paint and parade

The last few days I've been doing a makeover on Kacey's room. There is still detail work to be done, like touch-up paint around the ceiling and floor, a bit more "staging", plus I'm not satisfied with the dust ruffle. It's too . . . cotton? Too . . . white? Anyway, I think I'm going to opt for a solid black one. So, here's the almost-finished room redo! I LOVE the color!


And yesterday's "Let's Face It' post was proof, not that I have too much time on my hands, but that I have a project to be done that I am procrastinating! But the goofy pictures came out of a little photo edit I did last week after getting some pictures of the guys playing basketball. This picture of "the twins" made me giggle:

But this little photo edit I did with the "twins" picture makes me just plain laugh out loud. I call it "The Mike & Kevin Parade" and I have set it as my desktop background:

let's face it

Let's face it. Goofy things happen when you have too much time on your hands and access to photoshop . . .

PHASE ONE: Birth to Old Age

1) An ultrasound image of my face (note the resemblance to E.T. with hair), and 2) how I might look with braces


1) How I see myself in the mirror, you know, without my glasses, and 2) what happens - I mean, WILL happen, one day in the far-away future when my membership to the Loreal Hair Club runs out

PHASE TWO: Almost famous

1) My audition photo for "The Blair Witch Project", which I didn't get, because I was clearly too happy and not overdramatically faking fear, and 2) My audition as a news anchor in "Independence Day" when the alien spacecrafts disrupt satellite transmission, a part which I also did not get because, again, I am WAY too happy for a hostile alien invasion.


1) "Persistence of Stephanie" by Salvador Dali, and 2) a photocopy of my face, because, well, no other body parts should EVER be photocopied. EVER. By anybody.

PHASE THREE: How you see me
1) I might look something like this if you got really tired of getting emails from me and decided to Saran Wrap my face and tell me to breathe deeply, and 2) how I look through the shower door . . . the cheesy grin is because you are naked, of course, since you would be the one in the shower, as I have on my suede jacket and there is NO WAY I am getting that baby wet.


1) How spiders, ticks, and ants see me as I am flushing them, and finally, 2) how I might look in your nightmare if you dreamed that Jay Leno and Chewbacca had a daughter. This is assuming Chewbacca is a girl. Which, I'm pretty certain, he is not. Hard to tell under all that hair.

Somebody help me. I think I've been breathing too many paint fumes . . .

double click

I love my computer, but it drives me crazy. It's a good computer, and fairly new, but . . .

1) Sometimes when I command a certain function, it overrides what I ask and does some random project I have no interest in, and . . .

2) It takes too long to process information. For example, when I am downloading photographs or making a video, it takes SEVERAL minutes to complete these projects, which leads to the fact that . . .

3) It won't let me start another project to work on while it is finishing the first project which causes me to want to double-click and triple-click in an effort to speed it up, which means. . .

4) It gets overloaded with the stress to handle multiple projects, so its solution is to lock up and shut down. Also . . .

Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Hold everything.

I love it, but it drives me crazy.
It ignores what I want and does its own thing.
It takes too long to process information.
It can't multi-task.
It shuts down when it can't deal with the stress.


My computer is a man.

It all makes so much sense now.

june 23

Today marks the day my sister died. I don't really feel the need to blog about it, so we'll just leave it at that.

speaking of pee . . .

Today, the cowboy met our son's alterego.

See, this morning my husband had to go pick up a piece of farm equipment. (I would tell you what it was, but I don't know, so you can just assume it has something to do with hay or manure or tractors or something equally fascinating.) But for whatever reason, he needed to pick this thing up at 7:30 this morning. Now, since he was just coming off a 12-hour midnight shift, he decided to take Kevin with him for company . . . you know, to help him stay awake while he was driving.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

So he woke Kevin, who rousted himself enthusiastically out of bed, said "GOOD MORNING DAD, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU THIS FINE DAY?", jumped into the nearest phone booth, and became (da da da da!): NARCOLEPSY BOY!

Apparently, Kevin managed to stay awake for about 15 minutes before he crashed and slept through the stop to get gas, the trip to the parts store, and the drive out to the trailer sales place.

Once they got home, however, Kevin did manage to wake up long enough to walk from the truck back into the house, hug me "goodnight" and go back to bed for a couple of hours.

I, on the other hand, had a VERY productive morning. Between 8:30 and noon I got on facebook, hung up the mountain of clothes that had mysteriously collected at the end of my bed, read 7 chapters in 3 different books (you know, because I'm a woman and I can do that), and then, being so exhausted from all the page-turning, went back to bed for a "power nap". I didn't get my power nap, however, because as soon as I got into bed I realized I needed to pee. My brain and my bladder began to converse.
BRAIN: "Just hold it and let me rest!"
BLADDER: "I can't. I'm full."
BRAIN: "But this is a "one facility" household and the potty is like 38 feet away. Deal with it."
BLADDER: "I can't. I'm full."

I didn't say it was an interesting conversation.

Anyway, continuing to think that somehow this urge would magically disappear, I just stayed in bed growing more and more uncomfortable. Besides, with the exception of my bladder, the rest of me was quite cozy. Why should one tiny little body part get to overrule what the rest of me wants to do? After 45 minutes of ridiculous procrastination, the brain caved and the bladder won out.

I can't wait to see what fascinating events occur in the second half of this day.

sunrise, sunset

Children grow up. It happens so gradually that, as a parent, you sometimes don't even realize it until one day they are married and living in Indiana and you can't get the words to "Sunrise, Sunset" out of your head.

Other times they seem to grow up right in front of your eyes. That's what happened this past week with Kevin. Yes, his bass voice has been deepening for some time, and he surpassed me in height about a year ago, but I'm talking about the stuff that is more than physical. I'm talking about the stuff you hope and pray for. The stuff like: Taking middle-schoolers under his wing to make sure they feel accepted in our youth group (especially the 6th grade boys). Taking steps to go above and beyond to be helpful, at home and elsewhere (like last Friday when I came home from work to find the yard mowed, the kitchen cleaned, floors swept, laundry and dishes done, and the entire house vacuumed & dusted). Taking steps, with a friend, to start his own business (he and Deecke are detailing cars). Taking a little more care to say say nice things and not ALWAYS go for the cheap joke. Taking a leadership role among his peers (like initiating the Cabin 1 devo at camp this week with a prayer, song & opening question). Taking note of little acts of kindness and following through (like clearing away other people's trays after dinner this past week, and being more concerned with the little kids on his team getting a chance to participate more than being concerned about winning). Taking a big brother role with a 7-year-old who thinks he is something special (Micah - Kevin carried him on his shoulders for 2 days and cried for a half hour when he left). Taking on the responsibility of helping out with the tech stuff during the camp talent show (even though he really wanted to be sitting with his friends). Taking time to thank those who are making a difference in his life. Taking his faith to a deeper level.

At least 7 staff members made a point to brag on him to me this week, and even though he was only the "Camper of the Week" runner up, in my book he wins, hands down.

Thank you, God, for allowing me to watch my boy, my son, my baby, my Kevie-poo become a man right in front of my eyes. I could not ask for a greater blessing.

friday five

5 things I do when I can't sleep:
pray
blog
dream about the "what ifs"
listen to music
get on the computer

5 things that scare me:
losing my sight
heights (occasionally)
down escalators
losing relationships
not ever becoming who I was meant to be

5 things I don't like to spend money on:
haircuts
anything medical
cars
shoes
jewelry

5 things I would like to do more:
play games
be outside
cook
read
spend time with the people I love

5 things that annoy me:
rude drivers
invasive children
people who don't do what they say they are going to do
my own forgetfulness
selfishness

5 things I can't do that I wish I could:
bob my head (to the side)
whistle
speak a foreign language
tan
sing soprano

5 songs I ALWAYS crank up when I hear them:
Flood, Jars of Clay
Me and Julio, Simon and Garfunkel
The Remedy, Jason Mraz
Shackles, Mary Mary
Entertaining Angels, Newsboys

Home from camp tomorrow! Have a GREAT weekend!

love language . . . ???

I really think my love language is "Physical Touch". I am definitely a touchy, feely, huggy kinda gal. My daughter, however, has taken great issue with this ever since I posted a Facebook quiz that she basically failed. :o)

So, in fairness to her, I found 3 or 4 "love language" quizzes and took them. Turns out, she may be right. I discovered that my love language is somewhat different, depending on the person expressing themselves to me. Overall, my scores showed "Words of Affirmation" (42%) ranking slightly higher than "Physical Touch" (37%). Not surprisingly, "Quality Time", "Acts of Service", and "Receiving Gifts" all stayed in the 7% range.

So maybe, in some ways, Kacey knows me better than I know myself.

What this really means is, when you hug me, just go ahead and tell me I'm wonderful.

It's a win-win.

. . . which caused me to ask myself:

Be the donkey
A few days ago while I was driving, I popped in one of Mike's old sermons. It began playing somewhere in the middle, and the first words he spoke were, "Surely the Messiah would come riding on the back of a stallion."

*Which caused me to ask myself:
Who, exactly, is "Shirley the Messiah"?

Beware of falling hares
Lately Kevin and I have been noticing quite a few rabbits hopping across our road. Occasionally we see the little cotton-tail critters scampering across the part of our road that passes over the interstate. I'm talking straight across the road on the overpass. Perpendicular, if you will . . . AND at rapid speed. Right over the interstate. And I mean, bunnies are pretty zippy little hoppers. Kevin and I keep wondering, "Where do they go when they hop under the guard railing?"

*Which caused me to ask myself:
Do we need to post one of these on the interstate below?

Coffee la Pew
Finally, my friend Jessica does not like coffee. Doesn't even like the smell of coffee. Or so she says. Now, I have not always been a coffee lover either, but I have always thought it smelled yummy. Jessica, however, says that coffee smells like skunk. When she said this, I gave her my best "YOU SO CRAZY!" look. She then told me to find out for myself. She said the next time we drive past a dead skunk, we should breathe deeply, exhale slowly and see if the last whiff doesn't smell like coffee.

So yesterday Kevin and I encountered a roadkill Peppy la Pew and decided to test her theory. We each took a deep breath of the putrid stench, exhaled with our faces all cinched up, and agreed: COFFEE does NOT smell like skunk. GROSS! Wait a minute . . . Jessica just got us to willingly and deeply inhale skunk-scent.

*Which caused me to ask myself:
Were we just the victims of a brilliantly understated practical joke?

my friend stephanie

Do the Bump

Kacey complained a couple of weeks back about getting "bumped" off my blog list, so I moved her back to the top of the list. . . then I happened to notice: I WAS NOT at the top of HER list! I complained. I protested. I screamed "unfair"! She argued that her hubby was at the top of her list, even though he has not blogged in 13 months! So I moved her back down my list.  We have since found a compromise. You will note I am now at the top of her blog list, and she is the top of mine as well . . . at least for now. :o)

The Song Stylings of Daughter-Face

Last Friday I was hand-folding newsletters - a tedious, occasional aspect to my job.  Kacey wrote me a song in honor of the event: (Sing to the chorus of "America, America, God shed His grace on thee.")

"Tedium, oh Tedium, we fly our flags for thee. Through long and short, you're our cohort who keeps us company."

She is OH, so talented, AND she gave me permission to blog about her awesomeness. As I always say . . . it's a good thing she's pretty.

My Friend Mike:
Mike brought a cd for me to listen to. The name of the band is "My Friend Stephanie". Made me smile.  Mike's "Friend Stephanie" is pretty groovy. (In case you didn't catch that, I was saying that the band called, "My Friend Stephanie" is pretty groovy, but also made a little play on words that Mike's friend Stephanie, meaning me, is also pretty groovy. I hate having to explain a joke. Keep up.)


Birthday Sushi:

We told Sara (E.T.'s mom) to pick where she wanted to go eat for her birthday last week. She didn't really want to pick, but confessed afterward that she felt she HAD to because she was afraid we might force her to partake in Birthday Sushi! So funny! Really, Sara, we rarely force raw fish on anyone. Occasionally the cat, but I don't think dead goldfish count.

Bizarre dreams:

In one: I dreamed I was driving with my feet from the backseat and could somehow control the direction, but not the speed. I finally got the car pulled over, did a "Chinese Firedrill" to the driver's seat, and then got frustrated because Kevin and his little brother (HUH? WHO?) were talking to me from the backseat and my ears were clogged and I couldn't hear them. VERY FRUSTRATING DREAM.

In two: I was collecting bugs on the balcony of Kacey's apartment, only Mike & Sara lived there. I was picking up all manner of insects with giant tweezers and tossing them down to the first floor. One of the bugs I picked up was about 9" long, green, rubbery and split at one end. Greg said, "Hey, Steph! You caught a Gumby bug!" I thought to myself, "OH! So THAT'S where Gumby got his name!"

In three: I dreamed I talked Hershey into making s'more-sized chocolate slices. Kind of like American Cheese - really thin and the exact size of graham crackers. Even after I woke up I thought it was pretty brilliant.

In four: Kevin had been washing cars on the driveway in his bare feet and then got into my bed with black toes. I sat on the bed and washed his feet with wet wipes.


Apparently it is genetic:

My son is goofy. And everytime he does something goofy, annoying, irritating, etc. he claims some lame excuse like, "He started it!" or "It wasn't me!" And since his mother is not at all prone to such lies, I have been perplexed as to the origin of this malarky. So Sunday we are having lunch with my family. Kevin and my niece are throwing spitwads across the table until my mother has "had enough"! A minute later my DAD throws one at Kevin! Mom looks at him and says, "I just told the CHILDREN to stop!" My dad, wise shepherd that he is, pointed to Kevin and said, "He started it!" I'm still chuckling. Good to know that trait skips a generation.

two men and a baby . . . (subtitled) "urine" trouble now

PROLOGUE:
If you recall, some months back, a little boy named Corban spent a few days with us while his parents were interviewing for a job in Oklahoma. He is adorable and funny and really liked "ShooperMan!" Well, when Corban was a bit younger and his mom was giving birth to his baby brother, Mike & Sara kept Corban and his sister overnight, then Mike brought the kids to work with him the next day. Here's where our story begins:

CAST:
Mike: associate minister
Corban: cute toddler
Yours Truly: innocent bystander next door
Terrell: Senior minister, and all-around good guy

SETTING:
Our church offices . . . and other nearby facilities










ACT ONE:
Once upon a time there were two small children happily playing in the church nursery and offices. The "littlest" of the two keeps wandering down the hall to (read in toddler voice) "Go shee Mike". He likes Mike. And Mike likes him. Corban sits in Mike's lap while Mike works on his computer. Life is good. Suddenly, Mike becomes, shall we say, warmer than usual . . . particularly in (make throat-clearing sound) THAT area. Warmer, and wetter. He looks down and notices the front of his jeans are wet.

ACT TWO:
Being a pretty bright guy, Mike realizes he has just been peed on by Corban. We don't know what Mike's first thought is, but his first word is (read in grossed out, slightly frantic, higher-than-usual baritone voice) "STEPH!"

I quickly go to see why my name had been called in that "PLEASE HELP ME" tone, though I suspect I already know. I enter to find Mike sitting in his chair, lap wet, Corban being held out by his armpits a foot off the floor and as far away from Mike's body as his arms will allow, and a puddle on the floor. I laugh. I don't know how long or how loud, but I definitely laugh. The pitiful look on Mike's face says, "Ewwwwwwww. . . What do I do NOW?"

ACT THREE:
Nearly running, we head for the men's bathroom - Corban in front (as Mike is still holding him at arm's length), then Mike, then me. Mike quickly pushes open the door of the men's bathroom with his elbow with enough force to hold the door in an open position, and I follow him right in.

ACT FOUR:
Unbeknownst to us, Terrell is sitting in an open stall, and shocks us both by saying, (read in externally calm yet internally freaked out preacher voice) "Uhhhh . . . you'll have to take a number."

ACT FIVE, THE FINAL SCENE:
Awkwardly embarrassed that we have forced our way in to an uncomfortable situation, and yet still pee-covered, Mike instantly pushes around me and makes a bee-line for the women's restroom across the building. I follow a few steps only to realize the men's room door is still standing open. I freeze. For a split second my mind races . . . "Mike needs help. Terrell, well Terrell's privacy is not being protected. What to do?" I dart back inside the men's room, inside the men's room, where Terrell is . . . well, you know, and closed the door.

EPILOGUE:
I learned three important things that day:
1) Wet jeans dry very slowly.
2) Other people's discomfort is downright hysterical.
3) Terrell has really white knees.

all Saturdays should be this good . . .

When your day starts with a retreat at a lake cabin, ends with sushi and somewhere in the middle you help a mom bring a gorgeous baby boy into the world, it has been a good day. Yesterday was that day.

As I was leaving for the retreat yesterday morning (just a one-day working retreat), my cell phone rang. I knew the number and laughed out loud before I answered it. Sure enough, this first-time mom was in labor. It was early and she was fine, but wanted to let me know so I could be prepared. So, I went on to the retreat and participated in the morning's events. Three hours later she called again, well actually, her husband called that time which is always a sign that it is time for me to be there.

When I arrived she was 3 cm. and laboring on the birth ball (a GREAT place for early labor - keeps you in a semi-squatting position and takes the pressure off the lower back), I took a chair in front of her and we spent 45 minutes or so breathing and moaning and talking. Others took turns rubbing her back, getting her juice, getting the tub ready with warm water. After awhile we walked through the house, winding our way through all the rooms, stopping to let her lean on me and rock through each contraction. Once the tub was ready, she couldn’t get in it fast enough. There were four of us attending to her (hubby, mom, birth attendant and me) and we all circled the tub - which was perfect because she could not stay still. Almost with every contraction she changed position. Within 2 hours she was fully dilated, and by mid-afternoon her baby boy had arrived. A first birth. A fast birth. A perfect birth.

And, I was finished early enough to have sushi with Mike and Sara.

Saturday was a good day.

the family bed . . .

For the last several years Kevin’s room has consisted of a GIANT toy chest, a “top bunk only” bunk bed, and his drum set. A few weeks ago he disassembled said bunk bed and cleaned out his room.

Now, he says, he is ready for bedroom furniture, particularly a bed.

Understandable really, since he has slept in his room . . .
Well, let’s stop and do the math here:
BIRTH to AGE 5 - we did the “family bed” thing so he slept in our room;
AGE 6 to AGE 12 - he slept in his sister’s room on her trundle bed;
AGE 12 ½ to AGE 12 ½ - when Kacey left for college, he slept on his bunk bed intermittently for a few nights (once “sans clothing” just to see what it was like);
AGE 12 to LAST NIGHT - he has been sleeping in his sister’s room on the Sleep Number Amazingly Comfortable Queen Size Throne-Bed, set to “12” so it is like he is sleeping in a bag of really fresh marshmallows.

Out of the last 6,000 days of his life he has slept in his room a grand total of like (drum roll, please) 8 times, and that is counting the times he fell asleep when I sent him to his room and forgot about him.

So, of course, it stands to reason that NOW, with just months left before college, he wants to actually move into his own bedroom. Go figure.

no caffeine after the sun goes down

It’s hard to admit when you’ve been a bad parent, but I’ve been a bad parent lately.

I don’t like this whole “growing up” thing. (I mean for myself, not the kids. Shallow and sarcastic are so much easier than deep and mature, despite what ANYBODY1 says . . . )

I liked when the kiddos were little and I had the final say. I liked when the biggest decision we had was whether or not it was too late in the day for caffeine. (Sidebar: the rule was “no caffeine after the sun goes down”, which makes good sense at 8:30 p.m. in the summertime, but is open for debate at 4:45 p.m. in December.)
So, anyway, I’ve been ticked off at my son because he made a decision I didn’t like. I’m not saying it was a wrong decision, it was just one that I advised against but he chose to go his own route despite my mothering. (Imagine . . . 16 and wanting to make your own decisions!) And I’ve been pretty relentless at giving him grief. Playfully . . . but not really. Last night he had all could take and we had what could almost be considered an argument. Only nobody yelled or cried. We talked for a long time. He apologized for being disrespectful. I apologized for giving him such a hard time. I love that my kids will talk to me even when I’m difficult.

If they didn’t, my life would be pretty darn quiet. :o)

it skips a generation

My son is goofy. And everytime he does something goofy, annoying, irritating, etc. he claims some lame excuse like, "He started it!" or "It wasn't me!" And since his mother is not at all prone to such lies, I have been perplexed as to the origin of this malarky.

So Sunday we are having lunch with my family. Kevin and my niece are throwing spitwads across the table until my mother has "had enough"! A minute later my DAD throws one at Kevin! Mom looks at him and says, "I just told the CHILDREN to stop!" My dad, wise elder that he is, pointed to Kevin and said, "He started it!" I'm still chuckling.

Good to know that trait skips a generation.

quite an entrance . . . and exit

So when I met Ashley at the hospital the other day I was looking for room 217. Walking down the hall, the doors were in pairs: 212 & 213, wall space, 214 & 215, wall space, 216 & the door into which I entered. It was long, narrow and dark, but one entire wall was fold-out doors. I peeked through to see Steven and Ashley on the other side, so I entered. They both looked up, a bit shocked and then laughed. Apparently, from their point of view, the doors I came out of looked like their closet. So Ashley enjoyed telling people her doula "came out of the closet."

Seventeen hours later, when I left room 217 (no, we weren't in there ALL day, but we did start and end there), I walked back down the hall, pushed the elevator "down" button (yes, I know, I could have taken the stairs. It was only one level. It was a LONG day! DON'T JUDGE ME!) So anyway, I pushed the down button, waited a few seconds, the door opened and I entered the elevator. The door closed. I waited. After a minute or so the door opened again. Steven got on. Then Steven laughed at me. Apparently, I got on the elevator and was so tired I forgot to push the button for the lobby. So I was just standing there inside the elevator, leaning against the wall and waiting . . .

Yeah, I know.

the beginning of a life story

Today I just want to blog. There is so much in my head and so little time to get it on “paper”.

First, NinjaPrincess . . . thanks for the doula confidence. I’m not sure exactly how far away you are, but I think it would be pretty doggone cool to be your doula should you need one! However, I really like to meet people's faces before I . . . well, before I meet others parts of them, so maybe one of these days when I am passing through your stomping grounds we can “MEET” for lunch!

Second, Ashley’s precious second little girl entered the world last night. Though I have many things I could blog about this, and even though Ashley has given me permission to blog about it, I still feel that moms reserve the right to tell their own birth stories. So . . . suffice it to say that:
1) Ashley was a TROUPER! She had one tough labor, but she held in there and did the work. I’m very proud of her. She labored for 26+ hours (depending on how you count it) and never once told me she hated me!
2) Arrogance is an ugly, ugly trait. Especially when it comes from medical professionals. That is all I am going to say.

About my doula role: It is a nearly impossible thing to describe. Sometimes frustrating. Sometimes entertaining. Sometimes hard. But always, always such a privilege. Sometimes my role is to be invisible . . . to make sure everything in the background is taken care of, from finding socks to giving backrubs, without ever being an intrusion. Sometimes my role is front and center as “coach”, allowing dads or grandmothers or sisters to come and go, take pictures, whatever. Often my role falls somewhere in the middle, just helping dad be an effective birth partner.

Last night was definitely a “front and center” experience. Being face to face with a laboring mom, and I mean really face to face, holding her head, whispering in her ear, helping her understand the importance of what she is doing. If you have ever been on the receiving end of such encouragement, you know the value of it, but let me tell you, being on the giving end is pretty amazing.

Then there is the whole blessing of being at the beginning. To be there for the first gasp, the first cry, the first locked glance between mother and child, the first chapter of someone's life in God's story.

Ashley: Thanks for letting me be part of Chapter One.

life is hard, then you die

There is a reason God wants me to confess. No, there are multiple reasons God wants me to confess.

1) Without confession, there is no admission of guilt. Without an admission of guilt, there can be no real change. Without real change, there is no hope of becoming who God calls me to be.

2) Without confession, I put up a façade. Others believe my life to be “nice” or “happy” or “insert adjective here”, thus removing any chance of being a blessing to those who may struggle with the same difficulties as mine, making me fairly useless for God's purposes.

3) Confession keeps me humble. And, I guess a healthy dose of humility wouldn't hurt me from time to time.

4) Confession holds me accountable to the people who listen. And hopefully, those who listen will HOLD me accountable. (Though sometimes finding the right person to listen can be difficult.)

5) Confession teaches me discretion. Some things can be shared with the world, but some are for your ears only. By trusting other people with my dirty laundry, I learn the importance of keeping a confidence.

6) Confession reminds me that I am lost without my Savior.


The downfall in confessing is that you make yourself vulnerable.

The downfall in listening to someone else confess is that you make yourself responsible.

I wrote this several weeks back, but didn't ever post it. I decided to post it today because in the last few weeks, God has sent several people my direction, each of whom are going through a life circumstance similar to something I have gone through. I don’t know if I'm any help or not, but I listen and pray, and do my best to be responsible with the follow-up.

Also, posting my “dirty emotional laundry” a few weeks back brought me encouragement from people and places I never expected.

Then this whole "obsessing about my compulsive sarcasm" thing has me analyzing myself and thinking about the whole realm of what it means to be an encouragement to others.


When Kevin whines about something I usually tell him jokingly, “Life is hard, then you die.” But it’s not really a joke. Life IS hard. And just when you think there is a light at the end of the tunnel, sometimes you find out the light is from an oncoming train.

But the one thing I do know for sure is: we aren't alone. Wherever we are, whatever we have been through, the world is full of people who have been and are going through the same thing. Even more specifically: wherever we are, whatever we have been through, the CHURCH is full of people who have been and are going through the same thing. THE SAME THING. We aren't alone. We aren't outcasts. We aren't failures. We are just human.

That's all. I hope you have had a wonderful day. :o)

not quite a nuclear disaster

Several events mark 1986 as an important year in history:
Challenger Explosion
Chernobyl Nuclear Disaster
Iran Contra Scandal (Who can forget Oliver North?)
Haley’s Comet
Hands Across America
Statue of Liberty's 100th Anniversary

Somewhere in the midst of that, another event occurred. Lasting 32 hours, this event was so monumental I will never forget where I was when it happened. I will never forget how I felt, who was with me, nor my feelings before, during and after.

Several months prior to this monumental event, my husband and I left the “Lower 48” and moved 4,200 miles away to Anchorage, Alaska where he would serve his tour of duty at Fort Richardson. We had a going-away party with our families, and as we were leaving my mother screamed out these final parting words . . . “Don’t you go and get pregnant!”

I didn’t MEAN to. Really. But “the pill” and I were not good friends. Frankly, she made me sick. And cranky. And, well, after a few months, I gave up trying to make our relationship work.

Enter military work hours: Month gone. Weekend home. Month gone again.

If the FBI were to interrogate me under bright lights with toothpicks holding my eyes open and ask, “What happened on the night of November 9, 1985?” Well, duh. That’s a no-brainer. Remember? Month gone. Weekend home. Month gone again.

Barely 22 and a baby on the way.

Having two “doula births” in May and talking with the moms always brings up those first-time pregnancy memories for me. Those months of walking every day, no caffeine, prenatal vitamins, swollen ankles, childbirth books, unending questions, and dreading the unknown.

So, in the late summer of 1986, I gave birth to my baby girl, after 32 hours of difficult back labor. To this day, my daughter still claims, “the harder the birth, the better the kid.” Not sure I can agree with her on that completely, but I’m sure glad (for once) I didn’t heed my mother’s instructions.

i choose to think of it as a genius flaw

Okay, I have this “quirk” in my brain. I have a hard time “seeing” certain things . . . like how to use a sewing pattern, or how to correctly miter corners, (trust me, the inability to properly miter corners becomes an issue at least once a decade), or these horrendous IQ test problems:

Which solid could you make by folding the pattern on the dotted lines?









Uh . . . E. a Chinese take-out box?

Apparently I have “mental rotation” and “spatial relation” issues. I choose to think of it as another “genius flaw”, much like wearing my shirt inside-out all day long. Only much more frustrating. Much, much more.

When Kevin was in-utero, I was sewing this snuggly-thing for him. Basically it was a fleece wrap with feet, wings and . . . a hood. I TRIED to follow the pattern. Really, I did. But after sewing the hood on backwards at least 3 times, I gave up. Then at 35 weeks pregnant, I had to put myself on bedrest. (The frustration with the snuggly and the bedrest are supposedly unrelated . . . I have my doubts.)

Anyway, after a week on bedrest, my nesting instinct got the best of me and I just HAD to vacuum the house and FINISH that stupid snuggly which had been spread out on my kitchen table the entire time. Vacuuming, I am happy to say, went just fine. Sewing however, did not. After multiple times of attaching the hood in various incorrect ways, I yelped a scream of attack, much, I imagine, like a Pygmy warrior battle cry, and threw a spool of thread against the wall. (This is, VERY UN-ME-like.) My husband came in to console me and then asked, “You want me to finish it for you?”

Finish it FOR me?!?!?! NO! This is a matter of principle! A matter of pride! A matter of doggone-it-I’m-an-intelligent-human-being-and-I-am-capable-of-sewing-a-stupid-hood-on-a-baby-snuggly!!! Besides, he had never even used a sewing machine before. So . . . I said “SURE!” knowing he would mess it up and see how hard it was!

He sat down to the Singer, put his foot to the pedal, and zapped that sucker right on the first time. Took him all of 45 seconds.

It’s hard to be grateful and furious at the same time.

Labor started a couple of hours later, so grateful won out.

vehicular homicide and carnapping

I am not a car person. By that, I mean I don't know anything about them. Don't care to. Don't notice what other people drive. Don't care what I drive as long as it doesn't embarrass me . . . and has a/c and a cd player. :o)


Kevie-poo has been driving for some 10 weeks now. He does not like driving. Neither does my daughter. I don't get it. I really like driving. I love road trips. I want to be the one behind the wheel. The cowboy says it's because I'm a control freak. I think it's because my brain is so used to multi-tasking I don't know what to do with myself when I am in passenger-mode. Anyway . . . I credit Kevin's lack of enthusiasm for driving to two factors: 1) He is driving my green Taurus, not exactly the coolest car on the block, and 2) I don't allow him to listen to music during this training phase. And since Kevin is all about the tunes, he would rather I drive so he can jam.

All this blogging about cool cars reminds me of my first car: A red 'vette. Seriously. Was given to me when I was 19. (Hey, didn't Prince sing a song about that?)

She was pretty.
Two-door.
Gray interior.
Keyless ignition.
Dull paint job.
Used more oil than gas.
Cool hatchback.

Oh, did you think "CORvette"? I meant "CHEvette". The best thing about it was if you pedalled really hard, you could hit 55 going downhill, just like the Flintstones! And the keyless ignition just meant it was so worn out that you could start it just by turning the ignition-thingy. Which, being a college student, was kinda handy because I didn't have to carry around my keys with me.

However, once my guy friends at the student center discovered this quirky little issue about my 'vette I started "losing" my car. Or rather, they started "stealing" my car and hiding it in various places around campus. So, I would leave class on a rainy day, run to the parking lot to jump in my car only to find . . . no car. Well, lots of cars, actually . . . just not mine! So, there I would stand in the middle of campus, looking very Sissy-Spacek-in-Carrie-like (just soaked in rain, not pig's blood), pitifully wondering which direction to go to start looking for my lost little vehicle.

Nothing quite like practical jokes and good friends.

stories collide

Story #1
A few months ago my daughter was coming home for the first time since her wedding. We were doing quite a bit of texting about where we were going to eat out and what dvd’s were going to “make the cut” for our weekend viewing. We really only had time for 2 or 3 plus a couple of Gilmore Girls episodes thrown in for good measure.

Now, to fully appreciate the relationship my daughter and I have, you have to understand that we are two very independent women connected by one brain, one heart, an appreciation for support bras, and a list of 325 movies. Movie watching is like breathing, and to be honest, movie heckling is part of the fun as well. Most people would HATE watching movies with the two of us. (We do, however, realize this and do our best to be on “good behavior” when watching movies with others or in the theater!)

Story #2
A friend’s daughter was getting married the same weekend Kacey was planning to come home. Though this young lady and her boyfriend had been together for some time, the wedding was a quick decision. I had told my friend I would like to speak to her daughter about her decision to get married, as there was a concern I had and wanted to be certain she was taking this step for all the right reasons.

My friend encouraged me to speak with her daughter about her marriage plans.

Stories #1 and #2 collide:
So Kacey’s list of potential weekend movies arrived to my cell phone, minus her very favorite, “Love Actually”. (Hey, any movie that combines Hugh Grant and Liam Neeson deserves frequent viewing.)

I texted: love actually is not there (knowing my daughter would understand that her favorite movie was not included on the list.)

My friend received: love actually is not there and rightfully concluded that I thought her daugher did not love the man she was planning to marry! My friend quickly responded to assure me they were confident their daughter was, indeed, in love.

I quickly scrolled through my “sent” texts. After gasping, and then laughing, at my missent text, I immediately dialed her number and explained to her that “ ‘Love Actually’ is not there” was a text intended for my daughter about her movie choices and NOT about HER daughter’s marriage choices!

Oh, I love my cell phone. And Hugh Grant. But that's another blog.

saddles, cell phones and the futility of ironing

Yesterday the cowboy totalled his truck and horse-trailer in northern Florida. He is okay, except that he has a mini-van rental to bring home saddles, luggage and such in. He called to complain that "cowboys" don't drive mini-vans. He is really going to miss his pretty black pickup. Of course we just got it paid off last month . . . isn't that just the way it goes!?

Several people asked if he was going to continue on to Ocala to compete this weekend. My only response to that is, "Do you KNOW my husband????" Of course he is going on to compete. He is staying in a motel instead of the trailer, and he is having to eat out every meal since all of his groceries, plus the fridge and microwave were destroyed in the rollover. So . . . this is going to turn out to be a much more expensive trip than he planned.

I bought the very un-techy cowboy a Go Phone before he left so he would have a way to keep me updated about the competition. I don't want to say he complained about my purchasing the phone, but he made it known that it was NOT his idea to get the cell phone. He called me SEVEN times yesterday. Not to mention all the calls he made to the insurance company, the car rental agency, the Mustang Makeover coordinators, etc. I think, in retrospect, he might actually appreciate the phone. :o)

Okay, so here's the real kicker in this whole process. Before he left I washed and IRONED his competition shirts. Yes, I said IRONED. There are two of them, and they are white with embroidered insignia all over them. Oh, and did I mention they are COTTON? And that I IRONED them? You have to understand, I don't iron. Ever. That's why God created Downy Wrinkle Release Spray and the "fluff" setting on the dryer. When I bought an iron for Kacey before she went to college, she had to ask me what it was. Oh, the sarcasm. So, anyway . . . those beautiful, crisp, white, wrinkle-free cotton shirts ended up crumpled under shards of broken glass and busted cans of food, thus reinforcing the futility of ironing in the first place.

So . . . it's competition time. "Break a leg"! No, let me rephrase that. "Knock 'em dead!" No, you almost did that too . . . well, anyway, good luck with the horse show. Though I am sure there are infinitely better things to do in Ocala.

if John Hancock can do it . . .

Only two people signed the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776: John Hancock and Charles Thomson. Most of the rest signed on August 2, but the last signature wasn't added until 5 years later. Five. Years. Later.

Why?

I’ll tell you why: because men can’t make decisions.

Example: Today as Kevin was driving into town at a speed of 55 mph, the light ahead turned yellow. Being in that “iffy” state between stopping too hard and the risk of running a red light, he STARTED to stop hard, changed his mind, sped up, decided he really couldn’t make it, then stopped again . . . in the middle of the intersection. He then drove on through the red light. It was, quite literally, like playing “Red Light Green Light”. His big mistake: INDECISION.

Now, lest you think this to be a male-bashing blog, let me say, in all fairness, we women are just as indecisive. We have all had this discussion with our significant other: “Where do you want to go for dinner?” “I don’t care.” “Come on, honey, I want you to choose.” “No, I truly don’t care, you pick.” . . . ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

Why won’t SHE pick? Because she truly doesn’t care. Plain and simple. She is hungry or tired or just totally grateful to not have to cook dinner. Whatever you choose really is fine with her . . . unless, of course, you choose someplace she doesn't want to go.

Why won’t HE pick? Because he doesn’t know how.

I believe this starts because boys have attention spans equivalent to the length of time it takes to blink.

We diligent moms know our boys are easily distracted. We try to keep it simple. We try to be specific. We try to communicate.

At age 6:
Mom says: “Go pick up your Legos, put them in your Lego box, and put the box in the closet.”

He hears: “Legos.”

Three minutes later he is floating a Lego-boat in the toilet because when he began picking up the blocks he ran across the little “sail” piece and got distracted.

At age 9:
Mom says: “Go get ready for bed.”
He hears: “Bed.”

So when you go tuck him in, you find him in bed, clothes still on, teeth unbrushed, still needing to use the bathroom.

At age 12:
Mom says: “Go to your room, hang up your clean clothes, and put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket.”

He hears: “Go to your room”

Fourteen seconds later the amnesia has kicked in and he is standing in the doorway of his bedroom wondering why he is there.


So, in an effort to eliminate frustration (mainly mine!), I began to give step-by-step instructions to my little man:
“Kevin, go to your room, tell me when you get there.”
“Okay, mom”
“Hang up your khaki pants. Tell me when you have done that.”
“Okay, mom”
“Pick up your dirty socks. Tell me when you have done that.”
“Okay, mom”
“Go put your dirty socks in the laundry basket. Tell me when you have done that.”
“Okay, mom”

This has gone on for years and has succeeded in rendering him incapable of making decisions. Don't hear me wrong - he is a GREAT kid. He always does what he is told, but ONLY what he is told, then he waits for someone to tell him what to do next.

There is a solution to this. I just don’t know what it is. I want him to make decisions. I want him to show initiative. I want him to be able to change his own child’s diaper one day without having to call me for the play-by-play. Really I do.

Men may be incapable of making decisions, but as psychology has proved time and again . . . it’s still mom’s fault.

Whatever John Hancock’s mother did, it must have been right. Then again, maybe she was in the back of Independence Hall whispering, “Johnny, pick up your quill, walk to the front table, write your name nice and big so everyone can see it . . .”

this house ain't big enough fer the two of us

The cowboy loves to be spontaneously hospitable. It is not unheard of for him to ask me if it's okay for him to invite people over for dinner . . . only he will ask me at 5:45 when I am just walking in the door from work and the house is a wreck and there is no food in the fridge. Seriously. When I respond with, "No. No you may not." and explain why, he comes up with things like, "Then let's just build a bonfire outside and roast hot dogs." Of course, we don't have hot dogs in the fridge either, 'cause, well, yuck.

Gotta love his simplicity though.

He recently invited a complete stranger to spend the night with us. Okay, she was a complete stranger to Kevin and me. My husband had met her once in Fort Worth at the "Saddle Boy" competition. She is an insurance claims adjustor and had been working about five hours east of us, and her home is about five hours west of us. Anyway, she called to see if she could stop by on her way home and see the cowboy's new "Extreme Mustang Makeover" horses. (Yeah, that's plural. Remember, he decided to go with two horses this round, you know, because of all his extra free time.) So . . . instead of just saying, 'Yes, that would be lovely,' he says, "Yes, but why don't you come early and stay the night at the Reynolds' Bed & Breakfast?"

She thanked him politely but said she would be staying the night elsewhere and would see us on Wednesday morning. A couple of days later she called for directions and he asked her again to spend the night with us. "Really," she said, "I appreciate the offer, but I've already got a place to stay."

This is when he decides to inform me he has invited a complete stranger to stay with us. On a night he will be at work. On a night I already have other plans. But since she has declined the offer twice, I don't give it much thought. (Not that I mind her spending the night. Really, I don't. It was just that he made the offer twice before conferring with me.)

So, Tuesday comes along and the cowboy calls just before leaving for work at 5 p.m. "Are you coming home?" he asked. "Not planning to . . . why?" I responded. "Just wondering. I'm going to leave a key for Karen just in case she changes her mind and decides to show up."

Knowing that this lady had no intention of spending the night with us, and knowing that Sara and I were planning some girl time, Kevin decides he want to go home. So I took him home around 5:30 for a quiet night of frozen pizza, Facebook and X-box.

About 9 o'clock he is in the den and hears the front door open. Thinking this strange, as I always come in through the garage, he goes to the safe, gets out a gun and hollers, "Mom?" (You know, 'cause my kids always greet me at the door with a loaded shotgun.) To which a complete stranger's voice answers, "No? This is Karen?"

Sufficiently freaked them both out, as neither was expecting the other.

By the time I got home she was holed up in Kacey's room sound asleep. Kevin and I had a good laugh about it. Apparently, once he regained his bearings, he became quite the host and offered her food then showed her where all the essentials were. I asked him all about her, but since the Y-chromosome makes men oblivious to details, the best he could tell me was that she walked upright on two legs and she was not bald. So I try to get specific: Is she tall? Short? Young? "Oh, no, she's not young. Definitely older than you, mom." Okay, so we have a bit of information.

The next morning I met her and was pleasantly greeted by a VERY sweet, gracious and MUCH younger woman. Kevin gets big brownie points.

We had a great visit. She helped the cowboy feed the horses, they went for a ride, I fixed a big breakfast, we had the "get to know each other" talk, then she was on her way back home. She called the next day and left a message:

"Hey guys! This is Karen. Thanks so much for letting me play with the horses. Stephanie, thanks so much for your hospitality and the best breakfast I have had in weeks. Oh, and Kevin . . . BOO!"

I liked her. She can come back and stay anytime. :o)

mirror, mirror on the wall

Recently I had a friend ask me to do the unthinkable. . . she asked me to tell her what she needs to improve about herself. Seriously?!?! This is not something I do well. Sure, I could tell YOU what she needs to do, but tell HER? To her face? So, instead, I’ve just decided to blog about what she needs to improve.

JUST KIDDING.

Being honest with one another is difficult. And intimidating. I don’t want to be rude. I don’t want to be unkind. I don’t want to be hurtful. But mostly, I don’t want to open myself up to return criticism. I might hear the truth and, well, EW.

This leads to me a little story about a friend’s son, Davin. He is 2. A few months ago I took his picture with my cell phone, then pulled up the photo to let him see himself.
I said, “Who’s that, Davin?”
“Dat baby,” he replied.
I said, “That’s you, Davin!”
To which he adamantly responded,
“Dat NOT me!”
I assured him it was, but his repeated, indignant response was still, “Dat NOT me!”

At first I thought it was pretty funny, but then I went home and stood in front of the mirror, cell phone in hand. I looked at myself as long as I could (you know, without frying my retinas). I muttered, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the whatever whatever . . . " Then I held the phone up and took a picture of my reflection. Immediately I scrolled through my phone to locate said picture. IT WAS NOT THERE. All I could find was one of a woman, dressed like me, who looked vaguely like my mother. There was certainly not one of me looking the way I see myself. I tried it three more times, hoping for better luck. Luck was nowhere to be found.

A mirror rarely, if ever, depicts us as we encounter life - silly, contented, curious, angry - showing what we “really look like”. Instead, it returns a bland, slightly dull reflection. It does, however, reflect what is ACTUALLY there. Our eyes do not possess the same ability as our mirrors. Our eyes see what they want to see, and apparently they do not perceive reality, neither about appearance nor personality.

If you think back really hard to your senior year of high school English you might remember a Scottish poet named Robert Burns and a poem entitled, “To a Louse”. It’s pretty funny, actually. He writes a dozen or more stanzas about this proper church lady, thinking she is “all that and a bowl of haggis” and all the while he is watching the lice in her bonnet. The poem ends with the phrase (I’ll Americanize it),

“Oh would some Power the gift to give us,
To see ourselves as others see us.”

Since we rarely see ourselves as others see us, we have to rely on those who love us. Those who can be honest with us. Those who care about us enough to want us to be more than we are today.

This takes me back to the unthinkable. I have immense admiration for this friend’s request. It takes a lot of moxie to want people to be honest with you so you can improve. I hope I can honor her request with the same grace that she asked it.

temptation wafers and thumb wars

Lent Update
9 days and counting. Haven't had a single granule of sugar. No Happy Hour cokes. No Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Not even a single bite of the Reece's Pieces dessert pizza at Pizza Inn earlier.

Then I got home tonight and opened the freezer. And there, between the California Kitchen Sicilian Pizza and the Pillsbury Frozen Whole Wheat Dinner Rolls was a commitment test. A little green box of temptation wafers. God's Perfect Food. GIRL SCOUT THIN MINTS. Kevin bought a box for himself. It's a cruel Catch-22 . . . if I buy some for myself, you know, for AFTER Lent then I fear I will give in and eat them before Easter. However, by the time Lent is over, Girl Scout Cookies will be unattainable for another 11 months. Oh, the horror. The horror!


THUMB WARS
So, my Eastern-Time-Zone daughter had to be at work at 6 a.m. Tuesday morning. What does she do? Text me. Thirty-seven times.

For those of you not gifted with math skills, this would be 5 a.m. in my bed where I WAS sleeping. WAS being the operative word here.

KC: "Yeah, so my arm hurts a LOT!" (4 follow-up texts confirming she had pulled a muscle)

ME: "Two words - chiro practor"

(11 more follow-up texts saying it was so bad her husband had to drive her to work, and she didn't think the chiropractor would be much help, and it REALLY REALLY HURTS A LOT MOMMY, and she wanted my opinion on what to take for it.)

ME: "One word - Heating Pad"

(I finally conceded that an Aleve might be her best choice though she knows my feelings about drugs.)

KC: "Chris has some Aleve, I'll take a couple in a bit." (I insisted she read the dosage instructions, as I feel Aleve is one of those "take one tablet twice daily" things. She then informed me that my prescriptive pharmaceutical advice must be a mistake, as she needs 12, not one.)

Then the texting ceased. It is still COMPLETELY dark outside, but I am now wide awake.

ME: "Hey! Customers and their mocha lattes do not come before me!" (As you may recall, my daughter is currently putting her $80,000 college degree to good use brewing Java for yankees, and loving it.)

(After a 10-minute intermission she returned to call me names)
KC: "Grouchy Pants"

(Then, upon realizing that I was still in bed, revised it to "Grouchy No-Pants".)

ME: "I am going back to sleep now. Stop texting."

So she proceeds to text a bunch of randomness in rapid sequence.

ME: "WOMAN! YOU BETTER MIND ME!"

KC: "Don't wanna. Can't make me. :oP "

ME: "Shhhhh. Mommy sleeeeeeeping now."

KC: "Lazy Bum." (This is how she speaks to the woman who gave up caffeine for 9 months and endured 32 hours of natural labor, just so she could now pollute herself with Aleve over a wee bit of arm pain.)

ME: "I'm sure you mean 'Busy Mom' not lazy bum. Your phone must have made a predictive texting mistake."

This went on for about a dozen more texts incorporating the need to pee, her "awesomeness", one "That's What She Said" reference (which, BTW, I hate!), and the awakening of her father. Then one of my texts failed to send, so it threw off the entire linear conversation and things became increasingly confusing until she said,

KC: "I'm so lost. It's prolly 'cause I'm all hyped up on 12 Aleve."

Goofy, goofy girl.

forty-something

The Pros and Cons of being "this age":

PRO: I have WAY more patience with people.
CON: I have way LESS patience with THINGS.
PRO: I no longer have oily hair.
CON: My crow's feet personally keep Oil of Olay in business
PRO: I enjoy reading more.
CON: I have to have my 1.75 reading glasses to see the 12-pt font.
PRO: I have more money to spend.
CON: I spend more money.
PRO: I have a multi-layer personality.
CON: I have a multi-layer neck.
PRO: I am a better listener.
CON: I can’t remember what you told me.

Just a little food for thought. :o)

the mom who cried wolf

My son honked at an old lady today, and I was proud. Seriously. He had already asked me not to make him drive on this particular road because of the ridiculous traffic, but I felt he was ready for it and needed the experience. I love being right.

Speaking of right, he was turning that direction. “She” was across from him and turning left. She did not have her wheels turned, nor did she have her blinker on. The light turned green. Kevin turned right into the right lane. The blue-haired lady turned left . . . into the right lane. Kevin stopped hard and fast, honked loud and long, and saved his mommy’s life. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but he definitely avoided a nasty little accident. Yea, Kevie-poo!

So after this and his drum lesson (where his instructor had a killer-headache and wasn’t exactly in a good mood), we decided Happy Hour at Sonic was just what he needed. We placed our order for two large vanilla cokes with no ice, then Kevin said, “I’m gonna rest my head on the steering wheel. Tell me when she comes out.”

So, being the good mother that I am, I waited 3 seconds and said, “Here she is.” Which she was not. He looked up and then growled at me.

He put his head back down. I waited another 6 or 8 seconds and said, “Kev.” (Implying her impending arrival with the aforementioned drinks.) He looked up, realized he’d been duped again and replied, “Mother!”

Again, down with his little head. About 12 seconds later I said, “HERE we go!” which again prompted him to lift his head and then look at me with disdain. “Just for that,” he stated, “I am freezing you out!” Then he rolled down my window and turned on the air conditioner. Mind you, it was 37 degrees outside.

After a little begging and pleading and a lot of wrestling and laughing, he rolled up my window, turned off the a/c and put his head back down on the steering wheel. He warned me not to do it again and then mumbled something about "ending me with his wrath".

“Kev,” I said. He did NOT look up. “Seriously, honey.” So, he looked up. Seeing no Sonic employee, he declared his intense displeasure for my existence, and declared he wished he had not previously saved my life from the blue-haired lady.

“BUT I GAVE BIRTH TO YOU!” I proclaimed.

“Now we’re even,” he stated flatly.

“EVEN?” I proceeded to describe 10 hours of labor and the size of a 7-pound baby’s head, which caused him to further regret my existence.

I love being a mom.