Fake

Here is a blog that I didn't post when it was written. I wrote it because something happened after Easter that was unpleasant - I felt like people were being less than authentic. I had forgotten about it and just saw it in my draft file. It's not my best work, for sure, but here it is.

We had a very nice Easter. A diverse group of friends gathered around our table and along with the food, we shared pieces of our heart with each other. I was touched by the "realness" of it all. It wasn't "Norman Rockwell" and all, not even close actually. But it was good. We have this little tradition where we type out some questions and everyone needs to answer them the best they can. One question was, "What is the best gift you ever received?" I loved the responses - concert tickets, hand-made dice, a trip, eternal life, freedom, a generator (the generator supplied much needed heat to an ailing body) and the gift to eat large amounts of food and not gain weight (like only a 14 year old boy can do). There were no good or bad answers, no right or wrong, no pretty or ugly, no labels at all - just real answers. Some answers were funny, some serious, but that was up to the author. It was real and I like that. I like real . . . you would think finding real would be easy . . . but it's not. In fact, finding fake is much easier. . .

Hmm, bitter much?

Love 17

This post is for daughter number 2 who turns 17 today.

Honey, even with all it's drama, 17 is the best age to be. I know, I tell you this every year, but I really mean it, 17 is the best age to be. It's the most real you'll ever be. Everything that happens feels important and big and epic. And it is. You'll remember everything from this year, the music, driving, school, friends (girl and boy), the summer job and decisions you make. At 17 you are old enough to make independent decisions but young enough so you don't have to. You can ask me what I think is best, but do what you think is best. 17 is scary and that's part of the charm. 17 is awkward and that's part of the growth. 17 is a year after the "sweet" and that's what makes it spicy (in a good way). Live 17 authentically. Love 17, love you, love life. I'm so excited for you. I loved you before you were born and every single moment since that day 17 years ago. My heart explodes with pride and joy and love and anticipation as I watch you grow. I don't know what God has in store for you, but I know that He has something enchanting planned. I can't say it enough, love 17 while you are 17. Don't worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Enjoy each day with all its drama. Remember all the lessons you were taught, be kind, be polite, be gentle and be generous. Remember to keep balance and boundaries and practice manners and meekness. Remember to keep your eyes on Jesus. Remember how loved you are. And remember to love 17. . .

Welcome

This pretty spot is in my front yard. Since this picture has been taken flowers have bloomed and others have been planted. It's a small (or as I like to say, intimate) spot with five chairs. At any given time of the day you can find a seat that is in the sun or in the shade, whichever you prefer. From here, there is a nice view of the neighborhood and the hills in the distance. I sweep it almost everyday and add potted plants and flowers regularly. When I sit out here I usually end up with a visitor. It may be an unexpected visit from a neighbor or a spontaneous family gathering (hence the five chairs). My ladies Bible study decided it was lovely and we had our study here. So far this Spring I've had over a dozen drop-in visitors. Here, discussions have ranged in topics from politics to prom to parenting to puppies to pride and a whole slew of topics from other letters in the alphabet. I love it when I go out here to read a book and then I look up to see my children or my husband have come to join me. I sat out here in a light rain storm yesterday with a friend I hadn't seen for a month. We got wet, but barely noticed for we were so busy chatting. There has been much laughter and joy in this spot. It's by no means a beautiful spot, in fact, the concrete is cracked and discolored, and the columns are stained from years of weathering, and one chair is missing a screw (no comments please). But, I really love this spot and tend to it daily. I love that people come and know they are welcome and that all I can see is the beauty . . .

Our First Fruit

This strawberry is the first fruit from our backyard garden. It represents hours of labor preparing the earth for planting. One of our house guests spent hours in the garden with me digging and turning the earth. He even broke a shovel. My husband and I pulled out all the rocks in that patch of land and pulled up weeds and grass. Together we mixed in good earth and raked out roots. Together we bought small plants and plotted out where to plant them. We watered the new plants and watched them grow. This strawberry represents the miracle of growth from a seed, with the help of the Sun and the rain. It represents the sacrifice of our time to nurture our plants into producing fruits, vegetables and herbs. It's a big deal, it is our first fruit. This is not just our first piece of fruit, it is our only piece of fruit, thus far. So, at dinner tonight I will cut this strawberry into 5 pieces, a slice for everyone, and we will pray, thanking God for this gift and the many blessings that He rains down upon us. . .

. . .and that every man should eat and drink and enjoy the good of all his labor - it is the gift of God. Ecclesiastes 3:13

P.S.

Apparently, I did insult my daughter's friend - oops. It wasn't that I once called him a "quirky goat boy" or that I told him he acts like a 3 year old or that I told him he was good blog material. Nor was it that I told him he used an expression that I don't like and asked that he not use it my house. Nor was it that I once threw a chocolate whopper at him and hit him square in the lip and made him bleed. Nope, it wasn't that I told him to cut his hair or that I offered to give him a bottle of nail polish remover so he could take off his black nail polish. No folks, of all these things that someone may take offense to (though no offense was meant), he did not. Hence, my statement that I don't think he can be insulted. But, I found a way, unbeknownst to me, to insult my daughter's friend. I called him "friend". Notice the quotation marks (" ") around friend. That is what insulted him. He said the quotation marks made him feel less of a real friend - I guess he thought I was referring to him as a "pretend" friend which only makes my daughter sound creepy and not him. However, the fact remains that I made an offense and therefore I must apologize. Here is your public apology. "I'm sorry."

Hmm, I feel better.........

Stress?

I don't feel very good today. Maybe it's stress. What do I have to be stressed about? Well, since you asked. . .

. . . on Friday we had a house guest (using Pop-Pop's bed again) and he was sick, really sick, so sick I told him that the dog was chewing on the lung he had coughed up. He coughed in every room of my house, except my bedroom, from which he was ban. Then he decided to give up coffee and cigarettes, at the same time, while staying here. He walked around with a major head ache, in a fog, coughing up lung tissue in every room of my house. I was pleased about his decisions, but why did he choose this weekend to make good decisions? When he left I sprayed so much Lysol that the carbon monoxide detector went off, causing my daughter to scream. Then on Saturday, my son was playing baseball, he's the catcher, and he got hit with a 70 mph foul tip in the only place on his body that's not covered with protective gear - his collar bone. For sure it's broken, but he won't let us take him to the doctor's because he has his tournament game today. Instead, we anointed him with oil and are believing in God to do the rest. However, the school nurse called me this morning to question our actions. She thinks we're freaks. And then there's Bart, a.k.a. Barley, the world's second most worstest dog. In the six months that we have had him, he's eaten 7 pairs of eye glasses. Once I assumed Bart ate my glasses because I couldn't find them and I yelled at him something fierce, but the glasses were on top of my head. There is some kind of irony here about a Seeing Eye puppy eating eye glasses. . . And hot flashes are keeping me up at night. And my daughter's "friend" bought over a huge bag of Peanut M&M's at 9 pm and I think I ate 12 portions. And I may have insulted him (though I don't think he can be insulted) because I told him I was glad he was over because I needed new material for my blog . . .oops. . .so, yeah, I don't feel so good today. Do ya think it's stress?

Coffee Anyone?

A friend of mine has gone through a rough time. She's sweet and funny and a wonderful mother. She loves her kids and would do anything for them. She was at the grocery store, buying the kids lunch foods and she came across the coffee aisle. She walked down the aisle smelling all those wonderful coffee smells (she loves her coffee). She remembered she was out of coffee and went over to her brand, Starbucks Dark Roast Whole Bean Coffee, and that is when she said a little prayer, "Lord, I love this coffee, but I can't afford it. Help me to love the cheap stuff." She bought the cheap stuff so the kids could have the lunch foods they like. That very same day, unbeknownst to me, my husband won some Starbucks Dark Roast Whole Bean Coffee at a golf outing. He came home and said, "Here give this to L." I'm like, "Sure, I'll give it to L, pfft, because I don't want it anyway. But, hey, pfft, thanks for asking me." (Sorry, I'm a little bit of a brat sometimes, but you would be too if you were getting hot flashes every night at 4 in the morning. I tell my husband to have a pitcher of cold water next to the bed just in case I spontaneously combust like poor Mary Reeser who was likely going through menopause herself - but now I am digressing.) The next day was Bible study and when L came, there was a bag of her favorite coffee sitting at her place. She looked at the coffee and cried. Not my husband, nor I, nor anyone else for that matter, except God, knew of her little prayer in the grocery store. When she told us of her prayer, she said that the coffee feels like it came directly from the hand of God Himself and He is telling her, "You take care of the kids and I'll take care of you."

Mother's Day

Mother's Day gifts usually consist of flowers and candy. And that's a good thing because when you get "non-consumable" gifts you need a place to proudly display them. Vases and bobble head dolls or serving platters and candle stick holders are really lovely gifts (thanks kids) but they become dust collectors and sit along side other items that aren't used but a few times a year. Soon you have an attic full of things that don't "fit" in the house anymore. Then the garage overflows and the shed, too. The last thing mom needs for Mother's Day is another item that has to be stored. So, you can get mom flowers and candy OR you can get her a dumpster from 1-800-GOT-JUNK?

Oh, yeah, that's what I'm talking about. . . a dumpster!! Skip the flowers and the candy, kids, mama wants a dumpster. I have been asking for a dumpster for 4 years now. My husband asked, "Don't you want something pretty?" I'm like, "A dumpster is pretty." He asked, "That's what you want today - not that I'm saying you have mood swings or anything - but will you want a dumpster tomorrow?" I'm like, "I've asked for a dumpster for 4 years, I wouldn't call that a mood. Pfft." He asked, "What will your friends think?" I'm like, "Who cares. I want a dumpster!" He said, "Okie dokie." I said, "Hey, a friend of mine got her mother a Porto-potty for mother's day one year. What do ya think of that?" To which he replied, "Even fools are thought wise when they keep silent." Ha - I married a smart man . . .

Pop-Pop's Bed

About a year ago I was in a sort of panic. I wondered what I would do with my time when the kids were no longer homeschooling. I knew that it wouldn't be my choice to decide what I would do. I knew God had a plan, He just wasn't sharing that plan with me. After about a day of our last session of homeschooling it was put on our hearts to bring Pop-Pop here. We gave ourselves the summer to make up his room, go on our family vacation, ready the house and the yard and prepare Pop-Pop for the transition. I had to move, store or give away all our homeschool stuff; move furniture around; buy a dresser, a bed, a TV and shades and curtains; order cable, etc. etc. etc. As you know, Pop-Pop didn't stay long and then he died. I wondered about all the things we did to prepare that room for Pop-Pop's comfort. It was worth it for sure - it would have been worth it if he only stayed one day - yet, I still wondered about our family room that is no longer a family room, but a guest suite. Then I realized that in less than a year's time (8 months to be exact) we have had 8 people sleep in Pop-Pop's bed (not counting the members in this house who have slept there for one reason or another). Imagine, 8 house guests, some who have come repeatedly, in Pop-Pop's bed. Our guests range in age from 18 to 82. Our last (and most frequent) guest said, "I love your family," and later went on to say that he feels the love of Jesus in our home. My heart will surely sing with delight every time I wash those sheets. . .

The Day God Said No

We helped a friend move yesterday. She has a big house, big furniture, big and beautiful and expensive possessions. So, when I was driving over there at 7:30 a.m., getting the donuts and coffee, I prayed, "Lord, I have seen Your angels at work before. For me and my family, for Nick, for the Scott's, at the soup kitchen, doing amazing things that are not humanly possible. So, Lord, send Your angels today and help us move J." I had this sense that God was saying to me, "Nope," and I didn't understand it. So, I arrived at J's and was setting up the coffee and looked around at what needed to get done and I prayed, "Oh Lord, send Your angels here today." Again, I had the sense that God was not going to honor my request and I didn't understand it. 15 minutes later another friend arrived and said, "Come outside, you have to see this!" This is what we saw. Trucks and vans pulling into the driveway with big strong men willing to do the work of an army of angels. 20 volunteers, 40 hands and 40 feet, showed up to help a dear friend in need of man power. God didn't need to send His angels, He did even better, He sent ordinary people to do an extraordinary task. It was a beautiful statement of love and support for a friend and obedience to God. It went so well that my husband and I were able to leave by noon to see our son play baseball. He was pitching his first game for the Varsity team. I love watching him pitch, but. . . it makes me so nervous . . . so, I began to pray, "God, send Your angels." For the second time that day, God told me no. You see, my son had earned the right to play without assistance, he was ready!! He pitched an awesome game, they won, I cried and all was right in the world..............

On The Boy's Perspective

Our son stayed with our friends while we were away. I called him when we got to Florida and told him about our check-in situation at the resort. I assumed (big mistake on my part) that he shared the situation with my friend. (I knew she'd ask.) I stopped by her place when we got back to thank her for taking care of the boy and she asked, "How was the hotel?" I smiled and said, "He told you what happened, right?" She said, "When I asked all he said was that you got cookies." I'm like, "Really? Cookies? That's what he got from the conversation?" Figures. I have to tell the story myself. . .

. . . We pre-paid for our room at a very fine resort right on the east coast of Florida. Pre-paying got us a special rate in a King room with an ocean view. When we went to check-in the clerk said, "We don't have any King rooms with an ocean view, but I do have a double that overlooks the parking lot." I'm like, "No way, I didn't come all the way from NJ to look at a parking lot, we've got plenty of parking lots at home. I paid for a king room with an ocean view and that's what I want. I paid you in January!" The clerk was annoyed and clicking on her computer keyboard, rolling her eyes, sighing. I'm like, "I didn't come all the way from NJ to have someone roll their eyes and sigh at me, I get plenty of that at home." So, she says (with a tone, a roll of the eyes and a shake in that snippy little head), "Alright, I'll have to put you in the Penthouse." Well, alrighty then. So, yes, I had secretly ordered fresh baked cookies and fruit and a little love note for my husband and the hotel staff managed to find us in the penthouse to deliver them. Somehow, all the details, except the cookies, escaped my son. He told my friend, "Yeah, mom and dad got there okay and they're eating cookies." Yeah, eating cookies in the penthouse, looking at the ocean, in a suite, with two balconies and three picture windows. . .

See Ya

What an interesting couple of days we have had. Good food, good friends, good times, new beginnings, harsh words, misunderstandings, parenting snafus, laughter, tears, obedience, resentment . . . all in the day of a life adapted . . .

. . . a weekend away is just what I need, which is really just as well, because this is our 25th wedding anniversary and we'll be going away . . .

. . . love and blessings to you all . . .

. . . I won't send postcards, because then you might be able to find me and right now, I don't want to be found . . .

. . . I'll write when (if) we return . . .

Natural Consequences

My son got in trouble at school the other day. When my kids were little I didn't leave them under the care of others very often. I always figured I was the best person to be raising them up in the way they should go. If they weren't with me, they were with daddy. That's about it. Before my kids were even born, I took a parenting class. The class was called STEP - Systematic Training for Effective Parenting. That's when I was introduced to natural consequences and raising children that are loved, but not conceited. If I told my son to get his coat before a hike and he didn't and it got cold on the hike, he would either be cold or sit in the car and miss the hike - simple natural consequences. My kids were taught to do the right thing because it's right, not because of an ill-suited consequence (a punishment that didn't fit the crime). I had little confidence that my children would be "taught" under the care of others as well as they would be under my care. That is, until I met Mrs. V - the Vice Principal at my son's school. I have total confidence that Mrs. V will be firm and fair, using natural consequences. My son was sent to her office and she gave him an after-school detention. My son didn't want to miss baseball practice and risk not starting at the next game. He said, "Mrs. V, I will come for a week of lunch-time detentions if you let me go to baseball practice today." She calmly and slowly responded, "Do I look like I have 'Let's Make A Deal' written across my forehead? No, I didn't think so.'" Way to go Mrs. V! I couldn't have said it better myself . . .

The Soccer Series - Part VI

The End

One beautiful fall day we headed to the soccer field to watch our oldest play in a very competitive girls game. The key word is competitive. At this stage of playing soccer (11 year old girls) the game was not about running around the soccer field being distracted by clover patches and bumble bees. It was all about scoring points for your team and not allowing anyone to score against you. My daughter was playing forward and it was a fast paced but low scoring game. The fans were biting their nails and glaring at any girl who made a mistake. My daughter had the ball and she was going for the goal. She dodged opposing players as she dominated the soccer ball and the soccer field. She ran toward the goal and had a clear shot of scoring, she pulled her leg back and she kicked the ball with all her might . . . and to the total surprise of everyone who was watching, the goalie, a petite girl, dove through the air and body slammed my daughter's legs. I was up and on the field in a flash. I cleared the field, called 911 and sat with the goalie as we waited for the ambulance. I knew she had broken her collar bone. My daughter, fighting back the tears, sat on the sidelines waiting for me. Some insensitive parents pointed at her and said purposely loud enough for her to hear, "She's the one who did it!" My daughter sat there with her head down and crying on the inside, thinking, "But I'm not a bad person. I love Jesus. It was an accident." Our spark for soccer faded after that. I mean, how many soccer pictures does a parent need anyway? So . . . softball pictures . . . oh yeah, that's what I'm talkin' 'bout!

Spring Blooms

The Soccer Series - Part V

The Fun

We had some fun with soccer for 6 years. We watched our first daughter just bloom on the soccer field. She loved her daddy coaching her, she loved running around outdoors, she even loved those special yellow goalie gloves. She was a great defense player. You had to be really quick to get a soccer ball by her! We watched our second daughter with delight as she eagerly came to every practice and every game. She would bring her "dolla" with her, her little purple suitcase filled with her treasures and as long as we put neon colored shoelaces on her soccer cleats, she was good to go. She earned about 6 items from the dollar store that first year. And our son - watching him was like watching an old Kong-Fu/3 Stooges movie - he'd run up the soccer field, kicking the ball and doing flips and somersaults, jumping over kids and doing The Curly Shuffle after scoring a goal. He always wanted to dump Gatorade on the coach (daddy) after a game (win or lose). He tied his sisters shoelaces together when they weren't looking and barked at them like Curly when they got mad. My husband loved coaching the kids. He knew when to be serious and when to lighten up. He once ducked-taped a kids shoes onto his feet because his shoelaces kept coming untied and when he kicked the ball his cleats would fly off. Me . . . I loved soccer season. All 3 kids were someone else's responsibility for a few hours a week. I got myself a comfy lounge chair, a little sunscreen, a cappuccino and a wallet full of soccer pictures. . .

The Soccer Series - Part IV

The Snack-Nazi

A Snack-Nazi is someone who, with all good intentions, takes over the half-time snack and the end-of-game snack distribution schedule. I once read in an old book called "A Yankee Hobo In The Orient" that if you give a relatively nice person a bit of power you can say good-bye to that relatively nice person. This held true for the once nice lady who took over the snacks. The first thing she did was to make a list of all the parents - whether they volunteered to supply snacks or not - including the coaches wife (i.e., me) and assigned them dates to bring snacks. Then she gave each parent "The List". The list contained two columns - one side had "Suggested Approved Snacks", the other side simply read "Unacceptable". She gave me The List and to my surprise, I was the first one scheduled to bring snacks! Not only did I have to remember to bring the score book, cold water, the goalie nets, soccer balls, the first aid kit, ice packs, bee-stink rub, the kids and the coach with his whistle (jk)- now I had to bring snacks. And not just whatever snack was on sale, but approved snacks. I kid you not, tofu was an approved snack. I lost the list and brought grapes and granola for half-time and lemon ice and Hi-C for after the game. Whole grapes were not approved because they were a choking hazard and granola was not approved because it may contain nuts and some kids may be allergic. Lemon ice and Hi-C were not even on her radar, they were neither approved nor unacceptable. After the game, I was stripped, permanently, from the list and from ever having to bring snacks again. Mission accomplished . . .

The Soccer Series - Part III

The Most Important Element

I hope some of you mom's will understand and appreciate this post. . .

For me the most important element of getting my children to play soccer was not teaching them to play well with others, my kids did that already. It was not to get them up off the couch and outdoors, my kids used to beg me to let them sleep outdoors. It was not to teach them coordination, my kids used to roller blade around the dining room table and living room furniture with ease. It certainly was not about the plastic soccer trophy, my son used his for target practice. And it was not to teach them how to work together as a team, my kids frequently teamed up together to go after me! No, for me it was all about that coveted soccer photo! You know the ones, with your child standing next to the soccer ball, with dirty shin guards on (to make it look like they played hard) and the green soccer field behind them. That was the reason I signed my kids up to play soccer. I wanted wallet size pictures of my children with a soccer ball, in uniform, to show my family and friends. Little did I know that my middle daughter would refuse to smile for her picture because she was mad at me. She was 6 and she told me, "You made my hair look bad. I'm mad." I begged, I pleaded, I bribed, I yelled and I even explained, "Even if someone paid me a million dollars to make your hair look bad, I would have to tell 'I'm sorry, I can't take your money because I can't make my daughter's hair look bad, even for a million dollars'." Nothing worked. So at the soccer field, all the soccer mom's were like, "Come on honey, say 'ca-ching', smile." I had had it at this point and I yelled at the photographer, "It's my $8.95 and if that child does not want to smile, so be it - take the dang picture!" And so she did. . .




. . . my coveted photo . . . my gem . . .

The Soccer Series - Part II

Ca-Ching

The first year of soccer for daughter number 2 was not as successful as daughter number 1. No. 1 loved running after the ball and kicking it. No. 2 loved running after the ball and letting someone else kick it. My husband was No. 2's coach and he and every mom of every child on that team tried to get her to kick the ball. I was seldom able to come to games as daughter No. 2 played on a different team. So, I showed up at one of the games in it's 3rd quarter and No. 2, I was told, did not kick the ball once. The other soccer mom's were all so sweet and tried to encourage her. My husband tried everything. So, I went over to my daughter and whispered in her ear. The other soccer mom's were sympathetic, but unconvinced I would be able to get my daughter to kick the ball. The whistle blew and the kids went running out onto the field. My daughter, smiling at me, ran out onto the field, too. She ran right over and kicked that ball. It doesn't matter where the ball went, it was the fact that she kicked it. The team went wild, the soccer mom's were jumping up and down and screaming. It was so exciting. And then, my daughter kicked the ball again and again and again. Now all the soccer mom's wanted to know what pearls of wisdom I whispered to my daughter to get her to kick that ball. I said proudly, "I told her every time she kicked the ball she'd get a quarter. 4 kicks and I'd take her to the Dollar Store." So, every time she kicked the ball one soccer mom jumped up and yelled, "Ca-ching!!"

The Soccer Series - Part I

The First Practice

Thirteen 5 and 6 year old children signed up for Whistle Soccer. They came to their first ever soccer practice adorned with little soccer cleats, shin guards and no knowledge of the game itself. The coach, a wonderful man, gathered the children around him and said, "Welcome to your first soccer practice. When I blow the whistle the first thing I want you to do is run around the soccer field, run in circles around each other until I blow the whistle again." Now imagine this scene - 13 kids running around each other on a soccer field - it still plays like a video in my head. This is what it was like. It was a beautiful and clear, sunny day. Some kids ran, screaming, around and around in circles. Some kids stood quietly at the edge of the field. One kid stopped to look for 4-leaf clovers in a clover patch. One little boy accused a little girl of punching him. One girl got stepped on and an other got kicked. One kid ran out of bounds, right to his very anxious mother. One kid needed to stop to get a "puff" on his inhaler. One MOTHER ran on the field to run along side her daughter. One kid stood in the goalie's net. Someone got stung by a bee. Someone's dog barked and growled and lunged at passing children. And then the coach blew his whistle. He said, "This is what a soccer game is like, only thing is, in a game there is a soccer ball on the field." And so began our 6 years of watching (and coaching) our children play soccer. In case you're wondering, my daughter is the one who got stepped on . . .