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 ...