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Showing posts with label Ramblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ramblings. Show all posts
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Curly Sue's tonsils
What about them? Well, they may have to come out.
After thinking, researching and talking to two nurses, I decided to go ahead and take her to the ENT doctor tomorrow morning. I canceled her bloodwork because I think she has chronic tonsillitis rather than anything more sinister -- not that chronic tonsillitis and the looming prospect of major surgery isn't sinister enough!
I'd just like to see her feeling better again.
I'm working in a Bible/book study called Homeschooling With a Meek and Quiet Spirit by Teri Maxwell, who is the author of Managers of Their Homes. I'm impulsive, hot-tempered and impatient and this is the right season of my life for this study, though I've had it for years. I highly recommend it.
After thinking, researching and talking to two nurses, I decided to go ahead and take her to the ENT doctor tomorrow morning. I canceled her bloodwork because I think she has chronic tonsillitis rather than anything more sinister -- not that chronic tonsillitis and the looming prospect of major surgery isn't sinister enough!
I'd just like to see her feeling better again.
I'm working in a Bible/book study called Homeschooling With a Meek and Quiet Spirit by Teri Maxwell, who is the author of Managers of Their Homes. I'm impulsive, hot-tempered and impatient and this is the right season of my life for this study, though I've had it for years. I highly recommend it.
Monday, February 18, 2008
From the diary of boring old whatsit
I'm on Day 4 of a fierce diet/exercise program. Ask me later. (SparkPeople is the greatest support site ever!)
Curly Sue is sick...again. When I awoke this morning at 5:45 a.m., she had already been up since 1 a.m., running a high fever. She didn't want to wake me, bless 'er, but her throat is sore (again) and her tonsils red and swollen (again). Rather than take her in to get yet another negative strep screen/culture and unnecessary antibiotic, I scheduled her for bloodwork to rule out mono. Not that I think she has mono, but we need to test for it before they refer her to an ENT, who will decide if she needs to have her tonsils out.
When I took Moe for his allergy shots, I ran into an elementary schoolteacher of mine who also knew Ben. She lost her brother -- her only sibling -- in July of '06 and her father in '07. She is unmarried and has no children and I believe her mother must have been dead for awhile. She is all alone. It's the first time I've seen her since my brother died, so we stood in the middle of the allergist's office and went through a box of tissue. I tell you, it is not a comfort to me to see a woman this far out from her brother's death still in so much pain. On the other hand, because she and I have the same pain, maybe she just felt freer to grieve with me.
I have so much to be thankful for, truly. To imagine not having my little sons and daughter, my sweet husband and lots of siblings, nieces, nephews, healthy parents and assorted other extended family makes my heart ache. Not that Ben was expendable, but the agony of his loss is shared by so many of us that it must be diluted somewhat. Being left totally alone to grieve your entire family must be unendurable.
Oh, and in other things to be burdened about: A sweet lady who works in the allergist's office confided in me today that her 17-year-old daughter, who is unmarried and the mother of an almost-1-year-old child by one boy, is pregnant again by another boy. She is devastated and I will be praying for her and her family.
Curly Sue is sick...again. When I awoke this morning at 5:45 a.m., she had already been up since 1 a.m., running a high fever. She didn't want to wake me, bless 'er, but her throat is sore (again) and her tonsils red and swollen (again). Rather than take her in to get yet another negative strep screen/culture and unnecessary antibiotic, I scheduled her for bloodwork to rule out mono. Not that I think she has mono, but we need to test for it before they refer her to an ENT, who will decide if she needs to have her tonsils out.
When I took Moe for his allergy shots, I ran into an elementary schoolteacher of mine who also knew Ben. She lost her brother -- her only sibling -- in July of '06 and her father in '07. She is unmarried and has no children and I believe her mother must have been dead for awhile. She is all alone. It's the first time I've seen her since my brother died, so we stood in the middle of the allergist's office and went through a box of tissue. I tell you, it is not a comfort to me to see a woman this far out from her brother's death still in so much pain. On the other hand, because she and I have the same pain, maybe she just felt freer to grieve with me.
I have so much to be thankful for, truly. To imagine not having my little sons and daughter, my sweet husband and lots of siblings, nieces, nephews, healthy parents and assorted other extended family makes my heart ache. Not that Ben was expendable, but the agony of his loss is shared by so many of us that it must be diluted somewhat. Being left totally alone to grieve your entire family must be unendurable.
Oh, and in other things to be burdened about: A sweet lady who works in the allergist's office confided in me today that her 17-year-old daughter, who is unmarried and the mother of an almost-1-year-old child by one boy, is pregnant again by another boy. She is devastated and I will be praying for her and her family.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Who's your Daddy?
A spew came forth -- recently, again -- about grown women calling their fathers "Daddy." At the point where I should have stopped reading this particular forum (around the time the theory was forwarded that ignorant Southern women are the main ones perpetuating this "irritating" habit) I instead started thinking about what makes the man who fathered me my Daddy.
I'm 39 years old now, but once upon a time I was 8. I looked very much like my own little freckle-faced, big-eyed, honey-blond daughter. My Daddy sketched pictures of how I would look when I was a teenager and they were dead-on when I was 16. He wrote poetry about my four brothers and me, about God, about nature, about my Mama. He took us to church, to revival, to ice-cream socials and dinners-on-the-ground and sunrise services. He honed our vocabulary and spelling skills by cracking open a huge Webster's after dinner and playing The Dictionary Game, challenging us with fascinating, unfamiliar, beautiful words to define or spell.
Daddy rejected several job opportunities because they would mean relocation to New York or Washington or some other far-off, foreign place, and he didn't want to give up our small-town Southern upbringing, even if it meant more money and status for our family. He traveled a week per month, 10-11 months per year, to make sales calls, but there were always surprises in his suitcase for wee weary ones who accompanied Mama to the Atlanta airport to collect him.
When I was a teenager, we butted heads over whether I should be allowed to play high school baseball. His politics were wrong and his sense of social injustice nonexistent, I thought; still, I appreciated how Daddy managed to overcome his obvious shortcomings to raise five future Jesus freaks.
He drove 40 miles each way to work every day for 30-plus years, but Daddy still managed to coach football and baseball teams, cheer from the stands at band festivals and take us fishing and wading in our little creek. He made me feel precious and loved even when we disagreed, which was often. He has treated Geddy like a fifth son from the time we started dating. He flew home from a business trip in Texas at 5 a.m. when Larry was born prematurely almost 12 years ago.
Daddy and Mama -- Paw-Paw and Nannie -- have 11 cherished grandchildren, for whom they have provided everything from clothes to movies, from Big Wheels to medicine to school supplies. Babysitting is a privilege and not an inconvenience to them. Daddy has taught our children how to make newspaper hats, fixed up old scooters and bikes and built them a plywood biplane with water-bottle propeller. When my brother died unmarried, childless and intestate, Daddy vowed to use any insurance money left over from estate settlement to set up college funds for Ben's beloved "babies," his nieces and nephews.
I was the fourth-born child and the first to earn a degree. I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up because my Daddy was a newspaper man, and I wanted to be a newspaper (wo)man, too. Daddy told me I had a talent from an early age and he never let me doubt myself. He funded most of my college education but was my biggest supporter when I chose to leave the career it provided to raise and educate my own children. "After all, Becca Honey-Honey, that's the most important job you'll have," Daddy said. "Besides, you can write anywhere."
And as it turns out, I was wrong in my teenage judgments about both his politics and his sense of social responsibility. At 72, Daddy now is president of a local civic club, which raises tens of thousands of dollars each year to directly benefit children's charities and programs in our county. He volunteers at the soup kitchen, is a Mason and a certified Methodist lay speaker, sings in the church choir and reads to elementary public school children regularly. He and my Mama have been married nearly 47 years.
Not everyone is lucky enough to have a Daddy, and some of the people who do...well, clearly they don't appreciate their blessings. So I'll continue to address my Daddy by his proper name, regardless of how it sounds to other folks.
He's earned it.
I'm 39 years old now, but once upon a time I was 8. I looked very much like my own little freckle-faced, big-eyed, honey-blond daughter. My Daddy sketched pictures of how I would look when I was a teenager and they were dead-on when I was 16. He wrote poetry about my four brothers and me, about God, about nature, about my Mama. He took us to church, to revival, to ice-cream socials and dinners-on-the-ground and sunrise services. He honed our vocabulary and spelling skills by cracking open a huge Webster's after dinner and playing The Dictionary Game, challenging us with fascinating, unfamiliar, beautiful words to define or spell.
Daddy rejected several job opportunities because they would mean relocation to New York or Washington or some other far-off, foreign place, and he didn't want to give up our small-town Southern upbringing, even if it meant more money and status for our family. He traveled a week per month, 10-11 months per year, to make sales calls, but there were always surprises in his suitcase for wee weary ones who accompanied Mama to the Atlanta airport to collect him.
When I was a teenager, we butted heads over whether I should be allowed to play high school baseball. His politics were wrong and his sense of social injustice nonexistent, I thought; still, I appreciated how Daddy managed to overcome his obvious shortcomings to raise five future Jesus freaks.
He drove 40 miles each way to work every day for 30-plus years, but Daddy still managed to coach football and baseball teams, cheer from the stands at band festivals and take us fishing and wading in our little creek. He made me feel precious and loved even when we disagreed, which was often. He has treated Geddy like a fifth son from the time we started dating. He flew home from a business trip in Texas at 5 a.m. when Larry was born prematurely almost 12 years ago.
Daddy and Mama -- Paw-Paw and Nannie -- have 11 cherished grandchildren, for whom they have provided everything from clothes to movies, from Big Wheels to medicine to school supplies. Babysitting is a privilege and not an inconvenience to them. Daddy has taught our children how to make newspaper hats, fixed up old scooters and bikes and built them a plywood biplane with water-bottle propeller. When my brother died unmarried, childless and intestate, Daddy vowed to use any insurance money left over from estate settlement to set up college funds for Ben's beloved "babies," his nieces and nephews.
I was the fourth-born child and the first to earn a degree. I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up because my Daddy was a newspaper man, and I wanted to be a newspaper (wo)man, too. Daddy told me I had a talent from an early age and he never let me doubt myself. He funded most of my college education but was my biggest supporter when I chose to leave the career it provided to raise and educate my own children. "After all, Becca Honey-Honey, that's the most important job you'll have," Daddy said. "Besides, you can write anywhere."
And as it turns out, I was wrong in my teenage judgments about both his politics and his sense of social responsibility. At 72, Daddy now is president of a local civic club, which raises tens of thousands of dollars each year to directly benefit children's charities and programs in our county. He volunteers at the soup kitchen, is a Mason and a certified Methodist lay speaker, sings in the church choir and reads to elementary public school children regularly. He and my Mama have been married nearly 47 years.
Not everyone is lucky enough to have a Daddy, and some of the people who do...well, clearly they don't appreciate their blessings. So I'll continue to address my Daddy by his proper name, regardless of how it sounds to other folks.
He's earned it.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Distractions
As if it weren't enough of a distraction to watch my handsome husband behind the drum kit during worship last night, a mom brought her child and plopped him down at our table for the entire Bible study time. Fortunately, our guest speaker was entertaining (and loud) enough to almost keep me on track.
I like children, especially my own. When I'm trying hard to concentrate, though, things like rhythmically bumping the table get on my last nerve. And every 6.2 minutes, the mom hissed: "Ssssssstop that!" I wasn't tempted to say anything until he started whining for Curly Sue's MP3 player.
Wednesdays are long for my children, church-wise. We typically arrive at the building around 3:30 so that I can help prepare food for the 400 people that we typically feed. Larry, being a middle-schooler, can go into his program around 4:30 but the littles are stuck amusing themselves until 5:45. Yesterday was cold and windy and not a playground-type day, so Moe brought Legos and Curly Sue her MP3 player. They left their things at my table to go to their program, and this child was determined to have her MP3 player. And I was determined to see that he didn't.
Fortunately, I didn't need to step in, but the child got so upset when his mom told him he couldn't take the player that he started choking. And coughing and coughing and coughing and coughing and bumping the table every time he coughed and bumping the table some more...
At this point I could barely hear the speaker and was wishing heartily that this woman would take. her. child. out. But then I started thinking...
What if she's new here? What if this is her very first night, and she doesn't know if there's a program for her child, or where to sign him in, or where to take him? Maybe he's been sick and she didn't want to miss church, and she didn't have someone to watch him at home. Maybe she's a single mom and this is her only child, and she just doesn't want to be separated from him during worship.
While I'm certain last night's speaker had some insight to share, maybe I couldn't hear him because God was trying to tell me something else through a little boy's antics. And I wasn't listening.
I like children, especially my own. When I'm trying hard to concentrate, though, things like rhythmically bumping the table get on my last nerve. And every 6.2 minutes, the mom hissed: "Ssssssstop that!" I wasn't tempted to say anything until he started whining for Curly Sue's MP3 player.
Wednesdays are long for my children, church-wise. We typically arrive at the building around 3:30 so that I can help prepare food for the 400 people that we typically feed. Larry, being a middle-schooler, can go into his program around 4:30 but the littles are stuck amusing themselves until 5:45. Yesterday was cold and windy and not a playground-type day, so Moe brought Legos and Curly Sue her MP3 player. They left their things at my table to go to their program, and this child was determined to have her MP3 player. And I was determined to see that he didn't.
Fortunately, I didn't need to step in, but the child got so upset when his mom told him he couldn't take the player that he started choking. And coughing and coughing and coughing and coughing and bumping the table every time he coughed and bumping the table some more...
At this point I could barely hear the speaker and was wishing heartily that this woman would take. her. child. out. But then I started thinking...
What if she's new here? What if this is her very first night, and she doesn't know if there's a program for her child, or where to sign him in, or where to take him? Maybe he's been sick and she didn't want to miss church, and she didn't have someone to watch him at home. Maybe she's a single mom and this is her only child, and she just doesn't want to be separated from him during worship.
While I'm certain last night's speaker had some insight to share, maybe I couldn't hear him because God was trying to tell me something else through a little boy's antics. And I wasn't listening.
Monday, January 7, 2008
"You're an ANGRY elf!"
(You know that part in Elf where Buddy infuriates the writer by calling him an elf? Yeah, that's the one. Just settin' the scene here.)
I am angry. All the time. About everything.
Not that I'm sweetness and light normally. (Shut up, Misty.)
All I can figure is that the anger I don't feel toward the woman who killed my brother is manifesting itself in every other area of my life. Guess I'm gonna have to break down and add a "Grieving for Dummies" book to my 888 Challenge list.
During my Bible study time this morning, I was planning to continue Beth Moore's Living Beyond Yourself but instead I found myself drawn to Larry's lesson, which was a mini-sermon on different kinds of anger and godly responses, so it looks like I'll be doing some work in Proverbs and putting Beth on hold for awhile.
On the bright side, we started school back today and it went very well. We added in some chores for everybody using the Motivated Moms calendar and incorporated some Ambleside Online Year 1 books into the littles' schedule.
It doesn't hurt that the weather is as absolutely gorgeous, warm and sunny as it can be and the kiddos are running off steam outside. They're playing some kind of police detective game right now, complete with fake corpse. I'm sure the neighbors all wish their children would play more with mine.
I am angry. All the time. About everything.
Not that I'm sweetness and light normally. (Shut up, Misty.)
All I can figure is that the anger I don't feel toward the woman who killed my brother is manifesting itself in every other area of my life. Guess I'm gonna have to break down and add a "Grieving for Dummies" book to my 888 Challenge list.
During my Bible study time this morning, I was planning to continue Beth Moore's Living Beyond Yourself but instead I found myself drawn to Larry's lesson, which was a mini-sermon on different kinds of anger and godly responses, so it looks like I'll be doing some work in Proverbs and putting Beth on hold for awhile.
On the bright side, we started school back today and it went very well. We added in some chores for everybody using the Motivated Moms calendar and incorporated some Ambleside Online Year 1 books into the littles' schedule.
It doesn't hurt that the weather is as absolutely gorgeous, warm and sunny as it can be and the kiddos are running off steam outside. They're playing some kind of police detective game right now, complete with fake corpse. I'm sure the neighbors all wish their children would play more with mine.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
My wish for all my friends-and-relations in 2008
May you never lay your head down without a hand to hold
May you never make your bed out in the cold
May you never lose your temper if you get hit in a barroom fight
May you never lose your woman overnight.
--Eric Clapton (but of course!)
May you never make your bed out in the cold
May you never lose your temper if you get hit in a barroom fight
May you never lose your woman overnight.
--Eric Clapton (but of course!)
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Adventures in babysitting
I am looking at a little one right now, giggling at him running around singing, "Ho, ho, ho!" at my stuffed Santa on the hearth.
He is Jackrabbit, the 19-month-old son of my baby brother. He is the babiest of my parents' grandbabies, likely the caboose of the 11-child grandtrain. He has velvety brown eyes and chubby cheeks, and a grin that makes you temporarily forget how naughty he can be. Or, at least, not care.
Yesterday I also had him, because his regular babysitter's child has the 'flu. I made him laugh by tying a big jingle bell to his belt loop, then singing "Jingle Bells" at him every time he shook it.
Seeing my own children with their infinite patience and tenderness toward this child makes my heart swell. Gently and calmly, they keep little hands from trouble, hug and pat and play.
I saw the same respect and care when we visited a retirement home recently, when Larry drew up a chair toward a particularly lonely looking lady, chatting and listening until he had her twinkling and cheery. Curly Sue and Moe made their rounds like jolly fairies, sprinkling smiles and kind words around the room.
Can I really be raising these fine children? An ill-equipped, impatient, overbearing, demanding parent like me? No, it must be God's doing.
Uh-oh. It's taste-test time in Fisher Price land, so I'm off to rescue Sonya Lee.
He is Jackrabbit, the 19-month-old son of my baby brother. He is the babiest of my parents' grandbabies, likely the caboose of the 11-child grandtrain. He has velvety brown eyes and chubby cheeks, and a grin that makes you temporarily forget how naughty he can be. Or, at least, not care.
Yesterday I also had him, because his regular babysitter's child has the 'flu. I made him laugh by tying a big jingle bell to his belt loop, then singing "Jingle Bells" at him every time he shook it.
Seeing my own children with their infinite patience and tenderness toward this child makes my heart swell. Gently and calmly, they keep little hands from trouble, hug and pat and play.
I saw the same respect and care when we visited a retirement home recently, when Larry drew up a chair toward a particularly lonely looking lady, chatting and listening until he had her twinkling and cheery. Curly Sue and Moe made their rounds like jolly fairies, sprinkling smiles and kind words around the room.
Can I really be raising these fine children? An ill-equipped, impatient, overbearing, demanding parent like me? No, it must be God's doing.
Uh-oh. It's taste-test time in Fisher Price land, so I'm off to rescue Sonya Lee.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
"Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God?" -- Gal. 1:10
I just started Beth Moore's "Living Beyond Yourself" Bible study and this jumped out at me. I used to -- and I'm not completely cured, mind you -- worry myself sick over what people thought or said about me.
I am a Christ-follower. I am not perfect. I talk too much and too loudly, I'm bossy and opinionated and my vocabulary gets whittled down to one or two expletives when I'm extremely frustrated. I am a passionate advocate for the downtrodden, my family and friends consider me the go-to girl and I love with more than my words.
I wear shabby sneakers and sweats most days, and my shirts are freebies from Geddy's company. I have a haircut that's practically maintenance-free by design. I'd rather read than eat, but if I can do both at one time, yippee! I yell at my children sometimes. I wear makeup sometimes. I loathe two-faced, gossiping hypocrites, always. Sometimes, I am one.
I vote in every election and my conscience never pricks. I'm impatient, exhausted, angry and grouchy. I'm also generous, kind, fun and goofy. I could make you believe any lie I told, but I choose not to tell lies. I apologize when I'm wrong, which is often.
I believe in heaven and hell, God and Satan and their designs on all of us. I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, and not because I'm a weak-minded fool bowing down to a big, bad, tyrannical religion.
There I am, like me or not. I'm best with lots of butter.
I am a Christ-follower. I am not perfect. I talk too much and too loudly, I'm bossy and opinionated and my vocabulary gets whittled down to one or two expletives when I'm extremely frustrated. I am a passionate advocate for the downtrodden, my family and friends consider me the go-to girl and I love with more than my words.
I wear shabby sneakers and sweats most days, and my shirts are freebies from Geddy's company. I have a haircut that's practically maintenance-free by design. I'd rather read than eat, but if I can do both at one time, yippee! I yell at my children sometimes. I wear makeup sometimes. I loathe two-faced, gossiping hypocrites, always. Sometimes, I am one.
I vote in every election and my conscience never pricks. I'm impatient, exhausted, angry and grouchy. I'm also generous, kind, fun and goofy. I could make you believe any lie I told, but I choose not to tell lies. I apologize when I'm wrong, which is often.
I believe in heaven and hell, God and Satan and their designs on all of us. I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God, and not because I'm a weak-minded fool bowing down to a big, bad, tyrannical religion.
There I am, like me or not. I'm best with lots of butter.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Christmas confessions and rebellions
Dear Santa,
Every year, people starting talking about simplifying. A few handmade gifts each, lots of hot chocolate and cookies and carols and candlelight church services and real greenery and home-baked goodies delivered to neighbors and food and toys for sharing with less fortunate people and most of all...oh, yeah!...a pervading sense of peace and tranquility and plenty.
But when it comes right down to it, what I really want is a Christmas like I had as a child. Big piles of gifts, shiny and curly and straight from the pages of the Sears Wish Book, or behind the big plate-glass window at Otasco. Baby dolls, a tin kitchen, a working cash register, a record player with a yellow plastic record that plays "Jimmy Crack Corn." A Malibu Barbie doll that I can love without having to worry I might want to grow up to be a hooker.
I want to jump on the simplicity bandwagon, but I also want to jump on the foam-rubber sofa cushion where I oh-so-hopefully left my stocking each Christmas eve. I want to say my prayers in front of the fake-brick paper rollout that served as our fireplace. I want to wear a Santa hat without worrying about whether I look foolish or might muss my hair. I want to ride my tricycle in the house, and I want it to be okay when I am just as excited about receiving a gift as I am about giving one.
I want my brother Rowdy to read us to sleep in our bunk beds, and I want Ben to wake up at 4 a.m. to try out everyone's toys and then wake us to tell us how cool they are. I want Bubby and Rally to wish for -- and get! -- BB guns and wood-burning sets. I want to be able to laugh over stories about how, when we lived in a two-bedroom house, my parents tied our door to the bathroom door to keep Ben from getting up at 4 a.m., and how Rowdy had to pee out the window because he couldn't get to the bathroom. And the time my dad stayed up all night to assemble bicycles and tricycles for all five of us and made it to bed about an hour before we got up to try them out.
Really, though? I want to not feel guilty for trying to give my children the kind of Christmases I had. I want people not to judge me because Geddy gets a bonus and we spend it all, plus some. When people find out Larry, Curly Sue and Moe still believe in you, I want them to say good job, for keeping them children as long as possible.
I can't bring my brother back and wouldn't even if I could, nor my mother-in-law, and they both helped make my Christmases memorable. You stopped visiting me a long time ago and I'm more likely to get Paxil than peanuts in my Christmas stocking. But, Santa, if you could let people know it's okay for us to enjoy Christmas this year, I'd really appreciate it.
Love,
Me
Every year, people starting talking about simplifying. A few handmade gifts each, lots of hot chocolate and cookies and carols and candlelight church services and real greenery and home-baked goodies delivered to neighbors and food and toys for sharing with less fortunate people and most of all...oh, yeah!...a pervading sense of peace and tranquility and plenty.
But when it comes right down to it, what I really want is a Christmas like I had as a child. Big piles of gifts, shiny and curly and straight from the pages of the Sears Wish Book, or behind the big plate-glass window at Otasco. Baby dolls, a tin kitchen, a working cash register, a record player with a yellow plastic record that plays "Jimmy Crack Corn." A Malibu Barbie doll that I can love without having to worry I might want to grow up to be a hooker.
I want to jump on the simplicity bandwagon, but I also want to jump on the foam-rubber sofa cushion where I oh-so-hopefully left my stocking each Christmas eve. I want to say my prayers in front of the fake-brick paper rollout that served as our fireplace. I want to wear a Santa hat without worrying about whether I look foolish or might muss my hair. I want to ride my tricycle in the house, and I want it to be okay when I am just as excited about receiving a gift as I am about giving one.
I want my brother Rowdy to read us to sleep in our bunk beds, and I want Ben to wake up at 4 a.m. to try out everyone's toys and then wake us to tell us how cool they are. I want Bubby and Rally to wish for -- and get! -- BB guns and wood-burning sets. I want to be able to laugh over stories about how, when we lived in a two-bedroom house, my parents tied our door to the bathroom door to keep Ben from getting up at 4 a.m., and how Rowdy had to pee out the window because he couldn't get to the bathroom. And the time my dad stayed up all night to assemble bicycles and tricycles for all five of us and made it to bed about an hour before we got up to try them out.
Really, though? I want to not feel guilty for trying to give my children the kind of Christmases I had. I want people not to judge me because Geddy gets a bonus and we spend it all, plus some. When people find out Larry, Curly Sue and Moe still believe in you, I want them to say good job, for keeping them children as long as possible.
I can't bring my brother back and wouldn't even if I could, nor my mother-in-law, and they both helped make my Christmases memorable. You stopped visiting me a long time ago and I'm more likely to get Paxil than peanuts in my Christmas stocking. But, Santa, if you could let people know it's okay for us to enjoy Christmas this year, I'd really appreciate it.
Love,
Me
Monday, November 26, 2007
Because Linus says so!
Nothing puts me more in a Christmas mood than music and television programs I enjoyed as a child. By mutual consent, Geddy and I are going to make a concerted effort to actively celebrate Christmas this year. Last night, we kicked off our celebration on a chilly, rainy night by stuffing everyone snugly into our king-sized bed and watching Rudolph and Charlie Brown.
We plan on making this a nightly event. Tonight's schedule includes a visit from the Grinch and Mickey's Christmas Carol. We put up our Christmas tree this week and build our gingerbread train next week. Next Monday is our special annual family Christmas outing to Callaway Gardens' Fantasy in Lights, which is always incredible.
Sure, we've had our share of heartbreak this year. We lost Geddy's mom to cancer in June and Ben in a car crash just a few weeks ago. The everyday struggles can be enough to crush me, and the outside stress and extra activities inherent in the season...well, I feel like I'm drowning sometimes, trying to please everyone and hold myself together. But Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever, and His birthday deserves a long, determined and glorious celebration. So when I want to scream, "Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?" Linus always is there, ready to remind me.
We plan on making this a nightly event. Tonight's schedule includes a visit from the Grinch and Mickey's Christmas Carol. We put up our Christmas tree this week and build our gingerbread train next week. Next Monday is our special annual family Christmas outing to Callaway Gardens' Fantasy in Lights, which is always incredible.
Sure, we've had our share of heartbreak this year. We lost Geddy's mom to cancer in June and Ben in a car crash just a few weeks ago. The everyday struggles can be enough to crush me, and the outside stress and extra activities inherent in the season...well, I feel like I'm drowning sometimes, trying to please everyone and hold myself together. But Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever, and His birthday deserves a long, determined and glorious celebration. So when I want to scream, "Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?" Linus always is there, ready to remind me.
Friday, November 23, 2007
As I was saying...what was I saying?
This is the conversation I was having earlier today with a friend:
"So I told what's-his-name he couldn't leave those things lying there on the thing or the dog would...um..."
What I meant to say was, "I told Larry he couldn't leave his school papers lying there on the hearth or JoJo would chew on them, and I didn't think anyone would buy the old 'the dog ate my homework' excuse."
Ba-dum-pah.
I'm starting to have to work my thoughts in Mad Libs: So I told (person's name) he couldn't leave (noun) (verb -ing) on the (noun)...(Insert punch line.) (Canned laughter.)
Pretty soon, I'll be hearing a soundtrack behind every event in my life. And I won't even be able to remember the words so I can sing along!
"So I told what's-his-name he couldn't leave those things lying there on the thing or the dog would...um..."
What I meant to say was, "I told Larry he couldn't leave his school papers lying there on the hearth or JoJo would chew on them, and I didn't think anyone would buy the old 'the dog ate my homework' excuse."
Ba-dum-pah.
I'm starting to have to work my thoughts in Mad Libs: So I told (person's name) he couldn't leave (noun) (verb -ing) on the (noun)...(Insert punch line.) (Canned laughter.)
Pretty soon, I'll be hearing a soundtrack behind every event in my life. And I won't even be able to remember the words so I can sing along!
Thursday, November 15, 2007
And now for something completely different
In the midst of the dark last week, I kept an appointment to have Curly Sue and Moe skin-tested for allergies. They reacted to every single marker, including the ones for beef, chicken, fish, shrimp, tomatoes, peanuts and citrus. And dogs and cats, though I'm pretty sure it's their dander and not their meat that's an issue. (I'll err on the side of caution and take them off the menu.) The allergist said not to worry about the food markers unless they've had a serious reaction to any of those foods in the past, which they haven't.
At homeschool group today, Curly Sue got her arm smashed in the door and for a brief while, I thought I'd be taking her for x-rays. My friend the EMT checked her out and was pretty sure it was only bruised, so we stayed put. Exactly 14.7 minutes later, Larry was sprawled on the gym floor with an overgrown toenail bent completely backwards, wailing in panic. Another friend had nail clippers and we soon took care of that injury as well.
Last night at church, I did pretty well until mid-lesson, when I spontaneously burst into tears and couldn't excuse myself because we were smack in the middle of a sea of chairs and I couldn't maneuver my way to the the ladies'. Fortunately, I had brought tissues for just this eventuality.
But hey, last night's viewing of Kenneth Branagh's "Much Ado About Nothing" was fantastically hilarious, so I haven't much to bemoan, right?
Saturday I go help clean out Ben's home and Sunday we are going ahead with our family Thanksgiving as planned. I am making turkey-shaped cookies and green bean casserole and deviled eggs and sour cream dip. We are wearing black tee shirts and visiting the cemetery, though we all will be acutely aware that what made Ben himself is not there. We probably will sing and play guitar, and we definitely will cry. In a good way, though, I hope.
At homeschool group today, Curly Sue got her arm smashed in the door and for a brief while, I thought I'd be taking her for x-rays. My friend the EMT checked her out and was pretty sure it was only bruised, so we stayed put. Exactly 14.7 minutes later, Larry was sprawled on the gym floor with an overgrown toenail bent completely backwards, wailing in panic. Another friend had nail clippers and we soon took care of that injury as well.
Last night at church, I did pretty well until mid-lesson, when I spontaneously burst into tears and couldn't excuse myself because we were smack in the middle of a sea of chairs and I couldn't maneuver my way to the the ladies'. Fortunately, I had brought tissues for just this eventuality.
But hey, last night's viewing of Kenneth Branagh's "Much Ado About Nothing" was fantastically hilarious, so I haven't much to bemoan, right?
Saturday I go help clean out Ben's home and Sunday we are going ahead with our family Thanksgiving as planned. I am making turkey-shaped cookies and green bean casserole and deviled eggs and sour cream dip. We are wearing black tee shirts and visiting the cemetery, though we all will be acutely aware that what made Ben himself is not there. We probably will sing and play guitar, and we definitely will cry. In a good way, though, I hope.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Speaking of Shakespeare...
"To sleep, perchance to dream..."
I rarely remember my dreams, but last night was an exception. I'm an Eric Clapton fan, and I've been fortunate enough to see him in concert several times, but last night I dreamed I was personally acquainted with him. In the dream, I was royally irritated at myself for not ever having a photo made of the two of us together, because nobody believed I knew him except Geddy and the children, who'd met him several times as well.
I remember thinking it was weirder that I had a white convertible than that I knew Eric Clapton. My dream car would definitely be red.
I rarely remember my dreams, but last night was an exception. I'm an Eric Clapton fan, and I've been fortunate enough to see him in concert several times, but last night I dreamed I was personally acquainted with him. In the dream, I was royally irritated at myself for not ever having a photo made of the two of us together, because nobody believed I knew him except Geddy and the children, who'd met him several times as well.
I remember thinking it was weirder that I had a white convertible than that I knew Eric Clapton. My dream car would definitely be red.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Dinosaurs and times-fours
A lack of discernment caused major discombobulation this a.m. I was to collect Nannie after an in-office endoscopy, but when she said the office was in a building across from Walgreen's, I heard Wal-Mart. The kind of panicked running-around that ensued was worthy of It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. Pure humor, now that she's safely home. And when finally I saw her sweet, smiling face and heard a good report from the procedure, I remembered to thank God that my mama is with us still.
See, five babies are without their mama now. Karen died of breast cancer a few days ago. She was younger than I and we had mutual friends, but I never got to know her. I understand she was a treasure and her death has saddened me. Geddy lost his mama in June to uterine cancer and we are still missing her and always will. Karen's babies are little and their parents' faith will sustain them, but they are already missing her and always will.
Two good things happened to me yesterday. Geraldine, the free cookie lady at our market, took the time to tell me what fine children I have. I agreed and thanked her. After all, they took the time to help a lady unload her pigeons at the post office and pushed another lady's buggy back into the store for her. Later, a fellow dance mom told me how sweet she thinks I am and how she loves watching me interact with everyone at class. I think I'm just overly chatty, but I surely appreciated the sentiment.
Today is Halloween, from which we are gently extracting our children. We did schoolwork as usual today, except that Nannie was with us and got to help Curly Sue learn her four times tables. We are leaving candy for the neighborhood trick-or-treaters and heading to church ourselves. For lunch, we are eating chicken nuggets in dinosaur shapes. While I'm fairly certain that no part of a real chicken lends itself to T-Rex-ish dimensions, I comfort myself with the knowledge that in this case, it's more about the company than the quality of the food.
Because their mama is still here to eat it with them.
See, five babies are without their mama now. Karen died of breast cancer a few days ago. She was younger than I and we had mutual friends, but I never got to know her. I understand she was a treasure and her death has saddened me. Geddy lost his mama in June to uterine cancer and we are still missing her and always will. Karen's babies are little and their parents' faith will sustain them, but they are already missing her and always will.
Two good things happened to me yesterday. Geraldine, the free cookie lady at our market, took the time to tell me what fine children I have. I agreed and thanked her. After all, they took the time to help a lady unload her pigeons at the post office and pushed another lady's buggy back into the store for her. Later, a fellow dance mom told me how sweet she thinks I am and how she loves watching me interact with everyone at class. I think I'm just overly chatty, but I surely appreciated the sentiment.
Today is Halloween, from which we are gently extracting our children. We did schoolwork as usual today, except that Nannie was with us and got to help Curly Sue learn her four times tables. We are leaving candy for the neighborhood trick-or-treaters and heading to church ourselves. For lunch, we are eating chicken nuggets in dinosaur shapes. While I'm fairly certain that no part of a real chicken lends itself to T-Rex-ish dimensions, I comfort myself with the knowledge that in this case, it's more about the company than the quality of the food.
Because their mama is still here to eat it with them.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Must be a disorder
I'm terrified of heights. I'm not just afraid of falling but of being far away from the ground. I become disoriented and panic with a definite sensation of falling even though I'm not actually falling. Like when you dream you're falling and grab for the bed, which of course is solidly underneath your body. I'm certifiably acrophobic.
If I had a physical reaction to spiders -- not just the heaving shudders or feeling like things are crawling on me -- it would make me arachnophobic. Fear of water, fear of strangers, fear of enclosed spaces...you name it, there's a phobia for it.
Lucy: "Maybe you have pantophobia, Charlie Brown."
Charlie Brown: "What's pantophobia?"
Lucy: "The fear of everything."
Charlie Brown: "THAT'S IT!!!"
Larry has an aversion to English peas, tomatoes and some other squishy foods. When he was a tiny boy, he gagged violently at certain smells, sights and touches. In preschool, he didn't want to fingerpaint or make plaster of Paris handprints. He's 11 now and still has no interest in touch tanks or other hands-on experiences. He is just now learning to pat dogs and cats comfortably.
According to some literature, that gives him "tactile issues." I throw that around when it suits me, but the fact is, he just doesn't like squishy or wriggly things. Not foods, not paints, not pets, not sea creatures. If I asked him to pick up the dog's poop, I'd be hosing throw-up out of the yard, too.
When I worked at a newspaper, the editorial staff privately called a fine selection of our local loonies the "C----- Crazies" and kept ourselves and each other abreast of their doings. There was Mary the Bicycle Lady, Boomer the Sports Nut and the guy who talked to, listened to and tried to hide behind street signs, among others. At our first home, a shell-shocked WWII veteran named George frequently left dollar bills in our screen door for reasons known only to him.
No doubt, some of these folks have conditions frequently documented and discussed in numerous medical journals and conferences. Perhaps they are under a doctor's care. Someone who came home "shell-shocked" 50 years ago would now be diagnosed with "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder" and appropriately counseled, medicated and relieved of jury duty.
Years ago people had all the same disorders they have now. They were eccentric rather than diseased back then.
Sister Martha took to the couch at 40 with the vapors. Miss Grumblypants down the street snipped the head off any day lily that wasn't absolutely perfect. Can't Get Right could count tiller's trays at the general store to the penny at a glance. Poor Luther couldn't get out of bed for months after his wife Mona died. Little Charlie-Boy screamed until he fainted if locked in the closet when he was bad.
Early menopause, obsessive-compulsive disorder, autism, depression, claustrophobia. See?
Ahhh, cynicism. Frustrated idealism. Sounds like a disorder to me.
If I had a physical reaction to spiders -- not just the heaving shudders or feeling like things are crawling on me -- it would make me arachnophobic. Fear of water, fear of strangers, fear of enclosed spaces...you name it, there's a phobia for it.
Lucy: "Maybe you have pantophobia, Charlie Brown."
Charlie Brown: "What's pantophobia?"
Lucy: "The fear of everything."
Charlie Brown: "THAT'S IT!!!"
Larry has an aversion to English peas, tomatoes and some other squishy foods. When he was a tiny boy, he gagged violently at certain smells, sights and touches. In preschool, he didn't want to fingerpaint or make plaster of Paris handprints. He's 11 now and still has no interest in touch tanks or other hands-on experiences. He is just now learning to pat dogs and cats comfortably.
According to some literature, that gives him "tactile issues." I throw that around when it suits me, but the fact is, he just doesn't like squishy or wriggly things. Not foods, not paints, not pets, not sea creatures. If I asked him to pick up the dog's poop, I'd be hosing throw-up out of the yard, too.
When I worked at a newspaper, the editorial staff privately called a fine selection of our local loonies the "C----- Crazies" and kept ourselves and each other abreast of their doings. There was Mary the Bicycle Lady, Boomer the Sports Nut and the guy who talked to, listened to and tried to hide behind street signs, among others. At our first home, a shell-shocked WWII veteran named George frequently left dollar bills in our screen door for reasons known only to him.
No doubt, some of these folks have conditions frequently documented and discussed in numerous medical journals and conferences. Perhaps they are under a doctor's care. Someone who came home "shell-shocked" 50 years ago would now be diagnosed with "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder" and appropriately counseled, medicated and relieved of jury duty.
Years ago people had all the same disorders they have now. They were eccentric rather than diseased back then.
Sister Martha took to the couch at 40 with the vapors. Miss Grumblypants down the street snipped the head off any day lily that wasn't absolutely perfect. Can't Get Right could count tiller's trays at the general store to the penny at a glance. Poor Luther couldn't get out of bed for months after his wife Mona died. Little Charlie-Boy screamed until he fainted if locked in the closet when he was bad.
Early menopause, obsessive-compulsive disorder, autism, depression, claustrophobia. See?
Ahhh, cynicism. Frustrated idealism. Sounds like a disorder to me.
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