My belly feels like there is a rock sitting in it. I blame the coffee. It was super strong. So naturally I drank two cups with a sugary muffin on the side. Why do I do it? In the wise words of Dr. Seuss, " don't ask me, go ask your mother".
Tonight is family night. We celebrate Mondays by giving it a funny name and watching the Cosby Show. Taco Tuesday doesn't work because we already have Partridge Family guitar Tuesdays. So instead we have Taco Tuesday Monday. It's the same really. Only different. I can't explain things.
I just know I want my belly ache to quit so I can eat spicy rice with a substitute of ground turkey for beef. And I want zero negative repercussions. Which have nothing whatsoever to do with percussions. It should. But it doesn't. I can't explain it anymore than I can explain why my heater keeps coming on when the thermostat clearly reads OFF in big offensive letters or why they keep making Land Before Time movies.
It's not like we didn't like the first one. It was great really. It's just that maybe it's time to let that one go. There are other story lines. Step to as to writing one.
My stomach is making funny gurgling noises. I think I am hungry. Don't try to make sense of me. Just love me through it and make me a sandwich. With a banana on the side. And a bottle of water. And a Kit Kat.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Happy Earth Day
I love the Earth. I really do, but this holiday is so obscure. We teach it in school. Usually we plant things. Which I think I will do with my students tomorrow, but I sort of feel like Ricky Bobby on Talladega Nights when he is giving his first interview and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. His race was brilliant. Well played. Fast even. But what comes next?? I hear you Ricky.
I guess we could talk about how to take care of the Earth, but kindergarteners aren't supposed to learn about recycling and what not. That's a first grade lesson. I don't want to steal that teacher's thunder.
Maybe we will talk about words that rhyme with earth. Worth. Firth. Birth. Ew. That got awkward fast.
Ok. I have no choice. I am running short on time, and it's clearly an emergency situation. I will have to hang out on Pinterest during church.
Anyone else find themselves in this situation? No?? Just me?? Hmm.
I guess we could talk about how to take care of the Earth, but kindergarteners aren't supposed to learn about recycling and what not. That's a first grade lesson. I don't want to steal that teacher's thunder.
Maybe we will talk about words that rhyme with earth. Worth. Firth. Birth. Ew. That got awkward fast.
Ok. I have no choice. I am running short on time, and it's clearly an emergency situation. I will have to hang out on Pinterest during church.
Anyone else find themselves in this situation? No?? Just me?? Hmm.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Jump
Rule: Write for 5 minutes flat on the prompt “Jump” with no editing, tweaking or self critiquing.
Jumping. I jump. I jumped. I am jumping. Am I? Sometimes I don't feel like a loan reed. I want to, but then I remember I am small. But do I jump like a small person? I love two year old jumpers. They are so full of excitement, they build the anticipation, but then they jump and their feet don't actually come off the ground. I hope I don't jump like a kid. I see my direction. I could sort of fall into it. Stumble. But I want to live with purpose. Is it purposely or purposefully? Purposefully. I am sure of it. Here I go.
One.
Two.
Three.
Jump.
Jumping. I jump. I jumped. I am jumping. Am I? Sometimes I don't feel like a loan reed. I want to, but then I remember I am small. But do I jump like a small person? I love two year old jumpers. They are so full of excitement, they build the anticipation, but then they jump and their feet don't actually come off the ground. I hope I don't jump like a kid. I see my direction. I could sort of fall into it. Stumble. But I want to live with purpose. Is it purposely or purposefully? Purposefully. I am sure of it. Here I go.
One.
Two.
Three.
Jump.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Things That Don't Come Naturally to Me
- waiting.. for anything
- keeping quiet for lengths of time
- exercise. Today I wrangled 13 kindergarteners and a bus full of elementary kids for some time at the "zoo". Shouldn't this count? I think I just made my own point.
- Love for cleaning. Oh, sure, I want it to look clean. But in the same way a meal cooked by someone else always seems to feel better going in, I feel better going into my house when it has been cleaned by another.
- skirts. Although I see their attraction (ease, cute factor, etc.) there are problems in their general make up (wind, wedgies, unshaven legs, etc.)
- girls. I don't always get them.
- doting. I am so unfamiliar with this term, I don't even know if I spelled it correctly. I am going with it. I watch some parents at school who are so obliging and willing with their kids. This is usually the point when I lean down to my own child and say, "Go get your own lunch box out of the car. I didn't leave it there. I have my lunch right here." And to further prove the validity of my words, I hold my lunchbox in the air in an obvious fashion until my child asks me politely for the keys. Mean? I know what you are thinking. What a bully. Well, I am anti bullying, to be sure, but I will ask you to revisit our group when that doted upon child is looking for a Kleenex and realizes our school bathroom doesn't stock them.
Teacher: Ok, you can go to the bathroom and get one.
DUS (leaves and comes back, clearly still in need of a tissue): I couldn't find one.
Teacher: Did you go into the bathroom?
DUS: yes. But there aren't any.
Teacher (speaking slower by the second): Hmmm. Was there something ELSE you could have used as a tissue?
DUS: uuuum...I...hmmm. I don't know.
Teacher: Please think. Think about what you see and what you use the WHOLE time you go in the bathroom. What could work?
DUS: I.... (chirp. chirp)
Teacher: SIIIGHING
My kid: OH MY GOSH. TOILET PAPER!!
DUS: oh. ok. Can I get some toilet paper?
Teacher: doh!
True story.
I am the way I am. It's for the children.
I am not the teacher in this representation. And no children were harmed in the making of this story. The DUS remained remarkably clueless, and I inwardly apologized to my own child that one day she would be running the country next to this clown.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Anything? That Seems Like a Lot
I awoke just now to rain on my window pane. I don't live in Seattle, so it's easy for me to say I love it. It is 3 in the morning, and I have been listening to this Nevada downpour for an hour. That's a big deal here in the desert.
I want to just lie here and soak it in like a sponge, but my mind wanders in a million directions. Some prayers. Some unsettled business. Some reminders of what needs to happen from my to-do list. Some mulling over of the books I just finished.
I want to, but I can't turn of all the thoughts. I am thirsty for water. I am thirsty for more. Of everything.
My husband is not home and I miss my big kids. Two are on a mission trip and one is living life in Southern California with some friends. They will all be home by Friday, but that seems far.
Ten caterpillars are morphing into butterflies in my classroom. Right now. I am worried they will turn before my students can come back to see it.
Teenagers flash through my mind intermittently. I pray for them. You pass through my mind, my friend and reader. I pray a blessing on you. It's ok if we haven't met. It's best if we have, but I pray either way. Be blessed.
I can't find my cards. Over a year ago, I outlined my entire book on twenty index cards. They are my secondary most important resource to writing this book. And I cannot find them. Please say a prayer on that one for me. It's giving me a belly ache.
All of these thoughts, but really I keep circling back to one.
I pray about my future. I think it's changing. There is a need that warrants filling. And God is unsubtly dropping hints. Smooth. Normally, I would say this isn't for me, but the fact that I am so vehemently doubting my ability for God to use me in this space says otherwise. Like Moses.
"You've got the wrong guy. Teenagers?" I say.
"Yes. They like you. You are weird, but relatable." He says.
"But, I am an adult. Aren't I supposed to be scared of teenagers? They can be weird. Oh. Er. I see. But they come with face piercings. Uh. Hmm. I see. But I want to be liked. If I boss them they won't think I am funny anymore." I stammer.
"They don't need a peer. You are WAY too old to be their peer.," he says with a smirk.
"Thanks Lord. That's nice. I feel good now."
I can almost feel his shoulders shake to hide His laughter. He adds, "they need someone who isn't afraid to love them as they are, where they are, and who won't be afraid to tell it to them straight. They don't need bossing. They need Me. They need a leader to sympathize with their problems but hold them accountable to love others more than themselves. Their focus is all wrong. They need someone to give them a little shove because right now they feel like they can't make a difference. But you know better, and I want you to tell them."
"Lord, I don't want to be Moses. I don't want to say 'you have the wrong guy'."
"Then don't," he says simply.
"Ok. Protect my relationship with my own teens. I don't want them to feel like I am butting in. I don't want them to feel like I am invading their space. They are my priority over other kids."
"Just tell them that. Be Frank. He's great."
"Funny. Ok. Use me. I'll do it. Show me what it looks like. Show me how. When. Because I think it's going to start small. As do so many good things. I feel myself jumping the gun heading to the end of rather than the starting point."
"Pray. Just ask. And, hey. Ask each day. Not just once. There's a lot to talk about. If this is the only time we discuss it, you'll miss things. I will show you along the way. In my timing. For I know the plans I have for you. Did you catch that? I KNOW. those are the important words of that sentence. You are saying it wrong. Your emphasis is on the plans instead of me. Be willing. Be here. Everyday. Look for it. Be the part of Moses who did it afraid, but he did it still. Are you willing?"
I should pause and see if it's true, but I just say it, " Anything. Lord, I will do anything. You loved me first. You love me still. You love me when I am a total spaz. I will do it afraid. Anything."
Beginning the first Saturday in May I will be leading a book study on Jennie Allen's book "Anything". We will read a couple chapters each week, and meet back here to discuss what we get out of it.
If you are local, we are meeting at Starbucks on Saturdays at 8:30 each morning. Books are available at your local Christian bookstore or through Amazon.com.
Begin now by asking yourself, "What are you willing to do for God? How big? How scary? How self-sacrificing?" Bring your answer May 4th.
Contact me for further details.
I want to just lie here and soak it in like a sponge, but my mind wanders in a million directions. Some prayers. Some unsettled business. Some reminders of what needs to happen from my to-do list. Some mulling over of the books I just finished.
I want to, but I can't turn of all the thoughts. I am thirsty for water. I am thirsty for more. Of everything.
My husband is not home and I miss my big kids. Two are on a mission trip and one is living life in Southern California with some friends. They will all be home by Friday, but that seems far.
Ten caterpillars are morphing into butterflies in my classroom. Right now. I am worried they will turn before my students can come back to see it.
Teenagers flash through my mind intermittently. I pray for them. You pass through my mind, my friend and reader. I pray a blessing on you. It's ok if we haven't met. It's best if we have, but I pray either way. Be blessed.
I can't find my cards. Over a year ago, I outlined my entire book on twenty index cards. They are my secondary most important resource to writing this book. And I cannot find them. Please say a prayer on that one for me. It's giving me a belly ache.
All of these thoughts, but really I keep circling back to one.
I pray about my future. I think it's changing. There is a need that warrants filling. And God is unsubtly dropping hints. Smooth. Normally, I would say this isn't for me, but the fact that I am so vehemently doubting my ability for God to use me in this space says otherwise. Like Moses.
"You've got the wrong guy. Teenagers?" I say.
"Yes. They like you. You are weird, but relatable." He says.
"But, I am an adult. Aren't I supposed to be scared of teenagers? They can be weird. Oh. Er. I see. But they come with face piercings. Uh. Hmm. I see. But I want to be liked. If I boss them they won't think I am funny anymore." I stammer.
"They don't need a peer. You are WAY too old to be their peer.," he says with a smirk.
"Thanks Lord. That's nice. I feel good now."
I can almost feel his shoulders shake to hide His laughter. He adds, "they need someone who isn't afraid to love them as they are, where they are, and who won't be afraid to tell it to them straight. They don't need bossing. They need Me. They need a leader to sympathize with their problems but hold them accountable to love others more than themselves. Their focus is all wrong. They need someone to give them a little shove because right now they feel like they can't make a difference. But you know better, and I want you to tell them."
"Lord, I don't want to be Moses. I don't want to say 'you have the wrong guy'."
"Then don't," he says simply.
"Ok. Protect my relationship with my own teens. I don't want them to feel like I am butting in. I don't want them to feel like I am invading their space. They are my priority over other kids."
"Just tell them that. Be Frank. He's great."
"Funny. Ok. Use me. I'll do it. Show me what it looks like. Show me how. When. Because I think it's going to start small. As do so many good things. I feel myself jumping the gun heading to the end of rather than the starting point."
"Pray. Just ask. And, hey. Ask each day. Not just once. There's a lot to talk about. If this is the only time we discuss it, you'll miss things. I will show you along the way. In my timing. For I know the plans I have for you. Did you catch that? I KNOW. those are the important words of that sentence. You are saying it wrong. Your emphasis is on the plans instead of me. Be willing. Be here. Everyday. Look for it. Be the part of Moses who did it afraid, but he did it still. Are you willing?"
I should pause and see if it's true, but I just say it, " Anything. Lord, I will do anything. You loved me first. You love me still. You love me when I am a total spaz. I will do it afraid. Anything."
Beginning the first Saturday in May I will be leading a book study on Jennie Allen's book "Anything". We will read a couple chapters each week, and meet back here to discuss what we get out of it.
If you are local, we are meeting at Starbucks on Saturdays at 8:30 each morning. Books are available at your local Christian bookstore or through Amazon.com.
Begin now by asking yourself, "What are you willing to do for God? How big? How scary? How self-sacrificing?" Bring your answer May 4th.
Contact me for further details.
Monday, April 08, 2013
Specifically Speaking
Sometimes I get so convoluted with words and noises and confusion that I don't hear what's being graciously whispered into my ear repeatedly. I know He is whispering, but I can't make out the words. I know what you are thinking. "She hears voices? I am out."
But the truth is sometimes God will talk, and if we catch him mumbling, it's probably because we are too busy and focused on all the wrong things to take a minute and ask for clarity. Not just clarity. Confirmation and understanding.
So, he's been mumbling (aka I haven't been listening really) and it wasn't until I spewed advice that I realized where I heard that awesome advice before. God said it.
To me.
Right in my ear.
And I didn't comprehend his words, only that he was speaking.
So not only am I a bad listener, but I also do not obey. And I steal God's advice for myself and pawn it off with a straight face like I am Dr Leo Marvin looking for a ground breaking new book (please watch What About Bob. It's for the children).
I am full of it.
Frick.
Happy ending? Today is a good day to start tuning in and looking up.
Just try it. See what you notice. Tell me what you hear.
But the truth is sometimes God will talk, and if we catch him mumbling, it's probably because we are too busy and focused on all the wrong things to take a minute and ask for clarity. Not just clarity. Confirmation and understanding.
So, he's been mumbling (aka I haven't been listening really) and it wasn't until I spewed advice that I realized where I heard that awesome advice before. God said it.
To me.
Right in my ear.
And I didn't comprehend his words, only that he was speaking.
So not only am I a bad listener, but I also do not obey. And I steal God's advice for myself and pawn it off with a straight face like I am Dr Leo Marvin looking for a ground breaking new book (please watch What About Bob. It's for the children).
I am full of it.
Frick.
Happy ending? Today is a good day to start tuning in and looking up.
Just try it. See what you notice. Tell me what you hear.
Tuesday, April 02, 2013
Nonsense- It's why you are here
So why don't I just lay it all out there:
A) I want Stephanie Meyer to finish writing Midnight Sun. I don't care if she publishes it; just send me my own copy. I don't need a cover. I need more than 12 chapters of life from Edward's point of view, that's what I need.
2) My kid and I are taking another kid and another lady to a Women of Faith for teens conference in Roseville this weekend. I am so excited I may forget to do anything else. We leave Friday. We get to go to the movies, too. We are watching The Host- a Stephanie Meyer production.
3) I like salad. I don't know why I don't eat it more.
D) I am procrastinating taking a shower. It's not that I don't want to spend time with you. It's just that I have not combed my hairs in two weeks. I have washed it, but I just towel dried. This makes sense with my hairs. Not yours probably, but with my sweet fro, I don't need to comb it all the time. I would never comb it if I could get away with it, but the longer I wait, the more helmet shaped it becomes. Just trust me on this. It's science.
6) My heart hurts when little kids don't have food.
F) My heart stutters a little when I see a bald little brown boy. It's not something I am doing. It's something my heart is doing. Dear Lord and Mike Brewer, I really think I need a tan kid with the ability to grow a sweet fro. Send a boy and a girl; I don't mind. But make them mocha, and make them love me. The end. Oh, and make them potty trained.
and 11) I miss you people. I miss being here more. I miss your comments and your sassy remarks. I miss sitting on my computer scrolling all your blogs with my coffee in hand. Spring break is coming. At one point we will be down to two children. Call me crazy, but it's as if the clouds are parting to allow me to catch up. My heart feels happier already.
NOTE: the author and finisher of this nonsense recognizes that these pictures have little to do with the topics at hand (or not because they are nonsense) and more to do with who she was thinking of at the time of this publication. If this disturbs you, follow her. See that button? push it. Push it real good.
A) I want Stephanie Meyer to finish writing Midnight Sun. I don't care if she publishes it; just send me my own copy. I don't need a cover. I need more than 12 chapters of life from Edward's point of view, that's what I need.
3) I like salad. I don't know why I don't eat it more.
NOTE: the author and finisher of this nonsense recognizes that these pictures have little to do with the topics at hand (or not because they are nonsense) and more to do with who she was thinking of at the time of this publication. If this disturbs you, follow her. See that button? push it. Push it real good.
Mrs Hannigan
I am pretty sure she is standing over my shoulder.
She's God's number one on my case of whines and whimpers.
Example:
God wakes me up because people need prayer or I was supposed to do something midday, and I opted to postpone that plan, and God woke me at night to fulfill it. To which I whine "but it's in the middle of the night." Then I hear Mrs. Hannigan mumble and mock over my right shoulder "but it's in the middle of the night".
Yah. She's drunk still when I picture her (am I the only one who didn't know she was drunk? I literally thought she liked to stir and drink her bath water).
Anyway. I mulled and chatted. Prayed and read. And. Awesome. It's not 3a.m. Anymore. Now it's four. I am wide awake.
I should go write. I should go read my bible and finish up my bible study. I'll probably stumble to the bathroom and read my book (not in the bathroom. Once I get back in bed).
I could take a shower and comb through this beast of a hair do.
I would clean something, but that sounds awful.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Story of my life.
She's God's number one on my case of whines and whimpers.
Example:
God wakes me up because people need prayer or I was supposed to do something midday, and I opted to postpone that plan, and God woke me at night to fulfill it. To which I whine "but it's in the middle of the night." Then I hear Mrs. Hannigan mumble and mock over my right shoulder "but it's in the middle of the night".
Yah. She's drunk still when I picture her (am I the only one who didn't know she was drunk? I literally thought she liked to stir and drink her bath water).
Anyway. I mulled and chatted. Prayed and read. And. Awesome. It's not 3a.m. Anymore. Now it's four. I am wide awake.
I should go write. I should go read my bible and finish up my bible study. I'll probably stumble to the bathroom and read my book (not in the bathroom. Once I get back in bed).
I could take a shower and comb through this beast of a hair do.
I would clean something, but that sounds awful.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Story of my life.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Happy Easters
I will always put an S at the end of Easters. Thank you Nacho Libre for life changing knowledge.
So many people celebrate Easters, and I am glad. Even when I feel like shopping at the Costcos, but they are closed for the day, I am glad because it means they are celebrating Easters. More people should. Close down I mean.
Take me for instance. I am on my couch. I got onto my couch as soon as I got home from church. I only got up to make scalloped corn and eat a spoon full of frosting. I watched Adventures in Babysitting with my three oldest children. Then. I closed down. Big time. Crashed right out. It's what every Sunday should be like.
It's not easy. The sabbath. Not everyone can handle it. But we are all supposed to be in it. And close down. Like the Costcos.
Just try it. For one whole Sunday, refuse to work, say no to chores, lay around and hang out with your family. Go to the park. Eat. Watch a good movie. Have conversation. Invite a friend or another family over and close down.
Happy Easters.
So many people celebrate Easters, and I am glad. Even when I feel like shopping at the Costcos, but they are closed for the day, I am glad because it means they are celebrating Easters. More people should. Close down I mean.
Take me for instance. I am on my couch. I got onto my couch as soon as I got home from church. I only got up to make scalloped corn and eat a spoon full of frosting. I watched Adventures in Babysitting with my three oldest children. Then. I closed down. Big time. Crashed right out. It's what every Sunday should be like.
It's not easy. The sabbath. Not everyone can handle it. But we are all supposed to be in it. And close down. Like the Costcos.
Just try it. For one whole Sunday, refuse to work, say no to chores, lay around and hang out with your family. Go to the park. Eat. Watch a good movie. Have conversation. Invite a friend or another family over and close down.
Happy Easters.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Blech
I made up that word. It's the sound I make when something is gross or lame or more than I feel like handling at the moment.
It's the noise in my throat when I hear Beth Moore tell me she waited 16 years between hearing God's call and finally stepping into it.
It's the sound I feel when I think of my friend's 17 year old who just arrived to his temporary, but long term, room. In prison.
It's the feeling I have listening to my stomach grumble knowing two of my boys threw up this week (one on the counter. One on the carpet. Cool. )
It's the feeling I have all the way to my bones when God so subtly reminds me of the writing I have before me that I am procrastinating like a freaking champion.
It's the noise that represents the disappointment when I realize I am living out Paul's ever cryptic "I do what I do not want to do…" which always makes me think of Abbott and Costello.
It's the sound in my gut when I know I am supposed to be doing something else. I don't know fully what. But I miss my kids. I am either supposed to stay home and give up on this full time life of teaching or pray for better organization and six more arms to be a full-time working mom of five children.
Blech.
I went to a job interview because I love teaching English as a second language, and there was an opening for a part-time professor. Two things happened.
I spent one hour in the chair: ten minutes interviewing and being offered the job and 50 minutes counseling my interviewer. She is nearly old enough to be my mother and a wife and a mother of one child. She is a very impressive woman who spent that time asking me how I maintain balance of work and family. Amazingly, I had some answers. Rather God knew what she needed to hear. She was amazed when I said I couldn't work four nights a week because my husband and kids are my priority. She couldn't understand my choice. She spoke of her hurting daughter who always complained of missing her because she worked so much. It was a glimpse into a life I have been mindful to avoid, but also a life eerily mirroring parts of my own all of a sudden. Under my breath I mumbled. Can you guess it? Yes.
Blech. And then,
I caught a glimpse of an alternate life.
Maybe I could stay home. We could lose our car payment (which we loathe anyway) and I could homeschool my littlest rugrats again and make a little extra dough as a professor and (and this is just the cherry) watch my new neighbor's brand new. Teeny tiny. Gray Brown baby. What? That's his name. I am not kidding, nor would I want to be. He's the best baby currently in the world.
I would cut my salary in half. I would lower my expenses only a smidgeon. But my family would be overly blessed (if I do say so myself). And then today wouldn't have ripped my heart a bit tinier and made the word Blech wrench in my throat.
Instead it would have felt perfectly at home spending time with Samuel. I teared up in the backyard when he helped me fill a bird feeder. Something is not quite right.
Blech.
It's the noise in my throat when I hear Beth Moore tell me she waited 16 years between hearing God's call and finally stepping into it.
It's the sound I feel when I think of my friend's 17 year old who just arrived to his temporary, but long term, room. In prison.
It's the feeling I have listening to my stomach grumble knowing two of my boys threw up this week (one on the counter. One on the carpet. Cool. )
It's the feeling I have all the way to my bones when God so subtly reminds me of the writing I have before me that I am procrastinating like a freaking champion.
It's the noise that represents the disappointment when I realize I am living out Paul's ever cryptic "I do what I do not want to do…" which always makes me think of Abbott and Costello.
It's the sound in my gut when I know I am supposed to be doing something else. I don't know fully what. But I miss my kids. I am either supposed to stay home and give up on this full time life of teaching or pray for better organization and six more arms to be a full-time working mom of five children.
Blech.
I went to a job interview because I love teaching English as a second language, and there was an opening for a part-time professor. Two things happened.
I spent one hour in the chair: ten minutes interviewing and being offered the job and 50 minutes counseling my interviewer. She is nearly old enough to be my mother and a wife and a mother of one child. She is a very impressive woman who spent that time asking me how I maintain balance of work and family. Amazingly, I had some answers. Rather God knew what she needed to hear. She was amazed when I said I couldn't work four nights a week because my husband and kids are my priority. She couldn't understand my choice. She spoke of her hurting daughter who always complained of missing her because she worked so much. It was a glimpse into a life I have been mindful to avoid, but also a life eerily mirroring parts of my own all of a sudden. Under my breath I mumbled. Can you guess it? Yes.
Blech. And then,
I caught a glimpse of an alternate life.
Maybe I could stay home. We could lose our car payment (which we loathe anyway) and I could homeschool my littlest rugrats again and make a little extra dough as a professor and (and this is just the cherry) watch my new neighbor's brand new. Teeny tiny. Gray Brown baby. What? That's his name. I am not kidding, nor would I want to be. He's the best baby currently in the world.
I would cut my salary in half. I would lower my expenses only a smidgeon. But my family would be overly blessed (if I do say so myself). And then today wouldn't have ripped my heart a bit tinier and made the word Blech wrench in my throat.
Instead it would have felt perfectly at home spending time with Samuel. I teared up in the backyard when he helped me fill a bird feeder. Something is not quite right.
Blech.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Is This What It's Coming To?
A blog post every two weeks? Who ever heard of such a thing?? Working moms, that's who. I have many questions, most having nothing to do with anything significant. Instead, I will leave you with this roll of pictures as proof that I am actually living life and not holed up on my bed wishing for summer.
This girl drinks coffee. I think it's too late for her. Judge me if you'd like, but she is gearing up for Stanford. She is one of the most amazing people any of us will ever know. She is brilliant without being socially weird. Stars aligned for this one.
Saturday, March 02, 2013
Forgetful Lucy
Sometimes I feel like a character from that movie 50 First Dates. Remember that little gem? One of the most giggle enhancing movies I've seen. Some of the characters have amnesia or can only recall their oldest memories. No new memories.
I feel like that sometimes. Ok. Often. I am forgetting everything that matters. I can't remember my kids as babies. I loved them so much just for being babies. And now I can't remember any of it.
I can't remember what it felt like to date my husband. We have been together almost twenty years. We have been together more years than we lived without one another. I know I loved dating him. I was a giddy idiot. But I can't remember.
I can't remember the answers my kids or students give me when I ask them the question. Any question. And I realized this morning that I am not looking intently enough. I am not paying close enough attention. I am the man James spoke of in chapter one. I have looked in the mirror and, once I turn, I immediately forget what I look like. Crazy? Lame maybe, but not crazy.
Picture the scene.
I am standing on the playground attending to the lunch recess crowd. There's the group of taggers, diggers, ponies, and the jungle gymmers. It's a good time for everyone except me. I want a break. I am watching the clock. I check my watch, but while I am looking a student starts talking. I put my watch down and then realize I looked with my eyes, but can't recall the time.
I look at my watch. One of my children comes up to hug me. I put my watch down and again I wonder what time it is. Are you sensing a pattern?
I HAVE to know what time it is. I look at my watch. Determined to pay attention. I look but look up right away because someone is crying. A boy fell down.
And guess what. I still have no idea what time it is.
I am not looking intently enough.
I want to be intentional. I want to look with eyes that see. I want to see and retain and be able to do something with all of that.
I want short and long and forever memories. I need to sear them into my mind so I can keep them forever.
I'll let you know how it goes.
I feel like that sometimes. Ok. Often. I am forgetting everything that matters. I can't remember my kids as babies. I loved them so much just for being babies. And now I can't remember any of it.
I can't remember what it felt like to date my husband. We have been together almost twenty years. We have been together more years than we lived without one another. I know I loved dating him. I was a giddy idiot. But I can't remember.
I can't remember the answers my kids or students give me when I ask them the question. Any question. And I realized this morning that I am not looking intently enough. I am not paying close enough attention. I am the man James spoke of in chapter one. I have looked in the mirror and, once I turn, I immediately forget what I look like. Crazy? Lame maybe, but not crazy.
Picture the scene.
I am standing on the playground attending to the lunch recess crowd. There's the group of taggers, diggers, ponies, and the jungle gymmers. It's a good time for everyone except me. I want a break. I am watching the clock. I check my watch, but while I am looking a student starts talking. I put my watch down and then realize I looked with my eyes, but can't recall the time.
I look at my watch. One of my children comes up to hug me. I put my watch down and again I wonder what time it is. Are you sensing a pattern?
I HAVE to know what time it is. I look at my watch. Determined to pay attention. I look but look up right away because someone is crying. A boy fell down.
And guess what. I still have no idea what time it is.
I am not looking intently enough.
I want to be intentional. I want to look with eyes that see. I want to see and retain and be able to do something with all of that.
I want short and long and forever memories. I need to sear them into my mind so I can keep them forever.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Balancing Acts ain't for Ninnies
I don't know why it never occurred to me that I would still be a full time mother, with full time mother needs, dealings, responsibilities, handlings, and beeswax once I became a full time worker. I don't mind working and earning my keep. And really, I LOVE teaching. So much. My husband and I both remark regularly how blessed we are to be in careers we love.
The problem is that if I am fully devoted to teaching, something at home tends to slip. Usually that is my husband, but only because he doesn't get in my face and whine or act out irrationally when he isn't cuddled enough. I appreciate this about him. Apparently some husbands are this way. Weird but true.
Anyway, tonight I interviewed for a position as a part time professor teaching English as a second language. It's totally my bag. But as God typically does with my mouth, our conversation ended up sounding a lot less like her interviewing ME for this position of teaching and more like her interviewing me asking for parenting help.
I told her I would LOVE to teach four nights a week, alas, my priority is my family. She agreed that this is as it should be, and added, "How do you keep them priority with so many kids!?"
We discussed teenagers and compared her one to my nearly three. She clutched her chest in mock freak out at the though of more than one child. It wouldn't make a difference in my house if we had one or five, or seven for that matter. God covers what we can't as long as we are making the choices we need to in order to make family a priority.
I explained that this looks different in every house, but in ours it's family dinners and being around to talk about nonsense when our kids have saved those purely nonsensical stories all day just to share them with me. "You are priority" looks like little notes to my family members, showing an interest in their accomplishments, and reenacting scenes from Mulan on video (only I sing off camera while Samuel moves his mouth in perfect timing) while we wait for dinner to cook.
"You are priority" reeks of balance. Everybody must have it. Every BODY must have it. Don't let your teeter totter too far to the top while you chase after career goals and your perfect tan. Teach your children balance. Use your time to love others. Really. And pray for wisdom about balance. It's no longer just an act in a circus.
Because I am baby stepping my way toward balance, I am fully prepared to celebrate my boy's birthday tomorrow.
He's 12. Or he will be in about 20 hours.
The problem is that if I am fully devoted to teaching, something at home tends to slip. Usually that is my husband, but only because he doesn't get in my face and whine or act out irrationally when he isn't cuddled enough. I appreciate this about him. Apparently some husbands are this way. Weird but true.
Anyway, tonight I interviewed for a position as a part time professor teaching English as a second language. It's totally my bag. But as God typically does with my mouth, our conversation ended up sounding a lot less like her interviewing ME for this position of teaching and more like her interviewing me asking for parenting help.
I told her I would LOVE to teach four nights a week, alas, my priority is my family. She agreed that this is as it should be, and added, "How do you keep them priority with so many kids!?"
We discussed teenagers and compared her one to my nearly three. She clutched her chest in mock freak out at the though of more than one child. It wouldn't make a difference in my house if we had one or five, or seven for that matter. God covers what we can't as long as we are making the choices we need to in order to make family a priority.
I explained that this looks different in every house, but in ours it's family dinners and being around to talk about nonsense when our kids have saved those purely nonsensical stories all day just to share them with me. "You are priority" looks like little notes to my family members, showing an interest in their accomplishments, and reenacting scenes from Mulan on video (only I sing off camera while Samuel moves his mouth in perfect timing) while we wait for dinner to cook.
"You are priority" reeks of balance. Everybody must have it. Every BODY must have it. Don't let your teeter totter too far to the top while you chase after career goals and your perfect tan. Teach your children balance. Use your time to love others. Really. And pray for wisdom about balance. It's no longer just an act in a circus.
Because I am baby stepping my way toward balance, I am fully prepared to celebrate my boy's birthday tomorrow.
He's 12. Or he will be in about 20 hours.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Sometimes I confuse even myself
Do you ever look around after you buy something great and ask yourself "why didn't we do this sooner?!"
We were given a bed by some friends years and years ago. We planned to get side tables. Those are important. Instead we didn't. We were given a set. Not as pretty as our bed, but we don't complain at free furniture.
Then. The day came when we sold those bad boys and we used cheap shelving from target. It looked cute. Did the job. But we passed them on when we moved. Again.
Since July, we have had no side tables. Cardboard boxes, but no tables. HUGE boxes. But cardboard is cardboard people. It's dusty in a way that cannot be cleaned. It's dented down the center and it caves in creating a hole from which I cannot retrieve my most favorite possessions. Chapstick. Pens. My arm. Cardboard doesn't discriminate.
The day came when The Man said we could buy some. "Be wise with our funds woman!" He said. Well. He didn't. But I wish he spoke with me like this.
We shopped. We price checked. We made a face like we were smelling a glass of milk that came from a cow who got into the onion pasture. (Thanks Napoleon). And then we left. Because guess what. Side tables are dumb expensive. It's a level of silliness I want no part of. Except that I really want side tables.
Many stores and thrift store diving passed and no good.
The cheapest we found was $50 for used and $79 for new. And we didn't remotely like those.
Then we went to ikea and my room is amazing. For reals. So pretty. And organized and helpful and efficient and grown up. No longer am I a bachelor drowning in cardboard. I'm an adult! With adult furniture. Amen.
We were given a bed by some friends years and years ago. We planned to get side tables. Those are important. Instead we didn't. We were given a set. Not as pretty as our bed, but we don't complain at free furniture.
Then. The day came when we sold those bad boys and we used cheap shelving from target. It looked cute. Did the job. But we passed them on when we moved. Again.
Since July, we have had no side tables. Cardboard boxes, but no tables. HUGE boxes. But cardboard is cardboard people. It's dusty in a way that cannot be cleaned. It's dented down the center and it caves in creating a hole from which I cannot retrieve my most favorite possessions. Chapstick. Pens. My arm. Cardboard doesn't discriminate.
The day came when The Man said we could buy some. "Be wise with our funds woman!" He said. Well. He didn't. But I wish he spoke with me like this.
We shopped. We price checked. We made a face like we were smelling a glass of milk that came from a cow who got into the onion pasture. (Thanks Napoleon). And then we left. Because guess what. Side tables are dumb expensive. It's a level of silliness I want no part of. Except that I really want side tables.
Many stores and thrift store diving passed and no good.
The cheapest we found was $50 for used and $79 for new. And we didn't remotely like those.
Then we went to ikea and my room is amazing. For reals. So pretty. And organized and helpful and efficient and grown up. No longer am I a bachelor drowning in cardboard. I'm an adult! With adult furniture. Amen.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Dear Reader
Today my husband recapped a conversation he had with himself recently. (I can't explain this). He figured out we spend about 1/3 of our day sleeping, 1/3 of our time working at a paid job, and much of the last 1/3 of our time on caring for our children, our crap, and responsibilities we don't even really care about. This leaves about 20 minutes a day for something meaningful. Really? How about some extra sleep, because that makes me a little tired to even think about.
Here is what I have been spending my 1/3+1/3+(1/3-20 minutes) on:
The private school at which I work has foreign exchange students who want to learn English, so they can stay here for a decade and attend university. For some, it happens at a slower pace. So, three days a week, I tutor after school.
My eldest kid transferred from said private school to an amazingly intense program at a local high school. It's an International Baccalaureate program which translates to really smart, really hard, and two years of college credits when she graduates. Win win. I drive her some days. Pick her up others.
My husband has been picking up every shift he possibly can. We have debt that is weighing us down. Suffocating actually. We are done with it. We are taking the long road and paying off debt before we get into a new house. We are saving a deposit and funneling money into our savings account. Unfortunately it's a very small funnel with more of a leak than a flow. Baby steps. This translates to full time parent. Of course The man is still around to pick me up with sweet conversation via the telephone.
In the next three months, over half of us have birthdays. And our anniversary. And Easter. And spring break. It's usually a bit hectic, but this year is a little different because I work full time. Oh. And by different I meant worse. We are throwing them a surprise Harry Potter themed birthday dinner where the entrance to our party is through a brick wall that reads Platform 9 3/4.
My book. It's not taking as much of my time as I want it to, but still. Time.
I don't know about you, but I would really like to have 1/3 of my day back. This is crazy.
Here is what I have been spending my 1/3+1/3+(1/3-20 minutes) on:
The private school at which I work has foreign exchange students who want to learn English, so they can stay here for a decade and attend university. For some, it happens at a slower pace. So, three days a week, I tutor after school.
My eldest kid transferred from said private school to an amazingly intense program at a local high school. It's an International Baccalaureate program which translates to really smart, really hard, and two years of college credits when she graduates. Win win. I drive her some days. Pick her up others.
My husband has been picking up every shift he possibly can. We have debt that is weighing us down. Suffocating actually. We are done with it. We are taking the long road and paying off debt before we get into a new house. We are saving a deposit and funneling money into our savings account. Unfortunately it's a very small funnel with more of a leak than a flow. Baby steps. This translates to full time parent. Of course The man is still around to pick me up with sweet conversation via the telephone.
In the next three months, over half of us have birthdays. And our anniversary. And Easter. And spring break. It's usually a bit hectic, but this year is a little different because I work full time. Oh. And by different I meant worse. We are throwing them a surprise Harry Potter themed birthday dinner where the entrance to our party is through a brick wall that reads Platform 9 3/4.
My book. It's not taking as much of my time as I want it to, but still. Time.
I don't know about you, but I would really like to have 1/3 of my day back. This is crazy.
Wednesday, February 06, 2013
The book I am Reading
Sometimes I read a book, and I underline and take notes and it is exciting. Other times, I purchase a book and have it sit on the box I call bedside table. Trying it on. I don't read it. When you read it, you have to do it. If you sing it, you have to live it.
I knew I needed time to adjust and prepare for this book. It's called Anything. It's written by Jennie Allen. I think I still like her. I can't say for sure yet, because I am only about 2o pages in. If she keeps making me sigh heavily with conviction, the tides could turn. I may pull out my angry (with myself) eyebrows and blame her for her honesty. I'll call it judging, but she doesn't know me. She is just delivering the goods. It's my armpits that are all sweaty with frustration.
Here's a quote:
"I did wonder sometimes, when I closed my eyes and let it get scary quiet, if I was missing the best things, the things that mattered most, because I was afraid. "
She means she was saying no thanks to the gifts God gave her because they hurt or were scary or seemed too sad. Most have the desire to love others, share a cup of coffee, and maybe even help someone move. Hospitality. That's a light hearted spiritual gift.
Mine is words. I speak. I write. I dream, and God asks me to say something about it. The problem is what He wants me to say is usually a little intrusive. It's cut. its dry. I have to work to make it encouraging. It's uncomfortable. And not just for them.
I have caught myself thinking the words "take it away, Lord". I wanted a new gift. How about hospitality. I could make scones (no. Actually I can't). I could beautifully display some cookies (also a lie). I could enjoy having women over for breakfast (it's as if I have never met myself and watched with my own eyes as I said help yourself and watched my guests get their own cereal).
The fact is, this is my gift. God gave it. And he can take it away, but he would rather help my heart to handle it so he can be honored. In my life. And theirs. Whoever "they" are at that moment. By saying no thanks, I am Jonah. That guy, who every time I read his story, I think he is a doofus. Because he was.
I don't want to be Jonah or any other "got it wrong" from the Bible. I'm a work in progress.
But I am swimming to Ninevah if I have to. Who's goin with me?
Jesus told the little girl, who everyone thought was dead, to get up. I wrote it on my arm. I am going to keep writing it on my arm, because I think it's what I am supposed to be doing. Getting up. Go. No more staying. I am done staying.
I knew I needed time to adjust and prepare for this book. It's called Anything. It's written by Jennie Allen. I think I still like her. I can't say for sure yet, because I am only about 2o pages in. If she keeps making me sigh heavily with conviction, the tides could turn. I may pull out my angry (with myself) eyebrows and blame her for her honesty. I'll call it judging, but she doesn't know me. She is just delivering the goods. It's my armpits that are all sweaty with frustration.
Here's a quote:
"I did wonder sometimes, when I closed my eyes and let it get scary quiet, if I was missing the best things, the things that mattered most, because I was afraid. "
She means she was saying no thanks to the gifts God gave her because they hurt or were scary or seemed too sad. Most have the desire to love others, share a cup of coffee, and maybe even help someone move. Hospitality. That's a light hearted spiritual gift.
Mine is words. I speak. I write. I dream, and God asks me to say something about it. The problem is what He wants me to say is usually a little intrusive. It's cut. its dry. I have to work to make it encouraging. It's uncomfortable. And not just for them.
I have caught myself thinking the words "take it away, Lord". I wanted a new gift. How about hospitality. I could make scones (no. Actually I can't). I could beautifully display some cookies (also a lie). I could enjoy having women over for breakfast (it's as if I have never met myself and watched with my own eyes as I said help yourself and watched my guests get their own cereal).
The fact is, this is my gift. God gave it. And he can take it away, but he would rather help my heart to handle it so he can be honored. In my life. And theirs. Whoever "they" are at that moment. By saying no thanks, I am Jonah. That guy, who every time I read his story, I think he is a doofus. Because he was.
I don't want to be Jonah or any other "got it wrong" from the Bible. I'm a work in progress.
But I am swimming to Ninevah if I have to. Who's goin with me?
Jesus told the little girl, who everyone thought was dead, to get up. I wrote it on my arm. I am going to keep writing it on my arm, because I think it's what I am supposed to be doing. Getting up. Go. No more staying. I am done staying.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Smell That?
That my friend is the winds of change. Thankfully, things around here aren't changing as much as they have over the past couple of years. Seriously, if I have to move again, I may combust. Why isn't combust a word? Weird. Anyway, you get my point. I want to settle. So many people are against settling, but honestly, sometimes it's the best thing a girl can do for her family.
Let's settle people. Let's be average. Let's not move every two years. Can we try that? We aren't military. We aren't missionaries. We aren't any M word that requires frequent moves. I just want to be. There's nothing that comes after that statement. I just want to be and that is all.
So, we are staying in our house for at least another year, unless God sends us some sort of miraculous home and the money with which to purchase it.
No, the change I am talking about is much less stressful. First, my mid-kid cut all her hairs off. For reals. All of it. She wants to be the girl from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. You remember? The girl Mr. Rooney mistakes for Ferris at the pizza parlor. He says something crude behind her back like, "the gig is up. Your a&& is mine." To which she calmly replies by spitting a straw full of pop into his face. CLASSIC. Anyway, that's who she used as her point of reference.
I don't make the rules.
I can't say for certain. But really, I think she wants to be part of something that scares her a little while asking her to become a better version of herself. Last year, she called herself shy. Lies. This year she knows she is brave and funny and cool. My only real prayer is that she stays true to her faith and grows closer to God. And doesn't find any interesting boys.
Let's settle people. Let's be average. Let's not move every two years. Can we try that? We aren't military. We aren't missionaries. We aren't any M word that requires frequent moves. I just want to be. There's nothing that comes after that statement. I just want to be and that is all.
So, we are staying in our house for at least another year, unless God sends us some sort of miraculous home and the money with which to purchase it.
No, the change I am talking about is much less stressful. First, my mid-kid cut all her hairs off. For reals. All of it. She wants to be the girl from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. You remember? The girl Mr. Rooney mistakes for Ferris at the pizza parlor. He says something crude behind her back like, "the gig is up. Your a&& is mine." To which she calmly replies by spitting a straw full of pop into his face. CLASSIC. Anyway, that's who she used as her point of reference.
Also, on the list of change is Izzy's school. She has been a proud student of Excel Christian School for the last semester of school. She has loved it and done so well. But when the opportunity to attend the IB program at Wooster High School, she couldn't pass it up. Perhaps she is looking for more art in her high school experiences
Maybe she wants more opportunities for performing arts
and maybe she is just needing a few tips on how to get through her high school years
Tuesday, January 08, 2013
Dearest Husband, You are a Great Father
Men believe lies as often as women. Did you know that? For some reason I am always thrown when my husband, or any man, talk about a fear or insecurity. Among
a man’s topmost insecurities is his belief that he is not a good enough father.
I hate hearing this. I have heard men say it. I have heard my own husband say
it.
Sometimes we are able to look at a lie from the enemy and know right away
how fake it is. There is no purchase to the words because they are simply absurd,
and we know it. Other times, the enemy picks the most subtle things and
attaches them to the end of a pin. It’s small at first, so we don’t totally
notice, but after a while, the pin pricks turn into a deep, festering wound
leaving us too injured to think clearly. I believe most insecurities follow
this pattern, and the only way to see through the lies, get past the nonsense,
and gain perspective is to face them head on. Sometimes it takes an outsider.
So here you go men. Here is what we love about you as a father. Here is why you
are a good father. Here is why we are proud to have our boys (and girls) follow
in your footsteps:
- You make pancakes, just because.
- You snuggle your teenagers, even when they pretend it’s weird.
- You are willing to do housework and be a taxicab "dad" (says your daughter)
- You notice your daughter and tell her she is pretty.
- You pray for our family.
- You have never shied away from changing a diaper. Well, maybe once.
- You teach your boy to do proper pushups.
- You take the time to tell them invaluable knowledge such as “righty tighty, lefty loosy.”
- You are terrified of your girls dating.
- You help me calm down when I am terrified of your girls dating.
- You are willing to take every girl in the Troop 127 out on the lake, no matter how full the boat feels.
- You will work outside in the freezing cold putting up Christmas lights, taking down Christmas lights, pulling weeds, digging holes, changing the oil, and fixing whatever we break.
- You are always willing to play air guitar and sing a, 80’s big hair rock band lick.
- You teach your kids to vacuum so the lines look nice.
- Your pride shows when you introduce your children…and your wife.
- You have nicknames for each of your kids that no one else gets to use.
- You take one of them with you when you run an errand.
- You insist they call you daddy, no matter how old they get, and you ignore them as if they never spoke if they try to call you anything else.
- You say, “Go for it,” even when some of their ideas seem out there.
- You know everything about everything, and you pass it on.
- You point out the mechanics of things to your boys, and ask them questions so they have to figure out their own answers.
- You will work three jobs, so I can stay home with our babies.
- You notice wild animals, even the really camouflaged ones, teaching them to take a minute and enjoy the world around them.
- You take your girls on dates.
- You whisper advice to your boys when they take me on dates.
- You teach them to leave a place cleaner than they left it, especially in nature.
- You hold the door for us, always, without fail, and tell your boys to do the same.
- You are here when you could have left.
- You say, “I love you,” and you mean it.
Sunday, January 06, 2013
Reviews A'la Me
Book: I am reading Wuthering Heights. I like it. It's the unabridged, originally intended version. Emily Bronte(dot dot) wrote the book. Publishers mocked her to her face. Told her to stick to poetry because it is womanly. She only listened a little. Her sister listened less. Sing it sister suffragette. She re-published her sister's originally intended work after Emily died, and guess what. It takes all my brain power to read it. She is brilliant. Her characters are diverse and feisty and beautiful. I have to look up words. But I am going to finish it. There are creepy factors to it. I wasn't expecting that. There is romance. I knew that would happen. So far, I give it 3.5 out of 5 cups of coffee. I don't blame the book. I blame my inability to speak like the English of the 1800s.
Television: I am watching the show Parenthood. I haven't missed one. I love it so much. It's my family: dysfunction, nosy family members, drama, hilarity, sarcasm, mockery- all in the name of love. It's about four grown siblings and their families. Right now, one of the sad story lines revolves around Christina- one of the mammas. She has cancer and she is going through chemo. She is the mother of three and usually pretty neurotic. Tonight, she decided to go out with her sis-in-laws to forget about her problems, but, three drinks in, her hair started falling out. The next shot was her shaving her head. It hurt my heart so much. It was just shocking and so real and so where my life could be right now. I just can't help thinking how differently my tests could have been. How differently my family could be functioning. Our prayers could be for healing and not praises of health. If you like to laugh and cry in the same show, Parenthood is your show. I give it 4.5 out of 5 cups of coffee.
Movie: I finally saw Les Mis. I loved it a lot. There were a couple minutes when I felt too awkward watching the leading men sing into each others' faces. I am just going to be blunt. Their next move should have been a kiss it was so intense. There is a tiny chance I pictured them as cowboys with a broken back on a mountain somewheres. The women stole the show. That is for realz. They were raw and gut wrenching. Equal to their performances were Cohen and Carter. Brilliant. Some people cried. Not me. According to my husband there are two types of people in this world. Those who choose a warm heart and cold feet, and those who choose for their toes to be toasty therefore leaving their heart as cold as a dead stone. My feet are always hot. What do you want from me people? Watch the movie. I give it 4.0 out of 5 cups of coffee.
Music: I can't get enough of Bryan and Katie Torwalt. I don't completely love every one of their songs, but of the five I have purchased, I can't get enough. Their writing is splendid and legit. Their harmony is stellar. Their folky style makes my heart happy. If you need to jazz up your worship play list, check them out. I give them 4.5 out of 5 cups of coffee.
Television: I am watching the show Parenthood. I haven't missed one. I love it so much. It's my family: dysfunction, nosy family members, drama, hilarity, sarcasm, mockery- all in the name of love. It's about four grown siblings and their families. Right now, one of the sad story lines revolves around Christina- one of the mammas. She has cancer and she is going through chemo. She is the mother of three and usually pretty neurotic. Tonight, she decided to go out with her sis-in-laws to forget about her problems, but, three drinks in, her hair started falling out. The next shot was her shaving her head. It hurt my heart so much. It was just shocking and so real and so where my life could be right now. I just can't help thinking how differently my tests could have been. How differently my family could be functioning. Our prayers could be for healing and not praises of health. If you like to laugh and cry in the same show, Parenthood is your show. I give it 4.5 out of 5 cups of coffee.
Movie: I finally saw Les Mis. I loved it a lot. There were a couple minutes when I felt too awkward watching the leading men sing into each others' faces. I am just going to be blunt. Their next move should have been a kiss it was so intense. There is a tiny chance I pictured them as cowboys with a broken back on a mountain somewheres. The women stole the show. That is for realz. They were raw and gut wrenching. Equal to their performances were Cohen and Carter. Brilliant. Some people cried. Not me. According to my husband there are two types of people in this world. Those who choose a warm heart and cold feet, and those who choose for their toes to be toasty therefore leaving their heart as cold as a dead stone. My feet are always hot. What do you want from me people? Watch the movie. I give it 4.0 out of 5 cups of coffee.
Music: I can't get enough of Bryan and Katie Torwalt. I don't completely love every one of their songs, but of the five I have purchased, I can't get enough. Their writing is splendid and legit. Their harmony is stellar. Their folky style makes my heart happy. If you need to jazz up your worship play list, check them out. I give them 4.5 out of 5 cups of coffee.
Thursday, January 03, 2013
I wanna…
My throat hurts. Everyone around here has had colds. The entire break, people have been coughing on me and forgetting to wash hands. We have gone through several tissue boxes and bottles of hand soap. We have emptied vitamin bottles and orange juice jugs.
And now my throat hurts.
I wanna hole up for two days straight and do nothing but avoid sickness.
I wanna watch endless episodes of Friday Night Lights, my Christmas present.
I wanna hire someone to take down my Christmas lights and snap my fingers like Mary Poppins and simply smile as all of my decorations dance their way into the storage bin.
I wanna go to the massage lady, and then drive over to the chiropractor man.
And then I wanna get back in my bed to eat soup someone else made. With chicken and veggies and hot broth.
Then I wanna dream of an island that let's me sleep on its beach, where the sun is never in my eyes.
Anyone? Could you use a break to recover from your break before going back to work? Yawn.
And now my throat hurts.
I wanna hole up for two days straight and do nothing but avoid sickness.
I wanna watch endless episodes of Friday Night Lights, my Christmas present.
I wanna hire someone to take down my Christmas lights and snap my fingers like Mary Poppins and simply smile as all of my decorations dance their way into the storage bin.
I wanna go to the massage lady, and then drive over to the chiropractor man.
And then I wanna get back in my bed to eat soup someone else made. With chicken and veggies and hot broth.
Then I wanna dream of an island that let's me sleep on its beach, where the sun is never in my eyes.
Anyone? Could you use a break to recover from your break before going back to work? Yawn.
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