right below hugs & kisses

Kacey bought me a beautiful hardback copy of "Anna Karenina" for Christmas. It's the book I was reading during the last trimester of my pregnancy with her, and because it is a LONG Russian novel, it carried over into the first couple of months of her post-womb life as well. And, because I'm the amazing mother that I am (choke, gasp, cough), I of course, read the entire book out loud. No small feat for Tolstoy, not to mention that fact that for the first half of the book I was reading "alone" in the room. I never reallly did get used to doing that - always felt weird. Anyway . . .

Around month 2, I began reading books more geared to her level of appreciation. Lucky for Kacey (and for me!), my sister was taking a Children's Literature class at Harding at the same time. Every time Stacey & I talked, she would recount all the wonderful stories they were reading in class. (I'm sure there was a bit more to the class than reading children's books, but that's the only part that was important to me!) Then I would head straight to the nearest bookstore and buy every one of them. That was definitely one of my favorite parts of being a mom - reading aloud. Ranks right below hugs & kisses, and right above tickling. I would dare say there was never a day from before Kacey was born until Kevin was 10 or 11 that I didn't read out loud - with the rare exception of my having a sore throat or their being at Nana's house. And since now both my kids would rather read than do just about anything else, I guess it paid off. I miss it, though. I do still read to my high school co-op students. They like it, plus I get to say that, at 14, I still read aloud to Kevin. I'm sure he loves that.

grasping at air

Maybe you can relate: The gear shift in my car in located on the steering column. I guess most are. After you drive a vehicle for awhile, it just becomes natural to reach for the right side of the steering column when you put your car into gear. But every now and then I find myself driving a vehicle with a center console gear shift (usually my mom's Jeep). Anyway, I always reach for the steering column when I start to drive and end up grasping at air and feeling silly. Ironically, I only have to drive the Jeep for a day or two for the reverse to happen. I get back into my own car, turn the key, reach for the non-existent console gear shift, and knock over a bottle of water in the cup holder instead. Okay, so it's just habit and it makes me feel a little silly, but it's not really a big deal.

However, the same problem exists with other items like my curling iron. I use it every day. Keep it plugged in to the same spot. Can curl my hair in 3 minutes flat, almost without looking. I hold the curling iron in my right hand, lift a section of hair with the left, clamp the iron around the end (again with my right hand), and hold the very tip of the curling iron with my left hand as I wind my hair. Fine. Occasionally, however, I use a straightener. Same basic motion, except you start at the roots instead of the ends, and with the straightener you don't hold the tip - you grab both sides as you pull it firmly down through your hair. Again, fine. Until I have used the straightener for a day or two and then go back to the curling iron. You really shouldn't firmly grab both sides of a curling iron at any point in the process. Unless, of course, you are a masochist.

Just an observation and a life lesson I thought I'd pass along.

Jamaican Me Crazy!

It was one of those Friday nights back in October when I really needed to be with friends. It had been a really awful couple of months and I was just beginning to recover. I don't remember everyone who was present, but I do know Rob & ReighAnne and Mike & Sara were among the few. It started out as a "scrapbooking" night, but turned into a great night of conversation . . . and coffee. "Jamaican Me Crazy" from Kirchhoff's to be exact. We were standing around ReighAnne's little kitchen, everyone holding a mug - except me. I made a pouty lip and whined about feeling left out, so Sara grabbed a mug, poured me a cup, and handed it to me just so I would feel included. I stood there, holding the warm ceramic mug between my palms, knowing that if I wasn't careful I would forget that what I was holding was coffee and take a sip. Being the good friend that she is, and apparently knowing this as well, Sara proceeded to add creamer to my coffee "just in case". Once seated back around the dining room table, engaged in a church discussion, I did take a sip. And another. And then another. Since then I have enjoyed Kringle Krunch and Snickerdoodle (both at the Seifert's), and a single shot caramel latte from Kirchhoff's (Kacey says it's sissy coffee, but still . . . )

Sara gave me a pound of "Jamaican Me Crazy" for Christmas. I bought filters, hazelnut creamer and a thermos mug. I am officially caffeinated. There's no going back now.

dirty santa and the great mystery

The way I see it there are three good gift types:
1. Something you need that you can't afford. (Furniture; new car tires; stainless steel cookware; etc.)
2. Something frivolous you love that you would not likely buy for yourself. ($100 hurricane lamp; rabbit-lined leather gloves; 600-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets)
3. Something fun that suits your personality and interests. (video games; cds; a $15 cinnamon lipgloss; restaurant gift certificates; scrapbooking supplies; et. al.)

This leads me to question the "Dirty Santa" game that we played with my husband's family on Christmas Eve. The girls were to bring a girl gift, the guys were to bring a guy gift. The girl stuff ranged from a Bed, Bath & Beyond gift card to lotion to chocolate to a journal to earrings. No problem. It is the guy stuff that perplexes me. The gifts were as follows: Electrical tape; Duct tape; garden hose roll-up thingy; plastic rain gauge; wrench; box cutter; a dozen pairs of work gloves; and various colors of plastic cable ties. Seriously. And they grappled over these things like toddlers fighting over the last cookie! Now, I gave this some thought. If this was a girl gift, the equivalent would look something like: A travel sewing kit; box of safety pins; nail clippers; twelve pairs of yellow playtex dishwashing gloves; spatula; a curling iron caddy; and an old lady clear-plastic rain bonnet. Am I the only one who sees the humor in this? These are not gifts. I'm convinced these are the purchases of 5 men who do not have a clue how to shop and were equally relieved that none of the other guys knew how to shop either.

Gift cards make sense to me. Big boy toys I can appreciate. Electronic gadgets I understand. Game systems I even like myself. But plastic cable ties remain a mystery to me.

Darlings by Design

Okay, just for fun, I'm changing the picture. Sara shot so many great pictures (of course, with the help of her lovely and talented assistant . . . ) that I can't pick a favorite "real" photo.
This one, however, is truly my favorite:

possible excuses why I haven't blogged for the past week . . .

*My life is incredibly boring.
*My life is incredibly fascinating, you know, working with Mikey and
Terrell everyday, and I just don't want to make the rest of you envious.
*I've actually been sleeping all night long for the last month, so there
are 3 fewer blogging hours in my day than normal.
*I've been seriously contemplating purchasing a water buffalo. No joke.
*I don't have any cool illness, depression, finals, engaged friends, or pregnancy to blog about.
*I don't want to post pictures of myself from 10-20-30 years ago. That would make me have to admit how old I am then I WOULD be depressed! (Though Sandy looks as beautiful now as she did at 18! I hate her.)
*I'm not obsessing about what I didn't get done yesterday.
*I'm not obsessing about what I'm not going to get done tomorrow.
*I'm not obsessing about what I'm going to do for the rest of my life.
(And neither should my daughter . . . )
*Is anybody out there REALLY interested in what font I decided to use for the church letterhead? I think not. (But, if you are: sylfaen. It looks nice if you emboss it in 18 font, though the embossing tends to blur on the smaller font, especially since I have to set the leading at 14 for 11 font. Fascinating, huh?)
*I'm not lavishly visiting/vacationing Evansville or any variety of exotic Texas cities.
*I feel guilty blogging when I should be Christmas shopping.
*I have writer's block.
*The cat ate my mouse.

I didn't say they were good excuses . . .

nursing on peppermint sticks

Most of you who know me know this story, but it's the season, so it bears repeating.

I did not feed my children sugar until they were 2. Even then it was more of an extended family thing than a mom thing. My theory: why give it to them when they don't even know what they're missing? Anyway, the Christmas when Kevin was 11 months old, Kacey wanted to decorate the tree with a candy-cane motif. We hung shrink-wrapped candy canes, strung peppermint garland and made a huge bow for the top from red & white diagonally-striped wired ribbon. Cute!

Kevin, (having never had a nursery, nor a crib because we're "family bed" people) was, what I call, a "wandering baby". You never knew where he was going to be when you woke up. One particular morning during the holiday season (I believe it was "8 Maids a-Milking" day), I woke to funny little noises coming from the living room. Those funny little noises turned out to be my barely-steady-on-his-toes baby boy, standing as high on tiptoes as his footie pajamas would allow, neck outstretched like a Serengeti giraffe, nursing the end of a peppermint stick. Apparently he had sucked the plastic off the end of one, then continued to lick and slurp it to a sharp point, and the funny little noises were his grunts and groans as he neared the end of his height range in relation to the dwindling candy cane. The look on his little face told me what his lack of verbal communication could not: "Me like sugar."

As a wandering baby he did many other funny little things like sleepwalk, almost pee on his sister, and sleep in the kitchen cabinet. Oh, other stories for other days!

the calm before the storm

Everybody is blogging about the season: traveling, Christmas shopping, the November "calm before the storm". I love Christmas. I do. Really. I just want it to last twice as long and be four times less hectic. And I'm not generally a procrastinator, except when it comes to Christmas shopping. I haven't even begun to think about it, much less actually do it. (sigh)

I love the cold, the dark, the white twinkle lights, humongous bows on packages, snow, boiled custard, holiday get-togethers, timers that automatically turn my trees on and off, Christmas music, online shopping, my rabbit-lined leather gloves, appetizers, holiday movies and cartoons, sweaters, and reminiscing about previous years as we hang each ornament on the tree . . .

I'm not so crazy about multi-colored icicle lights, wrapping gifts, turkey, pulling boxes out of the attic, property taxes, vaccuming pine needles, "Santa Baby", squash in any form, pumping gas when it's 18 degrees, or, one of the great mysteries of life: untangling Christmas tree lights which were most definitely NOT tangled when we put them away 11 months ago . . .

Mostly I just love the whole "being together" thing - whether with friends or family or friends who feel like family. That's my favorite part of Christmas. Well, that and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas."

stinky little boy

Kevin is spending the weekend visiting his sister at college. He has really been looking forward to it. Kacey is, well . . . over-the-top, can't wait, planning the "best weekend EVER" excited! They are so cute. They have a very unique relationship, and I am very blessed by it. They LOVE each other. Truly, completely adore each other. I can't remember a single real argument they have ever had. Oh, they beat on each other quite regularly, but it's always a playful "I'm tougher than you" wrestling match intended for everyone's entertainment. Generally when they are together, they are snuggled up, Kacey playing with Kevin's hair, and occasionally throwing "Your Mom" insults at one another. Kevin still sleeps in her room when she comes home, and they talk until the wee hours of the morning. When they were younger I would fuss at them to stop talking and go to sleep. No longer having a sibling relationship myself, I am content to let them enjoy their time together and build memories.

I attribute their relationship to the fact that they are nearly 7 years apart in age. Kevin has always been "Kacey's baby". When I was pregnant with him, she would frequently tell me how much she wanted a sister. She was adamant about NOT wanting a "stinky little boy". When he was born, she was the first one to hold him after we cut the cord. She was sitting there in the bedroom floor at 4 a.m. on that COLD January morning, long hair all tangled, wearing her "Little Mermaid" nightgown, holding this tiny little baby, and I looked over at her and said, "Kacey, I'm sorry we got a stinky little boy". She immediately looked up at me with darts shooting from her eyes and said, very sternly, "Don't ever say that about my baby." That was it. She was in love, and my heart melted.

unwritten rule of the first child

I always got to be first. That's the unwritten rule of the first child. The first to walk and talk. The first to go to school. The first to drive. To date. To marry. To have children. My slightly younger sister, Stacey, was second at all these things. Even with our second pregnancies, both boys due within a week of each other - Kevin decided to arrive 4 weeks early, thus ensuring me the first boy as well. She was always throwing this up in face. "You OWE me!" she'd laugh.

A few years back, she got to be first. I've never been happy about this one on any level. Little sisters aren't supposed to go first . . . especially when it entails funerals and cemetary markers. And no matter how much time passes, I hurt for my niece and nephew who really have no idea how wonderful their mom was. I hurt for my parents who have to walk by her bedroom and drive by her gravesite every day. I hurt for me because I still miss her so much. Weeping is an understatement of the occurrence going on at my desk as I type this through blurry eyes.

My consolation is this. She got to be first . . . to see God. (You know, I always kind of thought that "Jesus wept" verse was more Jesus crying, not so much because of the hurt and mourning going on around him, but because he knew where he was bringing Lazarus back from.) I certainly don't have a grasp on what heaven is like, but I like to think Stacey mothers on every baby who didn't make it long in this life. I like to imagine her talking to Sarah about what it was like to be pregnant at 90. I like to think she has conversations with Peter and John and Esther and Job. That's extremely cool. And the joy that I KNOW I will be with her again makes days like today endurable. Stacey Leigh, I love you . . . Happy Birthday.

raindrops on roses . . .

Thruchildseyes thinks she’s old because she has a favorite winter squash! Oh, Sara, you are a funny funny girl! This prompted me to think of:

Things I enjoy now that I hated when I was a kid . . .

Onions . . . Hated them as a kid, but developed a SERIOUS craving for them with my second pregnancy that never when away! I could eat them raw like an apple now, except that nobody would ever want to carry on a conversation with me!

Watching the news . . . as a kid – BORING. Now I could be a news junkie if I let myself.

Going for drives . . . my parents use to haul us around on Sunday afternoon drives a couple of times a month. It was sheer torture. Back seats. Sunshine. Getting carsick. Nothing to do but think about all the cool stuff you COULD be doing if you were at home. Now I look forward to it as a great time to pray, or catch up on new music, or have a great conversation with somebody I enjoy one-on-one time with!

Getting up early . . . you gotta be kidding!? Really, up until just a couple of years ago I could give a wintering grizzly a run for his hibernating money. Sleep was a valuable commodity. Now, well, I just don’t seem to sleep much and don’t seem to need it. (You know, a person can only use so much beauty sleep - once you look as good as I do, it's really just a waste!)That makes getting up early kinda cool. Watching the sunrise, writing notes to friends, reading a good book – there’s got to be something wrong with me.


Things I liked as a child that I don’t like now . . .

Sleeping until noon . . . reference “getting up early” in the previous category

Gilligan’s Island . . . apparently my I.Q. went up 70 points once I stopped watching it.

Skipping church . . . RARELY happened, but I always enjoyed when it did! If I missed now, I would feel like I was being taken off of life-support!


Childlike things that I liked as a child and STILL like . . .

Snow . . . Looking at it more than being out in it, but still, I’m a sucker for a Winter Wonderland.

Chocolate milk . . . 2% + 4 spoons full of Quik – stirred, not shaken. And not with Chinese food.

Reading . . . A habit I am happy to still have and happy to have passed on to my kids.

Playing Games . . . Any kind, any time, anywhere – I LOVE to play games. Silly games, serious games, card games, word games, doesn’t matter as long as it’s not Monopoly or Risk! I'm a good loser, but a "gloating" winner!

an E.P.T. failure

We had been married just over a year when I got pregnant with our first. Though we weren’t planning a baby, we sure couldn’t say we were surprised.

First: I had stopped taking the pill. I had to or I was going to kill someone . . . and it wasn’t going to be me. The hormonal state that Ortho-novum kept me in played “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” with my emotions. For example, my husband would walk in the door after 12 hours of playing soldier. I would say, in my sweetest Donna Reed voice, “How was your day?” only to follow it up four minutes later with a Linda-Blair-exorcist-like, “Get Outta My Face!”

We figured even unplanned parenthood had to be better than that.

Second: the husband was an Army Lieutenant stationed at Fort Richardson, Alaska. He was away doing field training. A lot. For long stretches of time. He was gone from Oct. 18 until Nov. 8, left again on Nov. 10 and didn’t return home until the first of December. Hmmm . . . doesn’t take quantum physics to figure out that one.

So, I found myself pregnant. Entirely too young. 4,000 miles away from my mommy. The first of all of our friends to fail the “E.P.T.” test. And more than a little terrified. I felt like Prissy from Gone with the Wind: “Why, I don’t know nothin’ bout birthin’ no babies!” My preference: Schedule a C-section, take some heavy drugs, and hope for the best. Oh, but it’s not that easy for a do-it-yourself junkie. You see, I read. And read. And read. And Alaska is not exactly the kind of place where you are encouraged to follow the crowd. Unless, of course, the crowd is a bunch of earth-mother, hippie-wanna-be, save-the-earth do-gooders. (And I mean that in a good way!) So I found myself reading Mothering Magazine and Ina May Gaskin's “Spiritual Midwifery” and Rahima Baldwin’s “Special Delivery” and all manner of natural, wholistic childbirth propaganda. By the time August 13 rolled around, I was enduring a 32-hour labor at home with a couple of midwives.

Now, the birth itself did not turn out exactly picture-perfect. But I did end up with a beautiful daughter, and a passion for pregnancy and childbirth that can only be described as a part-time obsession. More about that at a later date.

The worst part of my first pregnancy: Not having caffeine
The weirdest craving during my first pregnancy: McDonald’s cheeseburgers (ewww.)
The strangest side-effect of my first pregnancy: Sporadic, but uncontrollable giggling (Again, another story for another time . . . )

window shopping in the rain

I love autumn! Gorgeous, earthy colors, brisk air, sweaters, campfires, early sunsets . . . it’s the only season that irresistibly tempts me outdoors. Hands down, my favorite time of the year, and I don’t really know why. This is one thing I didn’t get from my mom. She doesn’t like this time of year. Says it depresses her. Everything dying . . . winter setting in. She is definitely a spring/summer person. It’s one of the few places our paths diverge. I love the falling leaves, the chill in the air, even the shorter days. Fall festivals, Celebration, pumpkins and mums, “bouquets of newly sharpened pencils”. It evokes an indescribable nostalgia in me . . . makes me want to window shop in the rain . . . hold hands and walk down brick streets . . . I don’t try to understand it . . . I’m just grateful to God for making life beautiful.

turkey day

Yes, Thanksgiving is just around
the corner, but our "Turkey Day"
was yesterday!

First, my son IS a turkey. Enough said.

Second, while on the way to work yesterday, he and I saw three turkeys
in the big field on Hwy. 62.
We frequently see deer in that field, but turkeys not so much.

Third, my son has never been bowling. Never ever. Unless you count video games, which I don't. So, since Kevin is on fall break this week, the wonderful Mike D. (in blog world, that's "For His Glory", but don't bother, 'cause he hasn't posted since January!) took my son bowling.

First game: 67. Okay, that's to be expected the first time out.

Second game: 79. Not a bad little improvement.

Third game: 145. 145!!! Apparently, after Mike gave him some helpful coaching on when to release the ball, Kevin got a TURKEY - three strikes IN A ROW! He was pretty jazzed about it. (Thanks, Mikey!)

dissecting frogs in the car

Did you know the word "gullible" is not in the dictionary?

My kids love to pick on each other. I don't know where they get it from, but regardless . . . the last weekend Kacey was home, Kevin had her convinced he was left-handed. (Kacey is 21, Kevin is 14) She was so befuddled that she got out of bed, marched into the den with her hands on her hips and said, "He is NOT left-handed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IS HE?????" Of course, he is not, and she KNEW that, he just made it so convincing that she began to doubt herself.

So, Kevin was talking to Kacey, this time on the phone the night before our road trip to Texas. He was moaning about all the school work he was going to have to do in the car. She was telling him to suck it up and do the work like a man, and he said something like,
"That's easy for you to say . . . you don't have to dissect a frog in the car!"
"You don't either, you goofball."
"YES I DO!"
"Kevin, you can't dissect a frog in the car. Why don't you just do it when you come back on Monday?"
"Because I have to label all the parts and make a diagram and email it to ReighAnne (biology teacher) by Friday night!"
"Kevin, you are such a liar!"
"Kacey, I'm serious. I've got to dissect this stupid frog in the car on the way to Texas!"
"Seriously???"
"Yes, Kacey. Oh, and by the way, I'm left-handed."
At this point, I can hear Kacey giving him "what for" for making her feel gullible yet again. I thought it was a riot! Is it okay to be proud of a kid for being a good liar? Probably not, huh?

To preface this next story, I almost never wear sunglasses. They make me feel claustrophobic. But I bought a new pair for this 12-hour car trip, and I put them in my purse which was in the floor at Kevin's feet. After a few hours in the car he wanted to stretch a bit, so he put my purse in the back seat. I said, "Before you get too comfortable, we're about to turn west so I'm going to need my glasses out of my purse."
"Huh?" was his response.
So I repeat myself, speaking slowly this time, "We're . . . about . . . to . . . turn . . . west . . . so . . . I'm . . . going . . . to . . . need . . . my . . . glasses . . . out . . . of . . . my . . . purse."
"WHY do you need your glasses when we turn west????" he asks with a quizzical look."Well, Kevin, a SMART person would KNOW the answer to that question. Why DO YOU think?"
"I don't know. Do the letters on the signs get smaller in the west?"
At this point I start laughing hysterically, as I realize the whole conversation he thought I was talking about my EYEglasses and I assumed he knew I needed my SUNglasses!

Communication is a wonderful thing, ain't it?

award-winning cockroaches and beached manatees

This is my bedroom.
I like my bedroom.
It's dark and cool.
It's comfortable.
The mattress is firm.
The pillows are fluffly.
Getting into bed is a wonderful end
to most days -
not an olympic event.


This past weekend, however, while we were in Fort Worth for the cowboy's "Sadde Boy" competition, we bunked in the horse trailer. (No, not WITH the horse! The back 3/4 is the horse part, the front 1/4 is "living quarters") I use the term "living quarters" very VERY loosely. It was more like sleeping in an aluminum shoebox on wheels. The floor section, which is shaped like the state of Nevada, only had enough room for Kevin's military-style cot, the step stool, and one standing human. As you can see from the picture below, the interior has been gutted, so the walls are bare except for the lovely remnants of brown wood glue. Everytime we turned the light on it threw a breaker. Our "camping spot" was on the gravel parking lot wedged between dozens of $100,000 motor homes - we looked like the embarrassing Arkansas cousins.

One aspect of the weekend I particularly enjoyed was the 2 block hike to the bathroom which was located upstairs inside the dormitory of the Swine Building of the Will Rogers Equestrian Center across the street from the National Cowgirl Museum. Yee Haw. When I first stepped into the seemingly abandoned and unlit concrete shower, I was startled by one of the hogs from the prior weekend's judging that had been left behind - no wait, that was just a prize-winning cockroach. He and I did NOT get along. It was a quick shower.

The most entertaining part of the weekend, for those lucky enough to witness it (Kevin), was my trying to get into the sleeping bunk of the trailer. Even with the step-stool, I was only waist-high to the metal platform. After numerous and wildly unsuccessful attempts to fling my leg up onto the platform, I finally had Kevin stand on his cot, and lift the air mattress up to the ceiling. This allowed me to bend over at a 90-degree angle and roll my entire body onto the platform under the air mattress, much like an injured manatee rolling himself onto the beach. I then rolled the opposite direction until I was against the wall so Kevin could drop the mattress. At this point I got onto my hands and knees and crawled onto the mattress. Lying down, there was a good 7 inches between my face and the ceiling. Now to get undressed. What???? I couldn't lift my legs - no room. Tried lying in a fetal position and wiggling. No luck with that either. No matter what I did, I couldn't seem to manage the removal of my clothing. Why didn't I get my pj's on BEFORE I clamored up there? I DON'T KNOW. But I sure as heck wasn't getting back down and then up again! So I called down to Kevin,

"Kevin, help me pull my pants off."
"Yeah, right, mom."
"Please, Kevin, I can't do it."
"Like that's gonna happen. I don't think so."
"But Kevin, I need help!"
"Suck it up and sleep in your clothes, mom!"
"Kevin, please please." (Imagine a whiny, cartoony voice at this point.)
Kevin begins to giggle hysterically at the thought of my not having enough room to perform this function for myself, and at the thought that I would even dare ask his help with undressing. Then, of course, there was the mental image of him actually helping me with this, which, I have to confess, was really really funny to both of us.
"Keeeeevvvvviiiinnnn, pleeeeeaaaaassssseeee!!!!!"
More giggling. This time from both of us.
This went on for about 20 minutes until the giggling turned into full-out laughter.

After we fell into a good sleep, we were awakened by an 8.3 earthquake. No, wait, that was just the cowboy backing his truck INTO the trailer. Luckily, the only thing he broke was his passenger side mirror.

Extreme Mustang Makeover 2008 - reservations are already secured at the Hyatt Regency downtown Fort Wort.

1320 cubic feet of nothingness

My daughter's bedroom is EMPTY. I'm talking echoes and loneliness. Four walls colorblocked with hot pink, yellow, bright orange and neon green, with tie-dye curtains on the window and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling encasing 1320 cubic feet of nothingness. I avert my eyes when I walk down the hall, otherwise it makes me feel sad. However, it does have many possibilities. Definitely a queen-sized bed. Maybe a big desk to scrapbook on. Possibly move the treadmill in there as well - will moving to a new room make it more usable? (At least I won't be tempted to throw clothes on it.) I think I want to paint it apple green. For awhile I've been thinking about that color for the living room, but it's such a bold color, I'm a little afraid of it. Why is that? (Anybody out there like to paint?)

hearts and diamonds - a love story with cards

When we were in our pre-parenting days and living in Anchorage, we clicked with another young couple. They were from Oklahoma. Neal & Sherri. We were there via Uncle Sam's commissioning, Neal was working for one of the oil companies. We were all relative newlyweds, and had all recently moved up from "the lower 48", so when we met that July Sunday morning in church, we had an instant bond. When we discovered our mutual love for card-playing, that bond became tighter. (Once we shared the births of our firstborn, born on the same day two years apart, we were intertwined for life.) But I digress. . .

Spades, hearts, rummy. Occasionally a game of Trivial Pursuit or Pictionary, but mostly cards. Every Friday night. We'd get together, usually at their house because they had a "real table" (we only had a card table, and a flimsy one at that). And we'd play. And play. And play. Often into the wee wee hours of the morning. Of course, this entailed supper and stories and snacks and long conversations about who we were, are and were going to be. Occasionally we were together so long by the time we got ready to leave at 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning, snow had blanketed the city so deeply we'd end up spending the night, cooking breakfast together the next morning, and playing cards again on Saturday.

As we got to know others, our group grew, sometimes to as many as 12 - Reynolds, Collins, Turneys, Trevithicks, Geratys, Kettners. Every Friday night, come rain, sleet or snow (usually the latter, as we were in Alaska), now usually meeting at our house, since we had the most room. Then somebody had the bright idea of "why don't we have a Bible study before we play games"? So we did. Voila - a small group was born, complete with lesson, food and fellowship, long before we ever heard of them in a church setting. As the evenings wound down and couples dispersed to their own homes, Neal & Sherri would stay with us until the very small hours of the morning. Undoubtedly this was one of the best times in our lives - for all of us. We still all feel very connected, though we don't see each other much anymore. Many of our kids, all of whom were nonexistent when we first became friends, have now gone off to college and stay acquainted via Facebook. Most of us have changed careers and locations several times. We are scattered from Illinois and Kentucky to Colorado and Washington. Only Neal & Sherri still reside in Alaska. I miss them often.

Last Friday night we played cards with some good Kentucky friends. Hearts to be exact. We got home at 2:30 a.m. Made me feel really young again. (Of course, I had to wear my glasses to distinguish hearts from diamonds, we had to pause between every hand so one of us could go to the bathroom, and we spent an hour "oohing and aahing" over vacation photos and trying to remember the names of people we used to know. Still . . . )

elvis, mom, and graceland

We moved Kacey back to Nashville, this time not into the dorm, but into her own apartment. The back of the truck and her car were both brimming over! (Granted, we did take a bed, a desk, a dryer, 2 chairs, a futon, a partridge in a pear tree, and 371 flip-flops!) We arrived to a roomy apartment, 2 lovely Christian girl roomies, and a huge fish tank the other girls had bought Kacey as a birthday surprise. They named the fish: Ophelia, Paul Anka, Marcus Aurelius, Freboga, and something weird I can't remember.) I couldn't be happier with the situation . . . unless, of course, Kacey was a baby again.

That brings me to Elvis. Yesterday, August 16, marks a 20-year anniversary for Kacey & me, and a 30-year anniversary for Elvis. According to history, Elvis died on August 16, 1977. (Now, like all good conspiracy theorists, I have my doubts. I believe him to be inhabiting Hitler's old getaway in Argentina. Anyway . . . ) Twenty years ago yesterday, she and I flew from Anchorage, Alaska to Seattle, Washington, to Memphis, Tennessee, and then, ideally, to Nashville, where my grandparents were to pick us up and drive us "home home" to my parents. Well, there was a delay in Seattle, and by the time we got to Memphis, we had missed our connecting flight to Nashville. (No biggie, right?) Let me list the complications:
1) This was in the pre-cell-phone days. Heck, this was pre-answering-machine days.
2) My parents were out of town and didn't know I was "surprising them."
3) My grandparents only lived an hour away from the Nashville airport, so by the time I landed in Memphis, they were already on their way to pick me up, and I had absolutely no way of letting them know I wouldn't be there.
4) I didn't have a credit card, so I couldn't rent a car.
5) I had a 12-month-old daughter with me, along with large carry on bag and diaper bag the size of a canoe. (This was also pre-9/11 days.)
6) and this is the big one . . . I was in Memphis. On August 16, 1987. The 10th anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley. Graceland is Mecca for the King and his followers, the result being "there were no rooms in the inn." Not a single empty hotel room in the city. Seriously.

In the meantime, I am using payphones to call my husband (who is 4,000 miles away). He is on the phone trying to track down my grandparents, my parents, and any Delta airline official who can somehow be held responsible for us being stranded without proper escort in the Memphis International Airport. To no avail. A strange man offered to take us home. I politely turned him down. As the hours got later and later, and the airport became more and more desolate, I stole a spoon from the cafeteria (so I could feed Kacey the organic homemade baby food I brought in my carry-on), and barricaded us into a large women's bathroom by pushing an old couch in front of the door. (Having, at this point, given up all hope, and now just biding time until my death, or tomorrow morning's 8 a.m. flight, whichever came first.)

I fed Kacey and got her to sleep, read "Anna Karenina" for awhile, realized there was NO WAY I was going to sleep in there, washed my hair in a public sink and "blow dried" it with one of those wall-mounted hand dryers - this would have been easier had I been a gymnast. After these eventful few hours, I hear a faint "s...t...e...p...h...a...n...i...e..." from somewhere in distance. I listen. Again, I hear it, but this time louder. It's my mommy!!!! Now, I don't care if you are a 23-year-old parent who lives 4,000 miles from home, when you need your mommy, you need your mommy! She and dad eventually got the news and drove straight from wherever-they-were to Memphis to rescue me. Yeah!

On the return flight a couple of weeks later, I almost got stranded in Minneapolis. Again, as the result of a flight delay, I was late for my connecting flight to Seattle. When I got to the gate, they were rolling back the walkway. I met the exiting airline worker as she was walking back into the terminal. She told me I was too late. To this point in my life, I don't believe I had ever stood up for myself. My usual, a-bit-shy self, afraid of spending another sleepless night in an airport, looked her dead in the face, stuck out my pointer finger and demanded, "Either you roll that walkway back out and let me on that plane, or you, personally, will be paying for my hotel room tonight." Kacey and I made it back to Anchorage as scheduled.

Twenty years full circle. 1987: Kacey and I were stranded together in the home of "the King" trying to get to Nashville. 2007: Kacey and I part ways as she moves into her first real "home" and I leave her in care of "THE KING" in Nashville.

(Thank you God, that my Graceland is wherever You are.)

twinkle-ding-dong, nerdy eggheads

Homeschool kids general fall into four basic categories:
1) Nerds. (I use this term lovingly, as I know some of these.) Wildly overprotected; “tucked in” tee-shirts; have actual desks and maps and bulletin boards in a schoolroom in their home; willingly, and sometimes annoyingly, initiate lengthy conversations with adults about their recent science experiment involving hydroponically-grown melons.
2) “Twinkle-ding-dongs.” These are the offspring of the leftover hippies. They draw unicorns for biology, play non-competitive games, build all-wooden, multicultural toys, eat a lot of tofu, and write music for wind flutes. (The “Twinkle-ding-dongs” were much more common in Alaska than they are here in the good ol’ South.)
3) Classics. These children are well-behaved; well-versed in home economics and American history; involved in scouts and 4-H clubs; competitive; and for some reason, they are almost always “morning people”.
4) Egg-heads. You know the type: Articulate in three languages; fluent in oboe and violin; can do advanced math on an abacus; can not only spell “flocculent”, but also define the word and give its etymology.

We never did seem to fit into any of these categories. We rarely "tucked in", the car was our school room, my kids thought 4-H was punishment, we never baked anything we could buy at Kirchoff's Bakery, and neither of my kids could spell “flocculent” - though they could easily come up with three creative, off-color uses for the word!

When people asked me why we homeschooled, my answer would vary from year-to-year. Partly because I'm a notorious "do-it-yourselfer". Largely because we just didn’t have time for regular school - we were too busy learning stuff. But primarily because I LOVE hanging out with my kids.

We had a “loose schedule” and followed it loosely as well. Our curriculum was always a hodge-podge of books we found fascinating. Our classroom was wherever we were that day – the den couch, the car, the church building, the park. Our activities ranged from the high-brow Symphony Children’s Choir to very loud guitar and drum lessons, from gymnastics to baseball and volleyball, from community theater to lots of community volunteer work. We had days we just couldn’t face the idea of “school”, so watching “Jeopardy” and and going to Kroger and mowing the yard became current events, economics and P.E. I think we even managed to go swimming and find a way to call it “marine biology”.

We never missed an opportunity to have a meaningful conversation. We talked. A lot. We read. A lot. We played games. A lot. We laughed. A lot. We slept in. Yeah, a lot. And I guess we did okay. Kacey managed to receive several academic scholarships and a 27 on her A.C.T. (not an egghead score, but quite respectable!) She will be a college senior this year and has maintained a 3-point-something GPA while serving as an R.A., small-group leader, Student Government senator, etc. (Kevin exhibits all the signs of being even more intelligent than his sister, but until we can decipher his handwriting, we cannot be certain of this.) My kids are well-rounded, responsible, funny, and far-from-perfect. I am so glad we chose to homeschool. I wouldn’t change a thing.