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.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
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.
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