically, I want the life I already have. But without me always getting in the way.

because it is worth saying again.

2012-01-22T07:34:00.000-08:00

Maybe you have noticed that I have been pretty absent here lately.
I'll address that another day. maybe.

But for now, I am going to cheat and post something I wrote a few years ago.
Because it is worth saying again. And mostly because my friend is living it all over again. This time a month sooner. Coming in at only 2 lbs 3 ounces. My kids were both well over 8lbs and I was still afraid I was going to break them. For months. So I can't even really fathom that, except I've seen pictures and when you see past all the tubes they have going into him. He looks pretty perfect. Because he is.

Just Breathe
My sweet Tess is just a few days over 7 months. She has one little tooth. I have yet to see her really crawl, but she can manage her way across a room. I swear she can say momma although some people might say she is too little to know what she is saying. She is at the age where she seems to be learning a “new trick” almost everyday.

Owen is also learning all kinds of things. How to write his name, that blue and yellow make green and how to dribble a soccer ball.

I am amazed at what they learn, but it also leads to expectations. I wonder when Tess will crawl, or when Owen will read, or when Tess will let me get a good solid night of sleep, or when Owen will make it through his soccer game without crying.

I love my kids as close to unconditionally as humanly possible. But all these new expectations means that occasionally I am going to be disappointed. Or wonder if they are ok, or on track, or as smart or talented or ( fill in the blank) as the other kids. I hope that they will grow up to be smart and kind and happy. I hope that they make good grades in school, that they will not get mixed up in the "wrong crowd". I hope that they will graduate from college and find spouses and make me beautiful grandbabies ( in that order).

But just 7 months and 4 days ago ( or almost 4 years ago w/ O) all I was hoping for was that first cry. Just to know that the baby they pulled from my body would breathe. That she was alive.

I loved her perfectly and fully as she sat in the warming tray across the room before I could even touch her and squeeze her and count her toes. Before eating solids, or potty training or algebra.

One of my friends just had a baby yesterday. A little bitty bit of a thing weighing in at not quite 2 and a half pounds. I have seen a few pictures and he is pink and perfect, despite all the tubes that seem to get in the way of his cute face. She was short a few months to prepare. Do all the necessary things like buy a carseat, pack a hospital bag and pick out a name. She didn’t sit around and wonder if he would weigh 8 lbs or have blue eyes or score a perfect 10 on his Apgar test. Instead she skipped straight to the important part. She held her breathe and hoped and prayed for that first cry.

That cry where you instantly fall in love. A love that hasn’t been earned. Love that just is. Love that hopes to steal a glimpse before they quickly wheel him to NICU. Love that impatiently waits 30 long hours to meet her son for the first time. Love that doesn’t need him to sleep through the night, or kick a soccer ball, or clean his room. But the kind that just wants a glimpse or to grab his finger.

My God loves me like this. Not because of what I do or don't do, or how many friends I have or because I go to church. But simply because He created me. 2 lbs or 140lbs*.

(and let's be honest -- I weigh more than 140 lbs. but this is my blog I can lie if I want to!)

letter to my 16 year old self

2012-01-13T18:49:00.000-08:00

Dear 16 year old me,

Rap is just a phase that you will grow out of.
That boy you are pining over. He will be bald before he is 30. Move on.
You will never be this skinny again. Or have this metabolism. Eat more donuts. Wear bathing suits proudly.
Don’t talk back so much to your teachers. One day you will be one.
Overalls are only ok if you are pregnant. It is never ok to leave one or both of the straps down.
Stop wasting your money on the cool jeans.
Eye shadow does not need to match your outfit.
Wear your retainer.
90210 will attempt to make a comeback. Skip it.
Please stop adding “and shit” on the end of every sentence. You sound like an idiot.
Don’t worry about spelling. This crazy thing called spell check will do it for you.
There will always be groups that you don’t fit in. It doesn’t end with the high school cafeteria. Stop trying. If you have to try to fit into a group it is one you don’t want in.
Bangs should not be stacked.
Wine coolers are gross.
Read more books and less magazines.
You do not know nearly as much as you think you do.
Sometimes your parents were right.
Sometimes your teachers were right.
At your 10 year reunion, people will talk to you and you won’t remember who they are. And you will wonder if you were nice to them. Be nice. Don’t make your 26 year old self wonder.
Do not, I repeat, do NOT try to pierce your own bellybutton with a safety pin. You will totally regret it.
Hickeys are icky.
You will not look like Jennifer Anniston if you get layers in your hair. And layers take a really really long time to grow out.
Be glad your parents didn’t let you go to most of those parties.
The mall is a really dumb place to hang out.
Eye rolling is not an Olympic sport. Stop practicing.
Shirts should cover your belly button.
Your car will inevitably overheat any time you are somewhere you are not supposed to be.
When you sneak out of your window, you are much less likely to get caught if you remember to put the screen back.
Baby oil is not sunscreen.
Nothing is as black and white as you think it is. Keep that self righteousness to yourself.
You never say this. But you often feel Alone. Afraid. Insecure. Unwanted. Confused. Misunderstood. Guess what. So does everyone else your age .
Don’t let people tell you that these are the best days of your life. They are fun. Enjoy them but it totally gets better.
You have no idea how good you have it.
Those dorky guys sitting next to you in PreCal or in orchestra will get really hot in college.
Don’t waste time matching your socks but listen to your friend Julie who tells you that brown shoes should never be worn with a black belt.
Whatever you think is some huge critical earth shattering critical thing right now…is so not a big deal.
Your shorts are way too short.
One day MTV will not play music videos.
Nothing good happens after midnight. You might as well go home.
That handful of friends you made….you will keep most of them. You chose well.
That boyfriend you had a few months ago. Total loser. Be glad he ditched you for the girl who would put out. Mostly be glad it wasn’t you.
Making a mix tape is an art. Keep making art. (except there will be no such thing as tapes).
Tom Cruise will go crazy. On Oprah’s couch. But feel free to keep watching Top Gun and Cocktail.
Most people aren’t really buying your tough girl act. So you might as well stop acting.
Your friends and family aren’t mind readers. Say thank you and tell them what you need. You should also apply that same rule to your future husband (who by the way is pretty awesome).
You were right. You will never need Calculus again. Ever.

all you need is a good font

2012-01-03T20:00:00.000-08:00

Christmas vacation is over, and I’ve already made it through a few days back to work.
The inevitable question has been, “what is your new year’s resolution?” and I flounder a bit and say I don’t really do them.
But that isn’t entirely true.
I just can’t ever manage to narrow them down.
And I love new starts. New places. New things. New people. New experiences. But I tell myself that I’m not really into “New Years” and making ridiculous promises that you are inevitably going to break seems a little too what everyone else is doing. Because really, I’m not into accountability.

When I was a teenager. One New Years when I wasn’t out like all my friends because my dad gave me some ridiculous curfew at like 10 pm. I kept trying to tell him that that point of New Years was, you know, being awake at midnight when the actual New Year started…and he generously pushed it up to 10:30. (and on a side note, this New Year’s I said my thank yous and good byes and was happy to be in my car and on my way home by around 10:30 and asleep well before midnight. My dad would be proud that I grew up old and boring)

Back to my story, awake and bored and with not much else to do, I went into the spare bedroom that used to be my sisters and turned on the computer. An old school one that still had Qubert and took up about as much space as an air conditioning unit. I booted up WordPerfect. Thought I was really cool mixing up the fonts and picked a pretty script one and felt very grown up and started a list of my new years resolution.
I went a little crazy and typed for three pages. I probably even wrote “be less wordy”. My list was ridiculous. And corny. But I saved it on my floppy, printed it on my dot matrix printer and tucked it inside my journal. All three pages. 12 point font. That said really specific life changing things like:
Stop procrastinating.
Take more pictures.
Stop swearing.
Pray more.
Get a boyfriend and try not to get bored of him in just a week.
And I’ll stop now before I really humiliate myself. And you can’t have three pages of resolutions. That is not a new start, that is a complete overhaul. But I liked my long ridiculous lists even though I rarely made significant progress in any area and liked to read over them from time to time. I’m sure I could find one (or 5) if I looked in a box in my attic, but I’ll save that for another day. It became some kind of odd yearly tradition for me to write them. And even though I had journals that I sporadically wrote in . These were always typed. I probably stopped some time in college ( partly because there was no such thing as floppy discs and because I was pretty much just writing the same list. Year, after year. Now, I can tell you that they weren’t “resolutions” so much as me writing out who I wanted to be. Me, but improved. Many pages worth of improvements. And I kept hoping and waiting. For that better version of me to show up and make her appearance. I kept thinking. Maybe this year I’ll get to meet her. Every year my lists seemed to get just a little bit longer. And other than parts about getting a boyfriend. I’d be willing to bet that a lot of who I wanted to be more of back then, I’m still lacking.

Last year I wrote that I wasn’t making resolutions. That I was not going to pretend that it was finally going to be the year I was going to get it together. And guess what, I didn’t.

But I miss the girl who used to sit and type ridiculous cheesy lists. Because that girl knew who she wanted to be. And she wrote it down. In really cutesy font. Hoping that maybe 1993 was going to be HER YEAR. Or 1994. or 1995.
And it’s been a while, but now I say, maybe 2012.

The problem with long ridiculous lists is that it is too much to tackle. They were vague. There was no action, no focus and no accountability. So I’m gonna try this a little differently. One part Gretchen Hawkins (The Happiness Project), one part AJ Jacobs ( I love that guy!), and one part Jen Hatmaker ( Interrupted and 7 an experimental mutiny against excess that is totally messing with my tolerance for all my wastefulness). So my list of 12 areas of focus in no particular order:

*My Family (focus one person each week, and the last week….doing stuff together?)
*Adventure – some new “adventure” each week
* Kindness – some random act of kindness everyday
*Quiet. Keeping my mouth shut. Not sure how I’m going to do this. But it is surely an area I need to work on.
*New. Anything but stuff. Try something new everyday.
*Thankfulness – I’m not always the most grateful girl.
*Clean Up and Clean out. I am a slob. And I have too much stuff. I hate to clean. I hate to part with that pair of jeans that will never fit and the billion books I’ve already read…but..mostly I HATE TO CLEAN. HATE IT. but. need to suck it up. My baseboards won’t know what hit them.
* Food (eat better, eat out less, eat on 2$ a day like most people in the world, eat leftovers. I hate leftovers)
* Fasting (?? Maybe something different each week. food, facebook, coffee,TV)
*Prayer (I am awful terrible horrible at this)
* be more responsible w/ my money (write down all my purchases, actually make and stick to a budget, don’t buy anything I don’t need that month)
*Social Justice. Pick something. Learn about it. Do something about it. Get a little uncomfortable in the process.

And I don’t know the rules or the order. Or how much I’ll divulge or write about it. Mostly I’ll just figure it out as I go. My plan is to focus on one area each month. And that is doable. In any font.

(I realize if I was smart enough to actually know HOW to change my font for this post to something cutesy and script it would be better, but blogger doesn't give me those options and I don't know the ways around it.....but I do know that i LOVE this song!)

the REAL Christmas letter....

2011-12-27T18:33:00.000-08:00

And the tradition continues.One year me and my friend were talking about annual “Christmas card letter”, which is a dying tradition I might add. I’ve only gotten a couple this year. And for the most part it is a tradition that I’m happy to see die. Although I still like getting real mail for a change, rather than just bills and junk mail. (here is the first one).

I digress, well, my friend had been having a particularly rough year and we laughed about how people would react if we were to send out REAL letters. Not just the highlights but the lows too.
Today I finally mailed some of my Christmas cards. I say some, because I am positive that I forgot no less than 20 people. I don’t have an address book because I am pretty sure that is what google is for.
And I didn’t include a letter, because lets be honest, a girl who can’t get it together enough to mail her Christmas cards before Christmas certainly can’t be boethered by things like having having printer ink cartridges in her house.
It is hard to believe that another year has already passed. Because at this point they are all starting to blur together. I swear. We just took down the Christmas tree….and then we were putting it up again. (and now it is daunting me again to take it down. And maybe I will. Someday possibly even before Easter).

Last year about this time, I couldn’t quite finish my first 5K of the year without stopping for a walking break. That might have something to do with the fact that I talked way more than I ran, but still. Just last week I ran 13.1. no breaks. And I’m not new to running. But I’ve turned it up a notch. And everyday my legs feel a little bit stronger. And that maybe I can go just a little bit further. And I’m feeling stronger inside too.

This summer me and Shaun celebrated our ten year wedding anniversary. And went to Seattle which I loved. For lots of reasons. First, it was a million degrees here all summer and it was a good 30 degrees cooler there. Second, lots of coffee and seafood and street performers, Third, a spontaneous 8K followed closely by Pirates vs. Clowns parade led by Drew Carey and a husband who rolls with it. And last and most importantly, not a single kids meal or movie with a G rating. Ten years of marriage, 2 kids that look just him and I still can’t figure out where he hides my socks or why he can’t put the lid on the toothpaste and especially how he puts up with me. But I’m hoping for at least another 50 more.

Owen graduated kindergarten and got the same paper certificate that everyone in his grade did to prove it. I couldn’t have been prouder. Except maybe if he knew how to tie his shoes. He also amped up his soccer game. Somewhere he got the idea that if he scored a goal he could go eat at red lobster. What 5 year old eats lobster. Mine. Although we have convinced him that Joe’s Crab Shack and Pappadeux are much better choices. And that shrimp are just really tiny little lobsters. And a whole heck of a lot cheaper.
Kindergarten was a bit of a struggle for Owen. He could never seem to stand still in line, not talk at lunch and was banned from dancing at show and tell. We made the decision to change schools. Partly because I was afraid they’d make me medicate him if I kept him there and partly because I never quite learned how to maneuver the pick up line. First grade has rocked. He is reading chapter books. Adding and subtracting like a TI-83 and winning citizenship awards. He has the hots for his teacher as well as a few other girls in his class. I’m just glad he is keeping his options open. And in addition to soccer, he has a new extra curricular activity that I initially signed him up for to piss off my husband and entertain myself. Hip Hop. And my boy has moves like Jagger.

Speaking of dancing. Tess has found her calling. Even though I had Owen signed up for little gym and swim lessons and hopped from one activity to another all before he was one, I decided to wait with Tess. Until strangers would stop me in resturaunts and grocery store (maybe because she was dancing in the aisle) and tell me we HAD TO SIGN HER UP FOR DANCE. STAT. She has more tutus than I have pajama pants and is the most intense tiny dancer I know. Her first public performance turned out to be a surprise solo. I though surely she would chicken out and instead, nailed it. I wept like a baby and she soaked in every ounce of applause. We wrapped up the terrible twos only to enter the even more terrible threes. She is still feisty, introverted and butts heads with her daddy like she is already sixteen, ditching classes and stealing his beer. Instead, she is flashing the preacher at Christmas Eve service and covering every known surface in our house, car and her body with marker or pen. I’m sure this girl has a sharpie stash somewhere and maybe I should ditch the whole dancing thing and sign her up for art camp. or maybe let her join one of those gangs that goes around tagging public places.
Tess is still all girl. Loves dresses, shoes, Justin “beaver” and I think knows how to apply make up and paint her toes better than I do. She still however, barely has enough hair for a ponytail and wets the bed. Hopefully by this time next year she will have had her first haircut and be sleeping in big girl panties. Hopefully she will never correctly learn how to say blanket, because my heart melts a little everytime she asks me to get her “blanklet”.

My winter-spring was spent playing practical jokes, eating cupcakes, making new friends, visiting old ones, running really slowly, one more tattoo and drinking too much wine. My summer less jokes, more wine. I picked up the jogging pace a little. Beaches. Mountains and lots of swimming pools and driving kids around. Autumn I wish I could erase from my memory, but so far winter is looking up. I had a pretty crappy fall. And I don’t mean tumble, I mean the entire season. Nothing was especially bad going on, except for a 4 day stay in the relaxing local hospital for some minor organ failure (so long gall bladder and good riddance!). Shaun traveled a TON, marriage, friendships and work all just seemed hard and draining. And even though this is the REAL Christmas letter, I can’t let it end like that. It is barely winter again. The temperatures are dropping, but everything else seems to be looking up. Shaun got a raise and hasn’t traveled in months. And those other things are all getting easier. Plus, there isn’t so much I can’t run out. And if not, we just crank up the tunes in the living room and Owen and Tess show me their new moves. And Shaun laughs, or holds the camcorder or goes and watches Star Wars in the other room.
not enough reality for you....here is last year's letter.

that's what it's all about

2011-12-22T14:23:00.000-08:00

“I know what Christmas is REALLY all about.” my firstborn touts proudly while we are piled on the bed waiting for the pediatrician to call back.
“You do? What?”
(and I really think he does)
“Everyone being together he says with a proud grin.”

And I know exactly where he got the answer. In the corny Barbie Christmas special movie preview that we had just watched before the movie started.

“No Owen. It isn’t”
And his face falls and he looks so confused.
Because being together sounded like a really good answer.

“Giving!", he tries again.
And on Sunday when I picked him up from our version of kids church, he was one of the last kids there….b/c maybe I was chatting and lost track of time (surprise). And one of the volunteers ask if I am “Owen’s mom”. I say yes, and another woman rushes over. They both gush and tell me that they have to tell me what my kid did that day. One of them says he made her cry. I’m a little afraid of where this conversation might go. She says she made him get up on stage (and it is a big stage and a big crowd) and I finally think I know which way this is heading and asked if he had been dancing again. Because my kid has some moves and is not afraid to use them in public. She says no and keeps talking. She said they were talking about presents and what everyone wanted for Christmas…and my son says “that he really likes giving presents”. I laugh out loud and say she should see his wishlist! But she says no, that he said he liked giving presents more than getting them so they pulled him up on stage to say this and ask why. And he says because it makes people happy. This really means that he especially liked giving his first grade teacher that he is a little bit hot for flowers on Friday. But I am still pleased. And beam a little because I have been trying to teach my kids over and over that Christmas is not THEIR birthday after all.

But I still say “No. not giving”
Although it is really nice to give. And family is pretty important too.
And he sits there stumped for a minute. I resist the temptation to lecture or answer for him and a few long seconds later he says, “Oh yeah. It’s when Jesus was born”

And I think plenty of us can be talked in to really good reasons for this season.
Like family. And giving. And Christmas cards. And plays. And baking. And parties. And charity. And decorations. And cookies. And Justin Beiber’s version of Santa Claus is coming to town (one of Tess’s favorites).
And somewhere at the bottom of the list and busy and outings and wrapping paper
We say,
“Oh yeah. Jesus”

And I haven’t been the most productive girl this season. My Christmas cards haven’t been mailed. I haven’t wrapped a single present. My kids have seen the pediatrician more than they have Santa. We forgot the advent candle. I did make some sweets for the neighbors but I ate some of it for breakfast instead of delivering it. Our tree is up, but the lights never made it on the roof. We have run from party to recital to event. I am far from attempting the perfect season and all I really want for Christmas is a nap.

I am worn out and just see the list of things I should be doing replay in my head over and over. Wrapping, shopping, baking, mailing, cleaning, watching defensive driving (ok, not exactly Christmas-y but something I need to do) and maybe I have forgotten too.
And I sound just like my six year old after getting it wrong the first few tries.

“Oh yeah. Jesus”
My list can wait until at least New Years.
(which just might be when you get my Christmas card!)

the dance

2011-12-13T19:08:00.000-08:00

The music blared.

Like usual. Today it was Christmas music.
An older black man danced near the speaker.
Freely. Like no one was watching. Even though dozens were staring at him like he was crazy.
Most likely because he was actually crazy.
But he just kept smiling and dancing like he was at some party instead of in a park.
A homeless park.
In the cold.

A slower song came on and he acted like he was dancing with a partner. Even though it was still just him.

I watched from the side. Along with the rest of the others.
My friend, said, “if I was braver, I’d go dance with him.”
I’d already had a similar thought I just hadn’t voiced it.
A few seconds later, another volunteer walked up and said the same thing.

We come here. Once a month or so.

To pass out food and more importantly conversation.
But on Saturday, I did more than hand out food.
I broke bread.
I passed out communion.
I wiped a sweet toddlers runny nose.
I picked up some trash.
I ate with a man named Allan. From Alabama. And I listened to his story.
Not caring how much was true and how much wasn’t.
I mingled and smiled and hugged.
But most importantly,
I danced.

(and I'm having a hard time embedding you tube these days...but click here for one of my favorite christmas ... or just about anytime songs.... http://youtu.be/fbdylEE-0e4)

i'm for sale. (black friday special)

2011-11-25T19:21:00.000-08:00

I have a friend that I like a lot. She doesn’t live close and I see her almost never. But she knows I run lots of little races and asked me about a month ago if I wanted to run a half marathon with her.

I said yes with little hesitation.
Partly because there isn’t so much she could ask me to do that I wouldn’t say yes to. And partly because it meant hanging out with her and possibly fitting back into my skinny jeans.
I am not much of a detail girl so the fact that it is a good 10 miles longer than the majority of races I run didn’t really stress me at the time.
One little detail did make me panic.
I had to be part of a team. A team that I agreed to try and raise money for. And even though it was for a ridiculously good cause. This little detail rather than the 13.1 miles with hills (lots of hills!) made me break into a little mini panic attack. Kind of like when someone asks me to go swimming with them. But worse. In other words, I think I’d rather wear my swimsuit in public than ask my friends for money.

So a while back I made it official. I signed up for the race. I signed up for Team World Vision. I just didn’t ask anyone for money. I thought that maybe I’d ask for that for Christmas. That not getting Christmas presents would be admirable. And I have all kinds of stuff, it’s not like I really need anymore. And I did email my inlaws and my siblings (even though I don’t think we get each other gifts anyways) the website, but when my parents called and asked what I wanted, before I could stop myself I accidentally said an ipad2.

So then I started to try and think of marketable skills. That maybe I could “earn” the money I was supposed to be raising. And I’m pretty sure that I am too old for a paper route. I am a sucky babysitter. Unless you like your kids watching cartoons, eating happy meals and coloring on the furniture…and then I am at your service. And I might have a masters degree, but not so many practical skills. So I mentally ran through my resume.

When I was in middle school I cleaned my neighbors house for 20$ a week. I mostly played her cd collection and ran the vacuum across the floor so it left those little marks. Sometimes I didn’t even plug it in. I sprayed plenty of lemon pledge and windex so it would smell clean. But smelling clean and actually dusting aren’t exactly the same thing and I was fired pretty fast. My parents used to pay me a buck for each Christmas present I wrapped. Which I also did poorly. I even wrapped my own presents which I’m now thinking I should have charged double for. And my dad would also offer to pay me a dollar to run my fingers through his toes. I’m sure that no amount of money I earned for that will ever pay for the therapy I will need later. In high school I occasionally played Christmas carols at banks or the occasional wedding reception. For the bargain price of 20$ a gig. But my violin hasn’t been touched in a while and I think mostly people would pay me not to play at this point. I also worked at Dairy Queen, TJ Maxx and Putt Putt. In other words – I can make a blizzard, fix a jammed batting cage (yes while people were still batting) and do not think I learned any real skill from TJ Maxx. Except that you should never under any circumstance touch money that a large woman pulls out of her bra.

So back to the drawing board for money making skills. I don’t clean well. I don’t drive well. I can’t paint. I can’t draw. I can’t do your taxes (but both my parents are CPAs if that counts). I can’t decorate cakes or arrange flowers or organize closets. I would be a disaster at selling make up because I barely know how to put it on. If you've seen the inside of my car you wouldn't even consider asking me to wash yours.
This is getting depressing and I think maybe I should focus on the things that I can do:
I can make cool things with modge podge. I can read really fast. I can write long nonsensical emails in way less time it takes someone to read them. I can simplify complex equations. I am good at crosswords. I am a fast shopper. Still. Doubtful that anyone is willing to pay me for any of those things.

But I settled on a few marketable skills that I am willing to do for a donation

1) I can cook. People never believe this. And assume that this, like most of my domestic skills, is lacking. They are wrong and I’m happy to prove it. Just tell me what you like. I do not, however, bake. That requires following directions which I do not do well. So I mean this. I will cook and deliver dinner (within a 20 mile radius). Just like Pizza Hut, but I’ll need more than 30 minutes notice.

2) I can take pictures. Now do not for a second think you are getting some cheap photography deal. I am in no way pretending to be a photographer. I do have lots of photographer friends and one of their fancy hand me down cameras. I shoot mostly in auto and don’t know how to use photoshop. But I do edit a little and am free (well, like a car wash is free…) And I’m probably better than the self timer on your camera.

And if you don’t live anywhere near my zipcode….

3) The other skill I have been well known for since I was a teenager and got a stereo with a double cassette deck is that I make a mean mix tape. And these days it has been upgraded to cd which I can mail anywhere….I’ll also throw in a book. Because I have lots of those laying around. And I don’t mean a book I wrote. I mean a book I probably bought at half price or in the sale section of Mardel or borrowed from a friend and never returned.

So if you are interested in any of those things….or want me to make you a blizzard….
Donate here: http://support.worldvision.org/site/TR?team_id=26640&fr_id=1471&pg=team
And email me here: shaun.michelle@sbcglobal.net and I’ll take care of you.

The race isn’t til February. So you have lots of time to cash in on me. Tell your friends that I’m cheap. (yes, that was a bad joke….notice I didn’t list good joke teller as one of my marketable skills). Until then, I might want to think about how I’m going to run those 13.1 miles without puking. Ok. I will probably puke at least once. I’ll aim for without dying.

peace and quiet and turkey

2011-11-24T17:25:00.000-08:00

My parents cook all night and all morning for a ridiculous feast. Usually for atleast 20. And more often than not there is someone around the table (tables to be more accurate) that I have never seen before in my life. Ever.
They may or may not be related to me.
And that hardly matters as long as they are willing to flatter the cook(s) and pour my dad another glass or wine. or bourbon. or slice of pecan pie.
Holidays at my house are a little crazy.
There will be yelling. There will be enough food to feed 40. My dad will tablescape and cook something I can’t pronounce and it will be delicious. Plates are paper and people often fight over leftovers. Prayers are long winded minisermons. There are 8 grandkids all competing for who can be the noisiest. And there is often football in the front lawn or atleast nerf balls being thrown off the balcony. There will be bad words. And at least one person will pass out. From too much turkey. Or wine. Or both.

I have spent the last few days with my husband’s family. I’ve said it several times before. I know my way around this town better than my own. And it is a lot quieter.
No one was up at 5 am cooking.
My mom didn’t set trays of dressing out on the breezeway because there wasn’t anymore room in the fridge, only to have it eaten by neighborhood dogs. (this was classic, and never again was the ping pong table used as food storage regardless of the outside temperature). The plates were real. And we all fit around one table.
It is almost 7 pm and we are all still awake. There was a turkey trot. Numerous games of candy land, checkers, 100 piece puzzles, a little bit of crafting. I’ve read more than one book. The kind without pictures. I’d try to go to a movie, except I don’t think the theatre here is open today. I ate really good food. Cobbler. I can’t recall anyone dropping any f-bombs. Tess has a stomach bug. But other than that it has been a restful, calm, day of too much yummy food. I have spent a great deal of it in yoga pants. I won’t be venturing out in a few hours for black Friday sales. And I hope to still be in bed until I can’t ignore my kids any longer and then I will venture out in my pjs. Pour myself a cup of coffee. Eat some cobbler for breakfast. And watch more TV. Read more books. Play more checkers. And probably go for another run.

And I will go back home tomorrow or the next day a few pounds heavier. Well read. Well rested. Calmer. Like I’ve been doing yoga instead of just laying around on someone else’s couch. I might have even graded all those papers I brought that are still sitting in the truck. And all of those things will be good for me. Except the pounds. But the 20+ miles I’ve ran this week should help balance that out.

And this is going to sound a little nuts….because I love all that. I need it to make it through December (well maybe I could have done without the half dozen jelly cookies I ate. just today) but I miss the loud and the crazy and of course the pie.

...and my favorite holiday movie. ever. and almost makes me feel like I am at home. be warned this isn't rated PG.

PS. Who wants to go to Fajita Jacks????

The Walk of the Unashamed

2011-11-23T08:22:00.000-08:00

The other day I had to have a difficult conversation with someone about a difficult situation. It was the kind of conversation that it is best to prep for. To think about and maybe even write down what you want to say. And a conversation that I had been putting off for months….and people kept telling me over and over I needed to have. And I’m not even really sure what it was that was keeping me from it. Until I started talking.

The conversation happened when I was least ready for it with absolutely zero prep time. And I caught myself saying the same phrase over and over... "i was afraid that..._________(fill in the blank with one of a half dozen things)."

Somehow, over the last few months I have let fear get the best of me in lots of situations. Personal and professional. And I have tried really hard to raise my kids so they never let fear win. However, sometimes fear is a good thing. For example, I am afraid of snakes and bears and black ski slopes. And steering clear of them might help keep me from breaking my neck or getting eaten. I am afraid of getting in trouble. I am afraid of consequences...and sometimes that is enough to keep me from doing really stupid things. But finding a balance. Between healthy fear and irrational fear….well, I’m not sure I have that figured out. I found this piece on my computer this morning. I wrote it months ago…and never posted it. And, made me think that maybe my six year old has a better grasp on it than I do.

The Walk of Shame

I am not the most patient girl.
I will do almost anything to avoid long lines.
Yesterday someone asked me if I would be hitting the mall on tax free weekend. I said I’d rather have a pelvic exam.
More new In and Out burgers opened up in town and the wait in the drive through is a couple hours.
No fast food hamburger is worth that kind of time (and yes, I’ve had an In and Out burger before. Love the fries. Not a fan of the 1000 island dressing).
It took me three trips to the DMV last time before I finally gave in and waited it out.

So yesterday was my last official day of summer and I’d put it off as long as I could…
I owed my son a date to Hawaiian Falls.
Just me and him.
It was hot and crowded and I like wearing bathing suits in front of people even less than I like waiting in long lines.
Owen put sunscreen on my back (meaning I am super burned except for a few 6 year old hand prints on my back!) and we hit the wave pool. And then I thought we’d see if he ws tall enough for some rides this year.

My favorite waterpark ride is the one that looks like a giant funnel and it happens to be one of the tallest at the park.
He hit the height requirement. But just barely.
And you could ride double so I thought it would be perfect. But there was a really long wait for a double tube. After Owen watched at least dozen people grab single tubes and hop into line ahead of us. Owen announced that he could ride by himself. So we grabbed single tubes and hopped in line.
A really long windy over four story line. That took the better part of the hour. I was a little nervous about how he’d do. But he watched rider after rider and seemed excited rather than his usual scared or cautious. All the way to the top.
And I hate heights and we were pretty high, so when he’d lean against the rail to look out or watch, I’d pull him back. I tried not to think about it or pretend that my stomach wasn’t flipping a little. It was finally our turn and Owen insisted on going first. He still didn’t seem afraid. He put his tube in the water and I went help him in and he slipped straight through. We tried again and his hands couldn’t reach. He fell through the middle again. He may have met the height requirement but couldn’t fit in or on the tube. The lifeguard tried to suggest laying across but it was too late. The tears were already coming. And they kept coming. I tried to convince him. And usually this is where I give my kids a good shove and make them do it anyways. But I knew, that in this situation that would do more damage than good. So I quickly said it was ok. We grabbed our tubes and head back down. All four flights. Hitting people with our tubes the whole way.

The walk of shame.

Because people kept saying. Did he get scared? Was he too little?
Owen didn’t look up once.
Some even laughed. And I wanted to punch them in the face.

A few were sympathetic and said they were scared the first time too.

I just wanted down fast.
And was afraid maybe we’d have to spend the rest of our afternoon in the lazy river.
Or the toddler play area.

I don’t want my kids to live scared.
But I also want them to be ok saying.
Not doing something until they are ready.
So I told him it was ok and asked what he wanted to do next.

He marched straight over to another slide.
Not quite as high.
No tube required.
And flew down it with a crazy smile on his face.
Then went straight back in line for another slide.
And another.
And another.

(having trouble embedding, so if it doesn't show, click here to "shake it out" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbN0nX61rIs

dancing with myself

2011-11-12T17:54:00.000-08:00

I was hesitant to put my daughter in dance.

Partly because I think she is too young, and partly because the whole idea of dance (and dance moms) scare me. That and Tess’s hair is still too short for a bun.

But people kept telling me that I needed to. And she loves to dance. So I signed her up.

Every Wednesday is crazy. I rush out of school earlier than usual, pray that I remembered her dance bag, pick up Tess, squeeze her into tights and a leotard and get her to dance abd then I’m usually right back out the door to pick up her brother, find his soccer gear and then back to dance. Usually just in time to watch the last 20 or so minutes through a one-way window. On my tip toes.

Her class started with 5 littles. One girl with a matching, leotard, dance bag and bow. All with rhinestones. Mom took several pictures of the whole ensemble before walking in the door. Two sisters, possibly twins, who were adorable but would much rather play with each other than actually dance. A little boy who was somehow related to the teacher and I think mostly in the class because she was babysitting that hour. And Tess.

I watched from the one-way window. As the teachers played music, tried to get them to stay on their spots and learn a few simple dances. Tess was serious and intense every class. She watched and tried to repeat the moves. The other kids giggled and played. She made the silliest face and always got stamps for good behavior afterwards.

After week one, I never saw the best dressed girl again. The sister/twins lasted several more times but then stopped coming. The last time it was just Tess and the boy. But she didn’t mind all the one on one attention.

This Saturday was the first little mini recital. At some Junior League Christmas shopping event.

First hesitation – Junior League. Reminds me of my cotillion days which I don’t look back on fondly.

Second hesitation – I don’t have a clue what to do. I walk in to a packed convention center and am lost. I find my way in. Find the stage and head to the room behind it. That is filled with dozens and dozens of girls in black leotards. Then I really start to panic. I don’t know what to do or where to go or who to hand my little bitty 3 year old off to. I find a familiar face who tells me to put on her ballet slippers and then hands her to a teenager.

And. no one has seen the other boy in her class. The main teacher was also out with a death in the family.

Gulp. Tess might be flying solo.

I go to try and find a seat. Which was impossible because apparently you have to get there crazy early for an actual seat, but Shaun and Owen had claimed a bench in the back. Someone near me had a schedule and I found Tess’s number 8th on the list of about 25.

Several little groups come out. Most about Tess’s age or maybe a little bit older. Groups of 5-6 girls at a time. And they are more comical than anything. A few dance in the middle, some do their own thing, some even try to walk off the stage completely. But they are cute. And everyone laughs and claps.

It gets closer to Tess’s turn and I wonder if she is ok back there. And I pray that she won’t have to venture out on that stage alone. Because I know that I’d be scared out of my mind if it was me. And I have a good 30 years on her.

And Tess isn’t exactly Miss Independent. She doesn’t like to sleep by herself. She doesn’t like to color by herself. Or play by herself. Watch movies by herself. She even wants me in the room with her while she poops. All this togetherness wears me out. And brave is not really an adjective I'd use to describe her either. When we went to the beach, she wasn't interested in the waves. I have to push her down slides. She takes a while to warm up to new people and new situations. And she is afraid of the shower, self flushing toilets and the vacuum cleaner.

So I was panicked about what she would do when she walked out on a big stage and saw all those people. And had to do her dance. By herself. I wondered if she would cry. Or panic. Or if I would. If maybe I should go up on stage with her. And suddenly I wished that I had watched closer through that window rather than texting friends or checking facebook, so that I could do the dance with her. Because I would have.

Just before Tess’s turn I walked to the side stage and found Tess attached to the same teenager’s hip I had left her with 45 minutes earlier. She looked a little unsure. And so I gave her my best pep talk. And almost cried Told her I couldn’t wait to see her dance and how proud I’d be. Then I pulled out the best mom trick in the book. I shamelessly bribed her with the Barbie of her choice afterwards.

Just as I heard the microphone announce her. Just her.

And everyone stopped to look at the cute little in the black leotard that her daddy had accidently put on backwards earlier ( don’t worry, we fixed it before the big show).

The teenager peeled her off. And set her on the stage.

I camped out right in front. Without a seat. Not worrying about blocking anyone’s vision because it’s not like anyone eles’s kid was up there.

Owen gave her a thumbs up. I held my breathe. And she looked a little scared.

But not nearly as scared as I was. About what she would do. Or what I would do.

And the music started and the teachers off to the side started to do the routine.

And then she did the absolute last thing I expected.

She nailed it. The moves. The hand motions. The twirls. She even smiled.

I snapped a quick picture. Hoped Shaun was taping in the back. And noticed a few people beside me, strangers, get out their phones and start taping too.

Because she was that cute. And little. And the girl who refuses to so much as go to the bathroom by herself, completely owned the stage.

Afterwards, when everyone clapped and cheered, this mom blubbered like a baby in the front and wondered what Barbie we would be adding to our collection.

(almost impossible to see b/c Shaun is so far back and she is so tiny...but look close, she is the tiny dot in the middle)

(yes, i know billy idol is more appropriate here...but i love this song and especially the T&S version even more....although I have done my share of dancing to some idol)

Guns, Boobs, and Racist Comments

2011-11-11T17:30:00.000-08:00

...all from my kids.

My son was talking about someone named Maddy. We have a good friend named Maddy, but we haven’t seen her lately and I know that it is a common name so I was trying to decipher who exactly he was talking about. Our conversation went as follows:
Me:“Owen, is there a Maddy in your classs?”
O:” Yes, but that one is a different color than us.”
Me. (trying not to freak out or make it too big a deal, but slightly concerned and wondering where this conversation was going to go…because I have never heard him mention race or color before)…”hmmm, what does that mean Owen? What color are you?”
O: “Mom!!! (like I am asking the most dumb and obvious question ever). “I’m blonde”

In the car on the way home from dinner, Owen and Tess were entertaining themselves in the backseat. Mostly by Owen pretending that his hand was a gun and was shooting his sister with his fingers. Tess, might be the girliest girl I know….but she can wrestle and play legos and hang with all the boys on our street…took no time at all to get out her “handgun” and start shooting back. With full sound effects. After firing off just a few rounds, She looked at her hand, then at me and says, “Mine’s not working!”

We pulled into the parking lot of a local Mexican restaurant that happens to be one building over from a Hooters. I go to help Owen out of the car and his face is all lit up and he excitedly exclaims,
“Mom! We’re going to Hooters!”
Uhm. No. And we never will.

(and keeping w/ the kid inappropriate theme...two more things they should avoid, but makes for a pretty great song.)

I may run like a tortiose, but this isn't a fable.

2011-11-06T19:46:00.000-08:00

With the gift of an extra hour ( I love falling back…just don’t talk to me in March when I have to “spring forward”), I decided to sneak in a short run before church. There aren’t many things out there that clear my head, but running is one of them. And it usually takes at least a few miles until my legs hurt enough or the oxygen is all in my muscles rather than my brain before things start to clear out.

This morning however. That was not the case. The longer I ran. The more muddled my brain became.

And it started to sound a lot like my three year old, asking lots of why questions. Things that haven’t bothered me in a while were sneaking their way back in. And I tried turning up my ipod and running faster. But. neither worked.
So, I decided I need to shut this down fast.
(and please don’t act like you don’t have conversations with yourself. We all do it. It is called self talk. And it can destroy or save you. And frankly, I’m tired of losing. So, I decided this morning that I was gonna win this one).

So, I decided to figure out what I was supposed to be learning from all this.
Because God uses stuff. The ick. And the bad and the hard. To teach us lessons right? I figured the answer is to just learn my lesson and it will all go away. And my feet could go back to running without all this nonsense running through my head. So I asked God what I was supposed to be learning.

And.

This is also going to sound a little crazy. But sometimes God talks back. And not like some thunder or voice or burning bush. Sometimes I am not even really sure it is God. It might just be me. Or what I want to hear. Or maybe I am crazy.

But. This time I heard,
“What makes you think there is a lesson?”
Well, because there is always a lesson. The bible is full of them. And the best way to get through a hard situation is to see the good and try to figure out what I’m supposed to be learning or doing different. Which was partly a lie, because mostly I justed wanted to fix my negative thoughts fast and be done with them. I wanted an answer. A solution.

“How about you just see the good. Stop trying to fix things. No lesson”

I was still confused.
There has to be a lesson.
“Nope”

And I suddenly realized that I had reduced God. And his story. And his bible. And his love to a fable.

With the assumption that hard things or good things and any thing is about teaching me something. And well, I’m a teacher. But I’ve always been a horrible student. I made good grade yes. But I was stubborn. And talked back. And skipped class. And have always had a bit of an authority problem. And apparently I’ve seen God as just a “teacher”. And I’m used to him trying to teach me the same stuff over and over. Because I rarely get it the first time. And plenty of people will tell you that Christ was a really good teacher or rabbi or even just a really good man.
And he was.
But that isn’t the same thing as a savoir or a friend.

I was still stumped on this whole – aren’t you supposed to be teaching me something thing.
So I kept arguing. Which is a pretty dumb thing to do with God. (forementioned authority issues.) And kept thinking, but Jesus taught in parables. Don’t they always have some great moral lesson at the end.

But apparently that is just a fable.

A parable and a fable, although similar, are not the same thing. Fables are short, like a sit com. Cutesy. They usually have talking animals. And tidy little moral lessons at the end. That is clearly spelled out. Just ask the tortoise or the grasshopper.
Jesus taught with parables, not fables. And according to my research ( and google totally counts as research). Parables are always about people. The word parable comes from a Greek word, “parabole” meaning comparison. And are used to show some bigger spiritual truth. And they rarely spell out the lesson at the end. It is implied, but you still have to get there by yourself.

In otherwords, Jesus, used stories to talk about people, with things they could relate to, to help explain some kind of bigger spiritual truth. But they usually end in as many questions as they do answers. And he only rarely explains them. No talking animals. No tidy little lessons. Just questions and challenges and some stories to really screw with our current social constructs. And I do mean current – not 2000 years old. I mean really, I still relate to the older prodigal’s brother, I still sometimes think that the vineyard workers who worked all day got jipped and I even think the guy who buried his talents got a bad rap. It’s not like he gambled them away in Vegas or anything. And so there are truths to be pondered. Questions to be asked. And views to be shifted.
None of them can be wrapped up in a cute little one sentence lesson about an ant, or a fox and grapes, or a lion and a mouse. And as I can remember, none of them had animals that could speak at all. And so it turns out, God is more interested in shaping and changing and becoming. He wants me to ask questions and seek and discover.
Not read a cute little story and learn a lesson.
God doesn’t reduce my struggles to a one sentence piece of advice.

God doesn’t tell fables.
Fables are short and fictional and rarely involve people.
Stories are long. And involved. And personal.
And not so much about a lesson and more about a relationship.
Especially love stories.

(And, yes. I’m well aware that it sounds like maybe I learned something after all. Just don’t expect me to sum it up for you in one sentence.)

daughter. mine. and a band.

2011-11-04T19:17:00.000-07:00

There are two kinds of people.

Ones who will drive around the block again to finish a good song. And those who would never even consider it. Let’s just say I’ve made the block many times over.
Don’t have much to say tonight. Even though it was a really good night. But this song, that someone recommended to me today, is worth another loop around.

(and this might not have earned another trip around the block, but it did get her two hand stamps....which is the 3 year old equivalent of a 4 star review.

sleep to dream

2011-11-01T20:17:00.000-07:00

My bed growing up used to scare me. I don’t mean going to bed. Or nightmares. Or things hiding under my bed. I mean my actual bed.

The headboard reaches the ceiling. It is 2-3X the height of a normal bed and the intricate carvings and designs I thought looked like a gargoyle face. At least they do when you are 6. Which is about how old I was when I inherited my grandparents antique bed. I practically needed a ladder to climb into it and rolling off in the middle of the night would cause me to check for broken bones. It creaked and cracked and occasionally the floor boards would fall out. This made sneaking out of bed tough growing up. And maybe my parents planned it that way.

I knew it wasn’t normal.
My friends had cute little trundle beds that you could pull out for sleepovers.
Or one friend even had a fancy four poster bed with tulle hanging over the top.
And to kids, tweens and teens my bed was just weird.
No amount of Tom Cruise posters or glow in the dark stars on the ceiling could hip it up.
My plain salmon comforter wasn’t doing me any favors either.
There were a few perks. Like it was easy to hide under with plenty of headroom.
I had all kinds of storage space.
And any one over the age of 50 was quick to compliment the antique that dominated my room.

My parents moved out of the house I grew up in over a decade ago.
Most of my things are in the attic.
But I still call the first room on the right upstairs mine. Because it has my bed.
The other upstairs bedroom has the cute little trundle bed I always wanted growing up.
And a bowflex.

Nothing about going home feels constant or static with me.
I know my way around my husband’s hometown and house better than my own.
I know that the coffee shop closes early. I know that if I look too hard in the drawers I might find a Christmas present. From last year. I know that you can’t go to the Coney at noon and expect to get a booth.
My own hometown is always changing. I sometimes get lost when I run. I know where to find ziplock bags and soft drinks and my dad’s candy stash. But I don’t know where to put the dishes or find a hair dryer. Even the highway exits seem to change.
And it’s not the house I grew up in. It isn’t even the house I usually visit. That one is in another town on a lake. And I keep an extra toothbrush, bathing suit and contact solution there.
But in that house I don’t have a room.
I choose. Each time. Between the one with the plaid comforter or the navy one. Both on nice comfortable perfectly normal looking queen size beds.

Last weekend I went home. To my hometown and not the lake. And my mom asked where we were going to sleep. Upstairs or down? And the question is really, temperpedic or antique.
And I usually pick the good mattress. But this time, I hauled my bag upstairs.
By the time I went to sleep – Tess and Owen were already sprawled out across the trundle bed. My husband was downstairs still watching football. And I pulled back the covers and crawled into my old bed.
The one I’ve slept in since I was six.
And everything in that town and house seems different. Newer. Nicer. With fresher paint and new comforters. There were no posters on the wall. No TV in the corner. No neon light up phone with a long cord tangled across my floor covered with clothes.
But my bed still creaked when I climbed (and I do mean climbed) in.
And as I laid there I closed my eyes and could picture my rooms. It was like a scent or a song. I suddenly could see it all perfectly clear. And I remembered a few shorter thinner versions of me laying in the exact same place. I slept in that bed before I could write cursive or multiply. And eventually that bed moved down the hall and into my brother’s old room. I slept in that same place after my first kiss. I read hundreds of books, spent hours on the phone and did my Calculus homework in that bed. And I even remember crawling in that same bed the night before I got married. I watched 90210 and cried and hoped and prayed on those same pillows and after my crappy night’s sleep the other night – probably even the same mattress.

The house is different. The comforter is different. The rest of the furniture isn’t the same. The posters are missing. The light up phone was thrown out years ago. But. The girl. The six year old. The sixteen year old. The 33 year old. In many ways, she is different. Changing sometimes as fast and confusing as my town. But, some things. They always stay the same. The carvings don’t scare me anymore. The old wood still creaks. And now, my kids are the ones hiding underneath. My current house doesn’t have a single antique. Most of my furniture comes from IKEA. The last thing anyone would notice when walking into my room is my bed. They’d notice the green shelves that a friend gave me. Or the carved brightly colored chest I splurged on when I was first married. The fact that my floor is still covered with clothes and occasionally papers and now toys that aren’t my own. But, I can climb into that bed at my parents new house and I know exactly where I am and remember exactly who I was. I know every creak. I know that I always sleep on the right side there (but not other places). I know the fan rattles when it is on high. I know that one blanket isn’t enough and that it is always further down (or up) than you think. I also know that it is way cooler than any boring trundle bed.

the traditional halloween repost

2011-10-31T17:54:00.000-07:00

this picture is almost as old as this post....and yes, i still have the dj lance outfit in my closet somewhere....

Tonight is finally Halloween, but I feel like we are always dressed up around here. Owen is usually something from starwars, and Tess is a princess or a fairy or barbie or even occasionally all three. And I will put on pretty much anything to make meykids (or anyone else) laugh.... So far this week Owen has been Jango Fett and Waldo, and Tess Rainbow Brite, Super Woman and Tinkerbell (and if you were wondering, despite my facebook post I did not send her to school on "book character" day as Hester Prynne....although I still think it would have been funny!)

So here is to costumes and my annual Halloween repost from when he was 3 and spiderman:

Owen just scooted out the door for the day dressed as spiderman. His school is having a halloween party......but I am not sure he was supposed to show up ALL day in costume. I also considered the fact that they are serving lasagna for lunch, and the outfit is a one-piecer making "potty time" a nightmare. I thought maybe just taking his costume to put on at party time would be a better idea. However, I could not convince my child of this.Before leaving he asked me a question that has stuck with me ( well maybe because he asked it about a dozen times in a span of 5 minutes).
"Who are you going to be today mommy?"
First I tried responding with something easy......"Owen's mommy". Apparently that was not exciting enough.Then I tried to appeal to the superhero in him with "super woman". Apparently they don't show that cartoon anymore so there is no such thing if you are 3. I started to get desperate and told him I could be "Dora". He considered this a bit longer before declining. He finally agreed with an old classic......."a ghost". He looked around for a sheet.......but settled for a few "boos" before he was out the door for a day filled with future cavities.
I am still in my pjs and don't plan on dressing up as anything.........but it's not a bad question to ask yourself first thing in the morning.....and not just on halloween.

...and the only choice for tonight is of course thriller, and I so many good options to choose from. MJ with the original, the Royal Guard, the OU marching band, Jennifer Garner, fall out by, prison inmates....but I gotta go with Imogen on this cover.

So, Happy Halloween to most of you, but also Happy Birthday to my husband who can turn any old trashcan into a kickin R2D2, given many hours, plenty of paint and almost as much $ as it would take to build an actual robot. But when neighbors asked for their photo taken with it.....it was all worth it :)

pineapples

2011-10-26T20:22:00.000-07:00

This is my 12th year teaching. I have about 150 kids a year. Give or take a dozen.

And 150 X 12 is a lot.
And as much as I mean to. I don’t remember them all. I’ve been in four different schools and some of my students have multiple kids, multiple degrees and multiple marriages by now. Many of their faces and names sound familiar, but all too often they blur together.

But.
I remember Virginia who shaved off her eyebrows and drew them in and intimidated me a little. Rumor is she came form Juvy. But she laughed really big and I did everything I could to make her laugh. And it paid off.

I remember Crystal, who, when I was young and new I went around the room and asked what their future goals were, told me she wanted to be a stripper. I quickly picked my jaw up off the floor and told her she better stay in school and learn how to manage all that money first. She didn’t let anyone mess with me. I took her out to eat once and think it was the only time she had been in a restaurant with menus. And I still wonder who she grew up to be.

I remember Sam. Who wasn’t always talked about warmly in the teacher’s lounge. But I didn’t mind his mouth and thought he was smart. And for some reason, when I told him he actually believed me.

I remember Tracy. Who stood up the first day of high school and tried to prove to her classmates that the God that she believed in was true. And I’ve spent hours with her in coffee shops discussing that same faith. And am still trying to find a way to get to Peru so we can continue our conversation. The best way I know how. With actions.

I remember Julie. Who reminded me of me. and gave me mismatched socks and mix cds. And sometimes I still do her math homework.

And Chad who was never sober and gave me absolute hell but I liked anyways. and I told him. And Melanie who had a mouth on her. Who argued with me til she was blue in the face. Until once I told her that I thought maybe she was right. And I meant it. And she never argued again. And Amy who’s dad died. And Tracy whose mom had cancer. And Ron who called me a bitch once but is a teacher now and I play trivia with whenever I get the chance.

And I could go on. and on. Maybe I could tell you 100 or more that I remember. Fondly . And specifically.

But. to be honest. Sometimes I don’t even get my current kids names right.… Sometimes I will see a waitress and know they look familiar. That I was probably their teacher once. But am just not sure.

And sometimes I will see a kid that I adored in Target, and they will avoid eye contact and quickly dart down another aisle. And then I’ll see another that I failed twice or wrote up dozens of times, or even worse, one I barely noticed and they will scream my name half way across the store and go in for a hug. And you just never know. Who is going to actually remember you. And how. If I was nice. Or snide. Or distracted.

And even though I’ve sat in too many funerals. Or seen too many bruises. Or glazed eyes. And hurt for these almost grownups. I especially hate that I spend a year with these kids and sometimes know so little. And that I can forget so quickly.

Once I spoke up at a memorial service. For another student I will never forget. And my night was flooded with old faces. Some more familiar than others. And I remembered hers. And for some reason sent her an email. Or maybe she sent me one. I’m not sure.
And I’m gonna be honest. I don’t remember much of her in my class. She was warm and funny and different from most of her classmates. She had a hard time passing my tests. And she asked me to give her a fruit cup if she did. Which I thought was a pretty odd request. But. one I followed through with. Almost a decade later she remembered me giving her a fruit cup of all things. And I’m sure I adored her at the time. but I forgot quickly. Until I didn’t.

And what ensued was good conversation dirty chai lattes. Or beers (don’t worry she was plenty old enough) and lots of Jesus talk and me trying unsuccessfully to keep up with her in my running shoes and more questions than answers. Once I even bought her a pineapple just because she said she liked them. And figured it was better than a fruit cup. And then she moved several states away. And I almost forgot again.

Until I read her words today:
Let me just express how good God is.
Majority of my friends don’t know Jesus the way I do.They party a lot. They are perverted. They are unfiltered.
I don’t go around talking about Jesus non-stop.
I dont update my twitter/facebook with bible verses or deep saying from some preacher.
In fact.. I really dont do anything.
What I do is love people with the same love Jesus loves me with.
I have had some christian friends tell me there is no fruit in my life and that kind of stuff really discourages me. In a way… I feel like it taints my relationship with Jesus because then I’m trying to do stuff that causes fruit to be “seen”.
I had a co-worker come up to me the other day at work, look me straight in the eyes and say, “I want to be you. Will you teach me the bible?”
Like I said.. I don’t do anything that flaunts that I’m even a Christian.
I just love people unconditionally”

And that friends. Is fruit. Worth a pineapple or a fruit cup any day.
I taught this girl chemistry 8ish years ago. Which I'm sure she has mostly forgotten.
And today she taught me to remember. And to love a little more like that.

(and yes, of course, I remember lots more than that. and changed most of those names. and she isn't the first student to school this teacher)

stuck in the middle

2011-10-23T18:27:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago was Game 2 of the World Series I went to bed while St. Louis had the lead. It didn’t look good for the Rangers and call me a 2%er all you want. I leave my house while most of you are still snug in your beds and it was a work day. The next morning, while getting coffee I was shocked to see that Rangers win taking up a full page spread on a newspaper another customer discarded on the table. I went to sleep. And missed it. (and I wish I had slept through Game 3 but that is a different post)

Last night, my average college team took down the #3 team in the nation. And I went to bed at half time. Again I was worn out and exhausted. Even though we were up by several touchdowns I kind of expected them to lose it anyways. And I am totally into my college football (well at least my team, not like my husband who can somehow be into every team). But a rain delay and two trunk or treats with a Jawa and Rainbow Brite on too much candy had done me in. And when my husband came to bed well after midnight he informed me that they held the lead for one of the biggest upsets in school history. And I was asleep. Again.

And sure I can watch the highlights or read about it in the paper. But that isn’t quite the same thing. Reading about it after the fact doesn't make your heart pound and you certainly dont jump off the couch cheering. Knowing how it ends somehow ruins all that.

I read somewhere today that the plot of pretty much every single musical is really simple: Boy meets girl. Boy gets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl back. (and suddenly I have the urge to watch Grease). And how lame would the story be if we ended it after the first act. Or we left after the break up scene. How different would most books or movies be if we stopped in the middle. Or like me, went to sleep before it was really over.

What if we stopped the most important story at the cross. And neglected to get to the three days later part?

And I’ve read and listened to enough talks about writing to learn that a critical element to any story is conflict.

In other words. The middle.
And I hate that. I want to start at the beginning and skip to the end and avoid the messy, long hard middle.
The part where we have to go to the store. Or the kids are sick. Or the tire is flat. Or I watch the same episode of House for the 10th time. Or we get on each other's nerves. (and I could keep going but don't want to put anyone to sleep because currently there is an exciting game4 going on!)

And how isn’t that true for most things.
The middle isn’t always the most intriguing part of the story.
The beginning tries to hook you and the ending tries to make you cry with either joy or sadness and resolve everything. Those two chapters get all the big scenes and moments and the fanciest words.

But the middle is really where the story is.

And I even used to tell newer friends that some of my past friendships didn’t end well for me. Maybe I was trying to warn them. Maybe I was trying to warn myself. But I need to stop saying it because most of the time that is a lie.
I’m always referring to a small handful of people that I love the best. But the end part is crap. Because most of us are still friends. And in some cases even a better version than we were in the beginning. So really I don’t mean that it ends bad, because it never ended. Rather there is just some sucky part in the middle. And I’m even going to go out on a limb and say that conflict is critical not just to story but also to relationship. Show me a married couple who never fights and I’m willing to bet they never speak.

And 90% of the time we are living in the middle.
In the conflict. Or a boring stretch. Or where a character (the one in the story or even just our own) is being developed.
We long for beginnings and ends. But we can’t have a story without the middle.
And I am not naïve enough to think that they all have happy endings.
Some of those subplots are still going to be tragedies.
The boy might not get the girl back.
Games are lost.
Some middles are really ends that lead to even better beginnings.

But. I’m learning to appreciate the middle. Realizing that it is an important part of the story. Even if it isn’t the one I’m trying to tell. And that if the middle is hard I just need to wait until the next act. Or at least stay awake long enough to see the end of the game.

(and this is a particularly crummy video ...as in no actual video, and the sound kind of stinks. but it is a song I love. and pretty appropriate for the parts in the middle when we are prone to forget. and just be glad I am not playing the Tech fight song or anything from the Grease soundtrack....because I own the soundtracks to both grease 1 and 2 and am totally proud of it)

The three year old test

2011-10-18T19:39:00.000-07:00

I’ve learned, the hard way that when I take my kids in for well child check ups that there will be questions. I like to call it the whatever-age-they-are-test. Mostly for the moms.

First come the questions about my kids that I should know, but might not. Like do they alternate their feet when climbing upstairs? I don’t know. She gets up the stairs. Is that all that matters. And I don’t exactly have stairs in my house. So this whole stair observation thing is pretty limited. Besides, she’d much rather take the alligator anyways. Which I clearly know means elevator, but took my husband a while to catch on.

Next are the questions that I know I should lie when asked, but unfortunately sometimes accidentally answer with the truth.
Like when she asks if she eats a balanced diet I respond with do chicken nuggets, fruit snacks, yogurt and cookies count as balanced?
Does she do chores? Uhm. She is 3. Is that too early to use the vacuum and iron. Because if not I am about to be one happy lady.
Does she share and play well with others? I repeat. She is three.
Where does she sleep? In her bed. Until about 3 am. And then with her feet directly in either me or my husband’s face.
Do you eat family dinners around the table? Yes. Well sometimes. The rule is if I cook we eat at the table if we eat leftovers or order out the living room is fair game. And breakfast is often eaten in the car. I do not allow them to eat in my room though. I have learned this the hard way. Snap Crackle and Pop are not guys I like to share my bed with. And I have.
Do you limit her TV time? Yes. It is limited to anytime I am trying to cook dinner, grade papers, check my facebook, and go to the bathroom by myself.
Does she go to time out? Just last week she tried to send her babysitter to her room. I think this girl knows what a time out is.
Do you teach her about stranger danger? Not necessary. This girl gives mean looks that can bore through almost anyone’s skull. And those are to our friends!

And finally the questions that I tried to prep her for. I wasn’t ready for Owen’s three year old questions, so we have been practicing. Colors. Trying to spell her name. Things she likes. Her full name. Her parents real names (you know besides mommy and daddy). That kind of thing.
And problem #1 – I can’t get her to be called anything but Tess. I say you are silly or happy or funny or you fill in the blank. She always answers with “No, I’m Tess”. So I knew the last name would be tough. But I’ve been working on it. Trying to teach her she has a middle and a last name too. Just like the rest of us. And she keeps insisting that she is Tess. Just Tess. And maybe she will be like Madonna. Or Seal. Or Bono. And I gave up.
So showtime and the doctor asks for her full name. And she gives the standard response “I’m Tess”
Then the doctor asks for her last name. I sigh. Knowing we are going to fail. But Tess suddenly pipes up. I am hopeful until I hear her answer. “Mess”
Tess the Mess. And I nod. True enough.
Then dr asks what my name is. She gets mine right ( we had just practiced on the stairs up to her office …and apparently I should have been watching to see if she alternated her feet rather than working on the family tree). Then for my husband’s. “What is your daddy’s name?"
Firmly and confidently Tess answers “Yes. Sir”.
And I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or clean up my house for when CPS decides to do a surprise visit after the doctor calls. But I’m pretty sure her dad would be proud of that answer and mostly glad it wasn’t “Yes Ma’am” which he often gets.

So after the three year old test we got flu mist up the nose and a shot in the leg.
After which she sobbed and sobbed and cried and begged for that daddy of hers.
Who was in Kansas or I assured her we could be calling Mr. Yes Sir for some back up!
Well at least until she got a sticker and a sucker and calmed down again. I told her she was very brave.
To which she replied, “ No mom. I’m Tess”
And we took the alligator back down stairs.

And the girl's got the Beiber Fever, but also likes the Stones...this is one of her favorites...If musical tastes were on the 3 year old test she would pass it with flying colors! (she also digs Jane's Addiction, Florence and the Machine, Adelle and hates Miley Cyrus. But don't give her too much credit. She also really likes that dumb Barbie Girl song!

18 inches

2011-10-17T18:44:00.000-07:00

The other day I got an email from a friend. She was in a bible study and they had to survey a few people with a question about how we view God. I don’t remember the question exactly, but something along the lines of “What do we think we have to do to get God to like us?”
And of course the right answer is “nothing”.
And I mean it. I know that the answer to that is nothing.
Nothing I can say or do makes God love me any less.
I’ve read it. I’ve heard it. I’ve even told other people that.

But really wrapping my heart around that. And living that way. And treating other people like it is true for them. Well. That is harder to do.

So I wrote her two answers.
The true one.
And also with the one that I know isn’t true, but sometimes think anyways.
And I could answer lots and lots of questions like that. With two answers.
The one my head knows is true, but that I struggle to really believe in my heart.

I’ve always read a lot. And so more often than not, I know the right answers to questions. Or at least where to find them. In Sunday school or algebra class or even how to handle a messy situation.

Recently I’ve had some conflict that I wasn’t sure how to respond to. I asked several friends how to react and every person gave me a different answer. But every single one of them said one thing the same. They told me not to listen to the criticism. To not let it get to me. And. it. has.
Because what I should do and what really happens in my heart don't always match up. Even when I want them to.
And so I sat across from one of those friends. And mumbled, but how?
I mean I know it. But how do I make myself feel that.
And there wasn’t really an answer.

I used to get the crazy stare in bible studies, when I asked similar questions. I knew the answers I was supposed to give. But when I asked people how to actually live like that. I mostly heard crickets.

Because apparently most people like to ignore those 18 inches.
The distance between our head and our hearts.
What Psychology Today considers to be the longest distance in the world.

In class I just finished teaching about free fall. And despite what most people believe mass does not affect how fast things fall. Meaning a brick and a penny dropped from the same height should hit at the same time. But my class usually doesn’t believe me when I tell them that. (Projectile motion tends to blow their mind even more, but I'll save the science lecture for another day). Most of them catch on and realize what they need to be able to tell me to get the right answers on their test whether they think it is really true or not. By the time we are done taking notes, they know the right answers, and can even spit them back out at me. But they don’t believe me until I climb up on a desk and start dropping stuff. Or even better, let them do it.

And I still don’t know how to bridge that gap.
And 18 inches isn’t too terribly far to jump.
Even if it sometimes feels like 1800 miles.
All I know is that sometimes you just have to do it.
Let things fall. And trust that they will hit at the right time.

(and I almost posted the john mayer version of this song...which is so good....and i love a good cover and the acoustic version of pretty much anything...but couldn't do that to Tom!)

swimming

2011-10-15T20:41:00.000-07:00

Lately I have felt like I am drowning. And I’m not usually this girl…but I have written about a similar feeling before here. That I am just trying to get through. And as soon as I find my feet. Something else seems to land in my way and push me under again. And I feel ridiculous because theses things aren’t so rough. And I'm mostly fine. It is just that things seem to keep coming. And as soon as I recover from one thing. I get hit by another. I wrote something new about it about a week ago, but didn’t really know how to wrap it up or where to go with it. Or even if I wanted to put it out there. Because I don’t like to be a complainer or have people email me and ask if I’m ok or hint that maybe I should take some meds.

But then this morning I picked up a book that I've already read, and read this. Again.
http://www.shaunaniequist.com/storage/media/learningtoswim_chapter.pdf
It is first chapter in Shauna Niequist’s book Bittersweet. And I heart Shauna. But I almost never read books twice. I’m not even sure why I picked it up. But I did. And she said exactly what I have been thinking lately. But better and without being surly. I even realized I had written one of the exact same lines in an email recently.

And so, below is what I wrote last week or so…..not nearly as good as Shauna and way more whiny:

This morning was a rough Monday morning. Except it wasn’t a Monday.
The husband who usually has morning duty is in another time zone. Which means I am getting my kids up, dressed and fed (no easy feats)…an hour earlier than their usual times. Plus, I have to be out the door at a ridiculous time myself…and I was already late yesterday. This morning was looking even worse.

Owen complained about his stomach, but I offered him a donut and hustled him along.
I dropped Tess in her class room, and sent Owen into another.
Again, not his usual routine at all…but what I have to do when Shaun can’t drop him off at school.
And as I’m about to get in my car, a teacher runs out and tells me that he is throwing up.
I rush back in. And watch him wretch a second time all over the carpet.

This is problematic for multiple reasons and so far the only upside was that someone else was going to be cleaning up the puke.

And I struggled to make decisions about who to call, and what to do. I had meetings and a field trip and it was way too late to be calling in for a sub. And when I did I was told that getting one was really doubtful. And that was enough for me to be done. Maxed out. Stressed. Five seconds away from tears.
And a little perspective. Not such a big deal. People out there are dealing with real stuff. Disease. Foreclosure. Divorce.
I’m just had a sick kid. And a complicated schedule.

But, recently I feel like it has been one thing after another. And my normal half full outlook is being tested. Things in my life that are normally easy. Seem suddenly hard.
Work. Friendships. Marriage. My health. Even just remembering to pay the water bill. Which I also just learned the hard way that they really mean that cut off date. And trust me, nothing is more humbling than walking next door and asking to borrow a pitcher of water.

And it always feels like everything hits all at once.
As soon as I find my way back to my feet.
I trip over something else.
One thing after another.
And I keep thinking it has to end. Things have to turn around. Haven’t I already dealt with enough this week. That I have had my fill and it is someone else’s turn.
And I go back to that old cliché. God never gives you more than you can handle.
Which I think that is baloney.
And that it isn’t at all biblical. And I’m pretty sure if anyone had tried to tell Job that he’d have slapped them in the face (or at least wanted to!)
I have always hated that phrase,
Mostly because it always seems like the little things do me in. And this means that God knows I am a pansy.
It is the harsh comments and locking my keys in my car and hitting all the red lights that seem to break me.
I sweat the small stuff. Especially when the small stuff seems to keep coming.
And so, I’m pretty sure that the opposite of that cliche is true. God pursues us. Continually. Persistently. Without relief. And it isn’t a matter of not being given more than we can handle. And the God I believe in doesn’t test or punish, but he doesn’t waste things either. And he is more than happy to remind me that I am not supposed to be handling it at all. That was never my job. That maybe being given too much is a chance to stop trying to carry it. That drowning is really a chance to swim.
And more importantly that it was never supposed to be about me to begin with. The story is so much bigger than that.

So back to some Shauna Niequist. You really should go and read the whole chapter. Or just ask me to borrow my book but in case you don't…. Here are some of my favorite snippets:

"I learned about waves when I was little, swimming in Lake Michigan, in navy blue water under a clear sky, and the most important thing I learned was this: if you try to stand and face the wave, it will smash you to bits, but if you trust the water, and let it carry you, there’s nothing sweeter. And a couple decades later, that’s what I’m learning to be true about life, too. If you dig in and fight the change you’re facing, it will indeed smash you to bits.
It will hold you under, drag you across the rough sand, scare and confuse you.. If you dig in and fight the changes, they will smash you to bits. But if you can find it within yourself, in the wildest of seasons, just for a moment, trust in the goodness of God, who made it all and holds it all together, you’ll find yourself drawn along to a whole new place, and there’s truly nothing sweeter. Unclench your fists, unlock your knees and also the door to your heart, take a deep breath, and begin to swim. Begin to let the waves do their work in you."

And that sounds like relief. No matter how many waves keep coming. And so, mid-October may not be swimsuit season for most of us….but after reading that I was ready to stop fighting. Or just getting through it. Or even just trying to talk myself out of the fact that it is hard, because I don't think it stacks up to someone else's hard. And instead to start swimming. Letting the waves carry me rather than keep crashing over me. I’m just hoping that since it is fall, and mostly pants season, I won’t have to actually shave my legs first.

clean sheets and the nursery

2011-10-04T13:26:00.000-07:00

When I’m dropping my kids off in the nursery at church, a nice sweet mom used to corner me to ask me where I’d like to serve in the children’s ministry.

And. Just because I have children does not mean you should put me in charge of other people’s.
Little people scare me. Sometimes even my own.

I’m so grateful that there are people with perfect hair and ironed skirts who want to sing songs and change diapers and dole out goldfish. But I’m not really that girl.
Don’t get me wrong, I am more than willing to do my share. As long as it doesn’t involve hand motions.

The last time she asked I said, “I’d really rather feed homeless people than teach Sunday School”. And she laughed like I’d just told her a funny joke.
“No, really, I insisted I mean that. I really like homeless people. And the thought of being left alone with a dozen three year olds makes me want to breathe into a paper bag. But, I’m happy to sub or fill in or whatever you need. Occasionally. Just let me know”.
“Oh.” She said. And never asked again.

And since it was getting me out of toddler duty, I figure I should go when my church heads to the homeless park downtown. The last time I went reluctantly. I had no small talk in me. Whatsoever. For church people or park people. But I went anyways.
The park was crowded and there were only a handful of volunteers. I couldn’t work fast enough and we ran out of food and I couldn’t keep people from talking to me. And not awkward small talk but sit down and pour out their stories kind of talking. No one tried to dry hump me (which has happened). I did get unsolicited advice on my nail polish choice and that I should take better care of my cuticles from a fiftyish toothless man. Another lady asked if I knew where she could get a purse. I immediately went to my car and dumped everything out of mine and brought it to her. Feeling pretty good about myself, except she then declined. Really. A homeless lady who was using a Walmart bag as a purse snubbed her nose at mine. I think I might need to upgrade. Right after I take better care of my cuticles.

My favorite was a man who told me about getting arrested for stealing fifty grand. Then he sat me down to compare tattoos and eventually started to preach to me. Which was a little backwards since I was the church lady there to serve him and he was the one who had served time. He talked about how God spoke to him in prison and was using him on the streets. Told me he’d been clean for two days. But that he planned on doing some heroin after he ate his lunch. I told him maybe he could try for day3. And something about that floored me. The fact that he could be so fired up and so screwed up at the same time. Because I feel like that a lot. And maybe that is why I like going to the homeless park instead of working the church nursery. Why I don’t have a hard time looking people there in the eye. No one is hididng anything. They are just hungry. And I felt that way last time I went to the beach. When I’d run in the morning I saw a few bums sleeping off their drink from the night before. Curled up on the sand with cheap wine laying nearby. I just kept thinking that there wasn’t a lot of difference between them and me. I just had clean sheets.

And I still sometimes feel guilty about my minimal involvement in the children’s ministry at my church. Or the women’s ministry. Or not going to a weekly bible study. Or a billion other things I don’t do. But maybe there are lots of ways to serve and be fed. Like finding Jesus in a guy with a rap sheet and no teeth and praying he makes it to day 3. Wishing he had clean sheets too.

I also wrote the above weeks ago. Not even intentionally as a blog post, but again kind of forgot about it. I've been reading...another...book. Interrupted by Jen Hatmaker. And she isn't saying anything I've never heard before. But somehow she is saying it right to my heart. My favorite line I read last night was this...
"We are all poor. Some of us just have more stuff."

This song has been messing with my head too...

five minutes

2011-10-02T12:47:00.000-07:00

The opposite of talking.
You would think is listening.
Or at least not talking.
But turns out for most of us. Or at least for me. Most of the time. Those aren’t the right answers.
The opposite of talking. Is waiting to talk.

And when I read that, in a coffee shop in Seattle, I cringed inside because I know it is more true than I want it to be.

My husband used to have a symbol to help me out in groups. He would tug on his ear when I needed to turn down the volume or worse when I kept interrupting. And I’d fill everyone else in on the joke. And usually keep going. Because awareness doesn’t always equal change.

And friends who have known me a while have their own way of dealing with my mouth.
One I work with just tries to tell people they just have to talk through me. And my oldest friends know to just ignore and eventually I tone it down and stop. And might even tell you this if we are out together. And they will be right.

Sometimes this bad habit of mine comes in handy. When people don’t know what to say. I usually just blaze through. I’m not afraid of awkward and eventually after enough words it usually isn’t awkward anymore. But. I don’t really come with volume control. Or an on-off button. And sometimes it is funny and entertaining. And others it is just obnoxious and rude.

I’ve been thinking that maybe my husband shouldn’t have to pull on his ear and my friends shouldn’t have to talk through. Or tell me to let someone else talk for a change.

So recently I’ve decided that I need to learn to listen. That surely it is a skill and something I just need to practice. Like running. Or playing an instrument. Something I can train myself to be better at.

(Confession, I wrote all of the above almost two months ago. And obviously forgot about it. To finish writing it. And certainly to practice it.)

Until this morning. My Sunday school class started a new study…and the first chapter and discussion was about the misconceptions of how we incorporate changes to our behavior. And we also talked about being quiet. And we didn’t do this, but the group study guide suggests starting each session with five minutes of silence. Not prayer or meditation or or breathing deeply or listening to someone else. But just five short minutes of being quiet. Like some odd grown up version of the quiet game that I would surely lose. I’m not the girl that walks in the house and turns on the TV, but I do often have the radio on. In my car turned up. On my ipod when I run. And on my computer when I try to get work done. There is a constant soundtrack going on behind me. Or I’m on the phone. Or writing down all my thoughts. Which is pretty much the same thing as outloud. And that is how I process. I have to talk or write it out. But maybe not all the time.

To answer the question of why waste five minutes by being quiet? Essentially the book said this…We live in a world filled with noise and distraction. It is easy to enter the last conversation while still processing the last one (or in my case, while having 2-3 other ones going on at the same time outoud, on my phone and in my head), In the midst of all this it is hard to hear God much less each other. Silence, is meant in preparation to listen. (the book: The Good and Beautiful God by James Bryan Smith in case you were wondering)

So I got home. And locked myself in the bathroom and figured I’d give it a try. The whole Quaker silence things as always intrigued me. Their worship services are essentially an hour of quiet. Just thinking about it makes me fidgety. My favorite part of yoga is the last five or so minutes laying flat on my back. Just breathing. In and out. Tired. Sweaty and somehow centered in a way I don’t usually get to any other way. But even then, it is directed. Someone is talking. Telling me when to breathe. Telling me to be quiet. And it is one of the rare occasions that I actually am.

I looked at my watch and figured to give it a shot on my own sans all that downward dog and 100° temperatures. (and lets be honest, I have been to yoga in months). Five minutes. Essentially a really long commercial break. So I sat there. And tried to just be quiet to clear my head. And lasted almost a full minute before looking at my watch. I caught myself trying to pray. Or make a shopping list. A to-do list. And each time. I stopped myself. And looked at my watch again.

Two minutes.

I can do quiet ok, it isn't easy for me. but I can. What I couldn't figure out was how to empty out my head. I thought maybe I’d wipe down the counters (and I assure you that is not a normal thought for me), but figured that would be cheating. I paid attention to my breathing because someone had suggested that earlier and it is what we do in yoga anyways. but. it just felt weird sitting there in the bathroom breathing deeply.

Three minutes.

And there was all kinds of crazy going on outside the door. Tess was screaming. Owen was running up and down the hall and Shaun was yelling at the Cowboys on TV. I thought maybe I should cut this a minute short. And deal with all the crazy just a few inches from me. No one was crying. Or bleeding. And that, surely, I could last another two minutes. I even plunged my fingers into my ears for a few seconds.

Four minutes.

And by now I was staring at the second hand on my watch. So, I decided to try a new strategy. To listen and see how much I could hear. And I don’t mean I was listening for God. Because. I think more often than not I am making up what I think he is saying anyways. but just literally to see what I could hear besides the screaming, laughing running.
And I heard the hum of the air-conditioner. And a bird outside. I heard the words my kids were saying rather than just the noise. And there was no super human hearing. I didn’t hear a pin drop the next block over. Or even have any major epiphany. And that last minute, was somehow easier than all the others. There were less mental lists or conversations. Except one.

Where I realized that it took me almost five full minutes of being quiet for me to start actually listening. And that was a lesson well worth my time.

...and I song I could listen to over and over...

what she said

2011-10-01T16:24:00.000-07:00

a few random conversations lately..

at Pappadeux while trying to convince Tess to put her shoes back on that she had kicked off under the table, while she was arguing that she wanted the purple ones with the flower on them..
Me: Tess, those shoes are at the house.
Tess: No! They are at MY house.
Me: My house IS your house.
Tess: Well, my house is messy then.
Me: Yes it is. Now, put your flip flops back on!

still at Pappadeux
Waiter to Shaun: Can I get you another Shiner?
Owen: Nope, I'm good. (with a slight head nod).
Me: (spit my entire mouthful of iced tea into my Greek salad)

while recouping on the couch after surgery last week, Owen comes comes strolling in the living room carrying a bottle of beer.
Owen: Mom, is this the yummy drink I was sharing with Annie (my mom) last weekend?
Me: I sure hope not! ...(got off the couch, rummaged in fridge until I found an IBC creme soda)...Is this it??
Owen: Oh, yes.
Me: good! and I only knew because you said Annie, not PawPaw

in class
student A to student B: you can turn it in now or next class.
student C: That's what she said!
Me: Really! if you are going to be innapropriate....atleast have it make sense!
student C: No, that is literally what you just said.
Me: oh. well, now it's funny.

and because I'm wishing i was at the House of Blues tonight listening to this guy...

Becomes sometimes words aren't enough

2011-09-26T18:48:00.000-07:00

I usually do the birthday post thing.
And I have plenty to say...
but I think these pictures and songs say it better than I could.

*and because I don't think I gave credit w/ my shoddy video attempt...the tunes are Sleeping at Last: Umbrellas and Needle and Thread.

last year's post: http://idontbelieveingrammar.blogspot.com/2010/09/tess-is-two.html
year before that: http://idontbelieveingrammar.blogspot.com/2009/09/birthday-blog.html

seasons

2011-09-23T15:58:00.000-07:00

Summer has long been over. However, officially, today is the first day of fall. And I won’t be pulling out the earth tones or picking apples, because our local 4 day forecast has it in the 90s all week. Our swimsuits don’t need to go anywhere just yet. But if I go to the store all I see are pumpkins and long sleeves. Starbucks brought out the pumpkin spice latte weeks ago. Next week is the last week of the first six weeks of the current school year. I’ve even seen a few Christmas decorations.

And I do really like earth tones. And those little orange mellowcreme pumpkins and not shaving my legs. In Texas, the weather kind of skips fall. We go from hot to cold and the right back to hot again. There aren’t the amazing foliage changes that you get up North. And to be honest a month straight of 100+ heat killed most things green already anyways.

In other words, nothing makes today any different a season than yesterday. Except that the calendar says so.

I use the word season a lot to talk about phases of my life. And I’ve noticed that when I do I am usually referring to hard ones. And so sometimes it is nice to remember that it doesn’t take much change to start a new one. Just calling it something different is apparently enough to create marketing campaigns, new flavors of lattes and longer pants. Or a shift in your heart.

So break out the sweaters if you live somewhere with such a thing as autumn. And even if you don’t. The rest of you can change even if the weather doesn’t.

and a few pics that have nothing to do with fall...except for the fact that they happened today.

cupcake carnage X 24. i bought these for Tess's birthday to take to her class. And she wanted to eat them....so knocked them ALL off the counter to try and get into them. Her class may not have gotten cupcakes. but she had one for breakfast.

crazy hair day at school. mohawk. half blue. half red. apparently i'm not the only on in the house that is a fan of some ridiculous hair.

The summer's begining to give up her fight....

(and this is the best version of this song i could find. and is awful and deserves some commentary. like the fact that Amy is on stage in plaid pajama pants. I do in fact like boys, but have seen them live. but. insist that the best place to listen to this song is outside. middle of the night. on some Mo Ranch tennis courts.)

getting it back

2011-09-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was waiting on a friend outside of Starbucks, and a favorite name showed up on my phone. One from out of state. That I rarely get to talk to.

For lots of reasons like…we are both working moms w/ 2 little kids....which doesn't leave a lot of overlapping phone time. A slight time difference. Her cell service stinks. But also because if I am going to talk to her. I am really going to talk. Like real stuff. And we will laugh. But the big stuff will come bubbling up. Because there is no pretending with this friend.

So. I answered even though I only had minutes. And I don’t think she knew what hit her. I unloaded. All kinds of stuff that I had been keeping inside. Some of it I wasn’t sure of until I heard myself say it outloud. And even though I totally dominated the conversation with my ranting, She didn’t complain. Even though she has her own stuff. She made the right funny comments and didn’t make me feel bad. And by the time I was done there was only a sliver of time to talk about her. And turns out she knew exactly what I was feeling. Because in some ways we were in the same boat. And we aren’t really the sappy type so we mostly just made funny jokes about our serious mess.

And. same friend. Her facebook status the day before said this

"There was a time when you were five years old, and you woke up full of awesome. Somewhere along the line, so many little girls lose that, without ever considering maybe the people trying to take their awesome are full of shit..."

And both of us don’t have a lot to complain about. Jobs we like. Husbands who are great guys. Ridiculously cute blonde kids. Houses. Lots of friends and full social calendars. And we both usually laugh more than we cry. But sometimes we both still feel a little broken.

My wounds are still healing. 4 small incsisions on my abdomen. But these are just the ones on the outside. And I keep reading and hearing how easy and uncomplicated gallbladder surgery is. How quickly people heal and get back to work. And I went back to work for the first full day today and I feel run over. It was good to be back and to some kind of normal. But by lunch I had already taken my daily allotment of alleve and felt myself fading fast. I am not bouncing back as quick as I’d like. I keep trying to rest. But that is hard to do. With soccer practice and dance class and papers to grade and it seems like there is something every night this week. I wont even mention Tess turning 3 this weekend! So I’m feeling like a pansy. And tired. But. Somehow. Today I still felt more like a person than I have in almost a month. I think I got so used to being sick and tired that I forgot what it felt like to be well.

And getting well doesn’t happen overnight. Especially when someone takes a nice small organ tucked under your right rib cage and pulls it through your belly button.

My friend still has all her organs. But she knows loss more than hopefully I ever will. And how it feels when it takes longer than people expect for you to heal.
But. that doesn’t make us broken.
Nor do all the other things we talked about.

I liked her silly quote. I was tired of feeling like this. And decided that we were going to get our awesome back.

So I started by looking the quote up…and found the slightly longer version of it here: http://blog.pigtailpals.com/2011/08/waking-up-full-of-awesome/

And it is true. My little girl just insisted on going to Target with me wearing cowboy boots and pajamas and fairy wings. And she was proud. She sang at the top of her lungs from the cart and didn’t care who saw. As a matter a fact I'm pretty sure she wanted people to see.

My son is just a few years older. And he still laughs hard and likes to be silly. But. he has started to get embarrassed. To know that people are watching. That some things are cool and some things aren’t. Somewhere between 3 and 6 he is losing just a little bit of awesome. He is no less great and cute and funny and smart. He is just slightly less sure of it. And by the time he is twelve, he will almost be fully convinced that he is not. And that scares me.

And don’t even get me started on myself. I think I’m a pretty confident girl most seasons, but would never describe myself as awesome. Or sing at the top of my lungs in a grocery store. Or twirl in public. Or wear fairy wings and hot pink cowboy boots. Well. Maybe I’d wear the boots.

But I felt that way once, and there has to be a way to get some of that back.
I texted my friend and told her we were on a quest.
Project Awesome is underway.
And it is a ridiculously corny and silly but I am already feeling better.

I wasn’t sure what to do …..but….I made us a list of 7 things to do this week. And she could be in charge of next week's list. Some are silly. Like sing at the top of your lungs. And some are serious. And some are things I’d never in a million years print on my blog …so I wont be printing my list here. Sorry. Make your own project awesome. If you need help I like this girl's list (read all five).
And this website made me happy too….
http://1000awesomethings.com/the-top-1000/
A few of my faves (and no I did not take the time to read all 1000)
#996 opening a new can of tennis balls and smelling them
#951 hearing a stranger fart in public
#837 pushing those little buttons on the soft drink lid
#813 museum gift shops
#809 new socks day
#794 people that you don’t clean up for when they come to visit
#754 when someone gives you their last piece of gum
#736 the smell of play do
#700 making someone laugh when they’ve got a really full mouth.

Because awesome is out there if you are willing to look for it.

And Ann Voskamp wrote a whole book about it. She just calls it eucharisto. And pointed out that it is biblical. Thanking God for the little stuff like clean sheets and and jeans fresh out of the dryer.

So. Getting our awesome back might sound a little silly and ridiculous. But. if Tess doesn’t care. Maybe I shouldn’t either.

this wasn't tonight's outfit. but the ridiculous is a pretty common theme. unlike matching shoes. tights ontop of pants is also a fashion idea that should not be repeated!

and this girl....doesn't need any help either!

(and because my husband thinks chick drummers are awesome....)

fed

2011-09-18T16:58:00.000-07:00

I’ve always liked the fact that Jesus’s first miracle is at a wedding. The whole water into wine thing. First of all. I like wine. I like weddings. And that is the last place you’d expect the son of God to show his divinity….making sure the wedding party didn’t run out of good wine. And he was a little reluctant of course, but he did keep the party going.

I just googled Jesus’s miracles because when I thought about it, I could think of any that didn’t involve feeding or healing people. The site I landed on listed 34. And there were a few that I had forgotten which didn’t exactly heal or feed. He calmed the seas. He walked on water. He pulled a coin out of a fish. But the other 31. Those were all feeding and healing. (and I could even make the case that the other 3 were still about relationships)…

Also I thought it was interesting that when he healed. He just touched them or pronounced it. Or told them to stand. The most complicated it got was making a paste for the blind man’s eyes. But he was in charge of the healing.

But, when he fed—other people had roles to play. The servants filled the wineskins. He gathered loaves and fishes from the crowed and disciples before somehow making that measly meal enough for thousands (more than once). He had the disciples cast their nets and pull in so many fish they thought their nets were going to break. Every time he fed, he expected other people to help.

And the miracles of the old Testament are all pretty weird stuff. Burning bushes that don’t burn. Rivers turning into blood. Seas parting. Manna from the sky. Men swallowed by whales. etc. and they even get kookier. But Jesus was all about healing and feeding. Taking care of people.

And when something bad happens. When people are sick or stressed or lose a family member and we don’t know what to do. Someone will show up with a casserole or a pizza. When my neighbor’s husband died I brought breakfast. When my friend’s dad was in the hospital I made enchiladas. When my friend’s mother in law had surgery and she had a lot on her plate I picked up burritos. When someone has a baby I bring food. When someone dies I bring food. When someone is in the hospital I bring food.

When I wanted to make up with a friend in college I showed up with a snowcone. Or Sonic. When I want to be extra nice to a friend I bring them a coffee. When I want to treat someone for their birthday I get cupcakes or chickfila or buntlets (my new favorite word). More often than not I pick it up. But sometimes I make it myself. Either way – someone is getting fed. And we all have to eat.

I have been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of that a lot. When I had each of my kids I was blessed with a strong network of friends and I got meals for a month. Maybe even longer. And the gift is more than just the meal, but the time and thought of not having to go to the store or make a decision. A fridge full of Tupperware when you are tired and sick and don’t want to go to the store or eat fast food one more time or just plain think about what to do about dinner is truly a miracle.

I just got out of the hospital and had a minor operation. I am feeling much better and could probably manage dinner on my own, even though I still can’t drive to the store. But I don’t have to. My dad spent yesterday in the kitchen. Chopping, cutting, stirring. Making soup. And spaghetti. A few friends have called asking if they could bring dinner. When they finally let me eat in the hospital (breakfast yesterday), I wanted something a little better than the watery oatmeal and greasy bacon they brought me. My friend showed up with perfect oatmeal from Starbucks. Another brought me a venti iced green tea. And I ate happily until I hurt.
And I have always liked food. My parents made me a bit of a food snob. And even my son thinks that lobster is it’s own food group. But when you don’t feel good or like getting off your couch. Anything you don’t have to cook yourself is a gift.

And if we look at the things Jesus did while he was here. He fed and he healed. Most of us don’t have the gift of healing or went to med school. But we can all go through a drive thru or turn on a crock pot. And turns out, Jesus calls those miracles.

asking

2011-09-17T06:41:00.000-07:00

Lately I have felt like I couldn’t get it together. And I don’t mean the clean house, homemade cookies, PTA mom kind of together. I’ve never been that kind of together. I mean the cry in the car kind. It was like some kind of bad domino set up. One thing went down and then everything else seemed to fall as well. I felt like I was failing, in every area of my life. My family, my friendships, with old habits and even at work. And we have all been here. This wasn’t my first negative train ride. But, I don’t do sad well or for very long. I know what fixes me and can snap out of it fast enough. I usually need some alone time to think and pray and sort and then I need the opposite. I need friends and dates and lots of coffee and long conversations, long runs, to play outside with my kids, anything with frosting and a new hair color.

This time, I got stuck on the alone part. I spent a lot of time on my couch. I turned the ringer on my phone off. I didn’t ask people to do things. I tried to run but didn’t get very far. I tried to fix all those things that I felt like I was screwing up, but the harder I tried to more I seemed to get wrong. The dominoes kept falling. And I was getting more tired. And insistent that I just needed to keep stacking them up by myself. Don’t worry. This isn’t going to be a sad rant. And that season hasn’t been so long. And I kept thinking that I needed to do all these things better by myself, that I needed to stop leaning on people. When maybe I just needed to learn to ask for help and lean in more than one direction.

A week ago I was walking up to my son’s soccer game. I had left my phone on the coffee table and they guys were already there. I wasn’t feeling right. And the more I walked the harder it became to breathe. It felt like someone was sitting on my chest. My hands were shaking and I felt dizzy and like throwing up. I needed to get to my son’s field. But it seemed miles away even it was just a few hundred feet away. I didn’t have my phone so I couldn’t call him. I thought about asking someone for help. But I felt ridiculous. So I sat down in the middle of the sidewalk. People looked at me funny and I’m sure they could tell I didn’t feel well but no one stopped. I’d rest for a few minutes and get up and try again. And then sit. I started to panic even more and knew I needed help. But still didn’t know who or what to ask. The last thing I wanted was an ambulance. Eventually I made it to a ref stand and instead of asking for help. I asked to use their phone. Only problem – I didn’t know my husband’s phone number. So I called one of the few friend’s numbers that I have memorized (only b/c she has had the same # back when I used to have a house phone) and told her who she could call to call Shaun. That I needed him to come get me. Instead of playing 7 degrees of Kevin Bacon on the phone I should have just asked someone to go to field 15 and get my husband. But passing out or puking seemed easier to me than asking a stranger for help. Eventually Shaun found me, and a ref who I thought had been ignoring me tossed me a Gatorade and told me I was dehydrated. I had to ask her to open it. And even then I couldn’t even get half of it in my mouth my hands were shaking so bad. Shaun pulled the car around. And I decided, that despite the fact that I had just gotten to the fields and eaten lunch that maybe I was dehydrated after all. I had gone on a pretty long run at noon. And it was 100 degrees out. And to just take me home rather than the hospital.
So I went back to my couch that I’d been spending lots of time on drank more Gatorade and dodged phone calls from people asking if I was ok. Of course I was ok, I even tried to keep my dinner plans. And eventually I realized I wasn’t. That my side and back and shoulder were sore like when I had what I was pretty sure were gall bladder attacks. Which I’d been having more of in the middle of the night lately. (and yes, a normal person would go to the doctor – but I had already done that years ago. Multiple times. And they never found anything despite sonograms, fancy hospital scans and endoscopies). But I couldn’t ignore my attack on the soccer field and my husband was about to leave the country for almost two weeks. So I drove myself to the ER. And friends texted me and asked if they could come sit with me or watch my kids. And I refused. I didn’t want anyone there while the doctor told me nothing was wrong and to see a counselor and get some sleep. The doctor asked if I wanted something for my pain and I was in quite a bit of pain, but asked her to give me something mild so that I could still drive home. Again, I didn’t want to call anyone. Which is ridiculous. My phone is full of people I can call. They found plenty of stones, which made me happy because I finally knew what was wrong and they gave the name of a surgeon to call and sent me home with some pretty strong meds. That I didn’t plan on taking. Because that would mean I couldn’t drive or work or watch my kids. And I’d have to ask for help.

They next few days were fine. I told Shaun, that he still needed to go on his trip because it wasn’t likely that that I’d get scheduled for surgery in the next two weeks anyways and that I was fine. I was still tired. And a little sore. But after he left, I knew something was wrong because my pee was not all the right color. But I just drank lots of water and scheduled an appointment with my surgeon. People at work told me I didn’t look well. I appreciated their concern but tried to make jokes. Through a string of travel gone horribly wrong, Shaun’s 2 week trip turned into only a 2 day one and I was relieved to have him home. And he couldn’t have made it home sooner. Because less than 24 hours after going through customs, he was with me back in the ER. That morning at work I started to feel like I did on the soccer field. I made it through my first few classes and emailed the secretary in charge of subs that I really needed to go home. This usually doesn’t go over well because it can be a nightmare to get coverage in the middle of the day. And so I really didn’t want to ask. Then I went downstairs and asked the nurse what to do. Another conversation I didn’t want to have. Then I drove myself home, even though I was pretty sure that wasn’t a good idea. And there were people who could take me, I just didn’t want to ask. ( see a trend here!)
I went home and dug out my pain pills and waited for relief and a nap. I got neither. So I called my husband to drive me back to the hospital. We waited forever. And they just ran the same tests. And came back and said the same things. Shaun went to run kids around and I started packing up to go home. They said nothing looked different from Saturday and they were waiting on one last blood test, but most likely I’d just need to keep my appointment with my surgeon the next day. I was feeling silly for dragging my husband out of work and dropping who knows how much money on a pointless ER visit. I was texting friends that I was about to go home (and this time, I actually talked to people!) and the nurse popped back in and said change of plans – they were getting a room for me. My lipase levels were through the roof and I had pancreatitis. I’m still not sure what that is but I did know that it hurt like hell and that it had kept my sister in the hospital for almost an entire week.

Asking for help suddenly wasn’t an option. I made phone calls and texts. Instead of telling people not to come, I was thrilled when friends showed up with magazines and books and chapstick or just to keep me from being bored. And trust me. I have not been good hospital company. But they came and stayed anyways. And I was greatful. I had to ask for help watching my kids, getting subs, making copies, help picking my kids up from school, help tying my robe, and even help getting up to go to the bathroom.

The gall bladder came out yesterday. And I am happy to see it go. Apparently when it isn’t working right you can have all kinds of issues besides just the stomach ones. Apparently the fact that woman have so many more problems with it than men has some correlation to estrogen. And well, my hormones have obviously been out of wack lately. And also can account for my exhaustion and apathy. So hopefully I’ll be a whole new girl when I get out of here.

And gall bladder surgery is supposed to be pretty minor. If you don’t start with crazy lipase levels like me, you go in early in the morning and they send you home around lunch. But I of course can’t do things the easy way. My pancreas calmed down much sooner than expected, but it still has made my day surgery at least a 4 day event. To deal with the pancreas you can’t have any food or even drink until it is fixed. The last meal I had was a granola bar Wednesday morning. And until last night, the last drink was water in the ER Wednesday afternoon. I asked the nurse that morning how long surgery would take she said 30-40 minutes. Mine took a lot longer. I woke up from anesthesia awful. I felt like they were still operating and I could feel everything. It hurt worse than my 2 c-sections combined. They gave me morphine and more morphine and then finally some demoral. And I thought I was going to puke. So they gave me something for that. Eventually my body relaxed a little and they took me back to my room. Well over 4 hours later. And had to keep asking for help. And I felt like such a pansy because this is such a minor operation. But I had a low fever. My insulin levels were off. And they kept giving me shots in the stomach and taking blood, asking if I had diabetes and when my last bowel movement was and I just wanted to go home so badly and the fever and blood sugar levels had it looking like I’d be spending another night! Shaun was sleeping at home with the kids and suddenly I wished I had asked him to stay. I was tired of being alone in this room. I was tired of hurting and nurses waking me up and alarms going off and I suddenly wanted to have a sobfest but thought crying would hurt too much. So I had to ask for the worst kind of help. For someone to just tell me it was going to be ok. To remind me to breathe. And to stop freaking out and go to sleep. And she said exactly all the right things. And this morning I woke up and my fever is gone, my blood sugar levels are closer to normal, they took out my IV in the middle of the night, pain is way better, they might let me eat breakfast and even better I think I’ll even get to go home late this afternoon or tonight.

And I’m ready for that. And yes, when I get there I will rest. But I’m pretty sure I’ll be spending less time on my couch than I have the last few weeks. Good riddance gall bladder. And thanks to everyone who helped me. Even when I didn’t want to ask.

new scars.

2011-09-07T19:08:00.000-07:00

I went to the dermatologist yesterday. I had a spot on my face I wanted her to look at. Apparently, the rule at the dermatologist is that they want to look at everything.
EVERYTHING.
And trust me, if I’d known I was going to strip down and wear an extra large paper towel for an hour of my afternoon I might have shaved my legs and worn cuter panties.
Instead I found myself standing there in not my favorite underwear and a paper towel while she measured moles on my thighs and back and everywhere else.
She kept asking me if certain spots had always been there. If they’d always looked like that. Been that dark or that big or shaped like the state of Connecticut.
A few were familiar, but most of the time I had no idea. Some spots she pointed out I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen before. Much less noticed their diameter, shade edges, or spotting. I have lots of moles and freckles. They just showed up. I don't keep track. You can’t expect me to name them or remember them.

However, if she had asked me about my scars. The ones on my knees, forehead or anywhere else. Those I know. They all come with stories. They aren’t so easily missed or forgotten.
I’ve written about my favorite scar before here …
And scars are something I consider "the ugly beautiful", as Anne Voskamp likes to call it.

Scientifically speaking (or at least according to Wikipedia), scars are fibrous tissues that replace normal skin after an injury. It results from the body’s natural way of repairing anything that has been damaged. It is a natural and critical part of healing. And not all wounds leave a scar. Only big, deep ones. Scars are actually made out of the exact same proteins as the tissue it replaces. But. It is still different. It looks different. It acts different. And it is more sensitive. They change us.

And why I am even thinking about this in the first place. Barron Batch, most well known for being an impressive running back that was recently drafted to the Pittsburg Steelers, also happens to be a fantastic writer. Just a few days before his first pro game ever, he tore his ACL. Recently out of surgery, this is what he had to say about it on his blog:
“I have a new scar now. Its permanent address is my left knee. It is a work of art created by the artist simply known as Life. Life doesn’t discriminate whom she scars physically or emotionally. However, over my 23 years of life I have come to realize the beauty of scars. How crazy would it be if once wounds healed they didn’t leave a mark, what if there were no scars? What if we healed without a reminder or what was? Would you forget the pain that you endured? Would you forget the healing process that took place? Would you even forget the wound altogether?

Scars serve as a permanent reminder of our fragility but more importantly our strength. Scars are proof of what you have overcome. Every time I look at my many scars I remember how weak I was at the time the wound was formed, and what formed it. I remember the healing process. I remember the strength I didn’t know I had to push through, and I remember eventually being healed.”
(you can read the whole thing here if you want. and trust me, you want to)

Every scar reminds us that we have been permanently changed.
And more importantly healed.
Weakened. And then made new.
So wear them with pride. Tell their stories. Don’t forget the lessons you’ve learned.

Mine for example:
Don’t scratch even if it itches bad. (the big chicken pock scar on my forehead).
Don’t ride on the hoods of cars. (a nice one on the side of my wrist).
Go easy on the turns. (a thick scar on my knee from a bad biking wipeout)
Duck. (a nice one on my hairline that almost needed stitches).
I had no idea I could love anyone that much. Twice. (a 6-7 inch pink line across my lower abdomen)
And I have plenty more. But what I don’t have. Open wounds. (at least not for long). Because more importantly than all my scars. Is the fact that they always heal. Some need stitches or staples or band aids. No matter how careful we are, we will get injured. But. We are continually being put back together. It gets better, it just might leave a mark.

the song I've wanted to listen to at least a dozen times the last 2 days for no reason other than it makes me happy...

but the more obvious choice for today's post..

naked.

2011-09-06T13:00:00.000-07:00

So. I have this blog. Maybe you've noticed. I’ve had it for a while. This is my 601st post. I even look at my stats a few times a week. They aren’t great, but lets just say that more people read it that I don’t know than I do. When I played the game I got more traffic and weekly emails from people asking me pimp their products. A publisher on occasion getting my hopes up. Sometimes I even got really nice emails. And occasionally I even got some mean ones. And they got to me every time.

But my closest friends know that I have an unwritten rule. Don’t talk about my blog.
Well, at least not in large groups. And never with people I don’t know.
Even my husband knows not to read it in front of me.
Or if you do (and yes it is ok, I'm a fan of breaking rules), be warned that I might get kind of weird on you.
Even if I am the one to bring it up.
Don’t get me wrong. I totally dig the compliments.
I even secretly crave them.
Just expect me to get all red in the face and stare at the ground.
Or try and change the subject and once I even literally ran away.

One time I had someone ask me if they could email it to my coworkers.
I said yes with conditions, but warned them that they would find me puking in the bathroom. I’ve avoided a few people who talk about it too much.
One friend brought it up in front of my class and I jerked her by the arm and took her out in the hallway and said to never do that again.
The other day another co-worker took a stab at it and I said I wanted to kick him in the face (yes, real mature of me I know). And I totally meant it.

But. It is public.
It links automatically to my facebook. I could probably figure out how to turn it off, but I’m not really sure I want to.
And I want my friends and family and even plenty of strangers to read it. I’m even slightly offended if they don’t.
I even want more people to read it. But don’t expect me to go broadcasting it.
Yet, I’m still strangely private about this very public thing. That I do completely 100% by choice.
Because it makes me feel really naked.
I say things here that I don’t always say outloud.

I’ve said many times that I’m open and honest and authentic here.
But not too open and honest.
I filter. I pick and choose. I occasionally take some creative liberties.
I leave out the really hard stuff. I don’t talk about things that might hurt other people. I am occasionally intentionally vague even when I want to be specific. The last thing I want is my students landing here…but I try to not say anything too revealing just in case they do. But even if I wasn’t worried about keeping my job.
I’ve hit a point where I’m kind of limited…
Some of my family reads this.
People I work with read this.
People I go to church read this.
Some of my friends read this.
I couldn’t face them if I put it all out here.
So I’m limited by two things:
1. protecting people I care about (which is a good limitation)
2. shame (not so good)

and today I read this post on shame ….and LOVED.
and just in case you don’t take the time to read it….here is my favorite quote:

“Sometimes people ask me how I do it, how I lay all my crap out there for the whole world to see, open to judgement and ridicule. They ask me where I've found the freedom to be myself no matter who's watching. They wonder how I “get away with it”, as if I'm breaking some unspoken law of Christian living that says “Above all, never stop pretending to be perfect.”

My answer is always the same:

I can be "authentic" or "transparent", or whatever, because I don't give a hot shit what you think of me. “

Now is also a good time to mention that the author is a Christian missionary servng in Costa Rica. And her posts and language isn't exactly Elisabeth Elliot approved, but it makes me want to be her friend!….She also goes on to explain further in terms of Adam and Eve…and you should really click on it and read the whole post…(or atleast this part)

I love the story of Adam and Eve, in Genesis. It always gives me pause when I get to the part where it says they were 'naked and unashamed'. Mmhmm, bare-assed and unashamed at the core of our creation. It's not until later that we get all mortified to see that our junk is showing. It's not until after the fall of man that we start hiding in the shrubs and fashioning leaves into underpants. That's where God finds us, shivering in our fig and ivy blend bloomers, and He asks, “Who told you that you were naked?”

Seriously. Who told you to be ashamed?

With everything that's in me, I want my life to be a fulfillment of the person God Created me to be. I understand that because of my brokenness I don't get to spend my days waltzing through Eden. But, in the story of Adam and Eve, I can hear Him whispering my name, saying,

“Baby Girl, you weren't created to hide in the bushes, you were made to live in the garden... Be who you are. I love you that way.”

And I am not there.
I have all kinds of shame even in my continual effort to be honest about my mess.
I hide in lots of bushes. And usually like to cover up with way more than a fig leaf.
And maybe it isn’t the best idea to put it all online.
Or say it all outloud. Or write it all in an email.
Because it is really hard to protect yourself when you are exposed.
Online. Or outloud.
It feels naked.
But, maybe that is the only way to Eden.

finishing strong

2011-09-05T14:28:00.000-07:00

A year or so ago I read Born to Run.
I didn’t go out and start running barefoot, or even buy those weird looking Vibrams (although I seriously considered it).
I didn’t sign up for a marathon or even a half. But I probably have run more since I read it. It was mostly stories about ultramarathoners and was really interesting and easy to read. Even if you aren’t a runner and just like a good story. The most intriguing thing I read in the book wasn’t that we are wasting all our money on expensive shoes, or that I should run on the pads of my feet or eat salad for breakfast. But that these runners going 100 or more miles often have pace runners. Friends or volunteers that are allowed to run the last 30-50 more miles with them. To keep them going. To encourage them. And because it is always easier to run with a friend. (Well, unless you are sometimes like me and talk so much you use up all your oxygen!). But these “volunteers” often run in the middle of the night for long stretches for nothing. No free t-shirt. No race swag. No medal. They don’t even get to cross the finish line. They just run for support. And that is a beautiful thing to me. Someone willing to go along beside you with nothing but a decent workout in it for them. Just so you don’t have to do it alone. Just in case you were thinking about quitting or slowing down.

And I know first hand how helpful that can be. Obviously, in life. But also just in a race. Last year about this time I ran a Sprint Tri. I was not used to the swimming or the biking so I was beat before the running part even started. And to make it worse, no one was allowed to wear headphones. But not too far into the run I caught up with a few friends. And we talked and jogged and I hardly even noticed the last two miles, despite the fact that my knees were creaking and I was exhausted.

Yesterday I decided to run another race this morning. And I’m no ultramarathonner, or even half marathoner. It was just a 5K. But they also had a kids fun run right before and my son had a friend who was participating so I thought we could both race. So we got up before the sun. We carbed up – him with donuts, me with a power bar and pinned on our bibs. And Owen runs laps around our living room, and up and down the street and plenty on the soccer field, but…I wasn’t sure how he would actually do in a race. Some parents ran with their kids, but I was racing next and Shaun was watching Tess so he was on his own. And I worried a little about what would happen when he got tired or wanted to quit. I wondered if he’d just start walking or if he’d just stop entirely. They blew the airhorn, I snapped a few photos and he took off at a dead sprint. Which is a bad idea. They didn’t go very far, but most of the time he was out of sight…and as kids started to round the corner towards the finish line I kept looking for his little blonde head. My race started in less than ten minutes, but I walked around the curve, around the building and finally spotted him. He wasn’t walking but looked tired and slow and ready to quit. So I hopped in and joined him. Kept telling him to run faster that we were almost there. And he did. I ran him to the finish line and saw him prouldy grab his trophy and almost wanted to tear up. Which is silly. He runs that much on a regular basis and he was no where close to first or second or even twentieth. But he is my kid. And he finished even though he wanted to quit and I was proud. Before I could get all gushy, I had my own race to run.

I run 5Ks a lot, and actually prefer a 10. But the weather was really nice and I was hoping to knock a few minutes off my last time. This was not the case. My runs lately have gotten shorter and further apart. And it was showing. So I stopped looking at my watch, turned up my ipod and just kept following the crowd in front of me. Not allowing myself to stop. I often run these with friends. But today it was just me. And I am not a fast runner or a strong finisher. I’m not the kind of girl that saves much for the end. I have never learned to pace myself when I’m running or pretty much any other area of my life. The rest of my family is usually still asleep or at least at home watching cartoons when I cross a finish line. And I wasn’t even sure they’d be there this time (seeing how there was a Chick-fil-A and a bounce house close by), but I looked for them anyways. And about a 200 yards out I saw them. I held my hand up to give my son a high-five and he did something that surprised me. He took off sprinting beside me. Until we finished.
Together.
For the second time that day.
And again I wanted to cry.
And my time sucked. And my right calf hurt in a weird way it never has before.
But I’ve never had a better finish.

punky power

2011-09-04T17:52:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite TV shows growing up was Punky Brewster. It was on everyday after school and I wanted to be her bad. I already had the freckles and bad fashion sense. I wanted to name my dog Brandon. Paint clouds on my ceiling. Wear two different color converse and tie a bandana around my knee. One of my real life best friends actually did and I was terribly jealous. My parents wouldn’t buy me one pair of converse much less two, and my hair was too short for pigtails. I thought I could have been a better best friend to Punky than Cherie and thought that Henry was a little mean for a foster dad (although his appearances in Police Academy did help give him some street cred) and that her and her golden retriever Brandon should just move in with me. We could paint the ceiling and put each other’s hair in pig tails.

I still enjoy pig tails, converse (matching or not), anything painted on the ceiling, and have a big heart for homeless people. Maybe it started with Punky.

Much to my chagrin, the show was canceled after just 2 years. That or I’d moved on to bigger and better shows like Blossom.

A few years later Punky, or Soleil MoonFrye (what kind of name is that?), showed up on another popular shows. Sabrina, the Teenage Witch. And despite for my past affection for Clarissa Explains It All… I could never get into the show. I was in highschool by then and far to cool to be watching shows with talking cats.

So today, I was walking down the book aisle at Target looking for something to read….(yes I know every other person on the planet has a Nook or a Kindle or something like that and as many books as I go through I could save several forests by investing in one but I just haven’t taken the plunge or dropped the cash yet). And I stumbled across this:

A book, by Punky on parenting.
Sitting right there between a Mitch Album book and a Elizabeth Gilbert book.
Punky was an established author.
And apparently a model parent.

I took it as a challenge.
If Punky can be a serious writer…
If she can be a model parent while naming her daughters Poet and Jagger (ok, Jagger is a kickass name but Poet??)….
Well….I need to break out my converse and get to work….on my own writing. And as far as my parenting goes, well I already have the chaos part down. But maybe I shoud rename my kids: Axl and Barista, or atleast change my dog's name from Mazzy to Brandon.
But not till after I paint some clouds on the ceiling.

2 am

2011-08-30T05:51:00.000-07:00

Recently I read a sweet blog. Essentially an ode to what a good friend is. I just finished a book that spent a lot of time on the protagonist's best friendship (damn you jodi picoult).
But I didn’t feel all warm and fuzzy after I read them.
They were sweet and true and most days or weeks I’d like them.
Just not this one.

Good friends are easy.
They don’t require thought or upkeep, makeup or cleaning out your car.

But maybe even better friends are sometimes hard.
Almost exactly a year ago, one of my closest friends lost her dad. And I drove 3 hours each way just to give her a hug. We don’t speak every day or even every month. But, when I walked in that room we both started crying. Less than 20 minutes later, I got in my car and drove another 3 hours back. Those six hours meant more to our friendship than any of the icecream, or silly notes in class, or cupcakes. More than Prom night or graduation or college road trips or any amount of hours of talking or texting on the phone ever could.

Almost exactly two years ago, another friend had a stillborn son. And this was a friend that I adored, but had honestly hardly seen or thought about in years. But my heart broke for her. And somehow I knew what to do. I held his ashes and looked as his pictures. And something about sharing that with her tethered me to her in a way I can't explain.

It isn't quite the same, but tonight I spent my evening in an assisted living facility at a memorial service for a man I had never met. I didn’t even know his first name. But it was my friend’s father-in-law and so we got a babysitter and ironed our clothes. And while we sang Amazing Grace I looked around the room and noticed that several of the couples in our Sunday school class had shown up. I watched her children being passed lap to lap. Even though over half of these couples aren’t programmed in my phone and only a few are ones I meet for coffee or dinner, but my heart still warmed and I couldn't help but look around the room and think, "this is what real community looks like". Showing up, hymns and vegetable trays.

Quantity is no match for quality.

Recently I had what I think was a gallbladder attack in the middle of the night. I didn’t go to the hospital but I probably should have. At 2 am and in pain I was trying to decide who to call. To either drive me or to sleep on my couch because I couldn’t leave my kids alone. And I am lucky enough to have serveral people I felt like I could have called. But my list was not quite what I expected. Thinking of who you’d call at 2 am is a surprising test of who matters. Who you can count on. Some of the people weren’t ones that I talk to all the time. One was someone I was barely speaking to. And a few of the people I talk to more regularly would be pretty low on the list of who I’d call. (and yes, you have to factor in proximity and kids and jobs and spouses….and NO…I’m not giving up my list…I’m just saying it was revealing).

When I get really good news or really bad news it is who I want tell second, and third and fourth ( after Shaun of course)…and sometimes it is the person I just saw. And sometimes it is a friend hundreds of miles away that I almost never speak to. Who I’m not even sure I can count on. But it is who I want when it matters.

And I don’t just mean they show up for the hard stuff.
All of my oldest friends and I have had seasons of bad.
Where it was work.
Or awkward. Or frustrating. Or hurtful.
Sometimes I didn’t even like them very much.
And I’m positive sometimes they didn’t like me.
And they usually had good reason.
Sometimes they go completely quiet.
And sometimes you have to let them.
Which is always more than a little bit hard for me.
But I don’t think it makes either end any less.
The hanging on or the letting go, both are difficult.
And to quote one of my favorite friends that I almost never talk to but love like I do anyways:
"Sometimes words are just noisy."

And mostly yes. Friends show up. They call back. They meet you for coffee and pick up your kids. They talk about everything and nothing with you. They let you cry or rant or tell you that you have spinach in your teeth. And all that sweet fun stuff.
But I think what matters more is the harder stuff.
You can call them at 2 am.
Or to pick you up when you have a flat tire.
You can call them even if you haven’t spoken in a long time.
They go to funerals or hospital rooms or bring food.
Even if you don't like them very much. Or haven't spoken in ages. Or are miles apart or just down the street.
That kind of stuff hardly matters at funerals and 2 am.

popcorn with butter

2011-08-26T19:30:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to town, I was 23. A newlywed. Living in a little townhouse in a big city. Where I mostly didn’t know anyone. My husband at the time traveled more than he was home and I had a lot of free time. I was sad and lonely and didn’t want to admit it. So if my husband was gone for the week, I often alternated my nights between the gym, Barnes and Noble and going to movies. By myself.

And I liked it.
I saw all kinds of movies. Once I even stooped low enough to see one starring Brittany Spears (Crossroads). And something about going to these movies was catharthic.
I could lose myself in someone else’s story for 2 hours. It was dark. There was popcorn with butter. And I am not at all a public crier, but somehow it felt perfectly acceptable to cry my eyes out in a movie theatre and feel a lot less alone than I did in my apartment.

Then I made friends, got busy, Shaun stayed home more and I started to know enough people in town that I was embarrassed about being busted at the movies by myself.
But me and Shaun still saw lots of movies. We were often at the Friday showing on opening weekend and even would drive to Dallas to see the weird ones at Angelica or Magnolia.

And then we had kids.
And movies were a thing of the past. At least ones in theatres. At least ones with out talking animals.

Every once in a while we’d get a sitter and see a movie or I’d go with girlfriends. But mostly if we had a few hours to ourselves we wanted to be able to have a conversation. And I even missed going to movies by myself. But if I get 2 hours to myself these days I try to take a nap, or for a run, or when I’m really lucky to the grocery store by myself. I tried sneaking off to a movie about a year ago. And ended up sitting, happily, but slightly embarrassed with my friend’s entire family. And stealing their popcorn.

But recently, my husband was another big travel stint. And my brain had been working overtime. And dark theatre with a decent plot can shut it off at least for a few hours.
So, I usually don’t get to see too many movies, but in the last few weeks I have seen four good ones. So here are my reviews.

1) Crazy Stupid Love.
All I need to say is this: crazy stupid awesome.
(ryan gossling with his shirt off also helped)
my rating: four stars and a travel pack of Kleenex.

2) The Help. I went by myself. The theatre was packed so I had to sit next to an older couple. I’ve read the book. I knew what to expect. I still cried the ugly cry. I was loud. I was snotty. My face turned red and puffy and I think the couple next to me wondered if I was going to be able to drive myself home. The second the credits started to roll I bolted out of the theatre so no one would see my messy. I drove around a little before getting back to the babysitter so that my face would be slightly less red when I got there. She wasn’t fooled.
my rating: four stars and an entire box of Kleenex and something to wash my face with and sunglasses to wear home. even at night.

3) One Day. Shaun was a good sport and saw this with me. And we both liked it. Was a little When Harry Met Sally but sadder. Made an Anne Hathaway fan out of me. ( although I'm still not so sure about her as catwoman)
my rating 3.5 stars another travel pack of Kleenex

4)My Idiot Brother. I’ve been wanting to see this ever since I saw the previews. Paul Rudd, producer of Little Miss Sunshine, family dysfunction at it's finest and a dog named Willie Nelson all make for a great movie.
my rating: 3.5 stars and a at least a few kleenex. I’m not sure this was supposed to be sad, but I might have shed a few tears in my queso.

and....for Ned

afterschool special part 2: 4th-6th and inbetween.

2011-08-25T16:20:00.000-07:00

(my not so indian education cont...)
4th.

Fourth grade is pretty sketchy.
My teacher was Mrs. May. And mostly I remember trying to find words that spelled a dollar. Adding up each letter ( a=1, b=2, etc.). And it seems like for the first time we started to notice money everywhere else. My hair had finally grown out enough to put in a ponytail. Sort of. I also started to wear bows and complained about my dark blue stiff denim jeans with ironed on patches. I was still good with the Keds though. Especially if I got to take the laces out.
I was a Lost Boy in PeterPan in the spring play. Except my lost boy costume was really just an elf costume my mom made out of felt. I cant look at elves around Christmas without thinking of PeterPan.
We had to do a commercial for the class. I chose one I saw every morning while watching TV and waiting on my parents to take me to school. I made an entire guitar out of cardboard and memorized the jingle word for word and sang it proudly for the class. No one told me that it was for a laxative. I didn’t realize this for years and am still wondering how my teacher managed to keep a straight face. And give me an A.
I’m sure when exactly but sometime around here it became uncool to take a lunchbox. So I packed my brown bag every morning. On good days with a Coke wrapped in foil at the bottom. And I hoped the condensation didn't make it fall through the bottom or that it didn't flatten my pb&j sandwhich. There was a pretty standard trade currency in the lunchroom. Oreos could get you almost anything you wanted. And I read every single BabySitters Club book there was. MaryAnne was my favorite. Too bad I was never into actual babysitting. Maybe I could have bought myself some cool jeans!

5th.
New school. Lockers. And we traded teachers instead of staying in the same class all day.From here on out I can tell you almost every science teacher I had, and only some of the other subjects. This is probably why I teach science instead of English. We hatched chicks, had guest speakers, found our own blood type and went on an overnight field trip to Galveston.
This is suddenly when girls started doing their bangs and sporting best friends necklaces. I wanted jeans with the upside down triangle on the pocket rather than the ones I had and borrowed my sister’s curling iron and hot rollers. I think I even asked my mom to buy me a bra even though it was the last thing I needed. She gave me a book to read on puberty even though I was far from it. We were all 10 going on 20.
Once we split into groups to work on a project. Our teacher trusted us way too much or she just didn’t care, because we ended up playing spin the bottle in the janitor’s closet. We were only 10. So it was very chaste peck on the cheek version but it had begun.
I got another boyfriend. This time we called it going together which didn't consist of going anywhere but mostly of just talking on the phone. And I can't imagine what I had to say to a 5th grade boy for so long on the phone. He walked me to my parent’s office everyday after school, while carrying my violin. I was teased mercilessly for this. But I didn’t care. He smelled good and wrote me long notes and was almost as cute as Fred Savage on the Wonder Years. I think it might have lasted three weeks. Until I met my husband this was one of my longer relationships.

6th
And we were still babies but we were into boys and brands and big hair. Girls strated carrying purses and talked about getting their periods. I read Are You There God, It’s Me Margret. My parents signed me up for cotillion. Obviously all those manners and waltzes didn’t stick. But I was sure proud of my Jessica McClintock dress and the occasional cute boy who asked me to cha cha.
Before the bell we played card games on the concrete. We played dodgeball in PE. And we still occasionally got recess even though we mostly just stood around and talked in groups now. We made friendship bracelets traded copies of Teen magazine. We wore swatches up our arms and hypercolor tshirts.
I hardly remember any classes or teachers this year. Mostly because I was consumed with tightrolling my jeans and pretending to be cool. Even though I was only 11 and still probably preferred playing chase on the playground to talking to boys or doing my hair.
I practiced my violin every night while watching MTV which I’m pretty sure cancel each other out. But I was first chair and I knew the good songs. Madonna, u2 and MilliVanilli followed up by Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. My siblings had both moved out and were in college by now so I moved down the hall to a bigger room. With a TV. And my own neon light up phone. But even that wasn’t enough to compensate for braces and a grown out perm.

so ignore the poor picture quality, and notice the fact that I am wearing a puff painted tshirt with powder blue acid washed guess jeans. and a big freaking bow.

after school special part 1: my not so indian education

2011-08-23T17:13:00.000-07:00

When I was in Seattle almost a month ago, a friend told me to hit one of her favorite bookstores there. And I love a good bookstore. I wander the aisles and touch them and take pictures of ones I want to order online cheaper. If their are squishy chairs I sometimes even order coffee and sit down and plow my way through something that looks good. My favorite sections (usually in this order): memoirs, staff picks, religion, science and then fiction. Somehow I ended up in education and couldn't resist this book:

A book written by students, about their teachers. And I was curious about what they had to teach me. The first section were letters from highschoolers to their teachers. And they weren't all flattering. It made me wonder what mine would say about me.

The middle section was a retelling of Sherman Alexie's prose about his school years, mostly on a reservation. They were broken up by each grade and painfully honest. Click here to read it (it is pretty short I promise) An Indian Education

Some of the teachers in this book asked their upper level students to write their own version. Year by year -- short snippets of what they remembered and what they learned. And some of them were just as hard to read. And it made me think about what I remembered. And it scares me a little to think about what stands out and how much slips away. But the more I thought the more I remembered. And I remember the most random things. Like the stoplight in the corner of my elementary cafeteria telling us when we could talk and when to be silent. The song about George Washington we sang in the 2nd grade play, harsh words, blue bows and skinned knees on the playground. My son started first grade yesterday. And I wonder what he will keep.

I started my own version and thought maybe I'd post a few at a time....and that would give me plenty of time to not write the begining of school when I am slammed and tired anyways. I of course didn't finish yet....but....here is the first installment.

Kindergarten
I remember someone tracing me on butcher paper and cutting it out. Gluing on yellow yarn for hair. Even though my hair was brown. Like some giant life size paper doll.
I got to draw who I wanted to be.
Sometimes I still wish it was that easy.
To start over with a piece of butcher paper. And cut and color and glue only the parts I want to keep.
My teacher was a first year teacher full of energy. Ms. Minnick. She gave out Micheal Jackson buttons for good behavior which were the envy of everyone on the playground.
I think I was the only girl in my class to have a boyfriend. Even the teacher teased us when we played duck duck goose. And I never got my name written on the board.
I’m not sure I ever spoke at all.
Every day was a different letter.
One boy in the class could read. My boyfriend. I always did like the smart guys.
And apparently, I’ve always been competitive. So I memorized a Bernstein Bears book and pretended to read it to my class for show and tell. I’m pretty sure my teacher knew. But she didn’t give me up.
Once a week, my great aunt would pick me up after school and I’d wiggle into a black leotard and pink tights and she’d take me to dance class. I was bad at it but loved not having to ride the bus. I’d look through my aunt’s picture albums and make her tell me the same stories and stay for dinner.
The other days I rode the bus. Back to the country and dirt roads. The little kids sat in front and the big kids like my junior high sister sat in back. But I had a perfect view of Mr. French’s bald spot. And once someone stuck there gum right on top of it.
My report card glowed except for the fact that I couldn’t skip or tie my shoes.
Eventually I learned to tie my shoes. The skipping though is still a struggle.

1st.
Same school. Same bus driver. Same boyfriend that I didn’t like anymore but was afraid that if I told him he’d beat me up or steal my crayons. The second part was true.
I did not like first grade at all. Or my short haired older teacher Mrs. Gabbord.
I don’t remember having any friends.
I remember trying to convince my parents to take me to private school.
I quit dance because it was too hard.
I had never gotten in trouble once in kindergarten but my first grade teacher was less than impressed with me. I must have found my voice and I used it to ask questions.
She pinned notes to my dress saying that I talked back. She asked me to redo my papers because they were messy.
I was bored of coloring in the lines and cutting and pasting.
Eventually the teacher requested a conference. I was petrified. She had made me cry and erase so many times I bore holes in my paper. I got my greater than and less than signs backwards and received a zero on an assignment. But I’ve never been one for details. I was sure she was going to say horrible things about me to my parents and that they wouldn’t let me watch any more 3’s company. Instead she said I was smart. Probably bored. And needed more of a challenge. She sent me home with chapter books. And I never stopped reading them.

2nd
My parents moved into town. And me to a better school.
So now I was the new girl with a chili bowl and quickly made friends with another new girl with a chili bowl. We are still friends. We both thankfully have better hair.
My teacher. Mrs. Aycox. Was probably the best teacher I had in grade school. She was an older black woman in a mostly white elementary school. She was firm and somehow warm. They didn’t write names on the board like my last school but instead pulled apples with our names on them off the tree. We begged to bang erasers and clean chalk boards.
I discovered Beverly Cleary and kind of saw myself as Ramona. I read books and made dioramas from shoe boxes and got into trouble for talking with people at my table. One guy in the back would eat glue. The rest of us rubbed it on our hands and peeled it off like we were peeling off our skin.
Before I had lived in the country where I had the run of the place. Ponds. Dirt roads. Bikes and snakes and ducks. Now we lived off a country club golf course and my neighbors were all retirees. I’d occasionally make the rounds and get cookies and butterscotch candies from every old person on our cul-de-sac.
For PE they had us run around the back stops. I never finished first. But was always towards the front of the girls. And didn’t understand why so many of them were walking. Didn’t they know this was a race. So what if there wasn’t a prize.
I made a new boyfriend. And as a present he gave me one of his mom’s old wallets. I thought I should reciprocate and gave him a book I had gotten at the book fair. I still think books are good gifts and used pocketbooks not so much.

3rd
I was no longer the new girl but my new best friend with the chili bowl was no longer in my class. Mrs. Hawkins.
Third grade meant business. Cursive and multiplication tables. My handwriting needed some work but the math came easy.
The pulled the smart kids out a couple of days a week and we read A Wrinkle in Time and did logic puzzles and she taught us to draw with the other side of the our brains.
We sat on the white tiles in the cafeteria for assemblies. And I always wanted it to be my turn to hold McGruff the crime dog puppet.
I was a girl scout and wore the horrible green uniform with knee socks. I hated selling cookies but didn’t mind eating them.
Sometimes my brother drove me to school in his beat up blue truck. He would turn up the bad 80s music and tell me not to kiss too many boys. I wasn’t kissing any boys. So this was a non issue.
A girl named Josseylyn would sometimes try to beat me up at recess. Then again she tried to beat up lots of people and would sometimes make herself throw up. I hated her. I feared her. And even at 8 I knew enough to feel sorry for her.
I wonder what would have happened if I had just been nice to her.

i don't feel like dancing

2011-08-21T18:02:00.000-07:00

A few things I am good at: math, making mix cds, cooking, napping and losing my keys.
A few things I am not good at: dancing, french braiding, matching outfits (heck, I don’t even match my socks) and applying makeup. And yes. I subscribed to YM, Seventeen and Teen Magazine growing up. And I read them cover to cover. But I still couldn’t tell you how to apply eyeliner. My husband will tell you that I’m all girl. Meaning I cry at cheesy movies, occasionally stress over what to wear, take things he says the wrong way, can quote Top Gun and Dirty Dancing (and owned the soundtracks), and most days I’d much rather get a pedicure than watch ESPN. But I don’t like frilly dresses or big hair or lots of makeup. Growing up, I played outside way more than I played with barbies. And I own nothing that has been bedazzled.

My daughter on the other hand came out twirling. She sometimes sleeps with shoes instead of stuffed animals. She has dolls for her dolls. Is in love with anything princess and often tells me that she is one. I catch her trying to put my make up on more than I do. She thinks Barbie is an adjective. She wants Barbie snowcones, to watch Barbie movies and yesterday I even offered to give her a Barbie spanking. Her favorite color is pink. Her second favorite color is pink. And if we are all out of pink she might settle for purple. She changes clothes more times a day than Lady GaGa. She didn't get any of this from me....

And she loves to dance. Actually both my kids do. It is partly my fault. We often dance in the living room, or the kitchen or the dining room. But Tess doesn’t stop when we leave the house. If there is music playing at a restaurant, gym, swimming pool, bounce house party, church, or grocery store – Tess will stand on her chair or the middle of the aisle and dance her pants off. Sometimes literally. At dinner with my parents recently, they told me I needed to get her in dance class. At a birthday party a few weeks ago, a stranger told me she had moves and I needed to sign her up. And at least half a dozen other friends who have witnessed her free public showings have said the same thing. And I hesitated. She is still just 2, going on 20. And driving one child around to practices is hard enough. I am not in any hurry to get this girl involved. But somehow this Saturday I found myself at a nearby studio for fall registration. I brought Tess along, explaining that we were signing up for dance. She was so excited. I was unprepared and completely out of my element. Apparently yoga pants and a baseball hat were not proper attire for the moms around there. I needed about a thousand more rhinestones. And I thought I’d just be handing someone a check and writing down emergency contact information. Instead I was ushered through several stations explaining dress code and tuition and recital fees. It went quickly and was mostly painless. Except when we were leaving and Tess realized that she hadn’t gotten to dance. Just watch her mom fill out forms. And there was a melt down.

I figured it would be quickly fixed if we bought her the required dance clothes on the way home. I was even more lost in the dance store. I kind of just imagined grabbing a little black leotard, pink pair of tights and some shoes and be on my way. But it wasn’t that easy. I was lost and quickly told the first person I saw I needed help. Also Tess was not having any simple plain leotard. She quickly informed me that the ones without tutus were just bathing suits and she needed a skirt. Again, I tried to pick out a plain one. But my daughter had her heart set on an obnoxious purple one with flowers and a funky printed tutu attached. The tights were easy (except to put on). And the shoes were too. Excpet I hadn’t actually thought about how tap shoes would sound on our hard wood floors. For hours at a time. We have had them only about 24 hours and I have already hidden them! I’m sure I was supposed to buy a dance bag and about twenty bows but I’ll save those for another day.

And we got home and she immediately wanted to put everything on and turn up some music and went to town. I am going to need some help learning how to put her hair in a bun. I don’t know first position from a plie ( I even had to google it just to see how to spell it…and I don’t know how to add that accent to the e!) I might have to borrow a shirt with some rhinestones on it and I might even need a second job to pay for everything. But. No one is going to have to help me cheer her on. Or give her room to twirl.

(and I just told you she loved to dance...I didn't say she was a prodigy! Hopefully her instructor will teach her to move her feet in addition to her arms!!)

and if the scissor sisters don't make you feel like dancing...nothing will :)

the dreaded question and rejection letters

2011-08-20T15:07:00.000-07:00

I’ve just finished a week of inservice and meetings and plannings and wanting to poke my eyes out. I spent my last Saturday morning of summer making copies and setting up a demo.
One afternoon this week I got to sit through some technology training. The technology, surprise, was not working. So while the presenter stalled she made us go around and say why we became a teacher.
I had to go first.
And I HATE that question.
You’d think that starting my 12th year, I’d have a good answer stored away. But I froze.
I can’t even tell you what I said it was so lame. I've already blocked it out.

And then today I stumbled across this.
My first rejection letter. Sort of.
It was the Community Opinions page ripped out of the Dallas Morning News. 5 years ago. With the obituaries on the back.

A month or so before that page in the Dallas Morning News, me and my husband somehow ended up kidless and eating brunch in uptown. Someone had left the paper on the table and me and Shaun traded pages as we ate. I ran across a request for submissions. They wanted a group of teachers to regularly contribute articles throughout the school year.
This was preblog.
But sounded like my kind of thing. I applied. And I thought I’d be a shoe-in.
Which is funny because I had zero writing experience. No writing classes in college. And I didn’t even live in any of the districts they were requesting. But it felt perfect for me. I liked to write. I liked teaching. And what was the likelihood of me reading the paper on the day they asked for submissions. I thought it was meant to me.
So I emailed the contact listed at the bottom and he send me an application.
And guess what the first question was…
The dreaded “Why do you teach?”

And I thought on it for a while.
I never grew up thinking I wanted to be a teacher. (A trapeze artist, advertising executive, dermatologist and/or physical therapist. Yes. Teacher. No.) And I’d had some great ones, but it wasn’t even on my radar. But I think that is usually how God keeps things interesting. I changed majors mid freshman year and it was just one of those things I was sure about. Knew that I was supposed to do.

But I’m thinking "I just knew and I really like office supplies" weren’t going to cut it on the application. So I did what I often do when I don’t know what to say. I just started typing and this is what came out. (which yes I realize, kind of dodges the question).

“The best thing about my job is that first day – every notebook is blank, attitudes are fresh. Today, I am not behind; there are no papers to grade. Everyone has a 100. Faces look eager. Everyone is awake. Pencils are sharp. I am excited to meet them all. I struggle to remember names. They are trying to decide if I am mean or give lots of homework. I am looking for a way in, some connections so that next month they will still be awake and maybe even learn a little bit of chemistry along the way.
I like the freshness of the day. I have a job with summers, spring breaks, school supplies and pep rallies. I often find myself drained, but I am never bored. I am constantly challenged and am quite possibly learning more from them than they are from me. There are bad days and even bad weeks, but there is always the hope of August and a fresh start.”

And that isn’t my best writing. But it is still true. I was tempted to make it sound a little better when I retyped it just now. So the real writers out there might not be surprised to know that in my inbox a few days later was my first rejection letter. A thanks but no thanks, but also letting me know that my answers were property of the paper and might find their way in print. I figured that last bit was just letting a girl down easy.

So I was surprised when, a month or so later, a principal stopped me in the office at the end of a LONG day of inservice and meetings, and said he really liked my article in the paper that day. I rushed out and bought a copy after school. There is something about seeing your name in print that I can’t explain. Even if no one was paying me for it.

And when I found it again today…two things hit me. First days are still one of the reasons I teach. And secondly. I haven’t had enough rejection letters. Mainly because I haven’t given my writing the chance to be rejected. So…here is to first days and rejection letters. I hope for many more of both.

(and this song has nothing do with anything.. i just really like this version and blared it in my classroom this morning while i got ready for my latest first day!)

How to play it safe.

2011-08-16T17:52:00.000-07:00

Some reccomendations on how to play it safe:
Order the same thing. You already know you like it.
Shop at the Gap.
Wear appropriate swimwear. And never forget sunscreen.
Keep your training wheels on.
Don’t call.
Don’t go first.
Save for a rainy day.
Keep waiting for that rainy day.
Carry an umbrella.
Work late.
Pick neutral tones. For your walls and nails and cars.
Wear a helmet. And kneepads.
Keep your windows rolled up and your doors locked.
Screen your calls.
Hit save instead of send.
Never wrestle.
Never commit.
Play by the rules.
Don’t make promises. Just in case you can’t keep them.
Eat in your room or your cubicle.
Get coffee by yourself.
Do what always works.
Always have a plan and a map.
Don’t do things that scare you. ever.
Dress in layers.
Match your socks.
Have conditions.
Wait.
Put your keys in the same place every night.
Always take your phone.
Get a second opinion.
Always use a dryer sheet.
Use your parking brake.
If it’s not working, give up.
Love less.

And. Those are all good things. Things I should probably do more of.
Protecting. Being careful. Waiting.
Sometimes it is good to play by the rules and be prepared.
And sometimes I do. I have had entire years of being good at being safe.
And when I did I rarely got in trouble or hurt or noticed.
But they were awfully boring years.

And my last few years have been the opposite of safe.
I’ve thrown caution to the wind.
And I've had a good time.
And I've had all kinds of consequences.
I've gotten lost. I've lost my keys.
Speeding tickets.
A reputation that I don’t quite own or want.
A hurt heart. More than once.
And I’ve had to say I’m sorry a lot. A LOT.

And there are some things I want to change.
There are times to play by the rules.
And there are times to make up new ones.
There are times to throw out the map.
But there are times to wait and ask and listen.
Finding a balance is tricky.
But one thing I think I’m sure of. There is never a time to love less.
(and I’m not all that fond of neutral colors either)

(and b/c i've been such an iconsistant blogger as of late and kind of gave up on the friday playlist like a year ago..but I can't get away from music. so i've been meaning to add songs to every post. ones I like or apply or are sticking to me at the moment....and a few others I'm stuck on right now.... We Will All Be Changed by Seryn and Belong by the Carey Brothers).

just married.

2011-08-14T13:02:00.000-07:00

Our Sunday school class has been doing a series on marriage and intimacy for most of the summer. We have been out of town a lot and I didn’t always do my homework but when we were there….It has lead to some great conversations. Most of which I am not mature enough for. I make silly jokes. Turn all kinds of shades of red. And my husband mostly checks his phone.

And today was no different. Until the class was almost over. We were mid funny embarrassing story when the pastor walks in. (and trust me it wasn’t the kind of funny story that you want a pastor to walk in on) We finished the story anyways which lead to all kinds of laughter and inappropriate jokes (my favorite kind) and she gets up and tells us to stand and face each other and hold hands.

Most of us are still kind of giggling. And it all feels awkward and weird. And then she starts reading.
And every couple in the room is facing each other. Holding hands. And repeating their vows.
And I couldn’t help but notice that every woman in the room (me included) was getting a little teary.

No one wore big poofy dresses or tuxes.
There was no bridal party.
There was no photographer or florist.
There was no cake or punch.
No one sang. No one read 1 Corinthians 13.
I wasn’t even wearing lipstick and am pretty sure I had coffee breathe.

But every couple in the room.
Promised again.
To have and to hold.
And even without the show and the big ceremony.
Those words felt heavy and full and the room was silent except for the promises that were being made.
Again.
With full awareness this time to how hard they can be to keep.
But all promising to do just that.
Because sometimes we need a little reminding.

And she prayed.
And we kissed our new/old spouses.
And the women in the room all wiped their eyes.
And we went back to laughing and storytelling.
But the moment wasn’t lost on anyone.

And now I’m wondering if I get 2 anniversaries?
Or at least some cake….

closets

2011-08-10T08:19:00.000-07:00

I am ending my last week of summer with a bang.

By cleaning out my closets.
My clothes just need some weeding. And hanging and I’m hoping to find that pair of jeans and single flip flop I lost.
Owen has a few clothes that need to go. but mostly I just need to match up his shoes and throw out the things with holes and get rid of all the AWOL legos that have made it in there. And pray that I don’t find anything that used to be alive.
But Tess’s closet is in the biggest need. It seems like everytime I do laundry I need to sort through her clothes and pack up the ones that no longer fit.

Because she seems to wake up bigger every day.
The only thing that isn’t growing is her hair.
So I filled two trashbags with clothes that no longer fit to pass on to a friend and another to Goodwill.
And I’m not a saver. I’m happy to get rid of stuff.
But everytime I go through my kids clothes I get a little nostalgic.
Her Easter dress and the outfit she wore to her birthday party and the jammies with the feet in them. I almost want to hold on to them even though it would be silly.
And I’m shocked that they have such a short life span. That they already don’t fit. That this summer’s clothes will all need to be replaced by next summer.
That kind of growth, frustrates more than my wallet.

My husband left a sweatshirt on the train last week in Seattle. His favorite. That he has had for longer than I’ve known him. I’d guess it was 18 or so years old. I don’t have anything that old in my closet, but I do have a few things from college which is more years than I want to add up and definitely in the double digits. And I shop more than I wish I did. But I mostly buy the same sizes. And if I’m growing it certainly isn’t in the right directions.

My son inches up his doorframe. Slowly but surely.
My daughter’s clothes barely make it through the season.
But my growth is a lot harder to guage.
And often it feels like I am not doing it at all.
And I’m sure that isn’t true.
But some seasons feel like it.
And this is one of them.
I look back and feel like I’m in the same place I was over a decade ago.
That I have changed even less than my favorite shirts that have been washed so many times that they are thin and soft and shouldn't be worn in public.
And I wish their was some kind of inventory I could do. That I could just bag up those habits and mistakes that I keep hoping to outgrow. And get rid of them for good.
And somehow they keep showing back up in my closet.
And sometimes I even put them on.

But, when I’m done with Tess’s clothes.
I’ll move on to those really hard things I need to get rid of.
The kind that don’t fit on hangers.
And if that isn’t growth, I don’t know what is……….

5king it in 100 degrees (and a playlist)

2011-08-06T15:28:00.000-07:00

I run a lot of races.

Let me restate that a little more accurately. I slowly jog a lot of races.
Mostly 5Ks and 10Ks but I’ve also done mud runs, adventure races and even once did a sprint tri and a half.

I’m not fast. But I always finish. And I rarely walk.

And I have a few racing rituals and tips.

First. I always choke down a peanut butter powerbar for breakfast. I hate the way they taste. But. always do it and wash it down with a Gatorade.

Panties that stay in place are also critical. I’ve had more than one friend try to convince me not to wear them at all but I haven’t even been brave enough to try.

Pee before the race. No matter what. even if it is in a smelly port-o-potty.

Don’t wear the race t-shirt to the actual race. I’m not sure why I’m such a snob about this but I am. I actually usually try to avoid wearing any kind of race shirt at all to a race to avoid any expectations that I can actually run.

Good socks, a place to tuck your key and a easily recognizable shirt or hat if I’m running with friends.

Do not skimp out on the post race freebies. Especially if it involves something you need to trade in a coupon for. Even if it is 9 a.m.

It feels really cool to throw your cup on the ground at the water stop, but someone has to pick all those up….so at least aim near a trash bag.

Give yourself plenty of time to get to the starting line. Expect parking to suck. Nothing kills my energy level like sprinting to the start. And I’ve done this a lot.

On the rare occasion that I am going for speed, (and I use that word loosely), I try and pick out someone who is cruising that looks like they have atleast 50 lbs or 20 years or is in their last trimester. Nothing motivates me more than an 80 year old kicking my ass. I am also motivated by the very large breakfast I plan on eating afterwards. We all seriously considered cheeseburgers at Breadwinners this morning. Well before 10 am.

And most importantly, unless there is someone to talk to, are good running tunes….

welcome to the moment

2011-08-04T20:25:00.000-07:00

Me and my husband have different ideas of travel.

He does his research.
I like to get lost.
He likes history. I like coffee.
Neither of us want to miss anything. But we have different ideas of anything.
I can walk forever. His feet hurt.
He googles it. I ask a friend. Or the concierge. Or a random person on the street.
And the next day he can walk forever and my feet hurt.
I give all my money away to homeless people but want to splurge on cabs and desserts and trinkets.

We spent a long weekend in Seattle. No kids. Just us. We even tried to stay off our phones most of the time. And this is partly for our 10 year anniversary. But I also just love new places and getting away and exploring. I’d rather have plane tickets than jewelry any day. And I couldn't wait to get away.

We got in really late. 2 a.m. in my body's timezone. I’d had a rough week. I was short on sleep and food and had all kinds of things running through my head that I was eager to turn off for a few days. So was looking extra forward to sleeping in a big bed with no kids or dogs waking me up early. Relaxing. Big white hotel robes. Drinking plenty of coffee. People watching. And eating my way through the city. And my husband let me sleep in a little while he explored a few blocks. But when he came back, he was ready to hit the city. Museums and tours and not wanting to miss a thing.

I took my time getting dressed. And we wondered around for a bit, argued over what to do next and found something to eat. Discovered that apparently the homeless people in Seattle are often more friendly than people in customer service. We hit some Seattle highlights. Ate more. More highlights. And found our way back to the market early in the afternoon.

And one of my favorite things about big cities are street performers. Most of them aren’t that good. But some of them are. And the pike’s street market is prime real estate. So they switch out the person on the corner every hour or so. The first time we walked by was a guy with two cats wearing sweaters. And later I saw a guy playing a little piano. Each time they had drawn a small crowd. Even the cats in sweaters which I didn’t get at all. But now there was a huge crowd. And it didn’t take me long to figure out why. A skinny, dirty guy was playing guitar, the harmonica, a maraca, and shakers on his feet. All while hula hooping. I snapped pictures. And tossed dollars in his guitar case. Mesmerized. While he sang a strange combination of “I got a river of life” mixed in with a little Journey “Don’t stop believing”. And thought that I’ve paid good money to see people in theatres way less talented than him. And then he said my favorite line all trip.
(Even better than the waitress who asked where we were from saying we were obviously too nice to be from Seattle. Or all the people complaining about how hot it was when it hit 80 degrees. When we've had 100+ degree heat for almost 40 days straight.)

“Welcome to the moment. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

And for the first time all day I soaked in the moment. And tried to not stop for the rest of the trip. And something in me finally woke up. I took in the flowers, the fish, the produce and the crowds and was glad I wasn’t just lying in my hotel bed. For the first time all day I didn’t mind the crowds or the smells and suddenly I tried to take it all in. Every flower. Every fish. Every person stepping on my foot.

And then he spun his guitar on top of his head. And we went to stand in another line.

Emery Carl "Live" - Easy from Session 7 Media on Vimeo.

bears, snakes and heights.

2011-07-28T17:10:00.000-07:00

The other day my son came home from his last day of camp and I was trying to get him to tell me what he did that day.
And mostly he talked about something called a Tarzan Swing. I’ve done my share of ropes course and I’ve seen this particular swing and was a little surprised that my son agreed to do it. Because even though he is silly and likes all kinds of things. Sometimes I have to push him.
Literally, off the dock. Down the slide. On a ride at the fair.
And sometimes the other parents stare at me, like I’m horribly miserably mean. Forcing my kid to do something he obviously is afraid of kicking and screaming.
But. I know my kid. And I know that by the time he gets to the bottom or in the water that he will be asking to do it again. (at least most of the time). And I don’t ever want fear to stop him from something good.
And so I asked him about the swing.
And he said he was a “little bit scared, but mostly that is was fun” and he thought about it for a little and then said it was more fun than he was scared. And that is a lesson I hope he remembers.

I’m afraid of snakes and bears and heights.

And I’ve hike mountains with lots of bears and snakes (and even mountain lions). And jumped off bridges. and cliffs, and ridden rollercoasters. And I was usually more than a little bit scared for all of it.
But like Owen says, it is usually more fun than I was scared.
And I don’t want to live afraid. I am not an adrenaline junkie. I still white knuckle it on ski lifts. And close my eyes on roller coasters. But I will be on them, dragging my kids (and husband when I can) with me. Because I don’t want them to live that way either.

And I see people telling their kids to not be afraid. or hoping they grow out of being afraid of the dark. Assuring them that there is nothing to be scared of. And they are usually right. But there are always things to be scared of. And I can't teach my son to not be afriad. But I can teach him to not let it win or stop him or keep him from having fun.
Because there aren’t always bears or rollercoasters to overcome. They often get replaced with less concrete fears that are a little harder to conquer.
Of people not liking me back.
Of failing.
Of being bad at it. or laughed at. or talked about.
Of never fitting back into those jeans.
Of what other people think.
And maybe those aren’t the kinds of things that are more fun than scary in the end. Sometimes they are just scary. Or they just suck.
But there is still something to be said for not letting fear stop you.

(and i'm not a fan of the video...but love this song)

meeting in the middle

2011-07-17T06:59:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, in a conversation with a friend, about who we used to be, and how other people remembered us. She said something wise that I’m sure I’ll get wrong here. Something about how we are all pretty much the same. Who we are is essentially who we were. Maybe with a few more (or less) pounds, fresh highlights and with more insurance. I told her that I didn’t want that to be true. That I wanted to think that we all change and grow and get better. And I wasn’t sure that there was much of the 15 year old, or 18 year old or even 22 year old version of myself that I wanted to keep.

And today I realized that maybe she was mostly right. And there are a few things I don’t mind hanging on to after all.

It is July. And July to me means foot lockers packed with Sunday whites and Mohawk red. Not looking down on the catwalk. BBQ by the river. Sun In. The Wagon Wheel snack shop. Dancing in the alcove. Sticking to my mattress. Late night talks in bunks. Vinegar in my ear. Tipping canoes. Intentionally. Daddy long legs. Chore wheels. Sneaking food out of the snack barrel. Sneaking ice from the ice machines. Sneaking ice cream from the freezer. Sneaking out. (apparently there was lots of sneaking). Jumping off the bridge. Jumping off the dam. Banana boats. Fuzzy Wuzzies. Smores. Writing my name in rocks. Ripping my swimsuit on the rapids. Carrying that impossibly heavy wooden sled up the Mo slide. And most importantly not drying my hair. Not wearing making. And just being me without any pretension for a month or more.

My parents sent me to classic summer camp, and eventually I went back and worked there for a few summers. And it never left me. (and I wrote about all the things I learned there here and here…)
I remember going home every summer, getting back and being so excited to call my friends. And thinking that they had changed while I was gone. They were suddenly
different and less fun to be around. And it is because something about living and laughing and crying and bonding with so many girls for 3 straight weeks ruins you. Maybe forever. Some of my other friendships when I got home just seemed flat and shallow.

In July camp people come out of the woodwork. Something in us aches for that place and each other. It happens every summer. This time someone started an alumni page and started posting old pictures. I have a huge ziplock bag of them ranging somewhere from the late 80s to the late 90s. So I learned how to work my scanner. And for days I couldn’t keep up with my facebook. I had messages and comments and friend requests from people I hadn’t seen or heard from in well over a decade. (or in some cases two decades!). And now most of us, even my own campers, are married and have kids and busy schedules and totally different lives.

But I got an email suggesting a few of us meet up anyways. A few of us from DFW and a few of us from ATX and we picked a place in the middle. And we loaded up our carseats and strollers and drove south. And the north. And we met in the middle.

Micheal W Smith is a little misleading. Most friends aren’t forever. And I was nervous. I’m always nervous about seeing people I haven’t seen in a while because I worry that they won’t like the me that I am now. That we can only remember for so long and that maybe our conversations will stall out and make for a really uncomfortable lunch where we all just stare at each other. But within five minutes I realized this wouldn’t be the case. We were quickly sweating and laughing profusely. Like it was any other July. And more than once I got called an old nickname or said something ridiculous that made people laugh and tell me how I hadn’t changed. A bit. And that they were glad for it. And of course we’ve changed. I’m sure we are all really different women than the teens and twenties we were over a dozen years ago. We have new jobs and some of us have new last names and a slew of toddlers in tow. But. what hadn’t changed was who we were. People who were shaped and loved and felt safe enough to let our guards down in that dorm on a hill down by the Guadalupe. And those girls never went away.

lace 'em up

2011-07-15T19:52:00.000-07:00

I was not made to play sports. No one in my family played sports in school. My knees are bad. I’m slightly asthmatic. I got genes for long division and reading music and telling jokes, not ones for basketball or volleyball or even playing ping pong without hitting myself in the head. I have the coordination and natural athletic ability of Paul on the wonder years. When they did the flexibility test on me at the gym I think I scored about average for an 80 year old. My parents never signed me up for softball, even when I begged. I took PE instead of athletics in junior high. I quit dance when I was 6 because it was “too hard”. I quit gymnastics because it was too much like dance (read – again, too hard) and played the piano and violin and read books instead.

However.
I was not going to let those things stop me.
I ran across the driving range ducking and covering to take tennis lessons as a kid and would often spend hours banging a tennis ball back and forth on the side of my garage because only people over the age of 70 lived on my street. By the time my sophomore year rolled around I finally had time in my schedule, between all those honors classes and orchestra to fit in some JV tennis. I didn’t own a skirt or own of those matchy bags and most of the people on the team had taken it as freshmen and played on their respective junior high teams. My coach referred me to the counselor to get a schedule change. But I convinced him to let me stay. And even though I caused all kinds of havoc on the bus on the way to tournaments, and ripped my warmups climbing a fence and was the kind of girl that talked a little trash and threw her racket. I brought home my share of trophies. Plenty of them said consolation bracket or 2nd place. But I got my share. And it wasn’t because I had any natural ability. I never had any fluid motion to my serve. I was no Serena. But I ran hard for every shot, even the ones I shouldn’t have gotten too and just kept hitting it back. I loved the competition. And the sound a ball makes when you have a particularly good shot and the look on someone’s face who shouldn’t have lost to me and did. I did my share of losing too, but was always good about shrugging it off.
I never lettered. JV was as good as it got.

Senior year, my school (thank you title IX) started a soccer team. And well I’d played soccer for a minute because my older sister’s boyfriend coached a team and he picked me up and took me to and from practice. The team was mostly boys and I was terrible and can’t even remember playing any games but I figured I might as well try out.

This was before the days of little girl soccer leagues. The only girls who played soccer my age were doing it on the boys teams or with their brothers in the back yard. But I went to Acadamy and bought a cheap pair of cleats and figured how hard could it be. And a lot of other girls thought the same thing….because about 30 of us signed up and most of us didn’t know a shinguard from an athletic cup.

My coach didn’t know much about soccer either, or coaching girls (which was never more evident than when he told a teammate to pee in a Gatorade bottle because he wasn’t pulling over), but he knew plenty about running. And I guess he figured that he could run us down to a respectable team number and we’d go from there. I think someone threw up daily. I was occasionally one of them.

And at one of my first games I remember the sun going down and the lights coming on and just looking around the pitch. We all had rub on tattoos and double french braids and matching jerseys and I remember thinking tennis never felt like this. There was something about playing on a team that I had never experienced before. I still hadn’t really figured out offsides, but I ran and sweated and pulled jerseys and secretly hoped that the ball didn’t come too close to me or that I didn’t accidentally pick my feet up when I threw it in. I think we lost like 10-0. But I was hooked. I eventually earned a starting position, although I think that had a lot more to do with the fact that I took my coach to the ground while he asked me to help him demo a defensive drill than the fact that I had any skill. I was still a slow runner. I was more likely to toe punch the ball than kick with my laces, and I spent as much time on the ground as I did on my feet. But I always got up. I tried to hustle even when I wanted to puke and wasn’t afraid to use my body to make up for my lack of skill and I rarely complained. I never scored any goals out there and often road the bench as many minutes as I played. And it was no surprise that we only won like 2 games all season.

But I kept playing. In college. In grad school. Even after having babies. I remember pumping in the car right before a few games.

And people thought I was crazy 12 years ago when I told them I wanted to go to the Womens World Cup. They told me the US didn’t stand a chance. And that no one cared about women’s soccer. That no one in the US cared about soccer period. But I had seen Mia, Lily, Foudy, Scurry, Chastain, Akers etc… all play at an exhibition game back in high school. I had a few of their autographs. And I knew that I wanted to keep watching. A few weeks later girls around the nation were ripping off their shirts like Brandy Chastain and they were on the cover of every magazine and newspaper in the country.
Shaun and I went four years later to watch for ourselves.

I haven’t played soccer in well over a year, because these days I’m too busy driving my son to practice and games. My husband walks and talks ESPN and mostly I just tune him out. But the last few weeks I have been glued to the TV and the updates just as much as him. I’m too old to want to be Abby Wambach when I grow up. But I watched her in the college final four from the stands before most people knew her name. And I’ll be watching her again on Sunday. Maybe even with my face painted and my old US jersey on.

And what inspired this post isn’t all the TV/radio talk, but this great article that my husband posted on his facebook.…..which even if you don’t like women’s soccer is a good read: What if soccer isn't a big deal here? from the Wall Street Journal.

And I think I learned something important from my soccer days. You don’t have to be great at something to play. You just have to tie your shoes and go.

me. and yes, i really do have 2 legs.

(my favorite player on the team right now)

my favorite player. ever.

talking about the weather

2011-07-09T20:13:00.000-07:00

A few things I strongly dislike.

-Pix-Os. Those tiny little round balls that are supposed to magically stick together when you add water. But. so far all they have done is end up all over my floor.
-The fact that the last time I got a pedicure, the lady who was working on my feet asked if I had cut my own toenails last time. Laughed loudly when I confirmed her suspicions and then said something to the girl next to her in Vietnamese.
-That it is getting annoyingly difficult to stay up past 10:00 o’clock anymore.
-That the next week’s forecast all involve triple digits.
-That I will inevitably leave a bag on that little round bag holder and Wal Mart. And it will be the bag that had the most important item I came for in it.
…you get the idea.

But. one thing I really hate is small talk.

And I am really social and outgoing and completely extroverted, but on lots of days I’d rather have a root canal with no novocaine than have to endure much of it. I’d rather break out the vacuum than talk about the weather. (and that is saying a lot). Small talk is almost always awkward, painful and pointless and I go far out of my way to avoid it when I can.

But once a month (or as often as I can make it), I intentionally do a lot of it.
I comment on how hot it is to stranger after stranger.
Ask where they are from.
Or their name.
Compliment someone on their t-shirt.
Talk about their music. Or tattoo. Or dog.
I ask how old their kids are.
Say hi and ask how their day is even though they obviously do not want to speak to me.
Or anyone.
Except maybe themselves.

And it is always a little uncomfortable. A little forced. And I have to make my self barge in with the smiles and questions and comments about the weather.
And sometimes I am flat out ignored.
And sometimes they tell me where they went to college.
Or what they used to do for a living.
Or ask if I knew their sister who taught at my school. (I did).
Or ask for a ride.
Or hit on me uncomfortably.
Or cuss at me.
Or for another drink of cold water.
Or to be prayed for.

And this isn’t the normal place for small talk. This isn’t a work meeting or soccer practice or the line at the grocery store or the foyer of my church.
It is a park for homeless people. And my church, or another one, or sometimes two or three, show up every so often with a meal. But just as important as the food that is being handed out are the conversations. The slightly forced awkward ones. Asking someone their name. Looking them in the eye. And realizing that you have something in common.

Even if it is just that we are both really tired of the weather.

with vibrato

2011-07-08T14:26:00.000-07:00

I have never been a detail girl. I am more of a close enough kind of girl.

I don’t follow recipes. I don’t measure accurately. I don’t edit or proofread.
Which is probably why I never did anything with research or medicine. Because I might really like my science. But I’m pretty sure no one would want me cutting them open or doing important research or even baking a soufflé.

And I had a roommate who was puzzled by the fact that I played the violin.
Because it didn’t fit with my close enough attitude.
Because violins don’t have keys or frets to help you get the note right.
You have to put your finger in the exact right spot every time.
No fudging. No helping. And if you are off, even by a fraction of an inch. It sounds awful. But somehow, when I practiced enough my fingers knew where to go.
Exactly. Every time. Without even thinking about it.
And it has been years. And I don’t even want to think how rough I’d sound if someone put a fiddle in my hands. But I’d still know where to place my fingers for the basic notes.
Exactly.

But. Getting it exactly right is not enough when it comes to anything creative.
I can play the notes perfectly. And something would sound off. Plain. Flat. Missing.
Instead, any violinist who has made it to about Suzuki book 2…..they have something that makes their notes sound richer. Fuller. And better than just exact.
They have vibrato.

Which means that on certain notes you wiggle your finger a little. Just past and just before the actual note.
And playing the note a little high and then a little low instead of just right on somehow makes it better. And. you still have to know where the actual note is to do this. But just not be limited to it. And of course – too much of this and you’d get sick of it. But in the right places these intentional wiggles make a piece …..well more musical. And I googled it, just to make sure I was describing it accurately because it has been a long time since I’ve attempted it…and it said that it creates a more “emotional sound”.
Warmer. Richer. And Fuller.

My parents paid for lessons and I practiced intently in my room every night. Right after 90210 was over. And I always sat near the front.
But eventually I started getting distracted. There was Calculus homework, soccer practice, and boys and of course Dillon and Brandon.
So I stopped practicing.
But I still knew when it came to auditions that I still needed to play with confidence and vibrato. Even if I wasn’t sure of the notes. And much to my director’s dismay – I still made the cuts.

And I’ve almost sold my violin a few times, but my husband has always stopped me. I haven’t played in well over a decade.
But I still try to live like that.
With vibrato.
Because sometimes just playing the right notes is boring and flat. And sometimes you have to be willing to be just a little off.

promises

2011-07-07T06:47:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago I walked down the aisle. Trying not to cry and promised all kinds of things I didn’t comprehend.

Like I remember promising to have and to hold.
But nothing about remembering to wash out my bowl after eating cereal or oatmeal.
Or sitting through countless hours of sports on TV.
Or ever remembering to not leave my shoes in front of the front door. And I expected to be holding each other. Not babies and laundry and never the remote.

For richer or poorer.
Mostly I think I was hoping for the first part, but assumed that the second part would be cozy. Like college. A one bedroom apartment and a lot of ramen noodles. I don’t think most people spend a lot of time thinking about the in between. Fighting over how much coffee one girl needs to buy at starbucks or if we really need Xbox live or why plane tickets are a much better investment than our 401K.

In sickness and health.
And. thankfully mostly we have been the latter. But that the sickness part can take it’s toll. That strep makes it’s way faster through the house than a scented candle. Or that I’d rather have a pelvic exam than have someone in my house get a stomach bug. That we would flip to see who was gonna stay home with a sick kid. That we would give that same sick kid motrin and hope for the best or to atleast be able to work until lunch. Or that men are babies when they are sick. That babies don’t sleep when they are sick and that our house would have a quarantine room.

To love and to cherish.
Those words were so idealistic a decade ago. I thought my heart would always swell and to cherish would be my husband rubbing my feet while we cuddle on the couch.
And those things have happened. But sometimes to love means to let him pick the radio station or getting up to let the dog in or put the baby back to bed or even very occasionally mowing the yard or putting away the laundry.
And cherish, well these days we cherish the rare moments of quiet and alone when we aren’t utterly exhausted, and that in those moments we still have things to talk about.

Til death do us part.
That sounds so final and morbid…so I’ll just focus on the fact that we have made it a decade. Which apparently, according to the statistics, is no easy task.
And marriage is hard. But maybe not as hard as some people warned me. Mostly because I think I’ve always gotten the better end of the deal. And haven’t always acted like it, but have known since we were both young and stupid that Shaun was home to me. And I’d say those vows again today. In a heartbeat. This time a little less clouded and wrapped up in the white dress and wedding cake.
Knowing what they mean. More now than ever.
The gooey parts. And the realistic ones.
For hopefully many more decades.

(if you want to know why this video seems so the opposite of high quality filming... http://idontbelieveingrammar.blogspot.com/2010/07/nine-years-in-making-plus-special.html
or why I married him .... http://idontbelieveingrammar.blogspot.com/2010/10/really-cheap-birthday-present.html)

I come from the water

2011-06-29T14:27:00.000-07:00

In some gross moment of oversharing my parents once pointed out some beach hotel where I was conceived.

My husband and his family are mountain people. They can fish and sit on the back porch for weeks and not ever want to go anywhere. And I just spent a week in the mountains. I like them. I like the way the air tastes cleaner. I like the mountain views and the fact that it isn’t 110 degrees like it is at home and that you can see a billion stars. But, there are only so many books I can read on the back porch before I get ancy. And want to drive or climb or find a town or an Americano.

But this week we are at the beach. And as soon as we crossed that long bridge, I breathed in the thick salty air as deeply as I could. It isn’t like the mountains. It is loud. The waves and the city. The air is thick and sweaty. And I’m up 24 floors reading on the balcony rather than the backporch.

And there is no doubt that I come from the water.

This morning me and my sneaks hit the sand a little after 8 am. This part of the beach is newly developed and pretty empty. Especially that early. So I didn’t see many people down my initial stretch. Except a guy who looked like he might be sleeping off some cheap whiskey from the night before on a tarp in the sand.

About half a mile down I saw three figures. All dressed in thin black robes at the shoreline. One of them was moving in circles and I thought he must be doing some kind of tai chi exercise. But. Then I got closer. And realized he was just spinning. Twirling, almost, like my daughter does when she puts on a dress, about knee deep in the surf.

All three of them had on the same robe that went from their ankles to their wrists. Their heads were shorn straight to their scalp. The robes were loose and it was hard to tell if they were men or women. Old or young. And none of them spoke. I watched carefully as I approached because I was intrigued by these figures that were so different than me. The one I saw first kept spinning and splashing. Another was sitting on the ground with his palms deeply planted into the sand like roots and his eyes were closed. He had to be praying. And possibly my favorite part of the scene was that right there on his lap sat a bright blue water balloon ready to be thrown. The last monk, or whatever they were was laying, full dressed, in the water, arms and legs spread wide like he was making a snow angel. Eyes closed, full of joy and peace. Just letting the water crash over him. He had a light smile on his face and I wondered what God he was praying to? And if it was the same as mine.

And I kept running until I ran out of beach and then climbed up and ran a few more miles down the seawall. But I kept thinking about those three figures. And how they seemed so oblivious to everything else. Except the ocean. And whatever God I’m sure they were praying to. And I ran and thought about other things and sweated and listened to my ipod, but their faces kept sneaking back into my head.

I looked for them on my way back. But, when I got back to where they had been, there was just a guy setting up umbrellas and chairs to rent. Nearly an hour had passed so the beach traffic was picking up a little. People were out walking their dogs and a few families were already laying claim to their spots in the sand.

And without thinking about it, I slipped off my Nikes. And tucked my key and ipod neatly inside. Strode out a few feet into the water. And laid down. Fully dressed. Arms and legs out just like I had seen earlier. And it didn’t feel like I expected. There was no bliss or peaceful smile immediately formed on my face. I was too distracted to pray. I worried a little about the sand in my hair. If someone was going to steal my ipod while I had my eyes closed. How I’d look walking through the lobby totally drenched. And what people were thinking if they saw a middle aged woman fully dressed just laying outstretched in the sea. But I kept my eyes closed. And tried to push all of that away. And eventually my breathing slowed just like it does when I lay on the floor after sweaty yoga. And prayed silently to my God as the waves lapped over me. And thanked him. And most of all hoped that if anyone happened to walk by that they noticed the smile on my face too.

i'm a slacker

2011-06-24T20:45:00.000-07:00

I'm on summer vacation. And apparently a blog vacation as well.
So, since I haven't been putting much out here....let me give you some great sights to help you waste time.

I mean if you aren't busy playing angry birds (like my husband, son, and mother in law), or tweeting ( I still don't write them...can't work w/in word limits or follow b/c my husband reads enough of them outloud to me), playing words with friends (I don't do that either because I think I'd have to join a 12 step program to stop), playing outside (you obviously don't live where i live where it is a bizillion degrees), or being productive (like cleaning or something...and if that is you. stop. you are just making the rest of us look bad), or even worse working (sorry, you don't get a summer like me, i'd tell you to consider a career change but i still need people to sell me frozen yogurt and let's face it...this is not the best time to think about teaching....and despite what everyone thinks....NOT EVERYONE CAN DO IT!)

so. some of my favorite online time wasters....guarenteed for some good laughs.

1. Damn You Auto Correct! People's iphones have a mind of their own. Expect a little naughty. But you will laugh outloud I promise. I've had a few of my own.... such as "at gym", once turned into "at gunpoint". or another time my friend came to pick me up and intended to text me "i'm here" instead I got "i'm heterosexual". I was glad for the clarification.

2. Dear blank, please blank. One of my newest favorites...and it is just like it sounds. One of the latest...

Dear Dr. Phil,

More kids are addicted to Facebook than marijuana.

Sincerely, reality

3. Cake Wrecks. How wrong can a cake go. Very. Very. Wrong. How dumb can the decorators be. Apparently. Very. Very. Dumb. Thank you my friend Thais for introducing me to this gem.

4. Ted Talks. Nothing funny or naughty about any of these. I just feel smarter every single time I watch one. They are long. but totally worth it. Here are my top 3:

1. Brene Brown on vulnerability. I've posted this before. and I. love. her. Try to watch this video and not love a little differently.

http://www.ted.com/talks/ken_robinson_says_schools_kill_creativity.html

2. Ken Robinson on education and creativity. http://www.ted.com/talks/ken_robinson_says_schools_kill_creativity.html

3. Barry Schwartz and the paradox of choice. sometimes too much is just too much.

http://www.ted.com/talks/barry_schwartz_on_the_paradox_of_choice.html

and I really want to keep going with these...but here is a list of someone else's top 20...and I've seen a few of them and they are also great.

4. future me Send yourself an email in the future....or just read other people's. I wrote myself about 3 months ago and already totally forgot what it said.

I also love me some drunk kitchen. but. she is such a hot mess and that you'll have to find her yourself...or just look at my cute kids.

at the wheel

2011-06-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

Since my son just had a birthday, I figured it was time we teach him to drive.

He just turned six. And I’m not even sure he will be able to reach the pedals in another ten years.

And some of you might be thinking that six is too young to drive, but I was taking the wheel on my dad or brother’s lap at least by then. And you think all that extra practice would have made me a better driver….but that is another blog post.

So this morning, I needed to run to the gas station and told him he could crawl on my lap and steer down the dirt road. Until we got to the highway. We can’t do these kinds of things in town and better take advantage of the opportunities when we can.
He was hesitant. But sat on my lap and grabbed the wheel anyways.
And then on the way back. And again on the next run with his dad.
And dad gave him a little more command of the wheel than I did.
I just kept telling him to watch the road and try to keep it straight, but we were swerving all over the place.
On the grass. Almost in the ditch. And then he’d correct and jerk the wheel back in the opposite direction. And we’d end up on the other side of the ditch.
Then – just when he got it going steady or center, the road would turn. And he'd have to start all over again.

And I hardly think about keeping my car on the road and can steer with my knees or while checking my phone, while eating lunch, or while changing the song on my radio.
Yes, I know those are all bad habits. And it is no wonder why I have so many tickets!
But despite my bad habits – I usually can keep my car in the right lane.

But.
I do understand my son’s tendency to overcompensate. To overcorrect. That is something I still quite haven’t figured out. And I still get frustrated when you finally get it figured out and the path changes. And usually the answer is as simple as keeping your focus in the right place and trying to keep going straight ahead.

And we can all be thankful that this kid has another ten years before he is street legal. Me, however, you might want to watch out for.

(and I’ve only got dial up here…so will have to upload pics later )

pomp and circumstance

2011-06-17T20:19:00.000-07:00

I go to a lot of graduations. One a year (or occasionally more) for the last dozen or so years.

I don’t remember much of my high school graduation, except I sat next to someone I swear I had never seen before. And my friend Kenneth quoting the famous philosopher, Dennis Rodman. I remember wearing a cute black dress from the Gap, only because I think it might have been the last time I wore a size 6 in anything. I don’t remember what the valedictorian said, although she posts pretty clever and funny things on facebook these days so it was probably good.

And for the last twelve years, I’ve heard a lot of the same quotes. A lot of cliché speeches. And remember none of them. But. Almost every year there is a moment. Where the audience gets quiet. When a student who has walked awkwardly with bulky arm braces into your room every day, sets his braces aside and walks without help across the stage. I’ve seen parents accept diplomas that their kids should have received. But didn’t get the chance. Or most recently, a sister accept her brother’s diploma while he watched on TV from his hospital room waiting on a new heart. And suddenly it doesn’t seem that cliché.

And so the day isn’t about the corny speeches. Or even the cap and gown. And I’m not even sure what pomp and circumstance means. But. I’ve heard my share of speeches. And today, several of my friends posted this one on facebook. And I loved it. Mostly because I love Conan. But also because he managed to be funny and real and vulnerable at the same time. And it might be my favorite graduation speech of all time……except the one my nephew gave at his just a few weeks ago!
(and feel free to skip to minute 15:30ish if you are pressed for time and want the serious part of his speech.)

congrats Mat!

a slightly belated birthday post

2011-06-13T19:58:00.000-07:00

Six years and nineish months ago I peed on a stick in my friend Tina’s bathroom.

And had a hard time comprehending just what those two little lines meant.
How much was going to change.

There was a lot I didn’t know.
Like morning sickness sometimes lasts longer than the first trimester.
That the not sleeping starts long before delivery.
That deliveries rarely go as planned.
That 8 lbs and 1 once is more than big enough to grow my heart in imeasureable ways.

And the years are sneaking by.
Six of them.
Most of the time faster than I’d like.

And five was a big year.
Because not only did you learn to read and add and subtract but you learned how to build almost everything out of legos, how to tell time by something other than episodes of Diego, how it feels to score goals, how to put your own straw in your juicebox, that you better hide your candy or toys from your sister or be expected to share, how to do the running man and moon walk, that bad days don’t make for a bad kid, how to sleep in, how to feed the dog and clean your room and all kinds of other things that you can now do with out me.
And that is what I want.
A boy who will one day be a man.
Who hopefully will be able to tie his own shoes and buckle his own seatbelt and say he is sorry and love as big as your smile.

But not just yet.
For now, I’m still hoping you will let me carry you to bed. And hold your hand in the parking lot. And point me to your friends when I come to your school.
At least for another year.

too little butter spread on too much bread

2011-06-09T18:38:00.000-07:00

I think I'm quoting Bilbo Baggins...but am not sure. my husband could probably verify that for me.
In other words I'm too thin.

I've never been skinny.
Well. I've never felt skinny. I look back at pictures in high school and I was totally skinny. I just thought I was fat. Now, I think I'm skinny enough until the doctor wants to weigh me and WRITE IT DOWN, or I have to try on swimsuits and then I know the truth.....I'm not skinny. Not even a little bit. But most of the time I can ignore that and eat another cupcake.

So, as unskinny as I might be....... I am undoubtably way too thin.
And have been for years.
Spread so thin that everything in my life is kind of like eating at Golden Corral.
I can do lots of things. Some of them I'm even ok at. But almost none of them are very good. And When I keep going....I end up getting sick.

And I've gone on diets. I've cut back. And cut activities. But they always find their way back in. Like I miss playing soccer and bible studies and watching TV.
And I'm a fast paced over do it kind of girl anyways.

My summer just got started. And I thought I'd have more time for things like laying on the couch. talk shows. reading. blogging.
But, I've been running around crazier than ever. Soccer camp, lunch with friends, sprinklers, ice creamn, literally running, yoga, sushi, birthday parties and coffee.
lots of driving, rushing, eating. and pretty much the only time I've been still is when I'm exhausted on the yoga studio floor while someone reminds me to breathe.

And today I picked Owen up from soccer camp, ran some errands and decided to lay down because I didn't sleep good the night before. I told Owen we could go swimming after a quick rest.
But I couldn't will myself out of bed. Pretty much all afternoon.

I have never been good with calendars, but with multiple kids and appointments and practices and soccer snacks I kept missing stuff. So I eventually (or my husband) started using the one on my phone. Every day that has something scheduled shows up as a dot. And there are only 2 days between now and mid-July are dot free.
That is way too thin.
And I need more dot free days.
My calendar is getting fatter and I am getting thinner.
And this kind of thin isn't good and certainly doesn't look nice in a bathing suit.
This kind of thin is frazzled and late and tired.
So. For the rest of the summer, I'm gonna work on more butter and less bread.
More dot free days.Thin is overrated anyways.

And I'm pretty sure, that just gave me an excuse to have another cupcake.

the last day (and what's in my drawers)

2011-06-06T21:39:00.000-07:00

In case you have ever wanted a sneak peak into the world of the last day of the year for teachers…

It was not Friday. When the last of my kids took their finals and fished their books out of their cars or closets or lockers and begged to be taken off the fines list or for that last half a point. That day is bittersweet. So happy to be done, but my heart tugs a little when they leave.
Today was really my last day.
No kids.
And every year it is the same drill.
I’ve been in four different schools and each one of them gives out an end of the year checklist. That is really more like a scavenger hunt to find all the principals and secretaries and hunt down ridiculous things they gave us in August and now want back.
Like our hall pass.
And I assure you, I wouldn’t touch that restroom pass with a 10 foot pole….even if I knew where it was.

So my day began with coffee and me losing and then finding my wallet. Which was it’s own kind of scavenger hunt. I had planned to get to school extra early and get cracking on my list and boxing up my room but, was driving all over town trying to find my money…and hoping not to run out of gas before I got it back. (I got it back barely, but that is another rant for another day)
So instead of getting there extra early and being super productive, I slid in a smidge late to my meeting. But it isn’t the kind of day where anyone notices. They are all smiles and jokes and dressed for summer. And they serve retirement cake for breakfast.

I rush back to my room and get cracking on my checkout list/scavenger hunt and make significant progress before graduation practice. I had 2/3 of the required signatures – even the really tough ones to get. And had spent over an hour of my morning waiting in lines.
But did a few dumb things.
One was that I was so anxious to get signatures I turned in my keys long before I was really ready too. Which meant being locked out of my own room and not having access to anywhere else. Even the bathrooms. Another big mistake of the day, when you break your graduation line up sign, the principal will not find it amusing when you try to reattach it with your chewing gum. And even worse, it was my last piece of gum. Totally wasted.

Lunch out in an actual resturaunt took priority over the rest of my signatures.

Also the lines were extra long by this point and those morning smiles and jokes were long gone. Everyone seemed to want the same thing. Which was to make their 1 o’clock tee time. I just wanted a nap. And a massage. But figured I wasn’t getting either, so for a change…. I took my sweet time getting out of there. And amazingly the lines are much shorter after lunch.
I got all my signatures.
I boxed up my photos and stapler and put away all the dirty beakers.
My googles were washed. My books all turned in. I had removed the batteries from my remotes and filled my recycling bin. And no one could be more ready for summer than me. I love my students, the people I work with and even could tell you which soda machine actually has diet dr. pepper and won’t steal your money.
But. I miss my couch. And my own kids. And am ready for 8 weeks of not being at work before the sun comes up. And I’m hoping for a little more time to write. And read. And run. And spending time with my kids rather than other people’s 18 year olds.

And one thing I hate more than standing in line, and turning in books and verifying grades is cleaning out my classroom. But the other day the internet was down. And my students were all at least pretending to work on their review. So I started cleaning out my desk. Which turned out to be a lot more fun than I thought. A list of just a few of the things I found, besides the normal stuff like post its and bandaids:
*Tess’s hospital bill from when she was born. Almost 8 grand. I also never noticed that I was charged 23.87$ for a dipstick. I’m not sure what that is, nor do I remember anyone checking my oil.
*A Barbie doll – which Tess decided to paint all over and cut off it’s hair when I took her to work with me over the weekend to finish cleaning.
*an airhorn. This came in handy when kids fell asleep. Although the teacher next door was less than fond of it.
*a dozen years worth of school pictures. And no, not me grades K-12, but all as a teacher. I get free ones every year and am never sure what to do with. I've tried to give them out as prizes, but I never have any takers. so they just pile up year after year in my bottom drawer.
It has never occured to me NOT to actually go downstairs and have my photo taken like most of my friends.
*gorilla glue. Not sure why I have it. nor why anyone would name glue after a gorilla. I don’t think they are particulary sticky.
*a Polaroid of Owen’s first haircut. Not sure what was doing in my desk drawer, although I’m pretty sure we could say that about everything else on the list too.
*a frog. Vacuum packed. We named him optimus prime and he was great fun without ever being sliced open.
*some fake lottery tickets. These were going to be put in fake Christmas card from the principals. But thought maybe not everyone would think it was as funny as we did.
*37cents. Not enough for a soda.
*a mostly empty bottle of Alleve. It has been a good year. But. not headache free.
* 3 wintergreen life savors that I had obviously forgotten about.
* pictures of my colon. Don’t worry it was clean. And taken by a doctor. I think some of them were of my esophogus too. But they are all kind of pink tunnelish and it is hard to tell which end is which.
*about a dozen chewed on pens. It is a nasty habit, but it does keep kids from stealing my pens.
And all kinds of other ridiculous stuff.
But things I didn’t find….my hall pass or my keys!
Maybe they will turn up next year.

wiggle

2011-06-03T20:40:00.000-07:00

I am beat. Exhausted. Worn out. Only like the last week of school and throwing my kid a birthday party could do.

And want nothing more than a nap.
My son is playing with his new legos quietly in his room.
But no way would I dare nap with my 2 year old on the rampage.
Because even when I’m awake she has managed to color all over herself, the furniture and the floor with sharpies.
Lock herself in her room.
Swallow unidentified pills.
And flood the bathroom.
And destroy a room in 3 seconds flat.
No telling what this girl could do if I closed my eyes for a half hour.
And so I can’t wait, until she can play quietly in her room while I get some much needed shut eye.

Or so I think.

There are all kinds of milestones I think I can’t wait for.
Like I couldn’t wait to be done buying diapers.
I couldn’t wait for a full nights sleep (and most nights I still feel that way).
I can’t wait to stop writing huge checks for childcare.
Til my kids can work the DVD by themselves (ok, they have been able to do it better than me before they could walk…but I think that is some crazy innate ability that all kids are born with).
I couldn’t wait until my kid could read – but now when I spell out words. He knows. And I have to be a little more careful with my text messages.
I still can’t wait until they can tie their own shoes, all get in and out of the car without any assistance and can’t wait for the day that I will be allowed to go to the bathroom uninterrupted.
And speaking of milestons, today was my son’s last day of kindergarten.
And the first day he walked out of her in his dress code approved polo and with his Star Wars lunch box and Lego backpack was pretty big deal.
I never quite figured out the drop-off/pick up line. I still hate PTA meetings. Once my kid’s lunch account was empty and thankfully a sweet teacher across the hall had pity on my kid in tears and bought his lunch. He sang and danced on the front row of the bleachers with the rest of the kindergarteners and then dogpiled afterwards. I snuck out to bring him happy meals on occasion. I went to the art show and saw his fat yellow hand painted chicken hanging on the wall of the gym. I took off for field day and sweated my face off in the stands. I had my first parent-teacher conference, as the parent. I stood there like every other silly parent and took pictures on my phone of the awards ceremony where every kid got the same certificate. We did actual homework on the kitchen table. We ended the year with a lot more stamps than signs (good days/bad days). And learned a lot. Unfortunately, still not how to tie our shoes. And I think his last report card said he should work on his skipping. A year full of all kinds of milestones. And growing up. And the sharpie lines are slowly but surely inching up the doorframe.

But today he came barging in the door from his last day. And what made me a little emotional wasn’t that it was his last day of kindergarten. Or even that I am not quite sure how I am going to entertain him and his sister all day every day this summer.
But that he jaunts in to my friend’s classroom. Sets down his lunch box and announces to the room that he has a loose tooth.

And I kind of didn’t believe him. Until he gave it a little wiggle. And suddenly. I wasn’t ready.

For him to have sweet little gaps in his smile. For first grade. For braces. For shopping in the boy section instead of the toddler section. For boxers instead of briefs. For him to not need me to help him buckle his seat belt or open his drink.

And I lost all kinds of teeth in kindergarten. I’d even bring them for show and tell before stashing them under my pillow. I knew this was coming. I didn’t expect it to phase me.But that little tooth that he keeps pushing around with his tongue, is going to fall out in a few days or weeks.
And then so will another. And another.
And eventually all his baby teeth will be gone.
Which is just a reminder that so will the baby that I sometimes still see him as.

And next year, when he starts first grade. A few things are for certain. He will no longer be the littlest kid in his whole school. And he will have an even sweeter smile.

busted

2011-05-31T05:00:00.000-07:00

I have never been much of a rule follower. Speed limits and due dates have always been starting points for me. And I’m not saying rules aren’t necessary or important. We have our share in our house.

Such as: no sharpies allowed (Tess always seems to find them anyways), If I cook dinner we eat at the table, whoever cooks doesn’t do dishes, if you use the last sheet of toilet paper, put on a new roll. You must wear pants to go outside.
And at school: No sunflower seeds (no food that involves spitting for that matter). No running with scissors. No taking things off my desk. Be in a seat. Any seat. No touching each other. No lining up at the door. No singing the Friday song, etc.

And of course all the usual rules.
And I've written about my opinion on rules before....and how they fall about third on my priority list here: the spirit of the game.

At work we have an entire book of rules for our kids to follow mapped out with the appropriate consequences. And I teach at a good school with good kids and for the most part they follow most of them. Sort of. Plenty of them walk into my room with Chicken Express cups after lunch even though we have closed campus. Walk down any hall or into almost any room and you are likely to see nose rings, cell phones and ipods. Which are all officially banned. Scan the staff and you’ll find a few flip flops, a few people who have forgotten their id, and even a few more sneaking in late or out early.

But for the most part, we follow most of the rules most of the time.
And that is how most of us do life.
We always follow the big rules. And pick and choose the little ones. Especially the ones that seem silly or don’t hurt anyone. And we validate what kind of people we are based on how well we follow the rules or at least how much better we are at it than the people next door or down the street or across the tracks. And we spend a lot of time and energy making sure we don’t get caught or called out or pointing at other people who are breaking bigger rules than we are. So no one notices our own little indiscretions.

Recently I got busted. For something little. And it was a something I do all the time. And a something plenty of people I know do often enough. Some of them even daily. But when I got nailed, I got angry. It was unfair. I was being picked on. I questioned the motivation. I tried to take my punishment without complaint or excuse, but I was whining to all my friends. I was in a bad mood for days. I was (and am) having a hard time forgiving.

But ultimately I sounded just like my kids. The ones I teach and my own. I broke a rule. I got caught. I had consequences. And really, the consequences were incredibly minor. But I was still hot. And eventually after I got done being mad I realized I was mostly embarrassed. For getting in trouble. That someone felt the need to go so far out of their way to bust me on it. For getting called out. And I wanted to point my finger at all these other people doing things way worse than me.Which is what my 5 year old does and what my 16 year old students do and even apparently what some grown ups (me) do too.

No one likes getting caught.

Think about it. I’ve gotten my share of speeding tickets. And never once did I thank the cop for doing such a fine job of pulling me over. Of keeping the roads safe. Or thank him for not nailing me the other 247 times I sped without getting a ticket. I fumbled for my registration. I swore under my breath. Wondered why he didn’t get all those other cars that were passing me, obviously going faster than I was. I whined about barely being over the speed limit. And by barely I mean about 16 miles per hour. And waited as long as possible to tell my husband that I got another ticket and would need to watch defensive driving. Again.

And this is no different.

And we rate rules. Ones that we think are most important. Ones that we think we can ignore. And sometimes we try to apply that to sin, but it just doesn’t work that way. Jesus broke plenty of rules. And people were happy to bust him on it every time. But he was still perfect and blameless. And so that makes the judging other people and rule following and comparing especially tricky. Rules are rules. Policy is policy. Sin is sin. And they aren't necessarily the same thing. The rule I broke was teensy. The sin in my heart a little harder to deal with. When I get caught, and especially when I don't.

So I went on a long run and tried not to be mad. But being mad is easier than being embarrassed and certainly easier than forgiving. I tried not to think about all the other things other people were doing that were worse. At least according to me. I tried not to think about catty comments I could make that would make me feel better. At least for a minute. Because, it is so hard to face our own specks. Much less our own planks. It is much easier to point out other people's.

almost summer playlist

2011-05-29T20:27:00.000-07:00

It has been a while since I've posted anything. And even longer since I've put up a playlist....so I'm going to break the dry spell for both.

And it isn't summer. I sitll have another full week of work and then some. but with sprinklers and snow cones and backyard barbeques...it might as well be. And hopefully then I'll have a little more time to type....

*and for those of you that picked up on the Bridesmaids reference....(wilson phillips)...it. was. awesome.

the cool table

2011-05-21T19:39:00.000-07:00

Junior high sucked. I had a grown out perm. Braces. Hit puberty years after everyone else (in other words, the bra all the boys were popping on my back was unnecessary). I was in orchestra which did nothing for my popularity (nor did my GT classes). I thought eyeshadow was supposed to match my outfit. I stacked my bangs and sprayed them with my mom’s Vavuum. And my outfits were especially terrible. Lots of Esprit. Some units. A benneton sweater that I snagged from my sister. An overgrown Cosby-style sweater of my dad’s that I wore proudly. And not nearly enough pairs of the cool jeans and way too many pairs of overalls that I usually wore with one side hanging down.

I’m sure lots of people had it worse. I didn’t wear glasses. My pudgy phase didn’t begin until about 26. Boys talked to me although not nearly enough asked me to “go with them”. I talked late into the night on my neon light up phone. I went to movies with friends and dances and experimented with better ways to do my hair, read more than my share of Judy Blume and Seventeen magazine, and thought that the cheerleaders had the life that I wanted. Their bangs never moved, they kissed with tongue, and I swear had every shade of Sam and Libby’s ever made. Figuring out what lunch table to sit at was way harder for me than my Algebra homework. The quadratic equation made sense, you just plugged in the right numbers….but there was no formula to tell me what group I fit in. And so I bounced from table to table. And I spent a lot of energy trying to be cool. And the rest of the time I spent trying to pretend that I didn’t care about being cool.

And we grow out of that right?

By the end of high school I was more likely to leave my house in sweatpants than I was overpriced jeans. I still didn’t know much about eyeshadow, but I was at least wearing less of it. I was still low on steady boyfriends but seemed to always have a date to whatever dance was going on. And I had good friends. That made me laugh and I didn’t feel the need to impress. But if I’m honest. I still probably thought that those elite kids had it better than me. The ones who drove fancy cars and threw the parties that I occasionally got invited to. That always had perfect hair and were a perfect size 2 with C cups.

And in college it seemed like people didn’t want to fit in, so much as stand out. Everyone wanted to be different. Just like everyone else. So I got a tattoo. And pierced my cartilage. And listened to weird bands. But I still bounced between groups. Which is essentially the same thing as junior high lunch tables. I was in a sorority. I played club soccer. I went to parties and church retreats. I hung out at coffee shops almost as much as I hung out at bars. I danced in clubs and went to bible studies and got highlights in my hair. And wore a whole lot of flip flops and pajama pants. The problem was I was mostly the same girl in every scenario and she didn’t quite fit into any of them. But I was starting to see that no one had it easy. And especially not the kids sitting at the table I envied in junior high. Their parents got divorced or lived above their means or had expectations on them they were never going to meet.

We were all the same.

And I think no phase of life is worse than right out of college so I’ll just skim over that. But married with no kids in a new big city wasn’t so bad. I thought I’d make friends just as easily as I did everywhere else….but it was even harder than junior high. But I found a few groups at work and church and even on the soccer field. And again these groups rarely blended well. I drank beer in the parking lot after a game. I played ultimate Frisbee on the Kimbell lawn. I went to church and I played board games at friends houses while I tried to learn to like wine that didn't come in a box, blew all our savings on plane tickets and went to weird movies and resturaunts in Uptown. And we had all kinds of free time and expendable income so I don’t remember trying to fit in as much as I do remember all of us trying to figure out how to be grownups. Because I think we all still felt like we were pretending.

And now my kid is in school. Kindergarten. And I’ve taken him lunch at school a few times. And they have the big stoplight in the corner just like my elementary school did. And thankfully, he is just five and his teacher still mostly tells him where to sit and occasionally has to help him put the straw in his Capri sun. And he is funny and silly and never short on kids asking him to sit by him or sharing their Nilla Wafers. But. Sooner than I’d like, he will realize that he is little and smart and fantastically different. And spent ridiculous amounts of his energy trying to be the same as everyone else.

And sometimes, even now, it still feels like junior high. Somedays I still am at a loss for where to eat lunch. The high school staff has almost as many groups as the lunch room. Somedays I have to remind myself that even though there aren’t any more cheerleaders or cool tables….that there are definantly groups of people that I think have it better or easier than me. And that they really don’t. And that they may have nicer cars or clothes or a 4 car garage but that we all still have our baggage. Enough to fill whatever size garage you have. And grownups don’t try so hard to be cool as they try to have it all together. And figured out.

And pretty much. So far. The only thing I’m totally certain I have figured out correctly is the quadratic equation I learned in junior high. (and yes, I am dorky and still remember it).
But I’ve also started to realize that no one else does either.
Regardless of how much they want me to think they do or what table they are sitting at.

(photo credit here, and yes...i recognize me and my perm and braces would definantly be better entertainment. sadly all those photos were destroyed in a fire. what fire you might ask. well. one that i will one day have in my far place. we might even roast smores.)

babybabybaby

2011-05-12T06:48:00.000-07:00

going first

2011-05-10T20:24:00.000-07:00

In college the big thing was accountability groups. Or prayer groups.

And I always left feeling like absolute crap. Like I was doing something wrong. And was just not made right. That something in me was broken. Because I couldn’t pull it together like everyone else.

But the truth was. Most everyone else was just lying. Either outloud or to themselves.

Because they would ask for prayer for their sick grandmas. Or that they missed a quiet time. Or only spent 1 hour in prayer that day instead of 2.

And when I talked. I spoke about the party I had been to the night before. Or my boyfriend. Or the fact that I hadn’t had a quiet time all week. And why doesn’t the bible actually mention the word “quiet time” if it is so important anyways. And when I had questions I asked them. Even if they were ones I already knew the Sunday School answers to. I wanted to know how my friends went from knowing the right answer to actually feeling it.

And I was met with a lot of stares. And sometimes people would write down verses for me to read or memorize. And I’m sure they all remembered to pray for me. even though I always lost the little notecard that I wrote down everyone else’s requests on.

And eventually I learned that some of those same people were struggling with some of the same things I was. Or had. They just chose safer things to say out loud and pray for.

And in the grown up world. Only some of that has changed. I almost never sit around in accountability or prayer groups. But sometimes we go around in Sunday school and voice concerns. And rarely are they personal. But very occasionally, someones voice cracks. And tears slip out. And they get real. And the whole room changes.

Because, someone always has to go first.

And I read about it in a book that I love….Anne Jackson's , Permission to Speak Freely, but she really got it from here.

And it is called giving the gift of letting someone else go second. And I’ve hung on to that thought ever since I read the book.

A month or so ago. I wanted to tell a friend something that I thought they’d get. Something I was a little ashamed of. But thought maybe they needed to hear it too. Something that I thought might help the both of us to talk about. But it meant I had to divulge and I wasn’t totally sure it was safe.

But I did anyways. I sent a text and waited.

And called another friend and said I wanted to throw up. Because going first is scary. And of course it was ok. And my instincts were right on.

When I fight with my husband, one of us has to apologize before the other. When I make a new friend, someone has to be the first to ask or tell or hug or show another layer.

And I used to spend a lot of time waiting. Being second or third or fourth. Or sometimes never taking a turn at all. Because I didn’t want to look dumb or be vulnerable or get hurt. And sometimes going first backfires. Because no one goes second.

But there is a shift in thinking about it as a gift that makes it easier.

And so, I’ve done some things out of character for me ever since I read about it. I’ve written even more long crazy emails. I've hit send. Or publish. Or apologized. Told my story. Or stammered through some awkward conversations. I’ve hugged and said I love you and asked people for coffee. All when I didn’t know how they’d respond. And occasionally. I heard no. Or nothing. Or didn’t get a response. But more often than not. Someone went second.

And it was a gift to both of us.

a few good seconds...my son's about to tap in his second goal of the game last weekend.

and many months ago....my second child on her second birthday.

a mothers day appropriate repost

2011-05-07T20:09:00.000-07:00

The first time I posted this wasn't on mother's day or even close. And last year I even wrote something about my mom. And I might have a real mother's day post in my yet...but...I also need to get some good sleep, post my grades and hopefully go for a long run. so just in case I don't type it out....here is a mother's day appropriate repost.

My Favorite Scar

When I was ten I fell on a piece of glass and sliced open my left hand.

The scar is thick and a little lumpy because I waited too long to get stitches.
On my other hand is larger white scrappy scar from a bike injury. The involved me trying to beat the boys.
My knees are thick with scars. More bikes, tennis courts and plain old clumsy.

My son has a few already and he gladly shows them off.
They are a testament to his toughness.
The one on his back shows that he did in fact survive jumping (and falling off the bed).
There is one on his chin that the ER doctors glued shut – we no longer practice diving in the bathtub.
And a little one on his hairline that received a few staples.

But I have a favorite scar.
It is about 6 inches across and marks a thin pink raised line across my lower abdomen.
My son’s delivery ended in an emergency c-section.
After all the pushing and blood I really didn’t care how he got here.
Even if it involved slicing across my belly and eventually 19 staples.
Every nurse that came in and checked me commented on the incision.
They kept saying how neat it was and that it would leave a nice scar.
A nice scar.
I kept thinking they were crazy. That this was just their trained way to make people feel better. They kept saying that I could even wear a bikini if I wanted.
I wondered if they had been taking some of my morphine.
But the line was clean and neat and shrunk considerably even by my one month check up.

The second time around it was a little more scheduled.
My doctor encouraged another c-section so that I wouldn’t repeat what had happened the first time.
I didn’t need much encouragement.
Contractions weren’t fun.
So I had another c-section.
This one, was planned but wasn’t so easy.
There was a lot of scar tissue and she had some trouble stopping the bleeding.
This time, no one told me that I had a neat incision or that I would end up with a pretty scar.
Instead they just billed me for extra ER time and gave me plenty of morphine.

But still the staples came out and it shrunk down considerably. This time a little thicker, a little curved at one end and at least an inch longer.
I could still feel pain there for almost a year.
And sometimes it is still a little sensitive.

Occasionally I still trace my finger over this little pink line and amazed that my two children entered the world here.
It isn’t pretty.
It doesn’t say anything about toughness. If anything, my lack of.
I don’t show it off proudly like my son does with his scars.
But I treasure it.

And I believe that Jesus was fully man once.
That he scraped knees and chins like the rest of us.
I’m sure he had his share of scars.
I don’t even want to think about the ones on his back.
And I’m just speculating.
But I imagine, sometimes, Jesus probably looks down at his hands.
Where the nails used to be, touches them tenderly.
And treasures those scars.
And the life that came from them.

not just a football player.

2011-05-04T20:10:00.000-07:00

My google reader is out of control.

And so is my schedule this time of year, meaning I’ve had to hit “mark all as read” more than once when it starts creeping up into the 500+. And something about that is freeing. Even though I’m always afraid I’m gonna miss out on something good.

So about two weeks ago, when I was behind on reading, writing, working, sleep, cleaning and all kinds of other things…..my husband texted me a link to a blog and told me I needed to read it.

And my husband knows me better than anyone. And he reads plenty. But. we rarely read the same kind of stuff. He even reads a few blogs besides mine. But they usually have something to do with sports. And I like sports ok. But mostly just watching them in person. With nachos in hand. I only watch a few teams on TV and I certainly never read blogs about them.
But this was my favorite team.
My college alma mater. And I may not be as school spirit crazy as the town I grew up in, I do like my college and their team and even recognized the name.
It was Barron Batch’s blog.
And my first thought was.
He is just a football player.
Even if he was a pretty impressive running back. Who was just drafted to the Steelers.
And it is no where close to football season…
Why does he want me to read this.
And it took me more than a day and my husband asking me more than once to look it up before I finally did.
And that phrase.
Just a football player.
Got me in trouble.
Because it was good. Really good.
And pretty much anytime I think someone is “just a _______________” (you fill in the blank), I have undersold them. Even if that someone is myself. Maybe especially if it is.

So today. Stop thinking of yourself as just a mom. Or just a teacher. Of just a whatever and surprise people.
Like Barron Batch did me.
And this isn’t the initial post my husband sent me…..but try reading this without crying.
http://baronbatch.blogspot.com/2011/05/diary-28-860-miles-to-forgiveness.html
(and diary 25 and 26 will also make you blubber)

this time a year ago

2011-05-03T05:01:00.000-07:00

A year ago. Wasn’t a good season for me. There were a handful of things going on. None of which were too terribly awful personally but I was struggling in lots of places. With questions. With relationships. With my job. With my dreams. With not quite fitting. With trying to be more like the person I wanted to be but not quite sure who that was. And there were too many things going on to really process or fall apart or even be sad. I just got through. We went to swimming lessons. I got coffee. I read lots of books. And found my tennis shoes and ran it out.

And a lot of has happened in a year. Sort of. I mean when I look back my life still ultimately looks the same. But I can still look back and see a turning point sometime around May.

I’m not sure what kind of turn or where I am headed. But a turn.

And occasionally I ran too fast down one direction. And have since backtracked a little.

But ultimately things have been different ever since.

And I think a lot of that happened on my friend Beth’s couch. Not all of it. But enough.

Mostly because there was no room for bullshit on her couch.

And. because we were both kind of stuck there. Her under doctors orders. Me because it was somehow both the easiest and hardest place for me to be.

That season is over. Other people’s grief. Doubts and questions. Those aren’t things I really carry around anymore. Maybe I left them there. And it is a good thing because that couch and it's owner are well over a 1000 miles away.

And what I picked up was some of that honesty and a willingness to struggle outloud and not just on paper. And I can't tell you that there were too many moving deep experiences on that couch. Because there weren't. There were never any tears or outloud prayers. But there was a lot of takeout and pjs and catching up on my TiVo. Intense conversations mixed in with pointless ones. Hopes and fears and favorite songs and bad words and playdo and even some laughter at a time where that didn't always come easy. Questions about potty training, and faith and shoes and budgets.

And I've been attempting those same kind of transparent conversations ever since. In many other places with a small handful of other people. And I won't say I didn't have them before. I did. But with walls and borders and fear. And they still don't come easy. But good things rarely do.

And so the turning point might be loving anyways. Even when it is hard and scary and probably at some point going to hurt. And a reminder that somewhere inside me I still knew how to do that. With great resistance. But I still could. And I have been ever since.

(and apparently couches are a theme in my life because I've written about them before.
This same one here and another old couch of mine here. The actual photo above though....I stole from here.

Easter Sunday leftovers

2011-04-29T20:12:00.000-07:00

My friend Tina used to blog almost every Monday and she called it Sunday Morning leftovers. I liked the concept because to do it she would have to actually go to church, pay attention, make sure she got something out of it and chew on it that afternoon or the next day enough to write about it. However, I take my kids to church with me which honestly means I am often doing anything but listening when it comes time for the sermon or “telling” as Owen likes to call it. (probably because I’m also telling him to be quiet or not color in the hymnals). And I know it is well past Monday, but I’m going to give it a shot anyways.

And this Sunday was Easter and that usually means a crowded parking lot and a big show with special music. And I have to be honest. I don’t really like a show. We got to church on time (and usually we are at least a hymn late). But on time on Easter Sunday is not early enough to park in the parking lot or get a seat inside the sanctuary. And I kind of refuse to go to church only to watch it on TV. So me and my husband decided to go to another service that was going on inside the chapel. A slightly smaller more casual service. Every one was still in new dresses and the music was probably turned up a notch. But there were still seats and coffee and we slid into our chairs.

And the pastor touched on two of my favorite things from the Easter story. And they are pretty much unrelated. Sort of. My favorite line from the Easter Sunday story is “thinking he was the gardener, she said…” (John 20:15)…about Mary as she asked the Christ where they put his body. And I’m not sure why I love it. Except that I think I miss him all the time too. And I blogged about it once. A long time ago. Poorly. But then I read some Rob Bell on it and he did a much better job here.
And the pastor read a lot of the Easter story out of John. And even though I’ve read it dozens of times… somehow I’d missed some important details. Like I remember the part about Mary thinking he was the gardener, but not the part about John and Peter running to the empty tomb even before that. And that as soon as Peter saw the cloth lying there that “he saw and believed”. (vs8). But, even though he had just been in the empty tomb. And believed. That somehow that wasn’t enough. That he still did not understand (vs9). And so they went home (vs10).

That is how Easter Sunday starts.
And empty tomb.
And his best friends believed but didn’t get it and went home. Until Mary mistook him for the gardener.
And we know the rest. That Jesus shows up. More than once. Even lets Thomas slip his hand in his side. And they saw. And they believed. Even Thomas. But they still didn’t get it or know what to do. Which is often how a lot of us respond when we get a glimpse of Christ.

And I have always been drawn to John 21 (go ahead read it). The part of the story that most people don’t tell….
And I even blogged about it once. And said mostly this…

Plenty of jumping off points and weird things to talk about in that story.
Like the fact that Jesus had already been crucified and this is basically a conversation with a dead man.
Like that fact that John is referred to "the disciple that Jesus loved" which is a pretty great way to refer to yourself.
That he asks Peter the same question three times.

That these guys who had followed Jesus everywhere just months before. Who heard him preach. Who saw his miracles and even did a few themselves. Seemed to be right back to where they started from. Out fishing. Having a pretty lousy morning.
Until some guy on the shore pipes up.

And yes. It is a cool story. Jesus shows up and of course they don't recognize him. Because they never do. And he tells them to toss their net over the other side. And they listen. Even though they still don't know that this is Jesus. Even though they haven't caught a stinkin fish all night.

And amazingly their net is full with fish. So full that the net should rip. That the boat should tip.
But it doesn't.
And finally someone recognizes the man on the shore.
And here is the kicker.
As soon as Peter realizes that it is Jesus.
He jumps into the sea.
In his clothes.
and swims to the shore.

The bible doesn't really go in to details here but I'm willing to bet that there was a pretty great reunion on the shore. With a fire and fish and bread and probably a few bear hugs.
And Peter got to him first.
Because he wasn't afraid to get wet.

But this time the sermon added a little bit more. That – maybe believing isn’t enough. That maybe we still don’t get it. And Jesus’s charge to Peter.
That it’s time to get off the boat and get to work.
That we can be forgiven for our denials. No matter how many times it takes. Three or Thirty three.
And most importantly, that there are sheep to feed…

(and you can listen to the actual sermon here if you want....)

The Easter Story according to Paul

2011-04-24T19:49:00.000-07:00

Nope. not the actual Paul in the bible.
Another one. A friend of mine's husband. And in addition to having a pretty creative and funny hubs -- she has two amazing twin girls. That have babysat my kids, eaten fondue and mexican food with me. Drank lots of coffee. Talked, math, physics, music and jesus with me. And now they are Sophomores in college. But once they were little and too smart for their pretty little heads and asked all kinds of silly questions. Like my son. And i'm sure this story is made up. But probably not that made up. And it's kind of long (have you ever tried telling a story to little girls!)...but worth the read.

Easter as a Bedtime story for K&K
“Girls, do you know what tomorrow is?”

“IT’S EASTER!”
“And what is special about Easter?”
“The Easter Bunny brings us Chocolate Bunnies, and Chocolate Eggs, and Toothpaste, and Stuff!” said Katie.
“And my basket has milk chocolate eggs and bunnies,” said Keeley, “while Katie’s basket has dark chocolate eggs and bunnies.”
“Daddy, how does the Easter Bunny know that Keeley and I like different kinds of chocolate?”
“Well, it’s for the same reason that Santa Claus knows that you want different presents than your sister.”
“Ohhhhh,” said the twins with a knowing glance at one another.
“Other than the chocolate, what’s special about Easter?”
“It’s the day that Jesus was reincarnated!”
“Resurrected,” corrected her sister.
“That’s right. Jesus was resurrected or raised from the dead.”
“How do we know He was resurrected,” asked Keeley?
"Well, in Matthew, one of the books of the Bible, it says that two women were visiting the tomb.”
“What’s a toom?”
“It’s the place where Jesus’ body had been placed after he died on the cross.”
“Were any of his twelve disciples there?”
“No, not that early in the morning.”
“Oh, like you sleep in on weekends while mommy gets up early and does our laundry…”
“And makes us her World Famous Cinnamon Rolls…”
“And wonders how you can snore so loud…”
“Girls, you know that I need to get a lot of sleep to be able to tell you creative stories.”
“I thought this was a Bible story. This isn’t a made up story, is it?”
“Yeah, like those stories you tell about when you were a boy…”
“And walked to and from school…”
“Through twelve feet of snow…”
“Uphill…”
“Both ways…”
“No, it’s a true story. So, like I was saying, Mary and Mary were visiting the tomb…”
“There were two Marys?”
“The Bible says that it was Mary Magdalene and the other Mary.”
“Like my dolls, Baby Violet and Other Baby Violet,” said Katie.
“Was the other Mary Jesus’ mother?”
“No, in the Gospel of Mark we are told that the other Mary was the mother of James.”
“Are all the women in the Bible named Mary?” asked one of the twins.
“No, there’s Esther and Ruth,” quipped her sister.
“Yeah, but those were Old Testament women. Are all the New Testament women named Mary?”
“No, but apparently it was a common name at that time.”
“Like the name Brittany is now?”
“We had thirty-seven girls at preschool named Brittany.”
“Some were named Brittney.”
“That’s what I said”
“No, B-R-I-T-T-N-E-Y, not B-R-I-T-T-A-N-Y,” she spelled out.
“Sounds the same.”
“Nuh-uh. Brittany has three parts – BRIT-UH-NY – and Brittney has two parts – BRIT-NEY.”
“Getting back to our story, while the women were there, suddenly there was a great earthquake and an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone that covered the opening to the tomb. The guards were afraid, but the angel said to the women, 'Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, "He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him." This is my message for you.'"
“That is so cool that God sent an angel.”
“And he talked to Mary and Mary, but not to the Mary that was Jesus’ mother?”
“You’re making the story unnecessarily complicated.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Girls, calm down.”
“Were Mary and Mary afraid like the guards?”
“Well, it says that the women left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy.”
“That describes how I feel when I’ve been caught by Mommy eating too many of her World Famous Cinnamon Rolls.”
“As the women ran to tell the disciples, Jesus met them, and they worshiped him.”
“Just like we do at church?”
“That’s right.”
“Why were there guards at the toom?”
“They were there to keep people from opening up the tomb.”
“I guess they weren’t expecting an angel to show up.”
“No, apparently not.”
“How many guards were there?”
“Probably six.”
“You’d need a lot more than six guards to keep an angel from rolling away a big stone.”
“I wouldn’t want to tell an angel that he couldn’t have something, even if it was Mrs. Bonjour who had told me to guard it.”
“Did the guards get in trouble?”
“No, I don’t think so. The people who had wanted Jesus to be crucified gave them a large sum of money to tell a story.”
“Do you get paid for making up your stories?”
“No.”
“Well they’d have to be good stories if Daddy was going to get paid for them.” Both girls giggled.
“Hey, my stories are good.”
“Do you get paid for them?”
“No.”
“Point reiterated,” stated Katie.
“Yeah, what she said,” added Keeley.
“What story did the guards tell?” asked the girls.
“Well, a better description for what the guards were bribed to do was to tell a lie, as in a story that wasn’t true.”
“Ohhhhhhhh. That’s really naughty.”
“I bet they didn’t get any chocolate from the Easter Bunny that year.”
“They were told to say that the disciples came in the middle of the night while they were sleeping and stole Jesus’ body.”
“If the guards were sleeping, how would they know that it was the disciples who took the body?”
“And why would they admit that they were sleeping when they should have been on guard? That’s like telling your parents that you dropped the cat from the loft because you were doing an experiment for a school project to see if a cat really would land on its feet instead of just admitting that the cat jumped to escape one more attempt at being dressed up as Mulan. The lie would get you in more trouble than the truth.”
“Mommy would never be duped by a lie like that.”
“Yeah, but it would work on Daddy.”
“And how would the disciples be able to roll away a big stone and not wake up the guards?”
“And what are the chances that six guards would all be asleep at the same time if they had been given that important a job to do?”
“If there were six, the probability is 46,656 to 1 that all the guards would be asleep at the same time,” said Keeley.
“What if there were twelve guards?” asked Katie.
“I can’t figure that out in my head. Daddy, do you have a calculator?”
“Well, the point is that it would be very unlikely that they would all be asleep at the same time.”
“That’s a really bad lie!” exclaimed Katie
“All lies are bad. Mommy says even telling Daddy that his stories are good when they aren’t is a lie, and something we shouldn’t do.”
“I meant ‘bad’ as in ‘ineffective’ – a really unbelievable story.”
“Daddy, why would someone believe a story like that instead of the way that Matthew told it in the Bible? It makes no sense.”
“Well, some people find it difficult to believe in angels and that Jesus was actually raised from the dead.”
“Well, I believe in those things.”
“Me too.”
“I know you do. Goodnight girls.”

k&k now.

o&t. and they may not be twins, but are still super cute and can wreck a story almost as good as those two above.

three times is all it takes for me to take a hint

2011-04-22T04:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I got an email from a friend with this link:

http://melodygodfred.com/2011/04/15/a-mothers-prayer-for-its-child-by-tina-fey/

Telling me to read it. And she usally passes on only the good stuff but, I had a crazy busy day. Meeting after meeting. Papers to grade. Husband out of town. Not nearly enough sleep. And some looming deadlines.
So I didn't click right away.

Then not too long later I got the same link emailed from another friend. But they both know each other and I figured they had just sent it to each other, and kept passing it on.
But this time I bit. I clicked. And saw this picture.

And if you have ever been in my house or seen my desk or met my daughter....maybe it wouldn't take much to look at this mess and think of me. (and I've been known to hide under a desk or two).

But still. My day was busy. I was reviewing like crazy for some big tests coming up and didn't take time to actually read the post. But I love me some Tina Fey and a good mess so I passed the link on to a few people even without reading. Making a mental note to read it later. Like during lunch.

And then, I got another email. From an unrelated third party. Saying they read this and thought of me immediately.

I figured it was time to read it. (and for lunch)

And Tina did not disapoint.

A Mother’s Prayer for Its Child By Tina Fey

“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, dammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.”
-Tina Fey

And I laughed outloud. And shouted out my own "Amens" and tried to pick a favorite line. I think it's a toss up between the grape cutting, that dry humping can wait, and the name calling in front of Hollister.
And this time made a note to watch some 30 Rock, buy her new book, Bossypants, and thank all three people that sent me link.

writing bad blog posts

2011-04-21T18:57:00.000-07:00

I belong to a writing group. And they are all better at it than me. Most have had things published or at least have their feet in the real writing world while I just type away on my laptop while my kids watch cartoons. Some of them have written for magazines, newspapers, taught writing classes, workshops and show up to our meetings with manuscripts in hand, while most of the time I have to ask if I can borrow a pen. And we try to hold each other accountable for writing. For posting. For improving. For moving forward. We make goals and check in each month or so. And there are much more to our goals than post numbers. And thankfully no one makes goals that have to do with stats or comments or followers….but we go around the room and they say things like 4 posts per week. And I say 10. Thinking it will be easy for me. Because usually it is.

But not lately.

And I do everything fast. I read fast. I write fast. I hit publish or send fast.

Which means I am messy and sloppy and have errors and put out a lot of bad posts.

And I’m starting to think that is ok.

And yes, I value quality over quantity. Usually.

But I am in a dry spell.
And not because I’m not chewing on stuff. I totally am. But it isn’t all stuff I want out here. And I have been busy. And had less computer time. And so I've been a little absent in this space. And the longer I wait to write a blog post it seems like the less I have to say.

It is holy week. And last year about this time I wrote something EVERY day. And a few of those posts sucked. But one or two were ones I was really proud of.

And today I read a blog that said the secret to being funny is saying a lot of unfunny things. And if that is the case, I think I must be hilarious.

Also, I have lots of photographer friends. And when they take pictures of my kids they takes lots and lots of pictures. Sometimes hundreds. And one of those friends always says, that at the end of the day you just need one really good shot. That if you click enough times, surely there will be a good one in there somewhere.

And of course that applies to most things. In soccer, usually the team with the most shots on goal ends up with more in the back of the net. Stephen King had a whole wall papered with rejection letters.

And so maybe I should apply that to writing. Put down enough words. And some of them will be good. They don't all have to be keepers. That maybe the secret to being a good writer is writing a lot of really bad blog posts.

And what I wrote this time last year, that I don't think sucked at all....

Holy Thursday: Just Me

This morning I left my house at 6:11.

About 20 minutes earlier than usual ( ridiculous time to go to work I know, but that is a topic for another blog post).
And I pulled into my church parking lot.
An almost empty church parking lot.
I read in my church bulletin last week that they chapel would be open from 6-8 am for anyone who wanted to take communion on this Holy Thursday.

I love the act of communion and have been getting up early every day this week to observe Holy Week. And so I thought that this morning instead of sitting on my couch reading and quiet that maybe I should go to the chapel instead.

But after I pulled in, I immediately thought about turning around and getting a coffee instead. I was a little uncomfortable about the idea of showing up at church at 6:27 am.
And I didn’t know what to expect.
If this would be weird.
If I was supposed to say anything or do anything special that I didn’t know about.
And I worried about who would be there.
If there would be a lot of people, businessmen off to work, or those really religious types doing some serious prayer or a bunch of old ladies who couldn’t sleep. Or if I even had the right day.

It wasn't too late, I could still just go to Starbucks.
I had to keep telling myself to get over the awkward and just to go in.
And so I walked into the chapel.
Which was totally empty except for a minister in a robe reading in the front pew.
She welcomed me and told me to kneel at the altar.
Just me.

And she read aloud this passage from Luke 22:7-20.
For just me.

And she offered me the body and the blood.
Shed for me.

And in this moment it was just me.
And the realization of what Christ did for me in particular.
Not a church filled with people.
Or believers all over the wold.
But just me.
Shook me in my soul.

And I lingered at the altar a bit. And the pastor returned to her pew and reading. And I walked out to my car and wept for what Christ did for me.
Just me.
And you too.
Just you.

He gets it from me

2011-04-14T19:53:00.000-07:00

Have I ever mentioned that my kid is funny.
Really funny.
Sometimes even on purpose.

Here are a few of the conversations we have had just this week.

earlier this week when he only made it half into pjs and wandered in the living room to watch some cartoons.
Dad: Put some pants on kid, no one wants to see your junk.

O: That’s not junk. Those are my private parts.
Me: Keep them that way kid.
this morning before school....
O: I’m tired. I need to get better sleep.
Dad: Go to bed earlier then.
O:That’s not it. I need a tipperpedic. (as in temperpedic mattress).

the other day on the way home from school
O: My teacher says you should even brush your dog’s teeth.
Me: We have a dog toothbrush somewhere. Have at it kid.
O: I already used Tess’s.

The spirit of the game

2011-04-11T17:38:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in the attic is a yellow pinstriped shirt with a front pocket. In which I kept a little black wallet with a red and yellow card. I have long since lost my line flags, but still have and occasional wear the knee high black socks with the tell-tale white stripes across the top.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, I used to ref. Soccer. And I was pretty bad at it and mostly only reffed 12 and under games or college intermurals. But I had the uniform and the whistle and my very own stopwatch and the power to make a break a game for a team.

And they don’t give just anyone that yellow shirt (actually anyone can buy one), but you have to take a class and pass a test to earn your badge. Or get official jobs. And there are forms to fill out with every game. And you get an awful knee tan. And everyone pretty much hates you. The only plus was a decent workout and some cash in your hand at the end of the day.

My days reffing taught me a few things:
That the angles on the field and the ones on the sidelines are not the same.
When you can’t see how kicked it out it is always best to call it in favor of whatever side you are closest to.
Not to hesitate or waver on your call – do it fast and with confidence even if you don’t have a clue.
That it isn’t cool to yell at your kid. But it is really cool to yell at the dad who is yelling at his kid.
That it is really fun to give someone a card.
That almost every spectator thinks they know what off sides is, but almost none of them really do.
That it hurts bad, to get hit in the back of the head with the ball.
That extra time is discretional.
That sometimes I could run off the field faster than any of the players if I thought there was going to be trouble.
That no one likes a team that runs up the score.
That there are lot of rules to keep straight and weird what if scenarios, but more importantly than any that I found in my 37 page manual was something called “spirit of the game”.

Because in soccer there are lots of clear cut rules. But there is also lots of interpretation and discretion. There is also something called advantage. Unlike basketball, if a player is fouled, but the fouled team is in good position possibly to score you don't stop the game for the penalty. You let the fouled team play on. Sometimes you don’t call a bad throw in or an accidental handball or a flop. If a ref stopped the game for every teensy violation – soccer games would take forever and be almost as slow to watch as baseball. A bad ref makes too many calls and impedes the flow of the game OR not doesn’t make enough calls and let the teams get out of hand. And as a player you know within the first 10 minutes of the game how rough the ref is going to let things get. Too rough and people get hurt. The rules are there for a reason. For players protection. A good ref knows when to make a call and most importantly when not to. And makes good decisions all based on the “spirit of the game”. Because whether it is a professional team out there on the pitch or the cutest five year old I know. It is still a game.

And I teach school. We have a giant handbook full of rules. And they are all there for a reason. Most of them I even understand and agree with. But sometimes we have to remember why we are here. And it isn't listed in any code of conduct. And not everyone sees it this way. There are plenty of people in my building who are strict rule followers. Some of my best friends are. They insist that consistency is key and that you have to show your kids that you mean business. And that you follow the rule in every situation and scenario regardless of the situation.

But I don’t really care about meaning business.
I care about teaching them. And I just care about them period.
So occasionally, I ignore a rule in the spirit of the game.
I give them the advantage.
And I don’t think I should have to apologize or defend this.
I worry about them first, then my content, and then the rules. And a lot of teachers go in the opposite order.
And maybe they have higher test scores than me. So be it.

And a lot of Christians look at the bible the same way.
Rules first, content second, and then getting down to loving last.
Which I'm pretty sure isn't the order it should go in.

And I’m pretty sure I made more than my share of bad calls on the soccer field, and maybe I should bust a few more kids for ids or tardies or cell phones.
And I think that rules are important. In games. In schools. In society. And even in within our faith.
But. They were never meant to come first.
Maybe not even second.