Why?

     When something happens as horrible and unthinkable as the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary, it leaves everyone asking how something like this can happen. It is only human nature to want to find something that caused it so that we can fix it. So that nothing this horrible can ever happen again.
     Some think it has to do with mental health screening, others with gun laws. Many want more security in schools. Some think it's environmental. Perhaps the boy was bullied. Others suggest that maybe he was born evil. Broken from birth. Many may think that his life was a toxic recipe.That horrible things happened in his life which caused him to eventually snap. Some point the finger at video games. Some say the media is to blame by publicizing the horrific event.
     Some even get into debates and arguments over it. Too much pointing fingers and not enough coming together.
     I honestly believe that it is not any one thing. Of COURSE it isn't just one thing. Hypothetically, say he was bullied. Tons of kids are bullied every day who don't lash out. Some kids play violent video games at very young ages and grow up to be wonderful contributors to society. I'm not by any means saying that I think violent video games are okay. Bullying is horrible as well. Yes, there should be better health screening. Even the NRA agrees that there should be better mental health screening for gun purchases. Maybe we do need metal detectors in every single school. Maybe he was born with something very wrong with him. Maybe he had a mental illness and things happened in his life that caused him to snap in the most evil, vile way imaginable. And I'm sure this person did need God in his life.
     But there is no way that something so horrible was caused by one single thing. It is my opinion that it was many things. Many horrible things. Maybe every theory thrown out there is a little bit right. Maybe none of them are. Maybe we will have some answers soon. But maybe everything is a piece to a complex jigsaw puzzle that when put together formed the horrific result that was this person's mind. An evil mind that carried out an evil act.
     When a violent tornado occurs, it isn't just because of wind shears present in the lower atmosphere, or instability, or a low pressure system, or updrafts, or downdrafts. It isn't any ONE thing. It is the perfect storm of many unfortunate things coming together.
     MANY unfortunate things.
     The events of Friday have rocked the entire nation. Many of us can hardly think of it without feeling sick. God is wrapping his arms around these families and that community. God mourns with them.
     Though there will inevitable be many needed conversations following this tragedy, of ways we can try to prevent things like this from happening again.
     We also must remember now to love each other.

Let me be sick...please?

   

     When moms are sick, chidren treat them much like lions treat wounded gazelle in the jungle. They take full advantage.
     I had spent a full day doing things like not answering questions, watching a show that featured a bra that holds an entire bottle of wine and increases your cup size (The Wine Rack), and catching up on a soap opera I haven't really watched since college. In other words, I was allowed to be sick.
     However, within two hours of getting home, one child had eaten a large portion of my hidden Dove chocolate stash, while the other played video games before homework.
     I just reclined in the big, germ-infested chair not doing a whole lot about it.
     When they did join me, it wasn't to ask me how I felt or to ask me if I would like some hot tea (I know, we aren't British and I could be delusional from the illness and, no, I don't even like hot tea but stay with me here). I was lucky enough to witness a presentation of the status of every single one of my youngest child's teeth, how loose each one is, and even a special math problem involving his teeth. Then I got to listen to my 5-year-old's inquires about how old he has to be to own a real machete. He thought 59 sounded reasonable.
     Then I got to hear of his plans to come home from kindergarden and saw down some bad trees in our backyard.
     For. The. Love.
     When, oh, WHEN am I allowed to just be sick? I'm not nursing anyone. I don't have to watch crawlers on the stairs anymore, and no one is trying to stick a finger in an outlet. I would think by now I could just peacefully be sick. But once again, perhaps I am delusional.
     I should have known last week, when I was in the bathroom, and someone poked just a foot around the corner, making it talk like a mini-puppet show, that quiet time wasn't looking promising.
    After the tooth dissertation, my youngest could have won an Academy Award for acting out dehydration. He grabbed his throat, begging for water. Someone had to get him some water.
     So now I'm supposed to believe someone planning to hack down trees can't fix a glass of water? I just glanced up with a "No hablo ingles" look.
     It wasn't long before my husband came home from work - with groceries- THANK YOU, ED! But still, the children gathered around me like a wounded animal. Even the dog jumped into the chair with me and promptly passed gas.
     I finally dragged myself to the table for supper. Everyone seemed so lively and loud. My youngest sat there eating his chicken with a little saw and hammer by his plate (I guess gearing up for his big day), and the oldest began speaking in an Austrailian accent that he thought would sound great coming from our family German shorthaired pointer. I peered at my husband and said in my best pitiful voice, "Can't I just be sick?"
    My oldest child jumped in there for him.
    "No, we are not a normal family."
     There really wasn't anything I could add to that.
    After dinner, my husband brought in the mail because I was really hoping we got some Christmas cards or good catalogs.
     But even during his sweet gesture, he couldn't resist hiding a little plastic lizard amongst the catalogs.
    It didn't scare me though. In fact, I never saw it. It fell out and was obscured by my muffin top and my yoga pants.
    So the joke was on him...I think. 
    
     

Elf Norris

     Okay, I feel pretty certain that there is no one else in the world right now who is awake at 11:24 p.m., contemplating what type of ninja costume to make for the family elf. I think the odds are in my favor that I'm probably alone on this one.

     Today was one of those groggy Monday mornings where I don't really feel like I am totally awake until the kids are probably already having their first school snack. I kicked back in the comfy green chair, zoning out to the Today Show. Our big, spoiled family dog was at my feet chewing. I heard him chewing. Of course, he was chewing. He is always chewing. But he is sort of like my third child. Rather than freaking out every single time he finds a Lego on the floor (which is pretty dang often in this house), I've gone to only freaking out if he swipes an important Lego or possibly poops out the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

     But I assure you, I would have jumped front and center if I had realized he was EATING OUR CHRISTMAS ELF'S FACE!!!

     As if our elf wasn't 'Chucky-like' to start with, now he could audition for the movie Saw. But it was much more than the fact that he scarred our Christmas mischief maker, the bigger problem was breaking this to the boys (particularly the five-year-old who can have a come apart when a Beyblade gets a scratch on it.) How am I supposed to say, "Ummm, well, yeah, he IS missing an eye, and there IS stuffing coming out of a big hole in his head, and his little plaid elf pants are ripped to smithereens, BUT he's still perfectly capable of riding a zip line in the night.

     And, furthermore, I didn't want the kids harboring hostility toward the dog. I mean, doesn't he tear up enough?

     What to do? What to do?

     So, when the boys came flying in the house and spotted the elf on the mantle with his back to the room and slowly turned him around, I did what any 40-year-old, college-educated mother of two would do.

     I told them that I suspected that our elf, Terry, had been in a turf war.

     A flipping TURF war? I know. Go on. Say it. I know it's crazy. What actually IS a turf war? Isn't that something gangs do? Fight over an area? Or maybe prostitutes fight over a street? What the heck? I don't even know what I'm talking about!!!

     BUT...I had peaked their interest. They wanted to know more.

     "Well, I suspect that maybe another elf wanted to come to this house, but this is Terry's house, so I think they got in a scuffle."

     No tears. So far so good.

     "He is one bad (as in Chuck Norris-like) elf," I said.

     They beamed. Score one for Mom!!!

     But then the questions came. There was discussion over what instruments were used. Great. I've tied our elf to gang violence. One step away from Miracle on 34th, one step toward Scarface.

     Forget Chucky, my kids will be in therapy with dreams of elves with nunchucks.

     The next question I got was this: "Why would elves fight? They all live with Santa."

     "Well, you both live with me, and you're brothers and love each other, but you still fight sometimes."

     Whew! Another point for Mom!!!

     Suddenly, our run-of-the-mill Christmas elf became one of the most interesting topics we've had in a while. No screams, no tears, no, "Our elf is ruined!" Just fascination and a bit of delight. Our elf was one tough package of polyester.

    We no longer had just an elf, we had an elf that had survived an elf fight. A scrappy representative from the North Pole.

     What more could two little boys want than an elf who comes to life and does mischievious things in the night? I'll tell ya what-- one that can survive a kickin' and keep on trickin'.
    
     It was a close call, but I did it. I righted a wrong! I won!

     But did I really win? The boys have been asleep for hours now. The dog is snuggled upstairs in the bedroom and probably snoring. The dog who ripped off the face of an elf and was never blamed for it is now having pleasant dreams, possibly of peeing on the Christmas tree tomorrow.

     I, on the other hand, am about to toil into the night, making sure the elf is donning one tough ninja suit when the sun rises.

     But...with God as my witness...if that dog gets the elf again, I'm throwing in the towel.

     It will then be time to explain to them that sometimes gang fights don't end well-not even for our northern friends.
        

Bekham? Beckham? Beckam?

     Someone wise once said, (and I by NO MEANS am getting this quote exactly right), that our job as parents is not to lead our children where we want them to go, but to genuinely know the person they are, the person they were born to be, and to help lead them where they were meant to go.

     Once again, totally got that a bit wrong, but you get the picture.

     I couldn't agree more. And though I get a lot, I'm talking A LOT, of things wrong as a parent, this is something that I truly, truly, at least try to get right.

     I just signed up my youngest for soccer. I have nothing in the world against soccer, but those who know me best absolutely know I'm a baseball person. Totally. My oldest plays baseball and loves it. Heck, after playing both baseball and soccer (twice) my youngest readily admits he likes baseball better than soccer. It would be sooooo much better if he would simply choose to play baseball this fall like his brother so we would be at the same park and things would be SO much easier on Mom and Dad.

     I will admit, it took every fiber of my being not to just sign him up for baseball. But he said the magic words..."I just want to try soccer again." Yep, just signed him up for soccer.

     Am I one of these sports crazed parents who thinks my child will be the next Beckham? Possible-yes. Likely-no. (Yes, I just had to make sure I was spelling Beckham correctly-that ought to tell you something.) I love sports like the next person, but would much rather my children excel in academics than sports. A lot of those star players only wish they could now work for Bill Gates.

     But the reason I signed him up for a sport that is inconvenient for me and one I don't much understand is because of this... how do I know soccer won't end up being his "thing?" I don't. Which is why I just forked over $140 online and hit "submit."

     My eight-year-old is on the chess team (I have no idea how to play chess). And he is in love with the sport of baseball. I am too, yet, I'm still not sure I know what a forced out is. It's sort of like when people talk about taxes and insurance, I just smile and nod. Those are HIS interests, not mine. Yes, I do love both of them, because HE loves both of him. I love celebrating who he is. Don't all parents?

    I'm afraid, for a few, the answer might be no. I cannot get out of my mind something I saw at a sporting goods store a couple of years ago. A dad was shoving a football helmet on his son's head. His son was whining and grumbling, saying it hurt, and his dad bellowed, "Ya better get used to it!"

     There is not one part of me that thinks that kid truly wanted to play football. All I could see was a dad who probably never made the team and BY GOSH his kid was going to be the best linebacker out there!!!

     I wish I had pulled the dad over to the side and made him sit on the carpet, criss-cross applesauce, for story time and read him the children's book, Ferdinand, about the bull everyone wanted to see fight but instead he was just happy smelling the flowers in the field. And isn't it really all about our children being happy?

     I also remember one time seeing a bunch of grown men watching a bunch of pee-wee players with more intensity than Olympic scouts. It didn't seem to be about letting the kids have fun, or teaching the kids the fundamentals. It seemed like an adult competition carried over from their high school days.

    Why are there so many articles about out-of-control sports parents? Why are parents getting thrown out of recreational complexes? Why are there so many kids with bad attitudes?

     Because, unfortunately, there are still parents that are mad they didn't make the team.

     We all have dreams as parents. We want our child to make good grades, or be the next Tom Brady or Mark McGwire, or be the next one to reinvent the world of computer programming. But those are our dreams. Maybe they are not even close to the dreams of our children.

     Of course we want to steer our child toward success, but shouldn't we steer him or her to be the best person he was meant to be, and not the best person we want them to be?

     Maybe there is a child who freezes during tests and won't get into the best college, but has more compassion than most and will go out and do humanitarian work and really make a huge difference in the world.

    Maybe another child has the gift to make people laugh and will end up working in a children's hospital.

     Maybe you were a star quarterback, and maybe your child doesn't have an athletic bone in his body. But what if he ends up discovering something about DNA that helps us cure cancer?

     We all have dreams. We can't help it. But our kids have dreams too. And the most successful people in the world achieved success because they were following THEIR passion, not someone else's.

     I hope, really hope, that I can really see my children for who they truly are, and encourage them to be the wonderful people they were meant to be. For now that means sucking it up and signing up for soccer. I know it is going to be much harder and more challenging down the road.

     But I hope that maybe, possibly, I can rise to the challenge. I can only hope.

     I'll probably still have to read Ferdinand once in a while.
   

Summer is NOT for sissies!

     Whew!

     Where do I even begin? I haven't posted in a while, which is a big mistake for me. Writing, even if it's about something insignificant to everyone but me, is who I am. When I'm not writing I feel a bit lost.

     In all honesty, there are really just about three reasons I haven't posted in a while.

     1. I have truly been having the most quality summer with my boys and husband that I have ever had. We have had so much fun, and this is a summer I will never forget. I have been so busy enjoying myself and my family that I have really let everything else go.

(Before you vomit and "unblog" me, please keep reading.)


     2. My boys have been fighting with each other like FLIPPING CATS AND DOGS THIS SUMMER AND WHEN THE DAY IS OVER THERE IS NOT A CREATIVE BONE LEFT IN MY BODY OR AN OUNCE OF ENERGY. The only energy left allows me enough strength to eat Haagen Dazs while my husband plays with my hair and we watch a Lifetime movie.

     Life in the fast lane. Try not to be jealous.

  
     3. Pinterest. Pinterest late at night has replaced blogging late at night. At least it has this summer. Late at night, when the house is quiet, it's hard not to get sucked in with all the crafty possibilities.


     Okay, let me explain the last two. We all joyfully count down as summer approaches. "Just 23 more days until summer!" we exclaim. We imagine children playing in sprinklers and catching fireflies. We fantasize about cookouts and sleeping in until 8 a.m. We drool over no schedules and no packing lunches.

     But I really think it's similar to childbirth. They say we forget the pain, otherwise we would never have more children. That must be how summer works. If we truly remembered the good, the bad, and the ugly of summers past, would we really be counting down or would we be crying over Little Debbies and red wine?

     Because I assure you that when I am counting down until summer, I am NOT thinking about 102-degree heat with a voice from the backseat screeching, "He keeps blowing on me!!!"

     Nope. Not what I'm thinking about.

     Not only do kids have to get more creative with how they spend their time in the summer since there is not school or sports to entertain them, but they also get more creative with their fighting. Don't get me wrong, fighting is always annoying. But at least many of the fights during the school year make some sort of sense. Things like, "He is playing with my baseball bag!" Or, "I'm trying to do my homework and he keeps turning up the TV!"

     But the fights of the lazy days of summer? HOLY TOLEDO!!!


     "He's copying me!" "He licked his finger and wiped it on my shirt!" On and on and ONNNNNNNN!!!


     I have been scouring the Internet to figure out how to stop the sibling fighting. I even discovered that fighting is more normal than not fighting! Great! We are fantastically normal! Yee haw! But if Mommy loses her cookies, what good is normal? Maybe, just maybe, Mommy needs to wear an ipod 24/7.

     I knew my feelings were valid when my grandmother just looked at me helplessly during their summer visit and asked, "Are there any more Bible Schools they could go to?"

     But, we are simply an intense family. Even when the boys are getting along beautifully, I still sometimes feel like I can't breathe. My chest is tight a lot of the time. We are just INTENSE people. No idea where they get that. No idea at all.

     The other day a friend ran in to us at Target. She said she could hear us three aisles over. Nope, the boys were not bickering. We are just passionate. If we are happy, or excited, or surprised, or even bored, you very well might hear us. The only thing that surprised me was that she hadn't heard us six aisles over.

     Just tonight we made a Target run so the boys could spend their allowance money. My five-year-old was barrelling down the aisles. He had fallen earlier in the day on a dragon castle and sliced his eyebrow. We had to go to the doctor, who didn't stitch, but "glued" it back together. So here is my little man with a big cut above his eye, ketchup spilled all over his shirt, carrying a big nerf-like toy gun, loudly singing Adele. A little storm trooper belting out, "Rumor has it..."

     We are never quiet. Never. Ever.

     So I guess my point is that a summer, an ENTIRE summer, of lots and LOTS of intensity, can really wear a 40-year-old mom out!!!

     Now, on to Pinterest. (Big sigh.)

     Is there anyone who hasn't been sucked into this vortex? I have no earthly idea what a "burpee" is or when I'm going to don my workout clothes and do thirty of them, but just pinning them makes me feel one step closer to having the body of J.Lo. And what woman eating her weight in carbs at neighborhood gatherings wouldn't want to feel like that?

     Pinterest makes me happy. So rather than writing, I have been pinning things that you can bet your bottom dollar I will never, ever, do. I've been a pinning fool lately. I can finally see the tile on my laundry room floor, so I'm feeling a little cocky.

     I even hung an ironing board on the back of the laundry room door. Nevermind that during it all my eight-year-old, in all seriousness, asked me what an ironing board was.

     Don't judge.

    There is just something about Pinterest and summer, that makes you feel like a new you is possible in the fall. At least that is what I'm hoping for...

      Delusional or not.

    
   

One Day of Thanks Will Never Be Enough

*First let me say that I found out a while back that you can actually plagiarize yourself. Yep, kinda crazy, but apparently you can. So, to be on the safe side, let me say that this was published by the Opelika-Auburn News on Memorial Day about a decade ago. I wrote it. But apparently that is not important. So here it is...a column that was published years ago in Auburn/Opelika, Alabama by the Opelika-Auburn News...


One Day of Thanks is Not Enough

An open letter of appreciation:

     I know you don't know me, but I've heard a lot about you -- good things.

     It seems only appropriate that I talk to you today when everyone in the United States is remembering men and women like you.

     When your ship, the USS Indianapolis, sank after two hits from a Japanese submarine in World War II, I wasn't even born yet. In fact, the son you never knew was only six weeks old.

     I wish you could have joined us at all of those family reunions at Kentucky Lake --- those were the best times. Lazy, hot summer days spent just catching up with everybody, swimming, playing cards and pigging out on barbecue and Mississippi mudcake.

     You would have loved those reunions --- except for maybe some of the video presentations. My grandparents didn't want any of the family to miss out on my dance recitals.

     Nothing like the whole family watching you tap dance in a purple satin costume.

     All of my cousins and I used to make your son, Earl, play hide-and-seek with us. We didn't mind that he was a grown-up --- he was a master at it! Sometimes he would even hide my shoes where I couldn't find them for hours.

     Earl Jr. and your wife, Jane, spend a lot of time with me growing up-- lots of holidays and weekends. They've meant a lot to me through the years and you would be very proud of them. Jane went on to teach and eventually worked at Veterans Hospital in Nashville. Earl Jr. served in the Army and was an officer at a bank.

     Oh, and you might be interested to know Earl. Jr. is marketing and selling prints of all of those paintings you used to mail home from the ship. I have the one of the American Eagle in my bedroom.

     I wish you could have been here to see it all, especially your family. Jane and Earl are both very caring, good people. And I know they deeply miss you. Your family has meant a lot to me --- and your memory lives on.

     It's so hard for me to fathom the sacrifice you and so many others made. I should take the time every single day, not just today, to stop and remember. But I'm ashamed to admit that, like most people, I don't. We go about our daily routines and our busy lives not ever stopping to think about what you did for us.

     We should remember you when we're driving to any church we choose on Sunday morning, when we're voting for our leaders or even when we're listening to David Letterman make jokes about the president.

     We can work in the place of our choice, and we can support or protest any cause. You and so many others have given us the ultimate gift -- freedom.

     You did not die in vain.

     What I'm awkwardly trying to say to you and all the others who gave their lives seems so inadequate, but here goes. Thank you.

     You died so this country could be the best in the world.

     So to you, my great uncle -- Lt. Cmdr. Earl O. Henry-- and all the others who made the ultimate sacrifice to make the United States what it is today -- we salute you, we thank you and we remember you.

     And we always will.

Stressed Mom's Cafe: Letter To My Son

Stressed Mom's Cafe: Letter To My Son: Son,       First of all, I want to say how proud I was tonight watching you play ball. You have come such a long way, and now all of your ...

Letter To My Son

Son,

      First of all, I want to say how proud I was tonight watching you play ball. You have come such a long way, and now all of your effort is paying off. There is nothing I love more than watching you out there with your friends having so much fun and being a part of something bigger.
      After the game, during your little brother's game, I also loved watching you play on an empty field with a big group of boys. I couldn't help but notice how fast you are growing up. I love watching you interact with friends, the kids you will go through school with, your learning years.
     But, as I watch you out there, so big and independent, I can't help but worry about the times that I won't be just one ball field away, able to keep my eye on you. Tonight, I knew the kids you were playing with. They are all good kids. And I was right there within shouting distance. But see, it's not always going to be that way. And that is scary for a mom.
     So there are some things I really want, need, to say to you. Please bear with me.
     First of all, I hope I have taught you that it's good to be quirky, popularity doesn't mean squat, and, oh, those name brands? Who cares.
     Also, I want to tell you this. At some point in your life, a couple of years from now, or maybe tomorrow, there is going to be some kid, or a group of kids--maybe even a big group of kids (yikes)--who are going to try to talk you into doing something that you know is wrong. Maybe I've told you it's wrong, maybe you have learned at school or church that it's wrong, or maybe you just have a weird feeling in your stomach that makes you think it's wrong.
     Anyway, this kid or these kids that are trying to talk you into doing something bad. Well, they know deep down that they are making the wrong choice. They think that by talking you into making the wrong choice, it makes what they are doing less wrong.
     But that is not how it works at all.
     Just like in baseball, this is when you have to step up to the plate. This is when you have to be a leader, a good example, a man.
     This is make it or break it time. Do you hear me? Make it or break it.
     This is when you have two choices. You either show you are a strong leader who stands up for what is right, or you show you are a weak follower, scared to stand up for what you believe in.
     See, I already know what you are. I know you are a leader. And I know when the time comes, when another boy, or a group of boys, or even a girl is trying to talk you into doing something you know is wrong, I know you will have the strength to do what is right.
     I'm your mom, and I know.
     Sure, when you take your stand, the others might make fun of you. But, get this, do you know why they are making fun of you?
     Son, they are making fun of you because you just showed major courage--I'm talking like superhero courage, and it just freaked--them--out!
     You just showed them you are stronger than them. How awesome is that?
     And you know what? Maybe, just maybe, by taking a stand, there is some other kid who was about to make the wrong choice, who will now make the right choice...all because of you and your strength.
     Doing the right thing is sometimes hard...sometimes it's really hard.
     But as your mom, I can promise you--absolutely promise you one thing.
     When you stand up to those kids, three VERY big things will happen.
     First, you will show integrity, good character, and some major kick-butt courage. (Kick-butt isn't the greatest word in the world, but for this kind of courage there is simply no other word for it).
     Second, you will make God happy, your family proud, and show some big-time respect for yourself.
     And lastly, even though they might not say it, deep down those guys you stood up to think you're a rock star.
     These things I can promise you.
     And even though you will always be my baby and I love you more than anything in the world, I am not always going to be able to protect you. I'm not always going to be just one field over.
     Please just try to remember what I've just said, and tuck it away in that beautiful mind of yours. You never know when you will have to use it.
     Just remember that when the moment arises, follow your gut and do what is right, and everything will be okay. I promise.

     I love you,
     Mom

This summer...

     There are thousands of articles about ways to make your children happy. It's overwhelming, actually, how much advice you can find on this subject. But let me tell you a little something I inadvertantly discovered the other night. I discovered THE TRICK to making little boys ecstatic. It might work on girls too, I'm not sure. It can be summed up with two little words.

     New. Snacks.

     I kid you not. You would have thought that I walked in with Disney World strapped to my back. Apparently getting just three or four never-before-seen snacks and dumping them in a big Rubbermaid tub in the pantry made me an instant rock star. My eight-year-old, with the swagger of a 16-year-old, muttered under his breath, "Mom is on a roll."

     I was happily stunned that something so simple had made them so happy. The way to a man's heart, even a little man's heart, is through his stomach. The old saying is actually true.

    It made me think about how it really is the simple things that our kids appreciate. It has always fascinated me, the things that my children remember that I didn't even realize were meaningful enough to remember. I was talking to my children the other night and trying to get them to tell me some things they would like to do this summer. Of course they said the obvious things like going to the beach and going to the swimming pool, but just as important was eating ice cream on the porch and reading Harry Potter.

    My oldest still remembers how one time when he was really little he spilled a jar of bath crystals into an empty tub and we made his trains plow through the pretend dirt or snow or whatever. Seriously?? This is what he remembers.

     I don't know why I find that suprising. I can still remember drinking Orange Crush whenever there was a tornado warning. We got in our safe place and talked and drank soda. Something so crazy simple, and yet I get a warm, fuzzy feeling every time I think of it.

     Every summer I make a list of things I want to do with the kids that summer. The list is ridiculously long, about 75 things. It can be anything from going on an out of town trip to playing volleyball and eating pizza with friends.

     At the end of the summer I have always barely put a dent in the list and then decide that I am a horrible summertime parent.

     This summer I am going to cut myself some slack.

     This summer I vow to remember that catching fireflies will be remembered just as much, if not more than going to Alabama Adventure.

     This summer I'm going to sit back and relax and try to savor every moment no matter how small.

     I can just imagine it. No overwhelming planning. No crazy schedule. Just simple fun and living in the moment.

     This might be the best summer yet.

Stressed Mom's Cafe: It's All Good

Stressed Mom's Cafe: It's All Good: Nothing quite screams Easter like a Mommy Dearest moment right before worship. But if my children keep misplacing their shoes...I'm. Not....

It's All Good

Nothing quite screams Easter like a Mommy Dearest moment right before worship.

But if my children keep misplacing their shoes...I'm. Not. Going. To. Make. It.

Of course, if I were organized like those mommies that make homemade salad dressing and iron sheets, then I would have done the minimal organizational mommy step of laying out their Easter outfits the night before.

I guess you can figure out what happened with that one.

So it's time for us to leave the house and I am flying around the house covered in a sheen of sweat, digging through piles like a rabid cat in a litter box.

Finally, I grab a horrific pair of weathered sneakers and ascertain that it's either those, or we come up with some sort of Batman water-shoe theme. Everything suddenly becomes too much and I flip out. I start ranting and raving about how nobody cares about anything and how they will probably use part of the Easter offering to buy my five-year-old new shoes.

My rant went on for quite a while and no one even argued with me. I may have even been arguing with myself, I'm not sure.

As we headed to church, I downed a healthy breakfast of Coke and packaged peanut butter and crackers and mentally asking myself why, oh why, I can't be more organized and stop hitting the alarm for a few more minutes of slumber. I even had the audacity to argue with my husband about how it won't take me that long to get ready and that I had plenty of time. I always underestimate exactly how much my hair hates me.

As we drove down the road, no one challenged me. Maybe they figured that at any moment I would smear red lipstick all over my face and start ranting like Joan Crawford about wire hangers.

Finally, we made it to church--late, but we were finally there. I settled into my seat, crossed my legs, and looked down. That is when I discovered that apparently my razor has missed one particular spot on my knees in perhaps the last ten shaves. Seriously, Katniss and Peeta could have sought shelter there in the Arena.

Despite the rough start, this past Easter Sunday ended up being one of the best days ever. I think it's because I finally decided that I would just let go, stop worrying if everything was perfect, and roll with it. Something about perception being your reality.

So we didn't have new outfits and the kids looked a little ruffled. That's irrelevant to what Easter is all about anyway. We didn't gather for a family Easter picture, because all of you with kids know that if you are already having a rough start to your day, that could flat out send you straight into the arms of a straight jacket. We didn't have an Easter ham, we had Easter hamburgers. We spent the rest of the day outside in the sunshine, doing absolutely nothing in particular.

The day ended up surprisingly perfect.

Thanking God for everything you have doesn't mean you have to have the perfect outfit or cook a big meal.

I learned that I simply need to relax more and roll with the punches.
Shaving my knees wouldn't hurt either:)

Almost 40? Seriously?

Let's just start this blog entry out with a bang.

Earlier tonight I lifted my shirt up a tad, jumped up and down, and showed my husband exactly what my stomach would look like if I were ever to ride a mechanical bull.

There was no wine and chocolates by the fireplace after that, needless to say.

Is it even possible to have a six pack after two C-sections? I'm not sure. I also remember how back in the day I gained not the freshman fifteen, but the freshman thirty. But even then, my tummy was still flat. Ummm, not so much now.

And by the way, before we move forward, let me interject that though my talent at anything is very limited, I am proud to announce that I actually HAVE ridden a mechanical bull once in my life at a pub in Wisconsin, and they could NOT throw me off of the bull. Granted, I could not move my wrist for a good half hour, but that is one of my favorite accomplishments. That, in and of itself, may, in fact, be pathetic.

Anyhoooooo.

I became aware of the fact today that in twenty days I will be 40. Seriously. 40. What? Is up? With THAT?
That sounds so flipping old to me that I can't even process it.

Let me share a little story with you. Two years ago, I was Christmas shopping in a trendy area near where I live. I went in this artsy jewelry store where a security guard and two girls were chatting. My first thought was that these people looked fun. I assessed them to be about my age. I sort of started chatting with them. As I bought some jewelry, I had to fill out a survey. One of the questions was, "Are you in a sorority?" Now, I'm not stupid. I knew the question was meant for girls in college. I sort of laughed at the question and said, "Well, I was an AOPi...back in 1990!" I knew they wanted to know only of "current" sorority girls, but I was reliving my youth a bit. The guy lit up and said, "Hey, that's the year I was born!"

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSLAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why is it that no matter what the mirror reflects, I forever feel like I am 25 in my mind??? Am I going to think I am 25 when I am soaking my dentures in a cup and looking for Depends on sale?

Sometimes when I am with my kids it fascinates me that society thinks I am old enought to actually take care of two human beings? Is it normal to feel young and inadequate even when the mirror reflects age and  wisdom?

One of the hardest things for me now is that I have these impossibly thin and hot friends. Friends that I have to hang out with at our neighborhood pool. It's sort of like an adult form of detention. They are thin, fit, and they eat lots of fruit.

Today, after exercising and eating more reasonably for several days, the scale not only went down but went up. I was expressing my frustration with a friend. I told her that I guess I was going to just be forty, fat, and fabulous. She encouraged me to join a gym. I told her I hate gyms. She then told me that maybe I would just have to be fat and fabulous. I went and bought four strawberry cupcakes to take home.

If you were to meet me, you would probably consider me to be "of average" size. But, unfortunately, bathing suits change that perspective. Last year my friends gave me margaritas for my birthday and took my bathing suit shopping. My thin friends did this. Dang them.

But today I got quite the reality check. A friend/ acquaintance of mine died over a year ago. She left behind three small children. The last time I spoke to her she was determined to beat the cancer. I couldn't accept any notion other than that she would. She was determined.

She fought hard.

She lost.

I read people's comments on her Facebook page today. I read about how much people miss her. I read about her beautiful children, about how they are thriving and how they are so much like she was and how her spirit lives on through them.

Someone even commented on how she will never grow old but will be forever 37. Then it hit me. WHO AM I to complain about turning 40? What is the alternative? How dare I complain about something that she would have given ANYTHING to have?

Nothing like a little perspective.

Enjoy each and every day. Every single one.

Oh, and if you can get away with it, possibly put high fructose corn syrup in your skinny friend's granola bars.

Love,
Melissa

URGENT

I promise to get back to light-hearted conversation in my next blog. But since I have shockingly and humbly discovered that there are people reading in other countries, I urge you to please watch this...ALL THE WAY THROUGH. And then SHARE it with others in any way that you can.

 

I look forward to hearing your input. Please let me know what you think.

 

Melissa

 

 

Please watch.

KONY 2012

www.youtube.com

The KONY 2012 is a campaign by Invisible Children that aims to make Joseph Kony famous, not to celebrate him, but to raise support for his arrest and set a p...

 

One More Day

This isn't like my usual posts, but for some reason I feel the need to write about it.

Just today, there were reports that a person well-known in the Auburn University community is on life- support because of a possible self-inflicted gunshot wound. We hear about suicide and suicide attempts more often than we should, and we all know that unfortunately it happens way too often. And of course it should NEVER happen.

But what makes this different, other than the fact that my husband personally knew this person, is the fact that he was KNOWN for being happy. He was known for his faith. He was known for lifting people up. You always hear people say it, but he is literally one of the last people you would ever expect to get to that point.

Which just goes to show, we never, NEVER know what people are going through inside. Sometimes, in fact, MANY times, those who seem the absolute happiest are the ones struggling the most. To many, being happy and bubbly is a mask to hide a very deep hurt. Think about all of the comedians who we come to later find out are actually some of the saddest and most depressed among us.

One of the things that always upsets me so much when I hear about suicide is the thought, "What if he or she had just waited one more day? ONE. MORE. DAY."

Surely something would have changed. Think about all of the times in your life that you have felt at your breaking point and then think about what a difference one day could make. One walk outside. One talk with a good friend. One heartfelt prayer. One good night's sleep. Just one...SOMETHING.

I'm not suggesting that a walk or kind words or rest could alleviate deep depression. That notion would be ridiculous. However, I still always wonder if maybe one more day would have changed their perspective, just enough. Maybe they would decide to seek therapy. Maybe decide to go talk to a pastor. Anything.

After all, our feelings of desperation can be so volatile. What seems impossible in one moment, may seem possible the next.

I think I heard somewhere that if someone were standing on the edge of a building preparing to jump and you tried to push that person, he would hang on for dear life. We would naturally fight to survive. Self-preservation is our strongest instinct.

I don't think anyone really wants to die. What they truly want is the pain and suffering to end, and sadly they reach a point mentally where they see no way out.

And what is so sad is that there are so many ways out. So. Many. Ways.

They say that suicide is the most selfish thing a person can do. And, really, it is. Nothing can devastate a family, friends, or a community more. But I have never believed that people who have reached the point of taking their own lives are thinking about anything or anyone other than escaping the pain. It IS a selfish act, and there is nothing, absolutely NOTHING that could hurt a family more. But in the moment, in THAT moment,  I don't think they are BEING selfish. They are DOING selfish, but not BEING selfish. They aren't capable of being selfish when they are SO broken, so mentally ill.

Usually when someone takes his life, we question if there is anything we could have done. Is there something we could have said? Something we could have done? But honestly, when someone is to that point, when someone is THAT broken, that person has to save himself. That person has to dig deep inside and come up with something, even if it's mustard seed in size, but something small within that still has hope. And then that person must use that mustard seed of hope and every fiber of inner strength to focus on that hope and let it grow bigger.

Which leads back to my earlier question...what if he had waited one more day? Just one more?

It also makes me stop and think about all of these children being bullied all around the world. It makes me think about the hurt and deep scars the bullying is causing. Not all victims speak up. Not all victims seem sad.

Once again, this man I was speaking of earlier was KNOWN for being happy.

If you stop and think, it really makes you want to be nice to everyone you meet, for you truly have no idea what pain they are struggling with inside.

My hope is that those out there who are struggling, wanting to escape some sort of pain...I hope they never get to the point where they are so hopeless that they see no way out. There is always a way out. And tomorrow can bring hope.

Just one more day can make all the difference.

Put Me in Coach...I'm Ready to Play!

Okay, so those who know me best knew there had to be a baseball post coming. Oh yeah, here it is...
Try not to fall asleep because I promise I am getting to the point.

First, let me say that when I was in high school, I did not enjoy watching baseball games. I was dating a guy who played football, basketball, golf, and baseball. As the dutiful girlfriend, I trudged to many, if not all, sporting events. To me, then, golf and baseball were definitely the least enjoyable to watch. I mostly just talked in the stands, ate candy bars, and clapped at the appropriate times.

Well, let's just say times have changed!!!

I don't know if I've simply developed an appreciation for America's sport or if my own flesh and blood playing has made all the difference. But I am a total, card-carrying  Baseball Mom. Bar none.

Much to the disappointment and embarrassment of my friend, I have even changed my cell phone ring tone to "Centerfield,"  by Jon Foggerty. The younger moms on my younger son's team probably have never even heard of Foggerty. And please remember, I have never claimed to NOT be a dork.

I started wondering the other day why I love baseball so much. I'm from Kentucky and I absolutely adore basketball. My small high school was very good in football and has won the state tournament numerous times. So why is it that baseball evokes such emotion from me now? How can I watch my son play basketball or soccer and stay so laid back about the whole thing? Not that I don't celebrate their accomplishments, and it's not that I don't enjoy watching and love to see them play. But when I watch them play baseball my emotions roller coaster from elation to feeling as if I could vomit. I feel almost electrical watching them play. I've been thinking about it, and I think I've figured it out.

I like soccer, but what usually happens, is that there are two people or so on the team who totally dominate and everyone else just runs back and forth. I realize it's not really fair for me to say this, because my older son decided after about three seasons that he did NOT want to play soccer anymore. I was okay with that, because of course I simply want them to find what they enjoy and "do" that. But I couldn't help but wonder why he had scratched soccer off of his list.

"Why don't you want to play soccer anymore?" I asked. "Well, Mom," he said. "I just don't really like to kick." If any of you out there has an answer for that one, more power to you. Because to me, it seems like there just isn't a whole lot you can add to that.

So maybe it's unfair for me to say that about soccer. I'm sure when they get older it gets WAY more interesting. Let's just say we never got far. The whole not-liking-to-kick thing sort of ruined my ability to see older kids play soccer. But my younger son still likes it, so who knows. I may change my tune when I actually get to see it when the kids have actual "positions." 

My older son has no interest in football. It's a good thing too, because I wouldn't let him play tackle until he is in middle school anyway. I've heard too much from REAL football players, a Heisman winner (on TV), pediatricians, etc., to know that there are so many health reasons not to that there is no way I would go for that. So good thing he isn't interested. But even if he were, I can tell you the reasons I wouldn't like it. First of all, I would worry about every hard hit, and from what I have heard, there is a lot of sitting on the bench for the so-so players. And I assure you that if my child were on that field practicing or playing in the hot, deep south for five days (insane), I'm not sure I would be too happy with two minutes of playing time. And I'm not really sure how I would explain it to my son. Sure would be a lot easier to explain to a 10th grader than a 6-year-old.

I remember walking in Academy Sports one day watching this big guy mash a big old helmet down on his little boy's head. The boy was whining because the helmet was hurting him. His dad responded, "You'd better get used to it!" Oh boy. Did the little boy really want to play, or did daddy not make his high school team?

Anyhow, my youngest son, who is only four, came out of the womb knowing how to tackle. One time during soccer he ran down the field, then off the field, and tackled a man squatting on the sidelines with a camera.

My four-year-old uses tackling as a way of saying hello. I'm going to have a heck of a time holding him off from tackle football until middle school.

Sorry, let me quit rambling and tell you why I love little league baseball.

First off, every single kid gets to play. They all get to bat, they all get to field, and they all get equal playing time. Are they all equally good? Of course not. But they all practice, and they all try to improve, so they all get to play. They may not play the position they are hoping for, but that has to be earned. That is where they learn that practice earns you a better position. But there aren't little kids pouting on the bench because they aren't getting any play time.

During football and basketball, everyone is screaming and cheering throughout the game, which of course happens in baseball. But here is what is so cool about baseball...there is nothing like when your child is up to bat and everyone, I mean EVERYONE, is cheering for YOUR child. It's like your child is on stage and everyone wants to see him succeed. As a parent, it is one of the best feelings ever.

But of course there is the flip side. There is nothing that causes me more angst than when my child is up to bat with two outs and the bases loaded. I seriously need a barf bag. Talk about pressure. That "child on stage" thing is awesome, with the exception of this. But I promise, when your child is playing, there is no "boring" in the sport of baseball.

I remember when my older son first started baseball. Ahem...let's just say that we weren't on the upcoming All-Star list and leave it at that. But my child LOVED it, and so we kept it up. No matter how bad he was in the beginning (and honestly I don't know if he even remembers now how brutal those first couple of years were) he STILL wanted to play baseball. He loved it, so we loved it too.

One season his team lost every single game. I pretty much knew it was the end. I mean, how can you practice that much, show up at every practice numerous times a week, and STILL want to play baseball? But he didn't bat an eye. He wanted to play...again. 

Now, his improvement to me, is amazing. He has gotten better every year, not from natural born talent, but from hard work and perseverance. It's almost a blessing that he started off the way he did. If he had started out good, what would that have taught him? But I feel he has learned one of life's most important lessons. Never, EVER, give up, and if you work hard at something you will get better. Baseball has taught him that, and I didn't have to say a word.

I admit I still see parents taking it all too seriously. I have heard a mom yell for her 6-year-old to "put a skirt on!" Classy, huh? I've heard parents curse. I've even seen coaches run the clock down so the other team didn't get a chance to bat again. And when I see adults acting like that, my blood pressure rises. Sometimes my husband has had to put his hand on my knee to remind me to remain calm.

Good parents and, of course, a good coach are detrimental to a good season. If you have a coach who teaches bad sportsmanship, screams and screams at the kids, or one who puts the bad players in the outfield and only works with the All-Star material -- run, and run fast. One horrible season can make your child hate the sport, any sport.

We are lucky to have a coach who wants EACH and every child to improve. He wants the kids to have fun and improve. And we couldn't ask for anything better.

But to all of these parents who act this way, not only are you embarrassing your child, but your child is going to end up HATING the sport that you want him or her so desperately to like. You are sinking your own ship.

I am so much more laid back this time around. My four-year-old is playing coach-pitch ball now. In two games he hasn't hit the ball once. It clearly didn't bother him because after the game he said, "I got to try to hit the ball THREE times!" He called me over to the dugout twice to hug me (LOVE it)!

Sometimes when he is in the outfield he spins around and around until he is dizzy and then staggers around like a drunk leaving a bar. That is only when he is not walking back and forth across the field kicking up dirt. I'm sure some of the more hardcore parents don't find this amusing. But all I have to say about that is that this isn't this mama's first rodeo.

I know there will come a time when his hand/eye coordination will click. I know there will come a time when he is more focused. But why in the heck would I want to speed things up. For now, let him be a happy kid and just have fun. It's fun to sit back and enjoy the show.

Yes, he has missed the ball every time so far. In the past, with my first child, I would have been mortified.

But all I can think now is, YES, he has struck out so far, but think, just THINK about the first time he actually HITS the ball!!!

Think about when that finally happens just how SPECTACULAR that is going to be!

Disappointment Stinks

Disappointment stinks. I mean, for real. It really, really does. Everyone experiences disappointment. It's just part of life. Plain and simple. And I will admit, right now I am having a really, really hard time with it. I can't even cry. Not like last time. I simply feel numb. And the fact that I sort of feel numb and robotic isn't good. Numb is bad. Just my opinion.

I wrote a children's book that I really, really believe in. Usually I am very quick to criticize all things having to do with myself. But this book, and I'm not kidding, seemed to flow not from me, but through me. The book came to me faster than I could write.

I was driving my younger boy to preschool one day and I asked him a question. After I asked him that question, an entire book came to me faster than I could write. I seriously had a crayon and a napkin for the first part. I drove immediately home and wrote the entire thing in three hours.

I have never, ever had anything happen like that before, or since.

So then, I started writing query letters. Ahhh, the dreaded query letter. Basically you have one page to make some agent (probably in New York) think that your book is more important than the other zillion books they have been sent that day. No pressure or anything. Especially when you are some stay-at-home mom in Alabama trying to convince a Central Park person that you have got it goin' on. Not an easy task.

Lo and behold, I had an early bite, from a reputable agent (found in Writer's Market and everything.) She is a major author too. She said the book was lovely. I was on cloud nine. I'm serious. My dream was coming true. I didn't care if I ever got one penny out of it. I just wanted to be published in something other than a newspaper. Total life dream and everything. We all have our thing.

Anyhow, for a while I thought this agent was going to represent me. And from what I have read, that is the really hard part. 99% of writers never find an agent. I can't tell you how happy I was. I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest. And that is not just an expression. It was pounding so hard you could practically see my chest move.

She was interested for a while, and then said that she would pass because she really wanted to see more work from me. I suppose another book. And the economy was bad. Tough to take. 

I was devestated. I remember throwing myself on my keyboard and sobbing. My heart was utterly broken. Totally broken. I took a break and licked my wounds.

Then, out of nowhere, I get an e-mail from the agent at the beginning of the new year. This year. She was interested again. She even sent my book with changes in it, suggestions to me, and wanted to know what I thought. I took her suggestions into consideration and formed the book into something even better. At least it was better by the standards of an important New York agent. I mean she LITERALLY took the time to break down every line into syllables and made sure it was pleasing to the ear. NOT something that you can do quickly. Not something you would do for the heck of it. She was clearly interested.

I told her that I was almost finished with a second book. She said she looked forward to reading it. I sent it to her and waited. Waited in that New York, cool, don't want to seem too desperate kind of way.

Anyhow, I stayed busy and didn't tell too many people.

A couple of weeks later I saw that I had received an e-mail from her. Heart pounding out of chest again.

The e-mail was titled, "APOLOGIES." Yes, in all caps.

She said that she was overextended and that it would be better for her and ME if I found someone else to represent my "lovely" book.

Seriously. Limbo for a year and a half!!!!!!! A year and a half that I could have been sending it out to other agents. A year and a half of my life wasted by waiting. Not like a job interview where you don't get the job. One hour of your time. Nope. A YEAR AND A HALF.

This time I didn't sob at my computer. I seem to be fluctuating between numbness and anger. Not ONE tear was shed. I couldn't cry even though I wanted to and thought I should.

Because see...I'm stubborn as all get out. And I believe in this book. I will wallpaper my laundry room with rejection letters if I have to. (Yes, I know that sentence ended with a prepositon, but this is my blog and I'm a rebel.)

And here is why I couldn't cry. Nothing worth anything is EVER easy. Maybe it took me almost 40 years to figure this out, but I now officially believe it. Yes, I'm sad. Yes, I'm mad. Yes, I kinda want to suck my thumb.

But my stubborness trumps all of that.

I cannot think of one successful person who has not had to power through failure. And I think the success is much sweeter if it wasn't handed to you on a silver platter.

So I allowed myself a few days to lick my wounds, and now I'm moving on. Yes, I know that I may never publish a book. And I know that most of you out there realize your dream may never come true.

But wouldn't you rather be on your death bed saying, "I did all I could do," rather than, "Wow, I should have gone for it?"

Of course you would.

NO MATTER WHAT, NEVER, EVER give up on your dreams. You are not truly living if you give up.

I know it may not happen for me. I'm not that crazy. Of course I realize that. It might not even be good. I could be delusional.

But if it does...oh my goodness...if it does???  

Well, I will be like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

I will take a trip to New York with my new book and head straight for that agents office and say, "Do you work on commission? Mistake. Big mistake."

True Friends Don't Grow on Trees

When I first moved to this area, I was a total mess. I didn't know anyone. I had gotten a job at The Birmingham News, but quit when I had a miscarriage (went a little cukoo I'll admit.)

Then, I was expecting again after six weeks and decided to stay home. I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. But it's hard to go from being a reporter working all hours to watching Oprah and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I was so lonely. I didn't know a soul, was new to the area, and it was the first time I didn't have a job. I was home alone all day, and was borderline nuts.

I remember staring out my window one day and watching all the dogs running around the neighborhood. I can't believe I am admitting this, but in my lonely boredom (all of you Ally McBeal fans will get this) I gave all the dogs "theme songs." There was this one brown dog who sort of swaggered through the neighborhood. His song was that one, (not sure of the title), but it goes, "Saturday...in the park...think it was the fourth of July...." Yep, that is the sign of someone teetering on the edge. I remember noticing another dog's impeccable posture. He seemed enigmatic.

Talk about pathetic. I had no family here, no friends, was pregnant, and had just quit my job. It was pretty much a recipe for disaster.

After I had my first child, when he was eight months old, I joined a Mom's Club in the area, It made all the difference in the world. Many of us have now gone our seperate ways, but they literally saved me. Who knew that adult interaction and contact was the key to everything. I learned an important lesson then. That no matter what the situation, isolation is NEVER the answer.

My children are almost five and eight now, I am almost 40, and I am proud to say that I have the best friends any girl could ever ask for in a million years. They enrich my life in ways that no words can describe.
Are we alike? Heck no. We could be the cast of Desperate Housewives. But that is the difference in 20 and 40. When you are 20, you think that you have to have so many things in common, all the same interests, the same backgrounds. When you are 40, or close to that, you embrace your differences, warts and all. I know I can say what I really feel, and they love me anyway. I know we can get irritated at each other, but we will get over it. Just like sisters do. We don't have a choice. We are one.

I spent the last few years of my life wanting everyone to like me...trying to be friends with everyone. But as I get older, I realize that is not how it works. If you can count your true friends on one hand then you are lucky. VERY lucky. True friends won't abandon you through the hard times, through the beligerent times, or through the PMS times. They care enough to love you through the thick and thin. It's not a superficial friendship, not a convenient friendship, but a friendship of sisterhood.

It's the friendships where you can say anything. "No, that outfit looks terrible on you." "If you cut your hair you will look older." "Yes, if you are ever in a coma, I will wax your lip." "If you wear a cowboy hat in Nashville, I'm going to pretend like I don't know you." Those are the friendships that matter.

The REAL friendships are those where you can be told the truth even if it hurts, even if you are mad, even if it takes a month to get over it. Because of the simple fact that they love you enough to tell you the truth.

Facebook has us trying to be "friends" with everyone. But honestly, if you can't call them at 2:00 a.m. crying for them to come over immediately, are they really friends or aquaintences?

My husband, who is 18 years older than me, always said that you can count your true friends on one hand. That is true. Oh, SO true. It just takes us a while to figure it out. True friends can fight and work it out. They can be honest. And they can be themselves, the good, the bad, and the ugly, and always feel accepted.

As we get older, with children and so many responsibilities, we realize that we can't be "true" friends with hoards of people. We can be friendly, of course. But true friendships take work, just like marriages. And if we aren't willing to nurture them, then they weren't our soul friends to begin with.

My mom has a group of friends that she has played cards with once a week since I was a small child. They still meet once a week to play cards. They have been through cancer, death, all the drama of raising children, and they are still going strong. I admire that so much. That is what life is all about.

They have been going strong for over 30 years. If that isn't friendship, I don't know what is.

All I know is this, there is nothing more important than family. But if you find friends...true soulmate type friends, then they are your family as well. And you need to fight to nurture that.

Because if you get that just once in a lifetime, you are very, very lucky.

Mel

Christians Should Read This, AND Those Who Are Not

The Grammy's aired this week. The "Academy" or whatever they are supposed to be called, allowed an utterly blasphemous performance on stage. Nicki Minaj, who apparently can't sing, decided on a blasphemous performance that the network thought was absolutely fine. There is also some speculation over whether the lead singer of the Foo Fighters was wearing an inverted cross or if it was in fact supposed to be something else. Anyhow, after the performance, people clapped, and we tuned in. The station made MONEY while we tuned in. Wait a minute. Wait one FLIPPING minute. Why was this okay? Why in the name of God-literally-was this okay? Would it be okay if someone made fun of the Jewish community on stage? Or Scientology? Would it be acceptable to mock Muslims? Would it be acceptable to take a dig at ANY minority group? Of course not!!! Groups would swoop in...OUTRAGED. Groups would boycott, the network would apologize. That is the very LEAST that would happen. So why in the WORLD are we Christians just sitting back and taking it? Why ate Christians always the ones who have to just take it? Well guess what? WE DON'T!!! We can write letters, e-mail, and demand an apology. We can make sure that when we are trying to be entertained we never have to see our beliefs mocked on a major network. Think about it. Melissa

Get it Together Hollywood

Quick comments tonight because FINALLY I am starting to get sleepy at a reasonable hour, and after a long, hard couple of months of insomnia, I feel like I need to take advantage of being groggy. But after hearing Adele sing on the Grammy's, I just had to comment. First off, I just find her absolutely captivating. Her voice is unbelievable. I'm not sure there is anyone who can deny that. But I didn't realize how absolutely beautiful she is. Stunning. I'm talking Elizabeth Taylor stunning. And I told my husband this as we were sitting there.

I find it absolutely unbelievable how Hollywood continues to turn into lollipops. Huge heads with anorexic looking bodies. This is happening to people more and more and to people who have always been an ideal size. It's like they get older and suddenly begin starving themselves because they think it will make them look better and younger and it only does the opposite. I've already heard of girls (thin, pretty girls) in elementary school who are talking about being fat. It is incredibly sad. Painfully sad.

When I think back to all of the people I consider GREAT beauties (and this list does not include Demi Moore or Kate Moss) I think of Sophia Loren, Grace Kelly, Elizabeth Taylor, Marilyn Monroe, Jaclyn Smith, even Christie Brinkley and Cindy Crawford. And the one thing they all have in common is that all of them were gorgeous, and all of them looked like REAL women. They looked healthy. I'm sure they also exercised and took care of their bodies by eating right, and none of them, not ONE of them looked sickly and thin and drank Red Bulls constantly or made themselves vomit to be skinny. To me, overly skinny does not look healthy. Overly skinny is NOT healthy. It makes women look older, wrinkly, unhealthy, and haggard. Not to mention that if they actually are anorexic, their lives are hanging in the balance.

Of course not everyone has the same body type. There are women who are eating a helathy number of calories and working out, who will NEVER EVER be a size 6. And if you are healthy, who cares if you wear a 2 or a 12? Healthy is healthy. I am NOT one of these people who thinks it's okay to eat junk, not exercise, and just embrace your bigger self. That is not a healthy message to send either. And that is why America is so obese. It seems like all the messages being sent are all wrong, and are one extreme or the other. "Big is beautiful, it's great to be big, and if you don't like it tough," isn't exactly what we want to teach our kids. Otherwise, they will eat Cheetos and play the Xbox all day. But we also don't want to say that thin is the only way to be. That only teaches kids to go to whatever length they have to-- to be thin. And that is a very scary and dangerous message to send.

Why can't we somehow find a way to teach kids to eat right, exercise, and know that HEALTHY is beautiful whether it's a size 2 or 12? We can put a man on the moon but we can't get this message across? I once got down to a size 4 (which is great on some body types) but was way too skinny on me. (Obviously this occurred a long time ago...ha!) Anyway, stress was the cause of my new smaller size, but I literally was questioned if I was anorexic. I had to have an MRI over it all. And I will be the first to say, I looked HORRIBLE. I truly did.

Other cultures have such a healthier mind set when it comes to women and beauty. Why can't we get with the program?

Oh, and by the way, that list of great beauties? I'm adding Adele.

And just remember, Michelangelo painted voluptous women, not lollipops downing Red Bull and scary diet pills...just sayin'.

Sleep tight!
Melissa

I'm Weird and I Know It. (Get the beat going in your head.)

People can pretty much be divided into two categories: those who have covered their hands in Elmer's glue and peeled it off, and those--who sadly--have not.

 

I was floored this weekend when I discovered that my husband had NEVER done this. It was pretty obvious that he had not when he watched me settle down all comfy in front of the TV with my hands covered in Mod Podge. I had just completed a Pinterest project that went awry, and I wasn't about to let the event end in a total loss. I was going to have myself a little fun.

I found it completely fascinating that there was anyone, especially someone in my own home, who had never done this. I truly thought everyone had. I boldly stated that I was certain that at least 80% have done this. My husband, however, was just as confident that many people had absolutely NOT done this.

 

So, folks, this is a blog on which I'm going to need some comments? Am I in the minority? I seriously want to know this.

So after being shocked that I might not be in the majority on this one, I started thinking of all of the odd things I did growing up. I began questioning my husband about various odd behaviors...

"Have you ever eaten Play-Doh?" He had not. I told him it was salty. He was glad to hear it. "Did you ever hum in class at your desk with your mouth closed while nonchalantly doing your homework to make your teacher think she was hearing things or going crazy?" Ummm, no again.

 

I didn't even ask him about tasting paper mache. And I especially would never tell him that it was when I was a senior in high school preparing for our play in which I played a nerd. I know, it's a stretch.

 

My husband is older than me. We have the whole May/December romance thing going. And that is a good thing. He is mature, I am not. When I do crazy things, he merely shakes his head. And I'm here to tell you people, he shakes his head a lot.

 

Just the other say I said, "It's good I have fingernails, now that I've grown them out. Now if someone attacks me I can for sure get their DNA."

 

Head shake.

 

I guess that's better than smiling and saying, "Sometimes you act as crazy as a run over dog." Which he has said to me, by the way. But he says it with love.

 

But I suppose I simply embrace my craziness. One of my favorite quotes I have hanging on my refrigerator states, "The only normal people are the ones you don't know very well." I TOTALLY believe that. Totally. I just happen to be one of those people who embrace my craziness. And hey, as long as you think you are crazy then you really aren't, right?

 

So I suppose some of these "quirks" as I like to call them have carried over into adulthood.

 

So I've started thinking of other odd things I do, and I guarantee that some of you out there are with me on some of these. Others, perhaps not.

 

I'll begin with one of the most odd, and *sigh* this is really putting myself out there. Here we go...I cannot bear to leave one vegetable on my plate. I imagine that it feels left out. That there is a whole party going on in my stomach that this one veggie is distraught over. That it is wondering what it did wrong. This all began when I was little. I don't know if someone said this to me, or if I came up with it on my own. Sometimes when I simply couldn't bear to stomach that last and final morsel, I would just rip in in half and make it into two.  I chose to think I was creating a "friend" for that last vegetable. Others might see it as vegetable dismemberment. If I had thought about this too much, this might have been a bit disturbing. Like something Jeffrey Dahmer might have done as a child.

 

I have even used this to try to get my youngest to eat lima beans. I used that crazy song from Yo Gabba Gabba. "There's a party in my tummy...so yummy, so yummy." So I told my four year old that there were limas in his tummy having a party and the other ones were feeling left out. He wasn't buying it. A few minutes later I heard him having a discussion with his lima beans. He pointed at them and said, "You are NOT invited to my birthday party, and you NEVER will be!" So much for that idea. He must really hate limas.

 

We also have an eyeball stuck to our ceiling. One of the kids during a Halloween party threw the pretend Halloween sticky eyeball up to the ceiling and it stuck. It is shockingly sticky. Beats anything I've ever seen. Anyone in her right mind would stand on a chair and take the darn thing down. Not me. I am fascinated by it. Even during Christmas, the celebration of the birth of our Savior, there was a big sticky eyeball right there on the ceiling that seems to be staring at you when you enter the room. I'm sorry, but that puppy is not going anywhere. My own personal goal is next Halloween. Let's see if it happens. There is no reward if it does. Just a personal accomplishment.

 

That no one would understand.

 

Have a great and quirky day tomorrow!

 

Melissa D.

Keep On Moving On

There is nothing worse than having potential good news at 11:45 at night. Everyone is asleep, and unless you are dying or having a baby, they probably won't be too happy for you to wake them up.

My husband shared in my excitement and then went to bed. My husband is happy and laid back, but not an excitable man. He has a Clint Eastwood type personality. Which is good, since I seem to have a Lucille Ball type personality. The most excited I have ever seen him is when our newborn peed into my mouth from across the room, as I mentioned in an earlier blog. But right now I need one of "my girls" to talk to...RIGHT NOW. I may just dig a hole and scream into it. I was literally shaking all over earlier.

 

If I hadn't just had wine (one glass), I would be tempted to go to the Waffle House and talk to someone, ANYONE. Surely someone would be there. And they would probably be drunk so they would be very receptive to letting me tell my story and probably agree with everything I said.

Today is a perfect example that we NEVER know what each day holds. We always tend to use that statement in a negative way. Sort of like, "Enjoy every moment because you never know what life changing horrible event can happen next." But we never focus on the positive things. For example, you could be sitting at Captain D's and someone could walk up an offer you the job of a lifetime. THE JOB OF A LIFETIME, literally, while you are popping a fried shrimp into your mouth. You just never know. But it reminds me of Field of Dreams. "Build it and they will come." Do what you love, and magical things will happen. 

 

So this blog is dedicated to a friend of mine. W--you know who you are. We all need friends who lift us up and celebrate in who we are. Friends who push us even when we don't want to be pushed. Who tell us the truth, even when we don't want to hear it.

 

It's fascinating to me that you can be sitting on the computer one minute just horsing around or playing Words With Friends on your phone and then suddenly--WHAM--you are inspired to do something crazy, take a risk, throw it out there. And then...WHOA! You get what you wouldn't even allow yourself to hope for. Right then. Unexpected. Random.

I'm sorry I can't go into details yet. I don't want to jinx myself. But let's just say that very soon, either all my dreams will come true, or you may find my curled up in my closet sucking my thumb. That's when I will need reinforcements. My family and friends. The true rocks of your life.

 

But I just had to let this all out, or I will never get to sleep. I still probably won't.

 

But the important lesson I've learned tonight is this. Sometimes you just have to stop waiting for the perfect moment. THERE NEVER WILL BE A PERFECT MOMENT FOR ANYTHING.

 

You have to stop worrying about the logistics of everything. Listen to Nike, and JUST DO IT!!! If someone rejects you because you worded something wrong or because of a typo, or because you didn't wear the right color for that interview, etc., well, that's just baloney. It's analysis paralysis, and it gets you nowhere. They either like you and what you have to offer or they don't. And if they don't, there is someone who will.

 

Keep on trucking.

 

Melissa

PS: All typos are to be blamed on the cheapest glass of red wine that Publix offers that was purchased to use in a crockpot beef tip recipe:)

We Will Be Sorry

Someday we are going to be sorry.

Not one fiber of my being is being judgmental. Trust me. I am on the exact same ship as everyone else. But it's a ship that all of us parents are on, and for the life of me, I don't know who is steering the boat.

But as sure as I sit here, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we are all going to be sorry.

We are going to be sorry that we didn't take more family walks. We are going to be sorry that most of our springs and falls were spent running from one sport to the next. And please don't get me wrong, I am a HUGE fan of sports. (If you need proof of this, my ring tone on my phone is Centerfield by John Fogerty because I am so pumped about upcoming baseball season.) I think sports are great for kids. I think they teach life skills, are great exercise, and they keep kids out of trouble. But I do think we will be sorry we did SO MANY sports, and that we did them so many nights a week, and that we will be sorry we didn't take more breaks.

We will be sorry that our children can beat the neighbor's high score on Mario Kart, but doesn't know how to skip a rock across the water. I'm ashamed to admit that my children have never even played charades.

We will be sorry we didn't throw the DSi's off the balcony, and put on our rubber boots and jump in every rain puddle we could find.
We will long for days laying in the grass looking at the clouds. We will wish we had read more, rushed less, and been more laid back.
Someday the laughter we hear outside will not be our children's, but the laughter of the children of our new, younger neighbors.
We will think back, and I don't know about you, but my heart and hugging arms will ache.

What if some of the money spent on traveling teams and hotel costs, Under Armour, and over the moon birthday parties was spent on family trips to interesting places like Nantucket or Washington D.C. There is a place-- in Oregon of all places-- where you sit around a campfire and tell stories at night, ride horses, and sleep in beautifully lit and incredibly high tree houses at night. I want to go there so bad it almost makes my stomach ache. And why don't I? What is keeping me from doing something so beautifully crazy? I could just go to Oregon, with the family, for no reason other than the knowledge that you only live once.

Why not? Why the heck not?

I can honestly say that there is not one minute during the day that I am with my children that I don't feel rushed. Even if we are reading together, I am still thinking about how I need to be starting supper, and the fact that we need to hurry because they need baths or showers, etc., or they won't get into bed on time and then they will be tired and won't do as well in school. In the morning I am a Marine sergeant with bad hair, sheet marks on my face, and an attitude. Our day is never started on a calm note. My oldest might as well be catapulted through the bus window with his jacket half on.

Recently, I have heard a clock ticking. A BIG clock. And it's not a biological clock. It's that clock that when you have children, begins to tick faster and faster each year.

It begins when you realize you are not their whole world anymore, when you realize that they would rather hang with the kid down the street for the umpteenth time than go with you to the movies and eat loads of popcorn and M&M's. It begins when they tell you something crazy great that happened at school, but it's news from a week and a half ago because they forgot to tell you. And it reminds you of those times when they were smaller and jumped into your car from preschool instantly and insanely ecstatic over a piece of paper with one purple line on it that they made for you.

And for those of us with sons, you lay there at night realizing that more than likely your son is going to follow the girl he falls in love with wherever she may go, and it's probably going to be somewhere like Nebraska. And if she wants to spend Christmas with her family almost every year, they probably will. Because she is the girl, and he is the boy whose job is to make her happy.

It's going to hit me one day. Did I really not play Scrabble so I could just finish that last load of laundry? Isn't striving for an uncluttered living area important? Won't that make us an even happer more efficient family?? Won't it??

But the truth of the matter is that one day they will be gone, and there won't be anything much to do except laundry.

That's when it will hit us. That's when we will be sorry.

Because once they have waved to us from that graduation line and gone on to Harvard, or Auburn, or the local commumity college, they are not going to want to learn how to skip rocks anymore.

The time will have passed. 

Stressed Mom's Cafe: Tuna Trouble

Stressed Mom's Cafe: Tuna Trouble: This blog today is dedicated to all of those moms out there who are still dealing with temper tantrums. I am fortunately past that phase wi...

Tuna Trouble

This blog today is dedicated to all of those moms out there who are still dealing with temper tantrums. I am fortunately past that phase with my children, and I really don't think my oldest ever really had a bad temper tantrum. I do recall having to carry him, kicking and screaming, out of a park once. So that certainly qualifies. And I have blocked out one episode at Target which left me sweaty and crying in the parking lot for over an hour. But this is the child that as I was changing his diaper said, "I feel so dehydrated." So he has been pretty verbal which eliminated many tantrums. My second child talked early too, but was born with colic and LOTS of emotion. More than his little body could sustain. The other day I found an e-mail that I had sent my friends about one of his tantrums. Even if your children are older, or even if you don't have any children, this still might give you a laugh. I don't really even remember being all that mad during this tantrum because it sort of seemed like a lab experiment gone wrong. It was scary and maddening and fascinating all at the same time. I never dreamed that I would offer up this e-mail from years ago as fodder for a blog, but it's just too strange not to share. Maybe there are some moms out there who will see the light at the end of the tunnel.

The funniest part is that I sent it out in response to a church morning devotion, so that was the title on it. I forgot to change the title to everyone at my church. It is clearly not a morning devotion, more like a morning glimpse of hell. So I retitled it. Here it is...

Tuna Trouble

 

This is most certainly not a morning devotion, but nevertheless might make someone smile out there
who is having a bad day.

This all started when I offered my youngest a bite of tuna fish. I was making a batch for
myself, and since he had never tried any (I was always hesitant because of all the mercury),
I decided to offer him a bite. BIG mistake. HUGE.

I asked if he would like to try some. He said yes, so I put a little piece on a fork and held it out to him.
He approached cautiously, but smiling. He got close to the fish but then backed away. This went on
over and over again. He wanted it, but then again he didn't want it. After going back and forth with this
one too many times, I finally gave up and put the bowl of tuna fish back into the fridge.

He completely melted. He began sobbing at the refrigerator door, begging for the tuna fish. This went
on for a while and against my better judgement, I got him one more bite. The same thing happened...yes,
no, yes, no. Exasperated, I threw his paper plate with a clump of the untried fish into the garbage. He
went into complete spaz out mode. Red faced. Glazed eyes. Sweating. Screaming bloody murder.
He gets the fish out of the trash, and I take the plate away from him, put it back in the trash, and then
stand in front of the trash. He throws himself down in front of the trash and rolls around screaming,
occasionally hurting his head on the hardwood floor because he is thrashing so much. I get disgusted and
leave the room and go to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Mommy needed a time out. He comes back there totally hysterical,
and doesn't see me laying on the bed. The bathroom door is shut and he thinks I'm behind the door. He
stands at the door sobbing until finally he sees a pile of clean clothes lying on the recliner. He (while still in
the full throes of a red-faced screaming fit) decided to throw all the clean clothes on the floor. I guess to
get me back for my mishandling of the tuna. Finally he sees me and follows me back out to the kitchen.
I begin laughing because it's either that or end up at the funny farm sitting in a corner chewing on my own
socks. Sooooooo......he sees me laughing and gets so mad that he is jumping up and down and hysterically
crying even harder. Ok, so there is one tiny piece of fish for him left....this is it....it's the finals. I give
him a Gerber fork with tuna and a piece of pickle. This is his chance to redeem himself. Well, he gets even
more hysterical, knocks the tuna and pickle off the fork, and is freaking out rolling around on the floor in
circles around the fish.

 

I have mentally decided that this child will never again be offered Omega 3's in his life.
I lean in to pick up the pickle and he hits Mach 3. Apparently I am supposed to step away from the tuna.
I at least manage to put the tuna back on the fork, which is now laying in the middle of the kitchen floor.
(It's been a half an hour by the way). So now he's on the floor having a fit, rolling around the tuna on the
fork like a beached mackerel. Finally after exhausting himself, he is just sprawled on the floor staring at the tuna on the fork, like
it's the holy grail or something. He is so tired from screaming for so long, his breathing is labored.

 

Finally, after what seems like hours, he gets up with the fork and tuna and wields it like he is doing the last lap of
the torch handoff at the Olympics. I clearly don't want tuna all over my house so I put the tuna away and
try to distract him with cartoons which doesn't work. He's in such a frenzy that I think his neurological
system is shutting down. He simply CANNOT calm down. So I take him downstairs to the
playroom...far, far away from any tuna or any mackaral, halibut, or bass for that matter. He WILL NOT
settle down, gets even more hysterical and then proceeds to vomit red berry Juicy Juice on my carpet.
That was it. He was done with the fit (approaching an hour long) and went off to play. He even handed
me something, I thanked him, and he said, "You're welcome," like nothing had ever happened.

Anyhow, I decided that day that I hate tuna fish.

 

Love,

Mel