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.