Men and women are just plain wired differently. I love this about us. Some women think we should be equals.
Not me.
I like how we're programmed for different tasks. It's better off this way.
Allow me to illustrate with the, "Who's Turn Is It To Wake Up?" routine we've been doing almost every night for the past eleven plus years.
The baby (whomever it is at the time) wakes up and needs to be rescued from the crib.
Mickey brings the baby to me for a feeding, and goes back to sleep.
The toddler bursts into our room just one hour after we've fallen asleep, shivering from fright, and needs to be cuddled. I pull that toddler into bed beside me and whisper confident reassurances.
Mickey takes note, and goes back to sleep.
The five-year-old is done sleeping for the night by 4:30 am. I awaken with Sweet Girl (read: Dream Thief), treat her like she's the best thing I've seen all day (instead of like the only thing I've seen all day), make her breakfast, and watch cartoons with her.
Mickey misses this entirely.
But when there is a small scratching on the window, whether it's an intruder or a branch scraping the pane, Mickey is instantly awake, patrolling the house with a firearm and double checking all windows and doors.
I sleep through all of this. In fact, I would never know he was up at all, except for his groggy walk and droopy eyes the next morning. They always tip me off. And then I just feel guilty. I mean, what kind of "partner" snores through a life-and-death situation?
This girl.
This is our unwritten agreement. We've never discussed the terms, talked through the division of the tasks, or held a meeting to work out the details. We just inherently know our individual part. (Incidentally, we dance like this, too. He leads, I follow, we have no planned routine, we laugh at each other's antics, and the judges give us fourth place out of three hundred and fifty couples. It's how we keep our marriage exciting and fresh, I guess.)
I had no idea how oblivious I was to all of this until Mickey went away on a business trip. We were living in Baltimore at the time, and I awakened to a loud noise. Since all the children were sleeping in my room, it made no sense for me to leave them and go to investigate.
Also, I was waaaay too scared to do that.
So I just tiptoed over to the closet, pulled out my shotgun, slid the chamber open and closed, open and closed several times, walked over to my top drawer to retrieve my bullet, and then sat on our bed, crossed legged, staring at the bedroom door, gun at the ready.
(On a side note, Mickey's wiring has helped me fine tune this defense tactic. Now, if I have to dispose of an intruder in the middle of the night, I can use a suppressed firearm with a laser and night vision. He has a point: there's no need to wake up the children with all that noise. Who wants to be cleaning up blood and coaxing the children to go back to bed? That would just be a nightmare.)
Another time when Mickey was away, I awakened in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, but I had to hold it until dawn because there was a strange blue light coming through that little crack under the door, and I was terrified that aliens or some such thing were waiting in ambush should I open my bedroom door in attempt to discover the source of the eerie glow. Instead, I pulled the gun out of the safe, strained to hear any noises, prayed my dogs were alive, counted the heads of my sleeping children, and texted my husband so he would know where to start the search should he come home to find his family missing.
If we get technical about it all, my night watch is more frequent than his, but I'm okay with it because I'd rather address a crying baby than an armed thief--any day or night.
Every so often, we put into play another unwritten maneuver. If I have had several sleepless nights in a row, I become so tired that I will sleep through everything--even the crying baby. I stay in the same position all night, and when morning comes, I'm refreshed and ready to assume my night watch again. Also, I give Mickey a nap this day.
One night last week, I awakened refreshed, and oddly, Mickey was, too. I was wondering aloud that everyone slept through the night when he cleared his throat to cut me off. He explained that our sons had come to our room in the middle of the night, afraid because they had heard loud, suspicious noises.
Mickey retrieved his Glock 27 from the safe in his night stand and then talked through the search plan with the boys. (He actually might have done all of this with hand signals; I'm not sure.) Then, they proceeded to do a search of the entire premises, Mickey at the front, boys "watching his six" and making sure the bad guys didn't double back.
I picture Mickey wearing his pajamas, rocking his bed head, his Glock at perfect aim, peering around corners, and trusting that our bare-chested, young sons have got his back. I see the bathroom door flying open from a well-positioned kick, the boys running in from behind, and giving the "Clear!" call. Mickey then wordlessly points to his eyes, uses one finger to point at the eldest, two fingers to point at the second son, then gives a quick double-wave, stiff fingered motion before they all move on to the next room. I'm also betting the boys were suppressing war whoops while Mickey wore a smirk.
But since I was sleeping, I can't be sure how it all went down, and I can't criticize his fathering style. He's very good about snatching up those spontaneous teaching moments. He's also a brilliant strategist to let me sleep while he's training his heirs on the intricacies of a thorough manhunt.
However, I think I'll sleep even better if I buy my boys those bullet-proof vests I've had my eye on since two Christmases past and make them all sleep in black pajamas and ski masks.
Also, I'm starting to wonder if my dream last night about a S.W.A.T. team on the roof wasn't really a dream after all....
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
In the Moment
It's just about lunch time. The four loaves of whole wheat bread I made fill the air with their warm, hearty goodness. My seven-year-old wants a piece now, but concedes to wait until the bread isn't too hot. My five-year-old passes the minutes until lunch by looking at the bread, her eyes just clearing the top of the counter. She exclaims her awe over the beauty of the deliciousness.
My eleven-year-old is sneezing on the couch, worrying that his allergic, red eyes make him look silly. He wears sunglasses to abate the embarrassment and plucks out "Pirates of the Caribbean" on his guitar. My baby is dancing to his music, stealing his sunglasses, and stomping to the beat that she feels deep in her soul.
She toddles in to me, tripping over the big, pink sneakers she's been wearing all morning. She has her own shoes, but her sister's are infinitely more desirable. Her tummy is full, since she just snacked on leftover waffles and shared them with her beloved doggie. She whimpers for me to hold her, and when she refuses a drink, I can tell it's time for her nap.
I lie down with her and sing her lullabies. Today we are only interrupted three times. My five-year-old is tattling on my three-year-old, who has put sparkly smiley stickers all over the back of the piano. She agrees to help in the removal process, and to whisper and tiptoe if she needs to come back in. Her hair is wild and gorgeous, a fitting top to her carefree, fun-loving soul.
My seven-year-old wants to make homemade juice pops. This is his biggest dream. I don't have molds for that. I have to get creative and solve this problem. I'm grateful his wish is one that I can make come true. Someday I won't have the answer. But for today, I am enough. And that feels good.
My husband calls. He needs to hear my voice. That makes me tear up. His voice encourages, soothes, grunts understanding, expresses love. Clinic is over in just one hour. I can't wait to be held in the arms that belong to his voice.
While I type, I beg my three-year-old to brush my hair. She tugs out the hair band, and then goes to get her purple comb. While she combs, her narration is continuous. Her voice is sweetly scratchy, and I listen to her thoughts. She starts with the things that matter most, and then moves to the extras.
"Mom, Jesus died on the cross. But now He's resurrected. I have my purple comb. You have a lot of hair." Her comb gets stuck in the gnarly mass; she leaves it and runs outside to play in the sunshine.
Is this one of the reasons we should be more like children? They know the fundamentals and place them first, filling in the gaps with the things they love the best, moving along at a pace that is great for them--regardless of anyone else in their world.
How do I adequately express my love for my family? Do they know how much I love them? Have I told them enough today? They fill my heart with what matters most.
God is so very, very good to me.
My eleven-year-old is sneezing on the couch, worrying that his allergic, red eyes make him look silly. He wears sunglasses to abate the embarrassment and plucks out "Pirates of the Caribbean" on his guitar. My baby is dancing to his music, stealing his sunglasses, and stomping to the beat that she feels deep in her soul.
She toddles in to me, tripping over the big, pink sneakers she's been wearing all morning. She has her own shoes, but her sister's are infinitely more desirable. Her tummy is full, since she just snacked on leftover waffles and shared them with her beloved doggie. She whimpers for me to hold her, and when she refuses a drink, I can tell it's time for her nap.
I lie down with her and sing her lullabies. Today we are only interrupted three times. My five-year-old is tattling on my three-year-old, who has put sparkly smiley stickers all over the back of the piano. She agrees to help in the removal process, and to whisper and tiptoe if she needs to come back in. Her hair is wild and gorgeous, a fitting top to her carefree, fun-loving soul.
My seven-year-old wants to make homemade juice pops. This is his biggest dream. I don't have molds for that. I have to get creative and solve this problem. I'm grateful his wish is one that I can make come true. Someday I won't have the answer. But for today, I am enough. And that feels good.
My husband calls. He needs to hear my voice. That makes me tear up. His voice encourages, soothes, grunts understanding, expresses love. Clinic is over in just one hour. I can't wait to be held in the arms that belong to his voice.
While I type, I beg my three-year-old to brush my hair. She tugs out the hair band, and then goes to get her purple comb. While she combs, her narration is continuous. Her voice is sweetly scratchy, and I listen to her thoughts. She starts with the things that matter most, and then moves to the extras.
"Mom, Jesus died on the cross. But now He's resurrected. I have my purple comb. You have a lot of hair." Her comb gets stuck in the gnarly mass; she leaves it and runs outside to play in the sunshine.
Is this one of the reasons we should be more like children? They know the fundamentals and place them first, filling in the gaps with the things they love the best, moving along at a pace that is great for them--regardless of anyone else in their world.
How do I adequately express my love for my family? Do they know how much I love them? Have I told them enough today? They fill my heart with what matters most.
I have to record these seemingly insignificant, precious moments that fill my life. They will expire too soon, like that quart of spinach artichoke dip in my refrigerator that I keep forgetting about.
God is so very, very good to me.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Happy Father's Day
There was a baby boy. He was gorgeous. Mom and Dad thought he was perfect. They couldn't kiss him enough, hold him close enough, sing to him sweetly enough. This baby was loved.
He grew to be a toddler. He was still gorgeous, but mischief began to gleam in his beautiful baby eyes. He didn't want to eat his vegetables. He emptied all the folded clothes out of drawers. He colored on walls. He fell and skinned his knees. Mom and Dad thought it was a good thing he was so cute.
He kept growing. He discovered the world was his to conquer. As his intellect and talent grew, so did his capacity to make a difference in his world. He found confidence in a job done right, humility in the gift of a second chance, and love in the serving hands that ministered to him.
He could be anything he wanted. Nothing could stop him. Any dream was his for the taking. His hands, when guided by God, could shape destinies and affect change in the future of the world. The magnitude of his potential was incalculable.
He thought long and hard about what he wanted the most. He turned down admiration, applause, and affectation to follow his greatest dream and fulfill the supreme grandeur of his divine creation.
He became a father.
He grew to be a toddler. He was still gorgeous, but mischief began to gleam in his beautiful baby eyes. He didn't want to eat his vegetables. He emptied all the folded clothes out of drawers. He colored on walls. He fell and skinned his knees. Mom and Dad thought it was a good thing he was so cute.
He kept growing. He discovered the world was his to conquer. As his intellect and talent grew, so did his capacity to make a difference in his world. He found confidence in a job done right, humility in the gift of a second chance, and love in the serving hands that ministered to him.
He could be anything he wanted. Nothing could stop him. Any dream was his for the taking. His hands, when guided by God, could shape destinies and affect change in the future of the world. The magnitude of his potential was incalculable.
He thought long and hard about what he wanted the most. He turned down admiration, applause, and affectation to follow his greatest dream and fulfill the supreme grandeur of his divine creation.
He became a father.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Race of a Lifetime
I received an email from my angel mother today. So did ten other people.
She was feeling sad. Her baby has just graduated from the sixth grade. Do you know what that means?
For "thirty-two consecutive years" my mother has had a child (usually several children) in elementary school.
Thirty-two years!!! Think of it! I'm sure--even with my wild imagination--I don't fully comprehend the long race that represents.
Nightly reading packets to sign, class parties, multiplication memorization, state reports, class plays with poor sound systems, morning rush to the bus, book reports, sack lunches with heart felt notes written on napkins, clean clothes and well-coifed hair before 7 am, after school snacks, states and capitals, parent-teacher conferences, Hope of America, lost library books, teacher appreciation week, spelling lists, geography bees, art projects, forgotten books and lunches. . .
Years upon years of hurdle after hurdle, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time.
And when she finished the race, there were no camera crews, no medals, no cash prizes.
Just eleven children in the stand, cheering, applauding, praising her blessed, blessed name.
For those eleven children, her thirty-two years made ALL the difference.
Her efforts, sacrifice, tears, and love that went into those many, many. . .many sleep deprived years will go largely unheralded by the world.
But isn't that the way of it for angels?
She was feeling sad. Her baby has just graduated from the sixth grade. Do you know what that means?
For "thirty-two consecutive years" my mother has had a child (usually several children) in elementary school.
Thirty-two years!!! Think of it! I'm sure--even with my wild imagination--I don't fully comprehend the long race that represents.
Nightly reading packets to sign, class parties, multiplication memorization, state reports, class plays with poor sound systems, morning rush to the bus, book reports, sack lunches with heart felt notes written on napkins, clean clothes and well-coifed hair before 7 am, after school snacks, states and capitals, parent-teacher conferences, Hope of America, lost library books, teacher appreciation week, spelling lists, geography bees, art projects, forgotten books and lunches. . .
Years upon years of hurdle after hurdle, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time.
And when she finished the race, there were no camera crews, no medals, no cash prizes.
Just eleven children in the stand, cheering, applauding, praising her blessed, blessed name.
For those eleven children, her thirty-two years made ALL the difference.
Her efforts, sacrifice, tears, and love that went into those many, many. . .many sleep deprived years will go largely unheralded by the world.
But isn't that the way of it for angels?
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
He's turned them all.
Don't get me wrong. I want to be a mother. The pursuit of raising our children to be happy, well-adjusted, intelligent, contributing adults is my life's labor.
Usually my husband backs me up on this. But sometimes, I feel as if Mom's training takes us one step forward and Dad's influence takes us two steps back.
For example, the other night, dinner began with me quizzing the children on the mnemonic devices for the Great Lakes and the planets in our solar system. We quickly digressed.
Faster than you can say "Brains!", our topics went from Lake Huron, to Pluto the un-planet, to the fog on the road today, to the perfect weather conditions for a zombie apocalypse.
"I hope the zombies don't come out," our seven-year-old son said in a grave, somber voice. He had experienced the low and quick-moving fog first hand, and I guess this translated to the inevitable zombie onslaught.
Dad admitted that it would indeed be bad if zombies came out, but snatching up the teaching moment, he assured our young brood with the plain facts.
"With zombies," he explained, "it all comes down to ammo. You have to have enough ammo to hold off the zombie hoard." And with a smirk on his face, he added, "We could hold off the zombie hoard for quite some time."
Oh, good, I thought. Since that's resolved, let's talk about my blooming dahlias.
Our seven-year-old then revealed his zombie slaying protocol. "I would just dress up like a zombie, pretend to be one of them, and then ambush them from behind."
"That would work. . .as long as they don't smell you," Dad pointed out.
Our oldest quickly offered the solution. "Just use zombie oderant."
Our oldest revealed his tactic. "I would use my bow and arrow."
Dad encouraged, "A bow and arrow is actually a great choice, because you can reuse an arrow to kill more zombies."
Our oldest daughter tried again, "Who wants to camp like a zombie?" But her question fell on deaf ears.
Then our seven-year-old son suggested another plan. "We should use our MAC 10."
"Well, if we did that," clarified Dad, "we wouldn't have it on fully automatic, because that would waste ammo."
Well, let's use some of it and just shoot me now.
Our daughter offered the final question, "Who wants to eat some Freddy?" At which, my young family joined in a rousing chorus of, "All we want to do is eat your brains!" My toddler and infant daughters laughed heartily at the joy of it all.
My first mistake was trying to raise intellects. I should've seen this coming. Smart brains are infinitely more nutritious and delicious than dumb brains.
So they say. I wouldn't know. I haven't been turned yet.
You want proof my brain is still intact? Just ask me the names of the Great Lakes.
Usually my husband backs me up on this. But sometimes, I feel as if Mom's training takes us one step forward and Dad's influence takes us two steps back.
For example, the other night, dinner began with me quizzing the children on the mnemonic devices for the Great Lakes and the planets in our solar system. We quickly digressed.
Faster than you can say "Brains!", our topics went from Lake Huron, to Pluto the un-planet, to the fog on the road today, to the perfect weather conditions for a zombie apocalypse.
"I hope the zombies don't come out," our seven-year-old son said in a grave, somber voice. He had experienced the low and quick-moving fog first hand, and I guess this translated to the inevitable zombie onslaught.
Dad admitted that it would indeed be bad if zombies came out, but snatching up the teaching moment, he assured our young brood with the plain facts.
"With zombies," he explained, "it all comes down to ammo. You have to have enough ammo to hold off the zombie hoard." And with a smirk on his face, he added, "We could hold off the zombie hoard for quite some time."
Oh, good, I thought. Since that's resolved, let's talk about my blooming dahlias.
Our seven-year-old then revealed his zombie slaying protocol. "I would just dress up like a zombie, pretend to be one of them, and then ambush them from behind."
"That would work. . .as long as they don't smell you," Dad pointed out.
Our oldest quickly offered the solution. "Just use zombie oderant."
Wanting to be part of the happy conversation, our five-year-old daughter announced, "You have to eat your bacon, Gilbert."
Poor dear, I thought. She just wants to have a voice. I'm with her. Let's talk about bacon.
Our oldest revealed his tactic. "I would use my bow and arrow."
Dad encouraged, "A bow and arrow is actually a great choice, because you can reuse an arrow to kill more zombies."
Our oldest daughter tried again, "Who wants to camp like a zombie?" But her question fell on deaf ears.
Then our seven-year-old son suggested another plan. "We should use our MAC 10."
"Well, if we did that," clarified Dad, "we wouldn't have it on fully automatic, because that would waste ammo."
Well, let's use some of it and just shoot me now.
Our daughter offered the final question, "Who wants to eat some Freddy?" At which, my young family joined in a rousing chorus of, "All we want to do is eat your brains!" My toddler and infant daughters laughed heartily at the joy of it all.
My first mistake was trying to raise intellects. I should've seen this coming. Smart brains are infinitely more nutritious and delicious than dumb brains.
So they say. I wouldn't know. I haven't been turned yet.
You want proof my brain is still intact? Just ask me the names of the Great Lakes.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Dinner on the High Seas
I guess I'll just have to level with myself and admit that I occasionally overestimate our dining manners.
The Vista Dining Room on the ms Westerdam is gorgeous: a sweeping spiral staircase stands in the middle of the room, gracefully joining both the upper and lower levels. Leather-seated chairs with a rich brocade back circle each table. Glimmering dishes, goblets, and silverware are perfectly poised atop their gleaming, white table linens. Each tower of plates has an artfully folded cloth napkin which changes shape every night.
The service is just as luxurious. A long row of hosts lines the entrance of the room, and each one bows to you in welcome. One leads you to your table and ushers you to your personal dining steward, who seats you, places your napkin in your lap, asks what you will be drinking, and sets tonight's menu in your unsuspecting, yet ready, hands.
I'm a mother with five children aged ten and under. I never eat my meal when it's hot. I serve everyone else first. My shirt doubles as a napkin. So do my pants. And my face. We use plastic, colored table wear with mismatched utensils whose prongs are frayed and poking out at the perfect angles to rip up your tongue. Dinner conversation is mostly me trying to convince everyone that your left hand goes in your lap, and you hold your fork like this; you really love this meal, so stop complaining; we don't throw our vegetables on the floor, or on our brother's plate, or on our father's face; cookies are for finishers; I'm not offering my lap as an alternative to your chair tonight; for heaven's sake, will everyone please stop humming!
What I 'm trying relate is, we were a mite out of our league.
But blinded by the pomp of the circumstance, I did not tell this to our steward, Alvin. I should have stopped the procession with a confession about the menu, dinnerware, and state of the diners that we are accustomed to in our Nelson Dining Room, and accepted my defeat by retreating to the buffet line on the Lido deck. But intoxicated by the celebrity of it all, I kept mum and tried my best to act the part.
And heaven bless us, we did our best, but the odds were against us, and I fear we blew our cover.
Wednesday night at table 222 began in the usual way, with my three-year-old daughter pulling the bread basket over to her, insisting on buttering her own piece with three tablespoons of butter, deciding that was gross, throwing it onto her big brother's plate, and finishing her nightly ritual by ripping out the centers of four pieces of artisan bread whilst splaying crumbs everywhere.
Alvin didn't flinch. This was night five, and he was used to her by now. He brought over a silver tool, and with three quick flicks of his wrist, he successfully gathered every bread crumb before he placed her appetizer in front of her.
This left me to enjoy my four course meal in a crumb-free environment, but by course two, I could sense we were going downhill faster than usual.
The girls were whining and thrashing around in excess, and after a closer inspection, I was sure they had contracted a nasty case of conjunctivitis. What could I do but put on a brave face, eat my meal with a whirlwind of knife and fork, and pray that we could get out of there before we spread it any further?
On edge, my eyes darted about the diners at our table, trying to channel my Spidey Senses and catch any infractions before we were caught and arrested for impersonating royalty. When the girls finally settled into their entrees and their whining stopped, I decided I could relax a little.
But by the end of course three, it happened.
My mother, who was sitting across the table from me, motioned to me with a panicked look on her face. I followed her gestures to see my oldest daughter, with a handful of table cloth in each hand, fiercely rubbing her itchy eyes, which were now spewing forth copious amounts of yellow eye matter at an alarming rate.
I leaned over to my husband and in a deliberate whisper I told him what was going on. I was careful not to move my lips so that if other diners were watching (they were always watching!), they wouldn't have any idea that we were living the movie Outbreak.
Scraping together all the parenting wisdom and experience we could muster, we decided that when dessert came, one of us would nonchalantly drip chocolate sauce over the table cloth in a large, glaring arc so as to ensure it would be laundered before the later diners of table 222 came to replace us. For extra measure, we decided one would use chocolate sauce, and one would use strawberry sauce.
We didn't have to enact that charade though. The children beat us to it.
By the end of dessert, one son had dripped his dessert sauce everywhere, the other son had spilled ten ounces of apple juice down the middle of the table, and the youngest daughter had dripped cream all over her dining area.
When I pushed away from the table and stood to leave, it was all I could do to not run from the crime scene. With hot tears stinging my eyes, I had to admit to myself that I was not a celebrity, and even worse, now I was sure that everyone in the Vista Dining Room knew that, too.
As penance for ruining a perfectly good table cloth, when I got to my room, I called room service and ordered a nice big slice of humble pie...sans linen.
The Vista Dining Room on the ms Westerdam is gorgeous: a sweeping spiral staircase stands in the middle of the room, gracefully joining both the upper and lower levels. Leather-seated chairs with a rich brocade back circle each table. Glimmering dishes, goblets, and silverware are perfectly poised atop their gleaming, white table linens. Each tower of plates has an artfully folded cloth napkin which changes shape every night.
The service is just as luxurious. A long row of hosts lines the entrance of the room, and each one bows to you in welcome. One leads you to your table and ushers you to your personal dining steward, who seats you, places your napkin in your lap, asks what you will be drinking, and sets tonight's menu in your unsuspecting, yet ready, hands.
I'm a mother with five children aged ten and under. I never eat my meal when it's hot. I serve everyone else first. My shirt doubles as a napkin. So do my pants. And my face. We use plastic, colored table wear with mismatched utensils whose prongs are frayed and poking out at the perfect angles to rip up your tongue. Dinner conversation is mostly me trying to convince everyone that your left hand goes in your lap, and you hold your fork like this; you really love this meal, so stop complaining; we don't throw our vegetables on the floor, or on our brother's plate, or on our father's face; cookies are for finishers; I'm not offering my lap as an alternative to your chair tonight; for heaven's sake, will everyone please stop humming!
What I 'm trying relate is, we were a mite out of our league.
But blinded by the pomp of the circumstance, I did not tell this to our steward, Alvin. I should have stopped the procession with a confession about the menu, dinnerware, and state of the diners that we are accustomed to in our Nelson Dining Room, and accepted my defeat by retreating to the buffet line on the Lido deck. But intoxicated by the celebrity of it all, I kept mum and tried my best to act the part.
And heaven bless us, we did our best, but the odds were against us, and I fear we blew our cover.
Wednesday night at table 222 began in the usual way, with my three-year-old daughter pulling the bread basket over to her, insisting on buttering her own piece with three tablespoons of butter, deciding that was gross, throwing it onto her big brother's plate, and finishing her nightly ritual by ripping out the centers of four pieces of artisan bread whilst splaying crumbs everywhere.
Alvin didn't flinch. This was night five, and he was used to her by now. He brought over a silver tool, and with three quick flicks of his wrist, he successfully gathered every bread crumb before he placed her appetizer in front of her.
This left me to enjoy my four course meal in a crumb-free environment, but by course two, I could sense we were going downhill faster than usual.
The girls were whining and thrashing around in excess, and after a closer inspection, I was sure they had contracted a nasty case of conjunctivitis. What could I do but put on a brave face, eat my meal with a whirlwind of knife and fork, and pray that we could get out of there before we spread it any further?
On edge, my eyes darted about the diners at our table, trying to channel my Spidey Senses and catch any infractions before we were caught and arrested for impersonating royalty. When the girls finally settled into their entrees and their whining stopped, I decided I could relax a little.
But by the end of course three, it happened.
My mother, who was sitting across the table from me, motioned to me with a panicked look on her face. I followed her gestures to see my oldest daughter, with a handful of table cloth in each hand, fiercely rubbing her itchy eyes, which were now spewing forth copious amounts of yellow eye matter at an alarming rate.
I leaned over to my husband and in a deliberate whisper I told him what was going on. I was careful not to move my lips so that if other diners were watching (they were always watching!), they wouldn't have any idea that we were living the movie Outbreak.
Scraping together all the parenting wisdom and experience we could muster, we decided that when dessert came, one of us would nonchalantly drip chocolate sauce over the table cloth in a large, glaring arc so as to ensure it would be laundered before the later diners of table 222 came to replace us. For extra measure, we decided one would use chocolate sauce, and one would use strawberry sauce.
We didn't have to enact that charade though. The children beat us to it.
By the end of dessert, one son had dripped his dessert sauce everywhere, the other son had spilled ten ounces of apple juice down the middle of the table, and the youngest daughter had dripped cream all over her dining area.
When I pushed away from the table and stood to leave, it was all I could do to not run from the crime scene. With hot tears stinging my eyes, I had to admit to myself that I was not a celebrity, and even worse, now I was sure that everyone in the Vista Dining Room knew that, too.
As penance for ruining a perfectly good table cloth, when I got to my room, I called room service and ordered a nice big slice of humble pie...sans linen.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Pretty for a Day
You might want to sit down before I tell you this next thing.
I got ready today.
Something came over me; I don't know what. Maybe it was out of love for my husband; I felt he deserved a reminder about the babe he married. Maybe it was out of my sense of duty; I knew that band practice was at my house, and it would probably be good if it looked like I cared about myself. And still maybe, it was out of nostalgia; it had been three hundred and sixty-four days since the last time I was this thorough, so I figured it was just plain time.
But whatever the reason, my shower, curled hair, and makeup-ed face took me forty-five minutes, which time was more excruciating than the fifty-nine minute workout I did this morning. (Not lying about that.)
Have you ever experienced something where you can't help but think about the people who do it every single day? That was me today. The mind reels that there are really some women out there who spend hours on themselves--daily. This floors me. What would that be like?
My husband didn't say a thing about how I looked. He just liked it when I bent over to pick something up. No change there. No matter how dressed up I get, it will always be his second favorite look on me.
When I came out of my room, my oldest daughter looked at me like I had committed the ultimate betrayal. "Where are you going?" she demanded.
My son came to talk to me, and I smiled warmly at him. His facial expression belied no feeling of shock. He asked me his question and moved on. How could he totally miss my bright pink shirt, stylish leggings, and well-coifed hair?
My baby looked at me like I was a stranger. When I saw my reflection, I saw that same look in someone else's painted eyes.
When I went to the super market to buy a chicken, I heard some heckling from behind the counter. I was sure it wasn't for me; I continued comparing expiration dates on whole-chicken carcasses. The chatter continued, and I finally looked up. My friends were working the butcher block today, and they noticed the change. "I haven't seen you in a while. You look good." She was complimentary, and shocked. It was shocking, I know. She was right about that.
Here's what my experiment today taught me. Even though there may have been some astounded countenances, the respect and love I was given was the same as every other day. I am beyond grateful for the people who love me the way I am--sweaty, showered, dirty, clean, tired, rested, joyful, sad, brooding, exuberant, off-key, or operatic. Nothing feels better than to be loved for who I truly am-- except to love someone for who he truly is.
At the end of my day, I showered again, washed the gel out of my hair, scrubbed the makeup off my face, slipped into my husband's T-shirt, and crawled into my familiar bed. It was good to be my exhausted, clean, content self again.
And now that I have three hundred sixty-four days until I have to run that marathon again, I'm gonna go work on my personality and character. I know for myself that though you can tame wild locks and moisturize thirsty, wrinkled skin, no matter how you dress it up, an ugly heart is always ugly.
And a beautiful soul is always beautiful, and there's no masking that.
I got ready today.
Something came over me; I don't know what. Maybe it was out of love for my husband; I felt he deserved a reminder about the babe he married. Maybe it was out of my sense of duty; I knew that band practice was at my house, and it would probably be good if it looked like I cared about myself. And still maybe, it was out of nostalgia; it had been three hundred and sixty-four days since the last time I was this thorough, so I figured it was just plain time.
But whatever the reason, my shower, curled hair, and makeup-ed face took me forty-five minutes, which time was more excruciating than the fifty-nine minute workout I did this morning. (Not lying about that.)
Have you ever experienced something where you can't help but think about the people who do it every single day? That was me today. The mind reels that there are really some women out there who spend hours on themselves--daily. This floors me. What would that be like?
My husband didn't say a thing about how I looked. He just liked it when I bent over to pick something up. No change there. No matter how dressed up I get, it will always be his second favorite look on me.
When I came out of my room, my oldest daughter looked at me like I had committed the ultimate betrayal. "Where are you going?" she demanded.
My son came to talk to me, and I smiled warmly at him. His facial expression belied no feeling of shock. He asked me his question and moved on. How could he totally miss my bright pink shirt, stylish leggings, and well-coifed hair?
My baby looked at me like I was a stranger. When I saw my reflection, I saw that same look in someone else's painted eyes.
When I went to the super market to buy a chicken, I heard some heckling from behind the counter. I was sure it wasn't for me; I continued comparing expiration dates on whole-chicken carcasses. The chatter continued, and I finally looked up. My friends were working the butcher block today, and they noticed the change. "I haven't seen you in a while. You look good." She was complimentary, and shocked. It was shocking, I know. She was right about that.
Here's what my experiment today taught me. Even though there may have been some astounded countenances, the respect and love I was given was the same as every other day. I am beyond grateful for the people who love me the way I am--sweaty, showered, dirty, clean, tired, rested, joyful, sad, brooding, exuberant, off-key, or operatic. Nothing feels better than to be loved for who I truly am-- except to love someone for who he truly is.
At the end of my day, I showered again, washed the gel out of my hair, scrubbed the makeup off my face, slipped into my husband's T-shirt, and crawled into my familiar bed. It was good to be my exhausted, clean, content self again.
And now that I have three hundred sixty-four days until I have to run that marathon again, I'm gonna go work on my personality and character. I know for myself that though you can tame wild locks and moisturize thirsty, wrinkled skin, no matter how you dress it up, an ugly heart is always ugly.
And a beautiful soul is always beautiful, and there's no masking that.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
A Little Bit of Hope
Overwhelmed!
It takes everything I have just to keep my family alive. I have no extra time for a project of any kind. Last week, over the course of four days, I spent about twenty-four hours on a project. This week, you can tell that by looking at me/my house/my dogs/my fridge.
It doesn't help that my baby is getting bigger, and every time I rock her to sleep and stare at that sweet face, my mind fills with this terrible commentary, "This might be your last daughter--ever! Enjoy it while you ca...nevermind. She's practically an adult." My husband and other children find me crying about it all the time.
I'm sure the fix to all this is a very long nap, and several days of an early bedtime. ((Snort!)) I might as well wish for a pumpkin to turn into a second front-loading washing machine.
But something wonderful happened to me today! Right when I needed it to! That is why I know God knows me and loves me.
In the midst of the chaos, the dog yelled that someone was at the door. When I went to answer it, there was a box for me. But that's not even the good part.
There--lying in the dirt--pushing through the ice, decaying leaves, and large rocks, were the leaf buds of my tulips!
I couldn't have felt His love more if God had given me a hug Himself. And I couldn't help but see the symbolism.
We may be buried alive, covered with soil and mulch and frozen dreams. But whatever the impossible burdens we are pushing through, there is hope!
Spring will come. We will grow. Our blossoms will be vibrant red. Even when the world is wintery, our souls can be full of life--warm, growing, and swelling with joy.
We just have to respond to the Son, and keep pushing through the dirt.
It takes everything I have just to keep my family alive. I have no extra time for a project of any kind. Last week, over the course of four days, I spent about twenty-four hours on a project. This week, you can tell that by looking at me/my house/my dogs/my fridge.
It doesn't help that my baby is getting bigger, and every time I rock her to sleep and stare at that sweet face, my mind fills with this terrible commentary, "This might be your last daughter--ever! Enjoy it while you ca...nevermind. She's practically an adult." My husband and other children find me crying about it all the time.
I'm sure the fix to all this is a very long nap, and several days of an early bedtime. ((Snort!)) I might as well wish for a pumpkin to turn into a second front-loading washing machine.
But something wonderful happened to me today! Right when I needed it to! That is why I know God knows me and loves me.
In the midst of the chaos, the dog yelled that someone was at the door. When I went to answer it, there was a box for me. But that's not even the good part.
There--lying in the dirt--pushing through the ice, decaying leaves, and large rocks, were the leaf buds of my tulips!
I couldn't have felt His love more if God had given me a hug Himself. And I couldn't help but see the symbolism.
We may be buried alive, covered with soil and mulch and frozen dreams. But whatever the impossible burdens we are pushing through, there is hope!
Spring will come. We will grow. Our blossoms will be vibrant red. Even when the world is wintery, our souls can be full of life--warm, growing, and swelling with joy.
We just have to respond to the Son, and keep pushing through the dirt.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
I Have a Dream
One of my favorite books is The Blue Castle by L. M. Montgomery. It made me realize that I had to first have a dream if I ever wanted it to come true. I started wondering what I could add to my world to make it even more beautiful. (Is that even possible?)
Here are my top ten dreams:
10. Building the perfect mudroom: Walls--floor to ceiling--of cubbies; coordinating and labeled bins; a spot for every shoe, glove, hat, and bag; a place to store all our helmets and boots (we have so many!); a big sink just for washing my dogs; a drain in the middle of the floor; and a door that shuts out the chaos from the rest of the house.
9. Sleeping until I awaken naturally. I've forgotten what that feels like.
8. Being the kind of beautiful that needs no makeup, hot rollers, or wrinkle cream.
7. My hair being restored to its former glory. It truly was my one beauty. (I guess it's time I buckle down on building my character, because it's quickly becoming all I have left.)
6. Having a long string of rainy days to curl up with some good classics and get lost in their pages.
5. Hiring a maid.
4. Getting the results I want from all this dieting and exercising.
3. Planting hundreds of tulips under my purple leaf plums.
2. Being a whiz at math. (I'm sure I can't even begin to imagine what kind of doors this would open for me.)
1. Clearly communicating the depth of my love for my husband and children. (I'm convinced this one will only come if I pray for it. So I do.)
Whether shallow, selfish, useful, possible, or just plain fun, sometimes, it's just good to have a dream to escape to.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Making New Friends.
I found a new best friend.
As is the case with so many friends who have shaped my life, she's in the pages of a book I'm reading. Actually, she passed away several years ago. But she's alive in my book. And that's what matters to me.
It's always disappointing when you think you have a real connection with the heart of another only to find that they are false, jealous, conniving, little, or smutty. There are too many of these people and stories in the world. Which is why I was especially glad to find this gem of a girl.
Here's what I find irresistible about her life story:
She is real--a living, vibrant woman, with faults, strengths, discouragements, joys, hopes, dreams. Her story doesn't only tell the good; it tells the bad, hard, frustrating, and sad, too. I get to read about how she overcomes and plods on, despite set backs and hard falls. I so relate to that. I think, "Here is a woman just like me! There's hope for me yet!"
I love that hope is just oozing out of the pages of this book. I feel like I could grab some of the glittering, oozing hope-gel and spread it all over my world. I'm amazed at how much hope helps to change my perspective, my abilities, and my desires.
Her friendship and voice is always available to me. Instead of staying awake at night, drowning in thoughts of my full schedule or my struggling child or my hopeless flaws, I listen to her story. It feels so good to calm my mind and just listen--without any interruptions. Everyone needs a friend who doesn't always talk nonsense. I love her for that.
She is grounded in what matters most. She lets the insignificant be just that. She cherishes the deep and lasting. She lives to see her dreams become realities.
I am so grateful to include her in my circle of true friends.
I'm hereby committed to filling my life with those who uplift, inspire, and encourage me.
As is the case with so many friends who have shaped my life, she's in the pages of a book I'm reading. Actually, she passed away several years ago. But she's alive in my book. And that's what matters to me.
It's always disappointing when you think you have a real connection with the heart of another only to find that they are false, jealous, conniving, little, or smutty. There are too many of these people and stories in the world. Which is why I was especially glad to find this gem of a girl.
Here's what I find irresistible about her life story:
She is real--a living, vibrant woman, with faults, strengths, discouragements, joys, hopes, dreams. Her story doesn't only tell the good; it tells the bad, hard, frustrating, and sad, too. I get to read about how she overcomes and plods on, despite set backs and hard falls. I so relate to that. I think, "Here is a woman just like me! There's hope for me yet!"
I love that hope is just oozing out of the pages of this book. I feel like I could grab some of the glittering, oozing hope-gel and spread it all over my world. I'm amazed at how much hope helps to change my perspective, my abilities, and my desires.
Her friendship and voice is always available to me. Instead of staying awake at night, drowning in thoughts of my full schedule or my struggling child or my hopeless flaws, I listen to her story. It feels so good to calm my mind and just listen--without any interruptions. Everyone needs a friend who doesn't always talk nonsense. I love her for that.
She is grounded in what matters most. She lets the insignificant be just that. She cherishes the deep and lasting. She lives to see her dreams become realities.
I am so grateful to include her in my circle of true friends.
I'm hereby committed to filling my life with those who uplift, inspire, and encourage me.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
A rock star can wear what she wants.
There was a time when I missed the bus because I was perfecting the accessories to my outfit. The rest of the morning didn't go so well, but it didn't matter because I looked like a rock star.
Twenty years later, I'm living a completely different life. (It's a good thing, too, because eighth grade was fun, but it's not where I want to be forever.)
Yesterday I didn't give any thought at all to what I should wear. Zero accessories graced me. In fact, it wasn't until I was changing into my pajamas that I realized what I had been wearing all day.
I still had on my my husband's t-shirt that had I slept in the night before.
Luckily for my neighbors, I had thrown on some comfy pants so my legs weren't chilly. A loose pony tail, frantically applied mascara, and chipped finger nail polish finished my ensemble. All in all, it was a good day--for me.
My husband's Hard Rock Cafe Canada shirt took a beating, though.
I couldn't stop myself from counting twelve stain patches and noticing that each patch was a variant shade of green, brown, or red. If shirts could talk, this one would have tattled on me, for sure.
I did a little experiment and discovered sour milk has a stronger smell than garlic. I know this because though the guacamole patch was fresher than the milk patch, I couldn't smell any trace of garlic.
I paused to wonder about my toddler's lip. I forgot to check what the wound looked like once the bleeding stopped. But I do know it stopped, and that's the important thing.
Do you know how many things are brown? I don't know the exact number, but I know it's a lot, because I still can't figure out where those stains came from. Also, there are a lot of names and smells that describe the kind of brown you could be investigating--caramel, beige, umber, burnt sienna, coffee, mahogany, buff, cocoa. See?
I had a happy realization that I am most definitely not my husband's size, and the exercise I've been diligent about means I kinda feel like wearing pajamas that actually fit my shape. I won't, though, because the thirty-something me stuffs the eighth grade me in her locker before she can even wonder if she'll have to buy new slippers to match the pretty pajamas.
Let's be serious, here. I love the idea of looking cute while I sleep. Really, I do. But does cuteness really trump efficiency? If I'm doing the math right, a night, and a day, and a night, is like killing three birds with one sleep shirt.
I'm nothing if I'm not efficient, these days.
Pajamas it is.
Stains, smells, and discolorations will accumulate, no matter what I wear. It's a hard rock life.
Twenty years later, I'm living a completely different life. (It's a good thing, too, because eighth grade was fun, but it's not where I want to be forever.)
Yesterday I didn't give any thought at all to what I should wear. Zero accessories graced me. In fact, it wasn't until I was changing into my pajamas that I realized what I had been wearing all day.
I still had on my my husband's t-shirt that had I slept in the night before.
Luckily for my neighbors, I had thrown on some comfy pants so my legs weren't chilly. A loose pony tail, frantically applied mascara, and chipped finger nail polish finished my ensemble. All in all, it was a good day--for me.
My husband's Hard Rock Cafe Canada shirt took a beating, though.
I couldn't stop myself from counting twelve stain patches and noticing that each patch was a variant shade of green, brown, or red. If shirts could talk, this one would have tattled on me, for sure.
I did a little experiment and discovered sour milk has a stronger smell than garlic. I know this because though the guacamole patch was fresher than the milk patch, I couldn't smell any trace of garlic.
I paused to wonder about my toddler's lip. I forgot to check what the wound looked like once the bleeding stopped. But I do know it stopped, and that's the important thing.
Do you know how many things are brown? I don't know the exact number, but I know it's a lot, because I still can't figure out where those stains came from. Also, there are a lot of names and smells that describe the kind of brown you could be investigating--caramel, beige, umber, burnt sienna, coffee, mahogany, buff, cocoa. See?
I had a happy realization that I am most definitely not my husband's size, and the exercise I've been diligent about means I kinda feel like wearing pajamas that actually fit my shape. I won't, though, because the thirty-something me stuffs the eighth grade me in her locker before she can even wonder if she'll have to buy new slippers to match the pretty pajamas.
Let's be serious, here. I love the idea of looking cute while I sleep. Really, I do. But does cuteness really trump efficiency? If I'm doing the math right, a night, and a day, and a night, is like killing three birds with one sleep shirt.
I'm nothing if I'm not efficient, these days.
Pajamas it is.
Stains, smells, and discolorations will accumulate, no matter what I wear. It's a hard rock life.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Practice Makes Perfect
It's the end of a hectic Tuesday, and I find myself alone, late at night, basking in the privilege of a quiet mind and deep pondering. Here's what I've come up with: Motherhood is a job for experts, but one that is given to rookies.
There's a reason there isn't a handbook on how to be a mother. Too much of that specific information might prove to be the end of the human race as we know it. Still, any time I meet a seasoned mother, I can't help but glean some tips from her. Sure, my oldest is pushing eleven. I still feel like a rookie.
When I went to the hospital to have Baby Five, the nurse said, "Five children! So you're an expert now." To which I replied, "Five Children! Now I know for certain I have no idea what I'm doing."
I have, however, complied a list of a few rules that a mother-in-training can follow in order to be just a little more prepared for the rigors of motherhood. They are as follows:
Only engage in conversations about burps, poop, nap time, fruit snacks, Disney princesses, and trains.
Throw your pillow away. Also your napkin. Buy a shirt that says, "Please use my sleeves for whatever part of you is moist."
Volunteer at the local zoo and diaper a monkey with diarrhea twelve times per day. You may only put on the new diaper when the monkey is swinging in the trees or running away from you.
Sleep in an s curve, clinging to the side of your bed.
Learn to "get ready" for the day in 3.5 minutes.
Spend a whole afternoon in the car, listening to someone else's favorite songs and movies. You are awarded extra points if you do not scream at any time.
Line up five pairs of shoes by your front door. Anytime you want to go somewhere, tie each pair.
If you are sitting down, a twenty-five pound bag of wiggly flour with gas should occupy your lap. If you are standing, it should occupy your arms.
When you have a hurt toe, it should be purposefully bumped at least seven times each day for the duration of its healing process.
Stand in a public restroom and clap and cheer wildly anytime anyone goes potty in the potty.
Answer any question you hear with a lucid, appropriate response--no matter the time of day.
Only eat hot dinners cold. Luke warm is cheating.
Arrive at any event thirty minutes early and sit in the seat nearest the back door.
Become well versed in children's literature. Learn to end any sentence with a rhyme.
Laugh heartily and sincerely at any joke--even if the punch line is missing.
Become proficient at making a peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in 15 seconds.
Exchange all expensive dinner ware for Ikea plastic ware. Only eat in the company of people with preferences for plate colors that are not clean or that don't exist.
Wash the laundry for the entire neighborhood and the boys' basketball team, and have it ready to go by 8 am.
Become comfortable with fellow diners not wearing all their clothes at dinner.
Offer to brush the teeth of five different people--keeping their toothbrushes straight--and fall asleep before you can brush and floss your own.
Make five different science fair projects. Each must be eligible to win first place.
Pour sour milk down the front of you and let it air dry. Don't start lowing.
Mind you, I'm not saying you'll be a pro if you master these scenarios. I'm just saying that when you sit down to your hot dinner, with your fork almost to your mouth, and someone yells, "I'm all done! Come wipe me!", nobody can smirk and call you a rookie.
If they do, you can bet they don't have any children.
There's a reason there isn't a handbook on how to be a mother. Too much of that specific information might prove to be the end of the human race as we know it. Still, any time I meet a seasoned mother, I can't help but glean some tips from her. Sure, my oldest is pushing eleven. I still feel like a rookie.
When I went to the hospital to have Baby Five, the nurse said, "Five children! So you're an expert now." To which I replied, "Five Children! Now I know for certain I have no idea what I'm doing."
I have, however, complied a list of a few rules that a mother-in-training can follow in order to be just a little more prepared for the rigors of motherhood. They are as follows:
Only engage in conversations about burps, poop, nap time, fruit snacks, Disney princesses, and trains.
Throw your pillow away. Also your napkin. Buy a shirt that says, "Please use my sleeves for whatever part of you is moist."
Volunteer at the local zoo and diaper a monkey with diarrhea twelve times per day. You may only put on the new diaper when the monkey is swinging in the trees or running away from you.
Sleep in an s curve, clinging to the side of your bed.
Learn to "get ready" for the day in 3.5 minutes.
Spend a whole afternoon in the car, listening to someone else's favorite songs and movies. You are awarded extra points if you do not scream at any time.
Line up five pairs of shoes by your front door. Anytime you want to go somewhere, tie each pair.
If you are sitting down, a twenty-five pound bag of wiggly flour with gas should occupy your lap. If you are standing, it should occupy your arms.
Be the first to volunteer when anyone needs to be wiped.
Relearn your times tables. You think you have them mastered. You don't.
When you have a hurt toe, it should be purposefully bumped at least seven times each day for the duration of its healing process.
Stand in a public restroom and clap and cheer wildly anytime anyone goes potty in the potty.
Answer any question you hear with a lucid, appropriate response--no matter the time of day.
Only eat hot dinners cold. Luke warm is cheating.
Arrive at any event thirty minutes early and sit in the seat nearest the back door.
Become well versed in children's literature. Learn to end any sentence with a rhyme.
Laugh heartily and sincerely at any joke--even if the punch line is missing.
Become proficient at making a peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in 15 seconds.
Exchange all expensive dinner ware for Ikea plastic ware. Only eat in the company of people with preferences for plate colors that are not clean or that don't exist.
Wash the laundry for the entire neighborhood and the boys' basketball team, and have it ready to go by 8 am.
Become comfortable with fellow diners not wearing all their clothes at dinner.
Offer to brush the teeth of five different people--keeping their toothbrushes straight--and fall asleep before you can brush and floss your own.
Make five different science fair projects. Each must be eligible to win first place.
Pour sour milk down the front of you and let it air dry. Don't start lowing.
Mind you, I'm not saying you'll be a pro if you master these scenarios. I'm just saying that when you sit down to your hot dinner, with your fork almost to your mouth, and someone yells, "I'm all done! Come wipe me!", nobody can smirk and call you a rookie.
If they do, you can bet they don't have any children.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Pop's Wisdom
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Them apples don't fall far from the trees.
There's a reason I'm brilliant, witty, fun, confident, and downright crazy. I blame all of it on my parents.
Allow me to share an example, will you? Did you read my recent post? Well my dad did. And he commented, too. If you read his comment, you'll have to excuse the redundancy of my example.
But if you didn't, all is about to be revealed in what I call, "My Latest Love Note from Pop":
"Hi, Scat.
This is Dad, and have I got a great idea for you!
Buy a small wireless camera (choose from many models at: http://www.amazon.com/b?ie=UTF8&node=12909791)that you discretely mount above the outside of your front door. Further, purchase a programmable electronic LED sign (also available on Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/Programmable-Message-Sign-Ultra-RED/dp/B004J7LRCU/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328234110&sr=8-2).
Make sure you have the sign connected to a wireless switch. Set up the camera receiver on a TY conveniently placed in your kitchen or family room, etc.
When a person comes knocking, look on your TV screen to determine who it is. If unwanted, turn on your sign which is pre-programmed to read: "Don't disturb."
If the person keeps knocking, proceed with more aggressive messages such as: "Go away stupid" or "OK, I'm calling the cops."
If you want to have a lot of fun, hook up a blaring speaker system to coordinate your sign's written message with audio.
If you choose to hook up this system to the internet, you can view your front door and activate your sign/audio system from anywhere, using your smart phone, such while you are standing in line at Costco many miles away.
Hope this helps.
Love, Dad"
Here are the important parts:
1. Dad calls me, "Scat". I'm about to turn thirty-three, and even now, when he uses this nickname, I hear, "Beloved Daughter Whom I Absolutely Adore". But just now while I'm typing this, I realize that the name he calls me is actually a verb, and not a very nice one, either. At least he doesn't call me nouns like, "Booger" or, "Sludge Mop". (I still call him, "Pop", and will for all the days of his life.)
2. He is the champion of motherhood. His confident voice of encouragement echoes in my heart almost every day of my life. He tries not to burden me with extra duties. Please note that he included the link to Amazon so I wouldn't have to waste any precious time. What I see is, "http://<3 <3 <3 <3". (Aside to Mom: <3 is how you type a heart. I'll show you how to do it sometime.)
3. In an act of supreme Dad-ness, he has walked me through various contingency plans. No one does contingencies like my dad. No one. Some girls have recipe books. I have a Contingency Plans book with many formulas, including resolutions for: Date Disasters, Babysitting Mishaps, Everyday Pickles, Disciplining Children, and Respecting Your Parents. His advice gets me out of scrapes even now.
4. He knows I shop at Costco. He knows I have to wait in line there. That makes the pain of it all so much less.
5. His goal is to help me, and his help is on-going. I found a follow-up message in my email, with the subject, "A suggestion for your front door electric sign". I won't reveal the message here, but it made me laugh out loud, and I was thankful to have his permission to use questionable imperatives to scare off creepers who ring my doorbell.
I think next time he comes to town, my electric front door sign will say, "Scat! Scat! Scat!" That should scare off impostors and welcome him, all at the same time.
It's brilliant! Just like him.
There's a reason I'm brilliant, witty, fun, confident, and downright crazy. I blame all of it on my parents.
Allow me to share an example, will you? Did you read my recent post? Well my dad did. And he commented, too. If you read his comment, you'll have to excuse the redundancy of my example.
But if you didn't, all is about to be revealed in what I call, "My Latest Love Note from Pop":
"Hi, Scat.
This is Dad, and have I got a great idea for you!
Buy a small wireless camera (choose from many models at: http://www.amazon.com/b?ie=UTF8&node=12909791)that you discretely mount above the outside of your front door. Further, purchase a programmable electronic LED sign (also available on Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/Programmable-Message-Sign-Ultra-RED/dp/B004J7LRCU/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328234110&sr=8-2).
Make sure you have the sign connected to a wireless switch. Set up the camera receiver on a TY conveniently placed in your kitchen or family room, etc.
When a person comes knocking, look on your TV screen to determine who it is. If unwanted, turn on your sign which is pre-programmed to read: "Don't disturb."
If the person keeps knocking, proceed with more aggressive messages such as: "Go away stupid" or "OK, I'm calling the cops."
If you want to have a lot of fun, hook up a blaring speaker system to coordinate your sign's written message with audio.
If you choose to hook up this system to the internet, you can view your front door and activate your sign/audio system from anywhere, using your smart phone, such while you are standing in line at Costco many miles away.
Hope this helps.
Love, Dad"
Here are the important parts:
1. Dad calls me, "Scat". I'm about to turn thirty-three, and even now, when he uses this nickname, I hear, "Beloved Daughter Whom I Absolutely Adore". But just now while I'm typing this, I realize that the name he calls me is actually a verb, and not a very nice one, either. At least he doesn't call me nouns like, "Booger" or, "Sludge Mop". (I still call him, "Pop", and will for all the days of his life.)
2. He is the champion of motherhood. His confident voice of encouragement echoes in my heart almost every day of my life. He tries not to burden me with extra duties. Please note that he included the link to Amazon so I wouldn't have to waste any precious time. What I see is, "http://<3 <3 <3 <3". (Aside to Mom: <3 is how you type a heart. I'll show you how to do it sometime.)
3. In an act of supreme Dad-ness, he has walked me through various contingency plans. No one does contingencies like my dad. No one. Some girls have recipe books. I have a Contingency Plans book with many formulas, including resolutions for: Date Disasters, Babysitting Mishaps, Everyday Pickles, Disciplining Children, and Respecting Your Parents. His advice gets me out of scrapes even now.
4. He knows I shop at Costco. He knows I have to wait in line there. That makes the pain of it all so much less.
5. His goal is to help me, and his help is on-going. I found a follow-up message in my email, with the subject, "A suggestion for your front door electric sign". I won't reveal the message here, but it made me laugh out loud, and I was thankful to have his permission to use questionable imperatives to scare off creepers who ring my doorbell.
I think next time he comes to town, my electric front door sign will say, "Scat! Scat! Scat!" That should scare off impostors and welcome him, all at the same time.
It's brilliant! Just like him.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Never pass on the chance to dance.
I felt the Earth stop spinning today.
It was this afternoon--my craziest time of day, to be exact. Yesterday's dinner dishes were still in the sink. The floor was in need of a sweeping and mopping. There were coats, book bags, and shoes strewn across two rooms. I needed to start dinner, fold laundry, pay bills, file papers, vacuum the carpets, wash the dog, scour my bathroom, fill the car with gas, and do my hair.
I turned on some music to help me escape the demands--at least mentally. Then I rolled up my sleeves and started to work.
But wouldn't you know it? As soon as I was getting into a productive rhythm, I was interrupted. This time by an angel.
My two-year-old came running into the kitchen. She wanted me to dance with her.
I scooped up that laughing, shining girl, and held her like a baby. We twirled, we dipped, we pranced. She smiled. She giggled. I held her tighter.
My baby still, but grown up some: wearing panties, talking in sentences, coloring in the lines, trying to read, complimenting my eyelashes, and now, wanting me to dance.
I couldn't hold her close enough. I smelled her hair, kissed her cheeks, admired her flawless skin, delighted in her twinkling eyes and shimmering soul.
Oh, I love you! How did I get you?
The song ended. She got down and skipped away, off to the next art project. I went back to my dishes after wiping away my tears, grateful for that moment of unsullied joy.
After she went to bed tonight, I sat on the couch and looked around at my still messy house. I didn't get everything done. Actually, I hardly got anything done. But I did do one thing right.
Today, I danced with an angel.
It was this afternoon--my craziest time of day, to be exact. Yesterday's dinner dishes were still in the sink. The floor was in need of a sweeping and mopping. There were coats, book bags, and shoes strewn across two rooms. I needed to start dinner, fold laundry, pay bills, file papers, vacuum the carpets, wash the dog, scour my bathroom, fill the car with gas, and do my hair.
I turned on some music to help me escape the demands--at least mentally. Then I rolled up my sleeves and started to work.
But wouldn't you know it? As soon as I was getting into a productive rhythm, I was interrupted. This time by an angel.
My two-year-old came running into the kitchen. She wanted me to dance with her.
I scooped up that laughing, shining girl, and held her like a baby. We twirled, we dipped, we pranced. She smiled. She giggled. I held her tighter.
My baby still, but grown up some: wearing panties, talking in sentences, coloring in the lines, trying to read, complimenting my eyelashes, and now, wanting me to dance.
I couldn't hold her close enough. I smelled her hair, kissed her cheeks, admired her flawless skin, delighted in her twinkling eyes and shimmering soul.
Oh, I love you! How did I get you?
The song ended. She got down and skipped away, off to the next art project. I went back to my dishes after wiping away my tears, grateful for that moment of unsullied joy.
After she went to bed tonight, I sat on the couch and looked around at my still messy house. I didn't get everything done. Actually, I hardly got anything done. But I did do one thing right.
Today, I danced with an angel.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Knock, knock.
After using my cell phone, my husband asked me, "You know what I think is funny?"
"Wha?" I grunted.
"How you have thirteen voice mails, and you don't intend to listen to any of them."
I don't know why the humor hasn't worn off of this topic for him. I've proven time and again, for over a decade, that I don't do voicemail.
Do you know how many requests I fulfill everyday? Neither do I. It's a lot. Why on Earth would I want a machine that adds its demands to my daily duties?
I bet you've had messages like this left for you, too:
"Hi, Natalie, it's me. I can't be there on Saturday. Will you please take over the children's activity? The current head count is forty-two. Let me know if I can do anything to help...."
Well, you could bring over a knife so I could slit my wrists.
"I was wondering if you could do me a favor tomorrow. Please call me back so I can give you an assignment that is impossible to accomplish in a timely manner."
Sure thing! It's a good thing I don't have five children, or this request really would be impossible.
"Somebody told me you were great at this, and I was wondering if you would do this for my mother by Thursday night."
Your compliments won't work on me. I don't care if you think I have talent, or not. I haven't even talked to my mother. Can you please take care of yours?
Just now my husband informed me that I have an answering machine on my kitchen phone, but it was only turned on for a few minutes the first day we got it. Then he added that the one message I received has never been listened to.
So that explains the blinking blue light coming from the kitchen that keeps me awake at nights.
Frankly, I'm scared of a machine full of messages. The machine says, "You have sixteen ready messages," and I hear, "You have sixteen pressing engagements which require your attention NOW." I balk at relationships that demand that kind of commitment. I know myself too well; I'm doomed to disappoint before I even acquiesce.
Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't love to help out a friend. I love it. It feels so good to give to someone in need--especially someone I love. But I just can't handle a one-way relationship. If you're a taker, you also need to be a giver--at least some of the time--or my mom said I can't be your friend.
I'm not averse to all technology. Take caller ID, for example. There's a smart idea! I can avoid a parasitic relationship without ever talking to the leech. I love that!
But I'm going to suggest we take that invention one step further. How about caller ID for the front door?
Who's with me?
I know I'm not the first to think of this. I'm just bringing it back to the table for some serious discussion. I, myself, have tried many forms of doorbell ID.
There's the one where I crawl along the floor to steal a furtive peak out the side window. But hiding in my own house just feels plain wrong. And then there's always the risk that the person will see my one mad eye peeping out of the tiny break in the curtains. I'm not a risk taker.
Looking through the peephole doesn't work, either. Since I have to run to the door, I'm sure the person on the other side can hear my heavy breathing, and besides being awkward, it's just plain rude. I don't want the knocker to know I'm home and ignoring them on purpose.
I looked into hiring a butler so someone else would do my dirty work, but there was no one named "Belvedere" applying for the job, so I had to concede that it wasn't a necessity.
Once I saw a welcome sign for the front door with a backside that said, "Go Away". I almost bought it, but I wasn't sure how that would pan out. Something like: the doorbell rings, I look out and see who it is, decide I want to ignore them, and then carefully open the door a crack, turn the sign slowly around (in the hopes they won't notice so subtle a movement), and then stealthily bring my arm back inside and gently close the door. No matter how I play that one in my mind, it always ends up badly. It's simply not my style to be so impertinent.
There's got to be a solution out there. And I'm thinking hard about it. If you think of it first, call me. I'd love to hear your idea.
But don't leave a message.
"Wha?" I grunted.
"How you have thirteen voice mails, and you don't intend to listen to any of them."
I don't know why the humor hasn't worn off of this topic for him. I've proven time and again, for over a decade, that I don't do voicemail.
Do you know how many requests I fulfill everyday? Neither do I. It's a lot. Why on Earth would I want a machine that adds its demands to my daily duties?
I bet you've had messages like this left for you, too:
"Hi, Natalie, it's me. I can't be there on Saturday. Will you please take over the children's activity? The current head count is forty-two. Let me know if I can do anything to help...."
Well, you could bring over a knife so I could slit my wrists.
"I was wondering if you could do me a favor tomorrow. Please call me back so I can give you an assignment that is impossible to accomplish in a timely manner."
Sure thing! It's a good thing I don't have five children, or this request really would be impossible.
"Somebody told me you were great at this, and I was wondering if you would do this for my mother by Thursday night."
Your compliments won't work on me. I don't care if you think I have talent, or not. I haven't even talked to my mother. Can you please take care of yours?
Just now my husband informed me that I have an answering machine on my kitchen phone, but it was only turned on for a few minutes the first day we got it. Then he added that the one message I received has never been listened to.
So that explains the blinking blue light coming from the kitchen that keeps me awake at nights.
Frankly, I'm scared of a machine full of messages. The machine says, "You have sixteen ready messages," and I hear, "You have sixteen pressing engagements which require your attention NOW." I balk at relationships that demand that kind of commitment. I know myself too well; I'm doomed to disappoint before I even acquiesce.
Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't love to help out a friend. I love it. It feels so good to give to someone in need--especially someone I love. But I just can't handle a one-way relationship. If you're a taker, you also need to be a giver--at least some of the time--or my mom said I can't be your friend.
I'm not averse to all technology. Take caller ID, for example. There's a smart idea! I can avoid a parasitic relationship without ever talking to the leech. I love that!
But I'm going to suggest we take that invention one step further. How about caller ID for the front door?
Who's with me?
I know I'm not the first to think of this. I'm just bringing it back to the table for some serious discussion. I, myself, have tried many forms of doorbell ID.
There's the one where I crawl along the floor to steal a furtive peak out the side window. But hiding in my own house just feels plain wrong. And then there's always the risk that the person will see my one mad eye peeping out of the tiny break in the curtains. I'm not a risk taker.
Looking through the peephole doesn't work, either. Since I have to run to the door, I'm sure the person on the other side can hear my heavy breathing, and besides being awkward, it's just plain rude. I don't want the knocker to know I'm home and ignoring them on purpose.
I looked into hiring a butler so someone else would do my dirty work, but there was no one named "Belvedere" applying for the job, so I had to concede that it wasn't a necessity.
Once I saw a welcome sign for the front door with a backside that said, "Go Away". I almost bought it, but I wasn't sure how that would pan out. Something like: the doorbell rings, I look out and see who it is, decide I want to ignore them, and then carefully open the door a crack, turn the sign slowly around (in the hopes they won't notice so subtle a movement), and then stealthily bring my arm back inside and gently close the door. No matter how I play that one in my mind, it always ends up badly. It's simply not my style to be so impertinent.
There's got to be a solution out there. And I'm thinking hard about it. If you think of it first, call me. I'd love to hear your idea.
But don't leave a message.
Monday, January 23, 2012
If you don't know, I'm not gonna tell you.
Having a man in my life extends my experiences and understanding.
For example, before I was married, I had no idea what a "Vulcan Mind Meld" was. My husband pointed out that this was a grave oversight. He was happy to reform me.
When "Star Trek" came up in our movie night rotation, I was wishing that Anne Shirley had come up instead. But opening my mind to the remote possibility of being entertained, I happily sat beside my husband for the show.
After boldly going where no woman has (sanely) gone before, there are still a lot of things I don't understand: blue people, a girl without a first name, Spock's ears, space jargon, time warps, banishment on cold planets, arrogant recklessness...to name a few.
But, thanks to my husband's careful tutelage, I now understand the Mind Meld.
Sort of.
The best I can explain it is thus: when Vulcans want to achieve a better understanding of, or a higher communication with, a person, they place their fingers in a particular way on the victim's face and share consciousness.
How'd I do?
I'm fascinated with the fact that some things are reality for adult men, e.g., light sabers, super speed, the force, space worlds. Sometimes my husband reaches for a piece of fruit, stops half way, slightly closes his fingers, and furrows his brow in concentration. When I inquire after the strange behavior, he explains, "I'm using the force."
Well, duh. What was I even thinking?
I know he's not the only man who does stuff like this. When I asked one of my man friends what he wanted for Christmas, he responded (in all sobriety), "A light saber."
If you need further proof, look up "Vulcan" in wikipedia. Included topics (among many) are: physical characteristics, diet, mating, fighting and self defense, and home worlds.
Then look up "Anne Shirley", and notice how she is discussed only as a fictional, literary character.
While I don't want to understand why men create these alternate realities, I've come up with a theory about why the Vulcan Mind Meld was brought into existence.
The scenario is such: Man fails to empty full garbage can. Woman silently fumes. Although he didn't notice the full can, he can't help but notice her cold shoulder. He frantically reviews his behavior to see what he did to elicit such rude treatment. After a quick scan, he discovers there are too many possible catalysts, and decides a blanket apology is easiest. When she won't accept an apology because he doesn't know what he did, he resigns himself to his fate and goes to watch Sports Center. While watching, he daydreams about possible super powers he could gain. The top of his list: reading his wife's mind...by touching her.
I'm dead on with this, am I not?
But I would do my gender a disservice if I didn't point out something obvious to all us women.
Mind Melding is not necessary.
If you want to make us happy, try chocolates, flowers, a fancy dinner, or jewelry.
If you want to make us ecstatic, try a foot rub, making (and cleaning up!) dinner, folding a load of laundry, or giving us a nap. One of those always works.
In fact, try one of those, and we'll probably even forgive you, even though you don't know what you did.
For example, before I was married, I had no idea what a "Vulcan Mind Meld" was. My husband pointed out that this was a grave oversight. He was happy to reform me.
When "Star Trek" came up in our movie night rotation, I was wishing that Anne Shirley had come up instead. But opening my mind to the remote possibility of being entertained, I happily sat beside my husband for the show.
After boldly going where no woman has (sanely) gone before, there are still a lot of things I don't understand: blue people, a girl without a first name, Spock's ears, space jargon, time warps, banishment on cold planets, arrogant recklessness...to name a few.
But, thanks to my husband's careful tutelage, I now understand the Mind Meld.
Sort of.
The best I can explain it is thus: when Vulcans want to achieve a better understanding of, or a higher communication with, a person, they place their fingers in a particular way on the victim's face and share consciousness.
How'd I do?
I'm fascinated with the fact that some things are reality for adult men, e.g., light sabers, super speed, the force, space worlds. Sometimes my husband reaches for a piece of fruit, stops half way, slightly closes his fingers, and furrows his brow in concentration. When I inquire after the strange behavior, he explains, "I'm using the force."
Well, duh. What was I even thinking?
I know he's not the only man who does stuff like this. When I asked one of my man friends what he wanted for Christmas, he responded (in all sobriety), "A light saber."
If you need further proof, look up "Vulcan" in wikipedia. Included topics (among many) are: physical characteristics, diet, mating, fighting and self defense, and home worlds.
Then look up "Anne Shirley", and notice how she is discussed only as a fictional, literary character.
While I don't want to understand why men create these alternate realities, I've come up with a theory about why the Vulcan Mind Meld was brought into existence.
The scenario is such: Man fails to empty full garbage can. Woman silently fumes. Although he didn't notice the full can, he can't help but notice her cold shoulder. He frantically reviews his behavior to see what he did to elicit such rude treatment. After a quick scan, he discovers there are too many possible catalysts, and decides a blanket apology is easiest. When she won't accept an apology because he doesn't know what he did, he resigns himself to his fate and goes to watch Sports Center. While watching, he daydreams about possible super powers he could gain. The top of his list: reading his wife's mind...by touching her.
I'm dead on with this, am I not?
But I would do my gender a disservice if I didn't point out something obvious to all us women.
Mind Melding is not necessary.
If you want to make us happy, try chocolates, flowers, a fancy dinner, or jewelry.
If you want to make us ecstatic, try a foot rub, making (and cleaning up!) dinner, folding a load of laundry, or giving us a nap. One of those always works.
In fact, try one of those, and we'll probably even forgive you, even though you don't know what you did.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Ask
I pray for miracles every day.
"Please bless me to think of something delicious for dinner that my children will eat."
"Please help me to show that child how much I love her."
"Please bless me to just make it through this day."
"Please bless me to know who needs Thy love today."
"Please help me to feel true joy."
"Please lead me to that missing shoe."
Others might tell me it's all coincidental. But I pay them no mind. When I am rescued in so personal a way, I can call it nothing else but miraculous.
I try very hard to keep my eyes peeled so I don't miss God's rescuing hand and love in my life. He's there every day, and usually in ways that I don't expect.
This week I had the opportunity to pray for a miracle in my sister's behalf. We needed a big one, and our prayers were answered in the affirmative. I feel so humbled--and so grateful--to have been part of it.
I know from my own experience that trials--and miracles--are tailored for our learning and benefit.
"Please bless me to think of something delicious for dinner that my children will eat."
"Please help me to show that child how much I love her."
"Please bless me to just make it through this day."
"Please bless me to know who needs Thy love today."
"Please help me to feel true joy."
"Please lead me to that missing shoe."
Others might tell me it's all coincidental. But I pay them no mind. When I am rescued in so personal a way, I can call it nothing else but miraculous.
I try very hard to keep my eyes peeled so I don't miss God's rescuing hand and love in my life. He's there every day, and usually in ways that I don't expect.
This week I had the opportunity to pray for a miracle in my sister's behalf. We needed a big one, and our prayers were answered in the affirmative. I feel so humbled--and so grateful--to have been part of it.
I know from my own experience that trials--and miracles--are tailored for our learning and benefit.
And I know something else.
God is a god of miracles. Nothing is impossible to Him.
Perhaps the most miraculous of all is that the Ruler of the universe knows my name and my circumstance and will rescue me as soon as I ask for His help.
I hope I never forget that. And that's why I'm writing it down.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Insanity Check
Dear Shaun T,
It's me again. I thought I'd just check in with you since I'm at day 32.
For starters, I've lost a decent amount of weight and a noticeable amount of inches. My pants slide down too easily, which in this case is a very good thing. My son has been telling me I look "slim". But tonight my daughter told me I looked pregnant. So, we still have our work cut out for me in the next 28 days.
I really loved the recovery week last week. I could have done that for many weeks longer.
This week's Max Workout routines--do they have to be a whole twenty minutes longer? Because when you're being tortured, sixty minutes feels like sixty hours. Maybe even longer. I can't really calculate the exact length when I'm doing squat pushups and focusing on not collapsing onto my face. That's the only place I do not need reconstructive surgery.
Thanks for continuing, "Boo...Hah!"
The name, "Results and Recovery Formula" has fallen by the wayside. I like to call that stuff my, "Magic Orange Happy Sauce". I love it even more than I did on Day 1.
You lead a fantastic yoga/stretch. I would know.
I figured out at least one of the things that bugs me about Tania: she pretends like she's working so hard, but she's only doing the movement half way. I can't stand that. I mean, did you, or did you not, ask us to cover some ground on the Globe Jumps?
It's been a long time since my shoulders and biceps ached like this. Have they ever, even? I guess four thousand various pushups will do that to a gal.
It's also been a very long time since I was so proud of myself. At the end of my workout today, I actually cried, I was so happy. And just so proud. I know some of those tears were from relief to be done for another 24 hours, but most of them were pure joy. Thanks for helping me to rediscover that I am capable of insane things. It's funny how that carries over into the other aspects of my life--funny in a good way.
I also have you to thank for helping me to come up with what I want on my tombstone. My other plans have been replaced with, "RIP Natalie. She dug too deep."
Until tomorrow,
Peace out,
Natalie
It's me again. I thought I'd just check in with you since I'm at day 32.
For starters, I've lost a decent amount of weight and a noticeable amount of inches. My pants slide down too easily, which in this case is a very good thing. My son has been telling me I look "slim". But tonight my daughter told me I looked pregnant. So, we still have our work cut out for me in the next 28 days.
I really loved the recovery week last week. I could have done that for many weeks longer.
This week's Max Workout routines--do they have to be a whole twenty minutes longer? Because when you're being tortured, sixty minutes feels like sixty hours. Maybe even longer. I can't really calculate the exact length when I'm doing squat pushups and focusing on not collapsing onto my face. That's the only place I do not need reconstructive surgery.
Thanks for continuing, "Boo...Hah!"
The name, "Results and Recovery Formula" has fallen by the wayside. I like to call that stuff my, "Magic Orange Happy Sauce". I love it even more than I did on Day 1.
You lead a fantastic yoga/stretch. I would know.
I figured out at least one of the things that bugs me about Tania: she pretends like she's working so hard, but she's only doing the movement half way. I can't stand that. I mean, did you, or did you not, ask us to cover some ground on the Globe Jumps?
It's been a long time since my shoulders and biceps ached like this. Have they ever, even? I guess four thousand various pushups will do that to a gal.
It's also been a very long time since I was so proud of myself. At the end of my workout today, I actually cried, I was so happy. And just so proud. I know some of those tears were from relief to be done for another 24 hours, but most of them were pure joy. Thanks for helping me to rediscover that I am capable of insane things. It's funny how that carries over into the other aspects of my life--funny in a good way.
I also have you to thank for helping me to come up with what I want on my tombstone. My other plans have been replaced with, "RIP Natalie. She dug too deep."
Until tomorrow,
Peace out,
Natalie
Monday, January 9, 2012
Say, "Cheese!"
I love pictures.
When I was little, I loved being in them. Today, I love taking them. And for the last five years or so, I have been taking a lot of them. I've photographed weddings, scenery, newborns, graduates, parties, engagements, and couples. But my favorite picture to capture is that elusive perfect family photograph.
I guess that makes me a glutton for punishment. I will tell you to your face that the only thing worse than moving is taking a family picture. I postpone it as long as I can. Currently, the family photo on our living room wall is missing an entire person. But I just can't wrap my brain around getting us all beautiful and happy all at once. Right--like, when does that ever happen?
I know I've captured the perfect image when the family says, "Oh, that is so us!" But can you really appreciate how hard that is to do?
I came up against my biggest photography challenge over the Christmas holiday. Please note that I mean every ounce of that superlative.
A family asked if they could use my camera for their family photo, and I agreed. I knew that meant they wanted me to shoot a family photo, but since we're old friends, I was happy to oblige.
This family is beautiful. Talented. Brilliant. Fun. They're all the good things a good family should be, and then some. There's the dad and the mom and their six children. Their numbers, genders, and sizes make for fairly easy compositions. I thought it would be a cinch.
Wrong.
To begin with, when it was time to take the photo, we were racing the setting sun. So from the start, I was a bit in panic mode, because you only have so long to get that perfect light when you're shooting outdoors. I waited patiently; then I gave a countdown; then I hollered for the last call. Then to be perfectly obvious that it was go time, I marched outside with my camera ablaze.
The children got the point. They followed me out, and I was able to take some initial light readings and get a feel for the setting. When Mom finally came onto the scene, I patiently and happily situated all her children around her. I captured some beautiful candid moments. But a family photo isn't worth much if Dad is missing.
Where was he?? I marched back inside to track him down. He wasn't there. Imagine my incredulity when I finally found him in the backyard on the swing set, enjoying a leisurely swing in the setting sunlight. I'll admit, I wasn't prepared for Dad to be the saboteur.
But as the saying goes, them apples don't fall far.
For the next hour, I got to know this family on a level that previously had evaded my understanding.
One daughter blinks constantly. It's a wonder she can see anything at all. The rest of her face looks beautiful, but her eyelids are completely closed. I have dozens of pictures that would have been the one, if it weren't for her confounded blinking. My tactic was to put the family in focus, and then look just at her. I timed my shutter to click in between her blinks, but even then, she was usually too fast.
I'm not sure I can adequately describe the relationship of the siblings, but my camera captured it. In addition to the sister who blinks, there's the one who constantly giggles while moving out of position. Add to them the brother who thinks it's funny to make his veins stick out on his neck, and the sister who randomly throws up bunny ears. Another brother looks great in every picture, but keeps running to look at the view finder just to be sure. The other brother throws out random suggestions that only he follows, like, "Let's all guffaw!" Apparently, he knows how to make something look natural when it is intended mischief, because he didn't get in trouble for any of this.
When it came time for the children to leave the picture so I could get just Mom and Dad, they did the exact opposite of my instruction. Instead of leaving the scene, they came up close behind Mom and Dad and made funny faces--all unbeknownst to their parents. Several more pictures fell by the wayside because of that little stunt. It's too bad, too, because there were some decent ones of Mom and Dad.
Then the children set up camp behind me and started teasing their parents mercilessly. Dad was so embarrassed, he couldn't hide it on his face. He looks like he's being ridiculed in all those pictures. Mom must be used to the behavior, or able to tune out the noise, because you can't tell from her face what slander is being flung in her direction.
At that point, I guess Dad gave up all together, because he actually licked his finger and put it in his wife's ear. But it didn't matter anyway, because a daughter ran into the shot to get the lipstick off of Mom's teeth that wasn't really there.
And though you would think that was rock bottom, it wasn't. My charm was stretched to the limits, trying to smother the insubordination in a friendly way so as to ensure I'd get cooperative smiles. I tried the old tactic of taking a photo with funny faces to see if I could get it out of their systems, but that failed miserably. That shot is filled with crossed eyes, stuck out tongues, furrowed brows, and blank stares--except for Sister Blinks A Lot. That was the best picture of her from the entire shoot, what with her eyes being wide open and all.
Making a sibling pyramid didn't help either.
When someone asked for a cuckoo-clock shot, I foolishly agreed. Mom and Dad stood next to each other with their children hidden behind them. Then the musically talented lot of them started singing, "So Long, Farewell" from The Sound of Music. With beautiful harmonies and perfect pitch, they came to the line, "Is popping out to say, 'Cuck-oo!'" At which point, six faces magically appeared from behind Mom and Dad. The only trouble was, I didn't get it on the first take. Let's just say I was unprepared for the magnitude of the movement in that shot. And for the next six takes, the youngest brother changed his pop out spot with each take. For his grand finale, he jumped up, head and shoulders above the crowd, effectively becoming a blue blur in my otherwise perfect shot.
Mercifully, the sun eventually set, and I replaced my lens cap with great finality. But I should clarify two things about this family so you can understand the enormity of my ordeal.
One, the children are all adults.
And two, they collectively make up what I affectionately call, "My in-laws".
When I was little, I loved being in them. Today, I love taking them. And for the last five years or so, I have been taking a lot of them. I've photographed weddings, scenery, newborns, graduates, parties, engagements, and couples. But my favorite picture to capture is that elusive perfect family photograph.
I guess that makes me a glutton for punishment. I will tell you to your face that the only thing worse than moving is taking a family picture. I postpone it as long as I can. Currently, the family photo on our living room wall is missing an entire person. But I just can't wrap my brain around getting us all beautiful and happy all at once. Right--like, when does that ever happen?
I know I've captured the perfect image when the family says, "Oh, that is so us!" But can you really appreciate how hard that is to do?
I came up against my biggest photography challenge over the Christmas holiday. Please note that I mean every ounce of that superlative.
A family asked if they could use my camera for their family photo, and I agreed. I knew that meant they wanted me to shoot a family photo, but since we're old friends, I was happy to oblige.
This family is beautiful. Talented. Brilliant. Fun. They're all the good things a good family should be, and then some. There's the dad and the mom and their six children. Their numbers, genders, and sizes make for fairly easy compositions. I thought it would be a cinch.
Wrong.
To begin with, when it was time to take the photo, we were racing the setting sun. So from the start, I was a bit in panic mode, because you only have so long to get that perfect light when you're shooting outdoors. I waited patiently; then I gave a countdown; then I hollered for the last call. Then to be perfectly obvious that it was go time, I marched outside with my camera ablaze.
The children got the point. They followed me out, and I was able to take some initial light readings and get a feel for the setting. When Mom finally came onto the scene, I patiently and happily situated all her children around her. I captured some beautiful candid moments. But a family photo isn't worth much if Dad is missing.
Where was he?? I marched back inside to track him down. He wasn't there. Imagine my incredulity when I finally found him in the backyard on the swing set, enjoying a leisurely swing in the setting sunlight. I'll admit, I wasn't prepared for Dad to be the saboteur.
But as the saying goes, them apples don't fall far.
For the next hour, I got to know this family on a level that previously had evaded my understanding.
One daughter blinks constantly. It's a wonder she can see anything at all. The rest of her face looks beautiful, but her eyelids are completely closed. I have dozens of pictures that would have been the one, if it weren't for her confounded blinking. My tactic was to put the family in focus, and then look just at her. I timed my shutter to click in between her blinks, but even then, she was usually too fast.
I'm not sure I can adequately describe the relationship of the siblings, but my camera captured it. In addition to the sister who blinks, there's the one who constantly giggles while moving out of position. Add to them the brother who thinks it's funny to make his veins stick out on his neck, and the sister who randomly throws up bunny ears. Another brother looks great in every picture, but keeps running to look at the view finder just to be sure. The other brother throws out random suggestions that only he follows, like, "Let's all guffaw!" Apparently, he knows how to make something look natural when it is intended mischief, because he didn't get in trouble for any of this.
When it came time for the children to leave the picture so I could get just Mom and Dad, they did the exact opposite of my instruction. Instead of leaving the scene, they came up close behind Mom and Dad and made funny faces--all unbeknownst to their parents. Several more pictures fell by the wayside because of that little stunt. It's too bad, too, because there were some decent ones of Mom and Dad.
Then the children set up camp behind me and started teasing their parents mercilessly. Dad was so embarrassed, he couldn't hide it on his face. He looks like he's being ridiculed in all those pictures. Mom must be used to the behavior, or able to tune out the noise, because you can't tell from her face what slander is being flung in her direction.
At that point, I guess Dad gave up all together, because he actually licked his finger and put it in his wife's ear. But it didn't matter anyway, because a daughter ran into the shot to get the lipstick off of Mom's teeth that wasn't really there.
And though you would think that was rock bottom, it wasn't. My charm was stretched to the limits, trying to smother the insubordination in a friendly way so as to ensure I'd get cooperative smiles. I tried the old tactic of taking a photo with funny faces to see if I could get it out of their systems, but that failed miserably. That shot is filled with crossed eyes, stuck out tongues, furrowed brows, and blank stares--except for Sister Blinks A Lot. That was the best picture of her from the entire shoot, what with her eyes being wide open and all.
Making a sibling pyramid didn't help either.
When someone asked for a cuckoo-clock shot, I foolishly agreed. Mom and Dad stood next to each other with their children hidden behind them. Then the musically talented lot of them started singing, "So Long, Farewell" from The Sound of Music. With beautiful harmonies and perfect pitch, they came to the line, "Is popping out to say, 'Cuck-oo!'" At which point, six faces magically appeared from behind Mom and Dad. The only trouble was, I didn't get it on the first take. Let's just say I was unprepared for the magnitude of the movement in that shot. And for the next six takes, the youngest brother changed his pop out spot with each take. For his grand finale, he jumped up, head and shoulders above the crowd, effectively becoming a blue blur in my otherwise perfect shot.
Mercifully, the sun eventually set, and I replaced my lens cap with great finality. But I should clarify two things about this family so you can understand the enormity of my ordeal.
One, the children are all adults.
And two, they collectively make up what I affectionately call, "My in-laws".
Sunday, January 8, 2012
The New and Improved
Welcome, 2012! It's good to see you. I wasn't quite done with 2011, but he left anyway, so my life is wide open for you.
Why the delay in celebrating your arrival? I guess you're new here; you don't know about me.
I don't make new year's resolutions. I tried that. Twice. But it seems that to make a list is to doom myself to failure. Instead, I just try to do my best everyday, to be a little better than I was the day before. That included today. Same thing goes for tomorrow.
That husband and these children in my home? They are my whole life. And I like it that way. If you're planning on bringing much else to the table, kindly change your plans. My table is full. But if your intent is to wash all those dishes we used at dinner, I thank you in advance.
Don't try to tempt me with promises of a more glamorous, more fulfilled, more conspicuous me. I am content with who I am, with what I have, with how I fill my days. I have nothing to prove to you, or to anyone else.
I should tell you that I have some pretty high expectations for you. I want to love more deeply, give more freely, and sing more sweetly. I will use our friendship to that end. Small, loving reminders are appreciated. I hereby agree to pay attention to your small whispers, because with 2011, the whispers were what my loud exultations were all about.
You can count on me meet your demands, but you probably shouldn't count on me to be prompt about it.
Confession: I'm not the fastest runner. Actually, I'm not even a runner at all. I'm more of what you would call a "recreational walker". You'll probably try to lap me. Big deal. They all do. I'm okay with that--as long as you know that I will finish.
Take it easy on my little ones. I know you'll change them; I can't stop you. Just take your time about it. Please!
Pile on the laughter, songs, and love. I will devour them. Seconds and thirds are always appreciated.
And whatever else our friendship may bring, I hope you can say I was grateful, diligent, happy, and true to you. But you may not be able to say that until 2013 comes around.
And that's okay. Knowing me, I'll be about a week late sending you off.
Why the delay in celebrating your arrival? I guess you're new here; you don't know about me.
I don't make new year's resolutions. I tried that. Twice. But it seems that to make a list is to doom myself to failure. Instead, I just try to do my best everyday, to be a little better than I was the day before. That included today. Same thing goes for tomorrow.
That husband and these children in my home? They are my whole life. And I like it that way. If you're planning on bringing much else to the table, kindly change your plans. My table is full. But if your intent is to wash all those dishes we used at dinner, I thank you in advance.
Don't try to tempt me with promises of a more glamorous, more fulfilled, more conspicuous me. I am content with who I am, with what I have, with how I fill my days. I have nothing to prove to you, or to anyone else.
I should tell you that I have some pretty high expectations for you. I want to love more deeply, give more freely, and sing more sweetly. I will use our friendship to that end. Small, loving reminders are appreciated. I hereby agree to pay attention to your small whispers, because with 2011, the whispers were what my loud exultations were all about.
You can count on me meet your demands, but you probably shouldn't count on me to be prompt about it.
Confession: I'm not the fastest runner. Actually, I'm not even a runner at all. I'm more of what you would call a "recreational walker". You'll probably try to lap me. Big deal. They all do. I'm okay with that--as long as you know that I will finish.
Take it easy on my little ones. I know you'll change them; I can't stop you. Just take your time about it. Please!
Pile on the laughter, songs, and love. I will devour them. Seconds and thirds are always appreciated.
And whatever else our friendship may bring, I hope you can say I was grateful, diligent, happy, and true to you. But you may not be able to say that until 2013 comes around.
And that's okay. Knowing me, I'll be about a week late sending you off.
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