Bipolar News Reporters and Choking on That pepper

There's a side to me I haven't shared with a lot of people. Even my husband will give me a sideways look when I, seemingly out of nowhere, weigh in on something contravertial in the news.

I've always wanted to be a lawyer. An advocate for the persecuted.

But it hurts too much.

 I can't even watch the news. This is the side most people know. I hate the news actually. It jumps from weirdly upbeat to overly depressing in a strange minute by minute pattern for thirty minutes right before I go to sleep.

I don't want to lay my head down on my pillow right after I learn that some teacher in town got his student pregnant and in other news it's almost time for the rubber ducky race down the Truckee. And if the news anchors changed their expressions and tone in everyday conversation like they do on the nightly news? Well. We would call them bipolar.

Anyway. I read. I read news. I follow newsworthy stories on well written blogs and websites. I read the news paper when I can get my hands on it. I also listen to news on the radio. 

In fact, I get so engrossed on my way to work listening to some of these stories that I forget I am eating a spicy pepper and I suck the pepper, and its satanic seeds, down my windpipe.

Then I cough and gag and pull my car over on the side of the busiest street in the city until the burning sensation passes, my eyes are bloodshot, and I literally have a scorch mark in my throat. Yah. It doesn't come any more politically aware than this cool cucumber.

 Don't worry. I had my phone in my hand and the numbers 9-1-1 at the ready once I realized my throat was rejecting the seeds by closing. I've got this covered, and I am winning at life. 

I was relaying this experience with my eldest child. She's sixteen and wise and speaks without thinking.

She asked why I get so involved in these cases anyway. I didn't have a quick answer, but after a few minutes I thought "because I have a voice. Not everyone does, but they could, and I could help." 

What I did tell her was that when I was a kid, I often thought I would become a lawyer. I also told her that I have prayed twice in the last two weeks about being a lawyer. Not just any sort of lawyer. The kind that works on cases that impact our country and our rights. The ones that remind certain presidents that his pen and his phone were given to him by voters and he has been allowed to keep them because of God. And God doesn't like ugly.

Cases where a soldier/student was threatened with a court Marshall if he refused to take down a scripture off his personal white board outside his dorm room when several other students quoted scriptures and passages from the Korahn and the Torah and old guys from Italy. 

Or cases where a pastor has been arrested in Iran for being a pastor. Not an Iranian pastor. He's American. And he was arrested, and he has been sick and hurt and put in Iranian prison, but no one here seems to know or care and our government has a mumbled answer to every direct question regarding him. 

And my newest favorite case. The one where certain presidents feel it's worthwhile to "share" control of the Internet with other countries. Other countries who are not nearly as interested in our first amendment.

Other countries who already severely limit what gets through to citizens on their version of the Internet. Other countries who think communism is still a worthwhile venture. Thanks Obama, but I'm siding with Bill Clinton on this one. I'm ok if we don't hand over our security and freedom of speech over to China, who incidentally has a frighteningly skewed view of every war they have been involved in posted on their internet.

 Me thinks Vladamir Putin and his overly welcoming reception at the Olympics might have different ideas than Americans when it comes to censorship. 

And hey, Hobby Lobby, stay strong little roots. I don't think even Obama stands a chance against the pope. Well. Maybe this new guy. He's a bit of a wild card. 

My point is that I care about the people bullied by strong arms and deep pockets. I could do some real damage. For Jesus of course. I've always had a problem keeping my mouth shut when a little guy is picked on. Maybe this is just a case of being protective. Maybe that law school I looked into is just a neat idea. Maybe I am just supposed to sign petitions and use the internet to stay updated on what's really going on. 

Maybe. 

Well. Certainly I am supposed to stop eating peppers, but we will see about the rest of it. 

Just For You Mom: Suffering

Grief. That nasty five letter word. We all feel it at some point, and none of us really knows how to do it. People act crazy at weddings because they are losing something (someone). They act crazier at funerals. It's true. I once went to a funeral where a woman in a bathing suit cover-up announced from the stage that she knew her father would be smiling down at her with every rainbow. My seven year old pointed out that rainbows in fact are more like a frown. He's totally accurate, really. 

At the same funeral, a man was asked to give a quick eulogy of his friend. He brought his guitar and said he could only think to sing a song. He sang three and then told us where we could buy his CD. It was amazing. I hope he sold out every copy.

He grieves his way, and I grieve my way. This article is a short glimpse into a very real time of grief for my family and me. When I began the article, I thought my grief was handled. I had to stop several times to pray and thank God for being so close.

The funny thing about grief is that it takes a while, and just when you think you are done, someone says something or you hear a song or you are reminded of what you have lost.

For me, it's every time I go to the doctors. They ask me benign questions like my age and if I am allergic to anything. But there is a spot on the paperwork that gets me a little choked up. They ask how many pregnancies I have had and how many live births. For me, like so many women, these numbers do not line up. Not even close actually. But I am learning about suffering and grief and God's ability and desire to supersede all of it.

SUFFERING

Linking Up: JOY

The rules are simple. You type for five minutes straight and five minutes only. No backspacing or over thinking. Then, link up, read who came before and after you. It's nice. Like paying it forward: it being a candy bar. Please give me a candy bar.

Ready.
Steady.
Go.

Today's topic? Joy.

Fear may knock at my door all night long, but I know what is promised me in the morning. You guessed it. JOY. Sometimes I sit at my desk and type, and other times I stew about what to write. It all seems heavy in the moment, but since I am such a fan of nonsense anyway, it all seems to work out in the end. Like now, rambling. and door bells are ringing and texts are dinging, but I am ignoring all of it. I am typing to you people, and it's the writing, I have decided, that brings me joy. Do you know why? Because this gift of words is a treasure I never want to lose. Writing makes my heart whole and makes me feel as if I have a voice that will carry. Even if I were using a pair of paper cups and a very long string, if I can convey it through writing, my point seems to get made more clearly. So, I've been thinking. Maybe I should be a writer when I grow up. At least part-time. And it's working. Yesterday, I edited 6 chapters. Yep. Six. Then I drank a cup of coffee and started writing a new article for a mom's website for which I write. And I wanted to end that sentence in a preposition. Because I have a rebellious streak. I should have said, "...for a mom's website I write for, LADY." There. That's not a preposition.

STOP.

Visit Lisa Jo and add your own five minutes of joy.

Eating Habits

Today I may come across as cross-eyed and frazzled even though my hair is quite small and in an untidy braid. I ate too many almonds. But they were so delicious I overlooked the serving size and kept eating. I have regrets.

Then, I didn't pack a large enough lunch. I am volunteering at my youngests' school. This is an eating environment. All I want to do is eat. So, I did. I was like the Very Hungry Caterpillar on a mission. I ate through several almonds, two cups of coffee, two cutie oranges, one string cheese, one banana, one granola bar (wheat free oats), and one bottle of water. I wanted to eat my way through the doughnut sitting here, but it isn't mine. And I am allergic. And we broke up. Doughnuts and me? We broke up. We had a conflict of interests called my waistline. I want it smaller and fried pastries want to take it in a different direction.

Also, I obviously eat when I am inactive, bored, have nothing else to do with my hands, am concentrating, distracted, busy, sad, happy, tall, short, feeling pudgy, tired, slow, under an awning, at a booth, on my way places, and instead of fasting.

Also, almonds. How dare you.

The writer admits the picture has nothing to do with this place, but she knew you'd want to see it.

It's happened. The day has come when I realize this day isn't unusual. This is the new normal. Two kids are taller than me. Three have bigger feet than me; two have bigger feet than my husband. We are busy and driving and in my car all the time. I make noises when I sit. I make noises when I stand back up. I don't get all the pop culture references. I wear light layers because in the morning when I leave it's 35. By afternoon I'm down to my tank top and skinnies. And then the sun starts to set while we wait for one kid to finish swim and I have to get dressed again. My kids have cracked my once over their heads code and one even hollars "that's what she said" when little ears are out of shot. It's happened. My kids became teenagers. I am peering over the plateau that is midlife, and it scares me a little. I have nearly equal amounts of dark and grey hairs. I have become resolved to things I may never accomplish, but I recognize the urgency of the now when it comes to others. I've decided to take my husband to a bar for our anniversary. I cried in a movie and during a commercial. It's happened. I crossed over. I care about things. 

What do I do now? Anyone with a heart? Advice welcomed. 

Birthday Central

Round here, we do things in bulk. It's part of having a large family. Large boxes of cereal. Copious amounts of bananas. Grandios jugs oh peanut butter. Bread by the pallet. Ok, maybe not. But we do thinks in bulk. Including birthdays. This year, to celebrate The Man, Elijah, Layla Grace, and my brother George we opted to get retro and visit the ice cream shoppe. Think Taylor Doozy from Gilmore Girls and his snazzy throw back parlor. 

We put out every topping possible, got glass pop bottles of old timey soda pop, and framed old pictures of the birthday players and set them around some white twinkle lights. 

I found chalkboard labels and milk jugs complete with little cows on them from Michaels. Butterfingers crushed, pop rocks, pretzel bits, marshmallows, chocolate waffle cookies, tobasco chocolate, whoppers, cereal, brownies, cookie dough. You name it. We stuck it in  some ice cream. No fuss. No fuss. No crazy and overwhelming party. For entertainment, I put out some old scrapbooks for us to peruse. Best. We were all giggly and mellow. Did you know you can have a 12 and 13 year old's birthday with 18 people in a small house and have mellow?

Try it people. 

Just don't leave your phone sitting around. 

Seeing Things

Now I know things look a little different here, but those aren't the things I am seeing. I'm not talking about wallpaper and font or type size and quippy titles. I am talking about numbers. Here is a list of numbers that look just a little differently now that it is February. 

13 that's the age of my oldest son. 

2- he's the second kid out of several. 

11.5- his shoe size

5'8"- his height

1- the number of girls he has a crush on 

1- the number of girls he gave a handmade card and a candy bar to this week because she had a birthday. 

4- his age when he began introducing himself as "a pastor here" at our church. 

19- the age he wants to be when he gets married. 

6- his football number when he was just a tiny little sprout

1- the number of girls he has asked to a school dance. 

0- the number of rejections he has received when inviting a girl to a school dance. 

4- the number of inches he has to grow to be as tall as his dad. 

2- his average intake of cheeseburgers. 

2- the number of times he has shaved. 

8- the number of times he has watched Tommy Boy. 

1 gazillion- the number of times he has quoted Tommy Boy. 

Countless- the number of times he has made my heart leap- good and bad. 

I love you my Elijah Daniel. 

Downton Abbey

You know those shows where everyone keeps telling you, "it's so great; you HAVE to watch it," or, "You are going to love it. Watch it,"? Well. Usually, I don't like it at all. I'm not being a rebel. It's just that usually the how doesn't live up to the hype. I didn't build the hype. I'm not the Great White Hype, which leads me to a favorite quote:

"My father used to say 'laugh and the world laughs with you; cry, and I'll give you something to cry about you little bastard!'"

I wish I was that good of a writer. Anyhow. To the point of this post. Downton Abbey. Mr. Bates. Lady Granthum. Lady Mary. Matthew Crawley. Lady Sybil. I love them all. Someone said "you HAVE to watch this show" so I did. And it worked. I love them. I'm beside myself with the waiting. I haven't a clue when the next show is on and when season four will be available on DVD. But I want to go back and re watch them until it does. 

Why? Because it makes the new British accent in my head justifiable.

 If you've a hankering for a not so simpler time and a great look into the rich life of the early 20th century, check out Downton Abbey. Mention my name and receive nothing whatsoever. Not even a wink or an atta girl or a jolly good show young chap. But you might decide you are suddenly happy you aren't rich and yet still want old lady Granthum as your Gram. She's brilliant. 

It All Changes So Fast

What a whirlwind two weeks. Three weeks ago I felt the tug to put my kids in school. All of them. I prayed and pondered for about a minute before I knew it was right. Of course it was the middle of the night. Just see my last post if you need clarification.  

I got on my phone and Googled my options. Slim, I tell ya. I asked around. I stopped a woman in the grocery store whose child appeared to be wearing uniforms. (I wasn't searching for a uniform promoting school. I am anti-uniforms for what I feel are very good reasons, but that post is still in draft mode. Be patient). Anyway. Her girls go to a magnet school in their neighborhood. Nowhere near me. I called two charter schools. Full. One offered to give us a tour and put us on the waiting list. There are four people on the list and their names are all my children. We missed it by four kids. 

We discussed. Argued some. Prayed. Welled up over the implications of sending my babies to school. Had a couple conversations with some truth speaking, wise parents/besties. 

Then we got a call last Tuesday saying kid number four could start ASAP. I left work and purchased her uniforms. Bah. 

We waited three more days and signed my number two and three up for their local zoned middle school. I cried. Threw an inter-tantrum. And rallied in my mind before handi

ng over their file and registration. 

Now? Now I homeschool kid five and work and drive 17 places a day. Why didn't someone tell me there was so much driving? Why didn't someone say how time consuming it is to send your kids to school. I promise you homeschooling takes less time and coordination, but so much good is coming from the kids in school. 

My favorite so far is my time with Sam. That kid is more than hilarious. I don't even know what word comes after hilarious, but that is Sam. 

As we were driving downtown Addie was reading a casino sign. "We've loosened our slots". Sam laughed hysterically and yelled "DISGUSTING"

Now that's funny stuff. 

Meanwhile. I would like to tip my hat to large families in school. That takes an amazing mamma. I'm working on it. 

I have five kids in four different schools. So I started drinking. HA. Ok. I simply added a cup of joe to my daily grind. 

I am also hoping to add a chiropractor, massages, and the gym. And yes. I am still considering a house keeper. More than ever actually. Try and stop me Napoleon. 

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em

This is true of so many things. People eating chocolate when you woke up thinking diet, for instance. Also, four o'clock. This morning, like at least 3 out of 5 week day mornings, I awoke between 2 and 4. Actually. I might be lying. I popped my right eye open, and then I read my clock. 4:01. That's a stupid time.
It happens SO much now that I've developed a few strategies. When my husband is gone, I catch up on emails, blogs, postings, Instagrams, iPhone games. It's all nonsense, so why WOULDN'T I look into it in the middle of the night? When he is home, I just lie there in what feels like a beside myself manner. I go over my day to come and what's for dinner and who I should call and how I could rearrange my closet. The most bizarre things occur to me during this time.

"I used the last of the milk in the potatoes. No milk for breakfast."
"I told a friend I could watch her baby, but I just remembered I am supposed to take my own child somewhere."
"Shoot. That email I sent was missing the attachment."
"I sneeze. Every time I use the downstairs soap I sneeze for at least five minutes. I am allergic to lavender. Why did I buy lavender soap? Why do I keep using it?"

Helpful, but untimely. I have ranged from teary at the sight of these awful hours on my alarm clock to morose. From just-give-in-to-it to maybe-I-could-be-productive. It really just depends on the morning. This morning, I gave in.

4:01 eyes popped wide open. I chose to lie in bed until 4:36. Not a minute sooner. I came downstairs, chose water over coffee (obviously my mental state is questionable), and opened my computer to iTunes and THE BOOK. I edited a chapter. I stumbled upon some pictures from 2004 and 2006. I laughed out loud once before I realized it was the ungodly time. And then I ate breakfast.

It was one of the most productive days I've ever had. OK!? THERE. I said it. But now it's 8:30 pee em. I can't keep my eyes open. I want coffee. And the only reason I want to stay awake is to watch television. To be specific, New Girl. Which is recording. Because I didn't actually cancel my cable yet. I was too tired.

I'm not sure how long I can keep this up.

Yours,
The Girl With the Shifty Eyes and Drool on One Side

Thoughts at Odds

You know what matters? My memories. 

Do you know what doesn't? Money. 

Don't worry; this won't be one of those money hating posts. I love the stuff. I grab some any chance I get, but there has to be a minute that we stop and consider the pros and cons of the life we are creating for ourselves (not to be confused with what God has for us). 

There are some things at odds in my head. I used to know how each theoretical gift weighed out on my mental scale, but I've found the balance tipping a bit, and I don't understand my own thoughts anymore. What I mean is, I think my mind is changing of its own accord. 

I would rather spend ten minutes snuggling and catching up on my daughter's day than have a break in my day. 

Laughter over money. 

Freedom and light shoulders over one more shopping spree. 

Five minutes listening to Samuel tell a joke rather than catching up on my Instagram. 

And these steps lead to further steps which lead to. You guessed it. More steps. Pretty soon I've stepped so far from that silly wasted life that I can't remember what held me there in the first place. 

I want to be the kind of wife and mother who can truly say she has no regrets. Of course I plan to make mistakes, and I'm not willing to give up arguing with my husband because the making up is just too worth it. But I won't regret them. I want to lean and grow and perceive and change and grasp meaning. I want to replace the wasted time away and pour deeper in to the relationships I have. I'm so abundantly blessed with a loyal, loving, and kind man. My kids? Forgettuh boutit. We are five matches made in heaven. Literally. My parents? Friends? Pastors? All precious gifts. 

This month, when love is in the air and chocolate is hiding in my pocket, I aim to be intentional about people knowing just what they mean to me. And I want to show them in a way that matters to them. I plan to take the time to find out what tht means and then follow up with an action. 

Words, Time, Acts of Service, Gifts, Touch. These five major ways of communicating are my focus this month. 

How can you show you love someone? 

I Can't Squeeze it All In

Not enough minutes, hours, days to accomplish everything. I am behind in life and falling a few steps further each day. Ever feel this way? Yes? Good. Can you tell me how to fix it?

My priorities are out of whack. My routines have all but disappeared. My calm and smooth demeanor has been replaced with frazzle. And since my hair is already frizzy, this combo could be deadly. 

There's a crazy scripture that just about says that if something is causing you to sin cut it off. This isn't figurative language in this passage. It's speaking of ones hand. Literally. Luckily for me my hands are innocent enough. Nope. For me it's the call of television. And I think it's time to cut it off. 

I read another great quote recently that mostly says we always think something is going to be a really big deal until we do it or change it (or cut it off). But once we do it, we are left wondering what the big deal was. Why didn't we do this sooner. 

So, we are going to become those people. We are going on television hiatus. I don't know how long, and we aren't foregoing movies. That would be like ripping the veins out of my right arm. But we are cutting our cable and saving ourselves about $70/month. 

Just typing that makes me cringe. I could be putting $70/month more toward my car payment. That means I could pay my car off three months early. It means I could put that money in my fat ceramic pig and have enough money to take my kids to Disneyland next Christmas if I felt like it. It means I could pay for my going to be driving soon teen's insurance. It means I could give 14 homeless people $5, enough for a meal, every month. It means I could pay for all three of my big kids to go to church camp. 

If I were approached by a dapper stranger with two briefcases, one with money for cable and the other with any of these other options, I would never choose cable. I've been duped for two years. Five years. Dare I say 15 years we have paid for cable? And for what? Shows that keep me from playing card games with my kids. A time killer that keeps me from writing or working or taking a walk in the sunshine. A glowing rectangle that draws us in like moths to an ominous blue buzzing lantern? Yah well. I'm out. 

I'm choosing the other briefcase. 

It's Only 9:49: a ramble

Does it matter that it's only 9:49 and already I have had to deal with a disgruntled parent, a tantrum throwing seven year old, a dog wearing a sweater, a bag of ice melted on my counter, more repeating than I should ever have to do, more repeating than I ever want to do, and more repeating?

Should I call it a day? Should I throw in the towel? Should I call it belly up? Should I look into new cliches?

Sometimes I feel like someone or something has laid eggs in my brain and is trying to control me. But I'm taking a stand. I'm going to choose a happy attitude even if I have to force slow talking v hyper reactions and plaster a fake smile on my face v a snarl.

I might also choose a nap. First I have to educate young minds. It's literature test day. Real literature, real essays, and real thinking. DEEP. I'm not talking Proust or anything, but I want real thoughts.

Speaking of Proust, does anyone ever know if that guy actually FOUND the lost time? I'd like mine back. You know what I mean? The repeating and the repeating. And repeating.

Makes me think of a joke.

Pete and repeat got in a boat. Pete fell out. Who is left?


Don't make me do this.

"Love is a reciprocal torture" ~Marcel Proust

Let's have it.

Love is a reciprocal torture.
Marcel Proust
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/m/marcel_proust.html#wOcHtvDWKq1g1Tur.99

Love is a reciprocal torture.
Marcel Proust
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/m/marcel_proust.html#wOcHtvDWKq1g1Tur.99

Love is a reciprocal torture.
Marcel Proust
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/m/marcel_proust.html#wOcHtvDWKq1g1Tur.99

I'm Finding

When your kids start to grow up, I mean really grow up, and they leave and discover and experience new things, people always say things like, "It's going to be great! You need to let go," or "She's going to be moving away soon anyway; this is good practice. She needs to fly."



 #flashbackfriday

In addition to deciding people tend to repeat phrases they have heard others say (no matter how meaningless and unhelpful they are), I also realized loosening my grip isn't the same as letting go.

Letting go means I suddenly button my lips when they ask for advice or even when they don't, and they sorely need some input.  It means they go from fully depending on me to getting nothing from me in return.

Letting go means I have decided my job as parent is finished.

There's no finish.

I know this part to be true because of the many times I call my own mother for advice and vent sessions, and because I know she will redirect me back to truth and away from what my fickle emotions are trying to convince me.

I have also decided parents tend to be extremists. Because on the opposite side of letting go is enabling. Did you know there are naughty 8 letter words? Well, this one comes across as a swear in parenting circles. Letting go means I swoop in and make up for what they have done. I apologize, I talk to bosses, I argue with teachers even when they are right, I clean my kids' rooms because they keep "forgetting", or I take out loans I can't afford because of their debt. 

So, I've come to the conclusion that I won't do it. I won't let go; I will loosen my grip a little at a time until they can stand on their own. Or fly or whatever else cliche there is. Loosening my grip means I allow my kids to reap the benefits as well as the consequences of their choices. Loosening means their boundaries are bigger, but there are still boundaries. Loosening means there will be options I don't agree with, but rather than taking away that option, I will stand by my kid when they unwisely choose it. Then I will work with them through the consequences, so they choose differently next time. Loosening means that, when they argue with their spouse and come home at midnight, I hug them and send them home. Loosening means something different than letting go.

I have three (mostly) teens. One is almost 12, another almost 13, and the big one is almost 16. I sense my time is limited with them, so I intend to be purposeful. And, my little ones, seven and nine, I have already begun loosening with them. I have no idea what I am doing with any them from day to day, but so far they are likeable creatures, so I am going to keep chugging in this direction. After all, 18 Christmases. That's it. From start to finish that's all I get.

#flashbackfriday

Which One Are You?

I often feel as if there are only two types of people in this world: this time it has nothing to do with Neil Diamond. 

This time I am referring to those with whom absence makes the heart grow fonder, and the other sort: out of sight, out of mind. 

Maybe you're one of these people who doesn't know which category you fall in, but I'm certain you are one or the other. And Id wager you're the latter. Like me. 

It's hard for me to try to have a relationship with someone I don't relate to. If you aren't even in the same country it's going to be a beastly time finding common ground. 

My now hubby/then boyfriend (let's call him Mike) and I got to talking in our dating years. I confessed that I am against three qualities in a man. My betrothed may never be a musician, a cop, or travel for business. I had my reasons, and I stand by them today. 

Musicians make fun flings. In my experiences (and I've had nearly four decades of experiencing musicians) musicians struggle with the reality of what waits for them at home when they are famous or fake famous or not famous at all. I can make my own music. I'm sure there are plenty of healthy musician/groupy wife combos, but I'm just not interested. Get your harmonica and get outta here.

Police have the number one divorce rate and many suffer from anger issues. Move your funny baton down the road. I like your boots, man, but no thanks. 

And world travelers? This goes back to musician mentality with an added dose of  if I got married it means I want to be near you. 

I used to think I was pretty harsh in my rules, but I realized I am a quality time girl. I need your bod near mine if this relationship is going to work. So, if you wanna show the love, visit. 

Of course I can be reasonable. My Izzy (15) is in El Salvador for ten days. I can remember her for ten days. But I miss her. And I'm bored without her. And I may or may not sit next to her bed while she sleeps off mission trip exhaustion. She will never know. It's fine! It will only get creepy when she wakes and I talk with her in my scroachy voice* and call her mrs. Taurance while using my finger as a spokesperson.**

I will be honest and say I am a smidgeon concerned about their college years. I mean. These are my kids. I love even their rough spots because they are my babies. What if they go away and they slip my mind because they aren't close by? I've been working on a solution. We are buying a sweet RV. the big ones. The mansion types. When we retire, we will drive it from kid to kid, wherever they end up, and visit for a month at a time. Then in the winter, The Man and I will hole up in Costa Rica. 

They'll visit. I'm sure they'll visit. 

In the meantime, I'm going to work at being purposeful with anyone who isn't automatically in my every day. Because I still love all of you. I just forget to show it. 

My girl comes home this weekend. We will watch an episode of Gilmore Girls and laugh before the funny things happen and quote it and she will say again that it's weird to her that I may be a real life Lorelai because "she tries to be funny even when it's a really serious situation. She's awkward". And I'm going to choose to take it as a compliment because funny is my safety mechanism. Ahh. Life as it should be. 

*dear Addie. Thank you again for this new word. Scroachy. 

**all work and no play makes jack a dull boy. 

As We Approach This Close

With 2013 eeking to a finish, and 2014 peeking its Killroy eyes up over the fence, here is what I'm finding:

I enjoy puzzles. They have an attractiveness about them that lures unexpected conversation from whoever is sitting with you. I am a quality time girl. To me, this year's 1,000 pieces meant giggles with my girls, rubbing hands with my honey, playing footsies with Sam under the table, catching up with my brothers, getting to know my teens. Who knew all that came in a cardboard box?

I don't want presents like I used to. This year I got a scrapbook kit. I spent the better part of the last two days scrapping every picture that dared to be loose in my house. Sixty-five pages in about eight hours. My fingers, back, and buns are killing me. I won't sit properly for the new year, but this present is going to fill me up even more when I watch my family thumb through those pages. They'll laugh, chortle, giggle, and even guffaw. My husband will well-up because he is a great father and hates that moment when he realizes he didn't see our babies changing. They won't even realize they are giving me the second (and best) part of this gift. Just some paper and ink? Maybe. 

Our family rocks at tradition. We have celebrated Thanksgiving with a talent show every year for the last five years. They make us laugh. Cry. Keel over in side splitting I-can't-laugh-any-harders. But mostly they make us realize we have some amazing gifts in our clan. Musicians, dancers, singers, artists, comedians, politicians, feaux gangsters… the list is endless. And this is our second year foregoing presents for presence at Christmas and New Years. We used to get away, my family and my brothers' families. Now we knock a few things off our bucket list. Last year we drank yellow snow (aka made pineapple snow cones using real snow), tried an Olympic sport (ice skating at North Star), trekked through the wilderness looking for The Polar Express (snow shoeing and hot chocolate), and even found a lost city! (Swimming at the Atlantis hotel). Three days of serious fun. 19 people from 6-60. Just the best. This year we are doing it again. We saved our present buying money and we are headed over the river and through the woods to someplace warm. No, not Aspen. SACRAMENTO. We are going to surf (indoors of course), eat, safari for some wild animals, eat, scale the highest roller coaster heights, eat, swim, eat, and eat. My love bucket is going to be overflowing after this week. There ain't nothin better than family time. 

I'm also finding that I hate it when my husband is gone, and I love it when my husband is gone. Let me explain. I miss him every minute when he is away. I sleep awfully, I have sole driving responsibilities with the children, I am responsible for everything, and there isn't anyone with a mustache to smooch me to sleep. On the brighter side, since he HAS to be gone, I enjoy the down time. I'm a pretty busy girl. I need down time. He has way more energy than me. He doesn't love it like I do. So I save my down time, and crafting, and chick flicks, and meatless meals for his work days. We are both happier about it. 

Finally, and speaking of down time, I'm finding I enjoy the timing of the midweek Christmas. At first I was bummed because it was throwing off my schedule, but my early week was full of cleaning and crazy and wrapping and planning. Then it was Christmas Eve. Christmas. But then. Then. It was just Thursday. With nothing on the agenda. Just Thursday. And do you know what followed that? FRIDAY. Nary a pant to be worn in this house. No thank you. We sat. And laughed. And puzzled (see above). And watched. And scrapped. And colored. And ate. And drew. And that was all. Thank you Wednesday Christmas. We owe this one to you. 

Words Can Be Sticky

Ever come across a quote and know it's going to change something about you? Maybe change everything about you?



Ever read something and wish you hadn't because once you read it, it's part of you now? You can't unhear words. Sometimes you can choose to phase it out or focus so hard on something else you aren't as affected by it, but sort of you still are. The second you start to wonder, "Am I strong enough to hear this again without freaking out?" You can't possibly know until you repeat the words or you listen to them again. But then it's too late. It's a terrible cycle. Unless of course God keeps bringing this word around and around to get it through your my thick head.

Today (and last May) I read a quote by A.W. Tozer. He says, "What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about is."

He wrote those words in 1978. I was two, but I am pretty sure he wrote them so that one day I would hear them, and they would stick. These words have implications. These words get a little heavier when they are in the same chapter as this quote:

"To risk is to willingly place your life in the hand of an unseen God and an unknown future, then to watch him come through. He starts to get real when you live like that."

Because we don't know God simply because we grew up learning about him or because we go to church. We don't know him because we were baptized or refrain from cussing. Really knowing God doesn't happen because we volunteer to bring food to needing people or help with the annual food drive.

Willingly place your life in the hand of an unseen God...

watch..

He's real and he wants to show us in the small things and the big picture, but it's going to take a moment of risk on our part. Then the most important thing about us will in fact be what comes to our minds when we think about God and it will be words like

good
trustworthy
hope
true
consistent
always
safe
peaceful
big
bigger
biggest

Know what I mean?

Just A Little Pick Me Up

So. This picture is funnier if you know me. While there IS a chance I woke up this morning and decided to fill my mug with vodka, there is also the chance that I haven't had a drink in nearly 15 years. One day I prayed about alcohol. God said it's not for me. I'm the designated driver, the videographer when your night's gone awry, the one who whispers "take it easy" so they'll let you back in this establishment. Oh. No. It's ok that we started the night as strangers. I'm a community helper and a lifetime mocker. It's what I do. I make mock. So, by all means. You do what you gotta do. But let me get my camera first. 

I have a dream that one day I'll post a video that will go viral. You might just be the key to that dream come true. 

Before we get too far, I made this mug with a sharpie, a mug, and my oven. I washed it once and it's nearly all disappeared. I have a dream that I won't be mocked by Pinterest and their crafts. 

I have a dream that I will stop answering the phone in my half-asleep. It's as if I don't know I can let the machine get it. Er. You know what I mean. One time, yesterday, I picked up the phone at 8:30 in the morning. It was a complaint. It was painful and irritating to sit through, and I'll be honest, it took me too long to stop attempting reason between her barrage of eff words. I should have refilled my mug and sat that one out. Instead I tried to help. Idiot. Another time I answered the phone at what can only be described as where Jesus' praying hour and satan's play date meet. 6am. It was my sister. I was pregnant and on bed rest so she deserved what came next. I answered the phone and spoke "you have reached Mike and Shontell. We can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep." Then I pushed the number seven for a while. 

I have a dream that airline tickets and house prices will drop considerably for the 15 minutes I mean to purchase both. Is it too much to ask? One house, 6 bedrooms, a basement, an acre or eleven, and two dishwashers. Plane ride to Missouri. Juneish. Because someone is marrying her lobster. Click. 

And finally, I have a dream that Christmas will be about something that matters. I don't even care what that means for each person. Christ, family, forgiveness, reunion, laughter? As long as it isn't about Walmart and their commercial campaign this year. Kids screaming and jumping up and down because they can finally feel happy now that they have this toy! I cringe when I see this commercial. I want to hug those kids and punch their kittens and say something profound to all of Walmart. I feel like this last one will have to remain a dream, except for in myself. I have a dream that I will be Michael Jackson and start with the man in the mirror. 

Wanna stand next to me? What's your dream? Everyone who comes to Hollywood has a dream…

Just Don't Look Too Closely

To look at me you might choose from a few phrases to describe me:

Wow, killer boots, man!
Your hair is so (fill in the blank-large, puffy, rad, engulfing)
You're nuts. That's a lot of kids!
You're awesome; look at you go... (maybe no one says this last one)

But sometimes I feel like I am on the spot because of the sheer size of my family. I warn you though. Just don't look too closely.

My smile is often sarcastic. My hair is from the day before...or the day before that. My dinner is left over. My pants have been worn at least twice. My socks don't always match each other. My children have their jammies on under their clothes for faster transitions. And, while I am actually looking busy, this face only means I forgot why I walked into this room in the first place.

This day has been one of those where I fight the devil and use my old lady swears (inside my mind) because he is coming at me at forty different angles. I didn't even realize I had that many angles approaching me. Let's not discuss it.

I woke up late.
I spilled tortilla chip crumbs all over my car floor.
I tried to start my car. It didn't work. Twice. My hunky fire fighter husband saved the day. As usual. He's kind of a big deal around this city.
I lost my keys. I mean I lost my keys, and then I lost my replacement keys. That's cool.
I found set number two. Still waiting to hear from set number one. Ring a Ling Mr. Keychain!
I forgot I had to work until five. I thought I was leaving at 4. Just kidding apparently.
I got home to finish school with the kids. Our school website is down. Ok maybe this one is a blessing in disguise. We are snuggled up to a Christmas movie now instead.

I'm fighting back with my glass half full. This is where my kids would say "up your butt with a rubber nut". We are making the most of this crazy day.

Dear 2013, You've Been Good to Me

My husband and I accidentally started a fun tradition some years ago close to New Year's Day. We were laying in bed trying to get in as much conversation before we fell asleep. You know how that happens? When the kids are around you get in three words of a sentence, and don't even realize you haven't passed on the important parts until someone doesn't show up to pick up the kids. No? Just us? Oh good.

Well, we were trying to catch up on everything. Funny stuff Sam said, what expenses we have upcoming, funny stuff Layla Grace said even though she wasn't trying to be funny. And, then he said, "Can you believe all the things that are going to happen this new year?" So, we started naming them. We took turns. Back and forth. Nearing sleep a little more with every bit of anticipation. We laughed. Got near tears. And overall, we realized how amazing our story is.

This year I decided it is a good idea to take a look back as well.

In 2013:

I took a leap of faith and quit my full time job.
Took a job that allowed me to set my schedule, which means my family gets me first.
We switched churches back to our friends to see what God has for us.
My kids turned 16, 15, 12, 11, 9, and 7.
We became parents again by temporarily adopting a Chinese teenager for the school year.
My kids attempted some new sports (ballet, track, volleyball, basketball, snowboarding)
So, I drove a lot.
We tried snow shoeing (most of us loved it).
I was published as an internet writer.
My husband turned 37.
I turned...a year older.
I made my little house a little happier by painting some of her bare walls.
We all got a little better on the guitar.
Some even got better on the piano.
Izzy switched into a very challenging school experience and got her IB wings. She's working it out.
I became a professor, and then quit to keep my husband feeling loved.
The adults in this house got some new tattoos.
My nephew graduated and left for college, which I realize hasn't obviously to do with my immediate family, except that when his school was hosting Fall Preview a month ago, MY oldest asked to attend, and then decided God may be asking her to attend there as well. DID YOU HEAR ME PEOPLE? I took my DAUGHTER to tour a college! It's too soon. My heart. doh.
We went back to the life of homeschooling. Ah. Breathing room.