I used to wonder why swimsuits were in stores in February. Today it's 76 degrees outside. I dare say this not only explains the swimsuits, but also the seemingly early clearance on outerwear that was displayed right next to the teeny-weenie bikinis. Middle Child picked out a swimsuit, but I opted for perusing the coat clearance instead. My decision was in part based on it being (Let's just say it again to be completely clear.) February- which is clearly a Winter month in North America. At least, it's supposed to be winter.
That preference for coats this time of year was not solely related to what sort of weather ought to be gracing Pleasant Suburb though. One ought to be honest, after all. That said, just because honesty is a virtue does not make it a desirable trait in clothing. The swimsuits won't lie to me. Worse, they don't lie to anyone else about precisely what shape my body is in at the moment, either. The coats? They're far more likely to hide the truth. And right now, the truth could stand to be hidden for at least a few more weeks.
Showing posts with label Outrageous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Outrageous. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Coaching
The Skate Coaches signed off on the application for Off-Campus Physical Education next year. If the school district approves the application, then Skater Girl can avoid the horrors of dressing out and a gym that reeks of Eau de Feet. The Skate Coaches are heroes, and only partially because my kid may avoid the ick-factor of the middle school locker room. It's a very good thing to see the positive reinforcement and encouragement they shower on Skater Girl. Some days, I just want to cheer for the coaches because they are building up our girl in ways that extend beyond her skating technique.
After a day heavy with skating and skating-related administrative tasks, Middle Child came home and announced that she's thinking of quitting Cross Country. I'm not sure what to make of that because she's the first to admit that much of her identity is tied up in athletics. More importantly, she has spent years running because she loves it. Now, she says she doesn't love running, and, worse, that it's become a source of stress. I'd like her coach to understand that she's not motivating my kid and her version of discipline has sucked the joy out of the workouts that have long fueled Middle Child.
This weekend is our school's home meet, and Middle Child's Other Mother/small-group-leader-at-church-for-the-past-four-years will be volunteering. That's a chance for that Other Mother (OM) to break out the Rah-Rah at least. Plus, this particular OM also happens to be a former co-worker and current friend of the CC/Track Coach. Maybe the OM can shed some nonprejudicial light on whatever is going on with our kid and her coach because all I know is what I'm hearing from the runner girls. (Let's face it, the court of public opinion can be absolutely wrong when assigning motive. And this court is full of teenage girls...) Right now, the hope is simply that our girl chooses to stay with the athletic program for at least the Cross Country season next Fall before deciding to hang up her competition spikes.
After a day heavy with skating and skating-related administrative tasks, Middle Child came home and announced that she's thinking of quitting Cross Country. I'm not sure what to make of that because she's the first to admit that much of her identity is tied up in athletics. More importantly, she has spent years running because she loves it. Now, she says she doesn't love running, and, worse, that it's become a source of stress. I'd like her coach to understand that she's not motivating my kid and her version of discipline has sucked the joy out of the workouts that have long fueled Middle Child.
This weekend is our school's home meet, and Middle Child's Other Mother/small-group-leader-at-church-for-the-past-four-years will be volunteering. That's a chance for that Other Mother (OM) to break out the Rah-Rah at least. Plus, this particular OM also happens to be a former co-worker and current friend of the CC/Track Coach. Maybe the OM can shed some nonprejudicial light on whatever is going on with our kid and her coach because all I know is what I'm hearing from the runner girls. (Let's face it, the court of public opinion can be absolutely wrong when assigning motive. And this court is full of teenage girls...) Right now, the hope is simply that our girl chooses to stay with the athletic program for at least the Cross Country season next Fall before deciding to hang up her competition spikes.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Thirteen
Rumor: Local High School #2 has no bathroom doors.
Truth: LHS #2 has no bathroom doors.
Rumor: LHS #2 has no restroom doors because students were practicing extracurricular activities behind the semi-privacy afforded by those doors.
Truth: Isn't the rumor bad enough?
Rumor: LHS #2 has fifteen pregnant freshman girls.
Truth: LHS #2 has thirteen pregnant freshman girls.
The above have been big topics in Pleasant Suburb lately. Perfect attends LHS #2, and he is pretty sure all the other schools make fun of the lack of doors on the restrooms. (He's also pretty sure the other schools have restroom doors. Middle Child confirms that restrooms at LHS #3, where she attends, have doors.) The lack of doors and the rapidly expanding waistlines of all those very young girls are a Hot Topic at lunch tables, dinner tables, and a couple of round table discussions as well.
It's a recipe for trouble: hormones + the invincibility of youth + questionable judgment. The result is thirteen very young mothers-to-be + rampant gossip + the mantra, "My [son or daughter] would never..." The problem is that, clearly, a large number of daughters (and obviously sons) certainly did, and now we're all talking about it.
At our house, we're talking about how those girls might be feeling. We're talking about the higher risks associated with teen births. We're talking about how one's future becomes complicated by an unplanned pregnancy at any age, and the choices those girls will have to make. We're talking about the joy that can come with motherhood with the stability of marriage and family. It's not The Talk, but a series of conversations that have been stirred up anew as Middle Child develops her perspective.
Truth: LHS #2 has no bathroom doors.
Rumor: LHS #2 has no restroom doors because students were practicing extracurricular activities behind the semi-privacy afforded by those doors.
Truth: Isn't the rumor bad enough?
Rumor: LHS #2 has fifteen pregnant freshman girls.
Truth: LHS #2 has thirteen pregnant freshman girls.
The above have been big topics in Pleasant Suburb lately. Perfect attends LHS #2, and he is pretty sure all the other schools make fun of the lack of doors on the restrooms. (He's also pretty sure the other schools have restroom doors. Middle Child confirms that restrooms at LHS #3, where she attends, have doors.) The lack of doors and the rapidly expanding waistlines of all those very young girls are a Hot Topic at lunch tables, dinner tables, and a couple of round table discussions as well.
It's a recipe for trouble: hormones + the invincibility of youth + questionable judgment. The result is thirteen very young mothers-to-be + rampant gossip + the mantra, "My [son or daughter] would never..." The problem is that, clearly, a large number of daughters (and obviously sons) certainly did, and now we're all talking about it.
At our house, we're talking about how those girls might be feeling. We're talking about the higher risks associated with teen births. We're talking about how one's future becomes complicated by an unplanned pregnancy at any age, and the choices those girls will have to make. We're talking about the joy that can come with motherhood with the stability of marriage and family. It's not The Talk, but a series of conversations that have been stirred up anew as Middle Child develops her perspective.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Listing 2011, Part III
Thanksgiving was yesterday, but I'm continuing the list of things to be thankful for despite Black Friday:
50. I'm thankful for awareness:
Christmas Conspiracy from Christ Fellowship on Vimeo.
49. For the opportunities being offered through Reach Out Honduras that will open doors to those who live in need beyond what I have ever known.
48. My son who has the potential to graduate from high school early if he can make the most of his opportunities.
47. Renewed relationships.
46. Giggling.
45. My mister. (He gets at least as many mentions as coffee... they're among my favorite addictions.)
44. Ally and Susan for backing up the theory that pumpkin pie is breakfast food.
43. Literacy.
42. Leftovers.
41. Being left-handed.
50. I'm thankful for awareness:
Christmas Conspiracy from Christ Fellowship on Vimeo.
49. For the opportunities being offered through Reach Out Honduras that will open doors to those who live in need beyond what I have ever known.
48. My son who has the potential to graduate from high school early if he can make the most of his opportunities.
47. Renewed relationships.
46. Giggling.
45. My mister. (He gets at least as many mentions as coffee... they're among my favorite addictions.)
44. Ally and Susan for backing up the theory that pumpkin pie is breakfast food.
43. Literacy.
42. Leftovers.
41. Being left-handed.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Whoopsie
Frequently, I feel smug reading the little blog posts that pop up in my home page's features about substituting high-fat,-sodium, -calorie, or chemically creepy foods with better-for-you choices. That smugness presages an obvious conclusion. Pride comes before a fall. Always. Into that same browser that so often says lovely things about dietary choices, the words calories+sunflower+seed+kernels was typed with the expectation that there would be happiness galore in the nutritional news. Selecting a known and trusted nutritional info entity to answer the query regarding the latest favorite snack was quick enough. The window opened, and after a moment of shocked silence the howling began.
Those tiny, yummy kernels have been mindlessly popped down my gullet for several days a half cup or a cup at a time thinking that they are chock full o' wholesome things like fiber and protein. They're good-for-you. It's not like inhaling cheesecake. Because cheesecake would've saved some calories. Sunflower seed kernels have 745 calories per cup. And I've definitely consumed a minimum of 5 cups over the past couple of days. One pound = 3,500 calories. I thought the scale was off this morning, but, no. It was the sunflower seeds. For the record: it was so not worth it.
But. If you're ever in the market to put on a few pounds quickly: Sunflower Seeds. Now you know.
Those tiny, yummy kernels have been mindlessly popped down my gullet for several days a half cup or a cup at a time thinking that they are chock full o' wholesome things like fiber and protein. They're good-for-you. It's not like inhaling cheesecake. Because cheesecake would've saved some calories. Sunflower seed kernels have 745 calories per cup. And I've definitely consumed a minimum of 5 cups over the past couple of days. One pound = 3,500 calories. I thought the scale was off this morning, but, no. It was the sunflower seeds. For the record: it was so not worth it.
But. If you're ever in the market to put on a few pounds quickly: Sunflower Seeds. Now you know.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Torn
We were wondering whether or not to go forward with a return trip to Honduras in the next couple of months. There is not inconsiderable expense involved in such travel, and there are real needs that could be met in Puerto Lempira with the same dollars that might go to plane tickets and travel expenses. Except that I keep seeing how there are funds that are simply not mine to allocate.
Last week, the mister had to make a business trip to splashy, trashy Las Vegas. The excesses of every sort there bothered him, and he was all-too-aware of the costs involved for his company to cover the expenses involved in the trip. Then again, the funds are the company's to allocate. So the mister flew across the country, ate the meals provided, slept on high thread count sheets, and accepted what was given to him.
He returned home Sunday to hear that there was a 6 month old baby in Honduras who weighs only 8 pounds, and that there were issues with getting enough formula to feed the babies in the milk program at House of Hope. The contrast between an opulent dinners for my mister and his coworkers and the hunger of malnourished babies a continent away was stark. We are fortunate to be able to choose to be part of the solution that meets the needs of those babies.
We again wrestled that night with the question of travel to Honduras for short-term outreach compared to the relative expenses of meeting needs for food, clothing, clean water, and education. It is not solely a question to be answered by finances, though. The Boy's situation remains challenging, and the questions of how to carry on our ministry to the children who grew under my heart is no less important to ask than those questions related to the children who capture my heart across town or across the world.
Yesterday, we arrived for the meeting that would see the Boy's disposition set for the next year or two. The professional team making determinations for the Boy's future completed the task of deciding What To Do in about two hours. (It was difficult to avoid shrieking as people lined up to tell the mister and I what great parents we are... because great parents don't have to let others make decisions for their kids. Or be separated from them before those kids are adults.) One of the professionals assisting had yet to define his fee. We expected to pay a substantial sum, but were instead told to apply the entire fee to our next short-term mission trip as his donation. This is unorthodox to say the least.
Even in a time of great challenge, we are blessed. And we see further confirmation of our likely plan to return to Honduras in the near future. I wonder if we will see Honduras or our son next? Both feel so very far away this morning. But neither is out of God's reach.
Last week, the mister had to make a business trip to splashy, trashy Las Vegas. The excesses of every sort there bothered him, and he was all-too-aware of the costs involved for his company to cover the expenses involved in the trip. Then again, the funds are the company's to allocate. So the mister flew across the country, ate the meals provided, slept on high thread count sheets, and accepted what was given to him.
He returned home Sunday to hear that there was a 6 month old baby in Honduras who weighs only 8 pounds, and that there were issues with getting enough formula to feed the babies in the milk program at House of Hope. The contrast between an opulent dinners for my mister and his coworkers and the hunger of malnourished babies a continent away was stark. We are fortunate to be able to choose to be part of the solution that meets the needs of those babies.
We again wrestled that night with the question of travel to Honduras for short-term outreach compared to the relative expenses of meeting needs for food, clothing, clean water, and education. It is not solely a question to be answered by finances, though. The Boy's situation remains challenging, and the questions of how to carry on our ministry to the children who grew under my heart is no less important to ask than those questions related to the children who capture my heart across town or across the world.
Yesterday, we arrived for the meeting that would see the Boy's disposition set for the next year or two. The professional team making determinations for the Boy's future completed the task of deciding What To Do in about two hours. (It was difficult to avoid shrieking as people lined up to tell the mister and I what great parents we are... because great parents don't have to let others make decisions for their kids. Or be separated from them before those kids are adults.) One of the professionals assisting had yet to define his fee. We expected to pay a substantial sum, but were instead told to apply the entire fee to our next short-term mission trip as his donation. This is unorthodox to say the least.
Even in a time of great challenge, we are blessed. And we see further confirmation of our likely plan to return to Honduras in the near future. I wonder if we will see Honduras or our son next? Both feel so very far away this morning. But neither is out of God's reach.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Access
I do remember staring wistfully, and (truth-telling time) sometimes resentfully at those vehicles sitting tantalizingly near the front doors as I waddled past during all our pregnancies, and, even more so, when wrestling one of those unwieldy infant carriers from the car. Now that all of our babies can enter and exit buildings largely unassisted, I am pleased to find that there are additional spaces unavailable for my use. Someone finally thought to set aside spaces for expectant and new mothers at the market, pharmacy, and hospital. Being fairly vocal in my approval, all three lovies know that Mom thinks those spaces are a great idea.
Last night, as we left Super Store, Erin gave a sound that clearly indicated disgust. When asked what was the matter, she indicated a man sitting in his car in the designated handicapped space as we passed. I saw that his car had a handicapped plate. Unsure exactly what this guy was doing to raise the ire of Little Bit, I asked. She filled me in saying, "That guy is just sitting there taking up the pregnant ladies' space!"
*Oops. Not meaning to vilify "the guy". He had a handicapped license plate, and was appropriately sitting in a handicapped space. Erin mistook the handicapped space for one of those designated for mommies. Her outrage was misplaced, but it struck me because I had wished for just such a spot back in the day.
Last night, as we left Super Store, Erin gave a sound that clearly indicated disgust. When asked what was the matter, she indicated a man sitting in his car in the designated handicapped space as we passed. I saw that his car had a handicapped plate. Unsure exactly what this guy was doing to raise the ire of Little Bit, I asked. She filled me in saying, "That guy is just sitting there taking up the pregnant ladies' space!"
*Oops. Not meaning to vilify "the guy". He had a handicapped license plate, and was appropriately sitting in a handicapped space. Erin mistook the handicapped space for one of those designated for mommies. Her outrage was misplaced, but it struck me because I had wished for just such a spot back in the day.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Guilt Trip
Friday saw the Boy and I headed off on a series of errands to include our usual stop at the food pantry. Wishing there was time to take the camera in another attempt at capturing the makings of a photo essay, that exists only as a still formless idea, we instead loaded only the groceries into the car. The food was packed in along with a bag of hand-me-downs for a friend's daughter (eldest of several girls so that all feminine clothing is going to be used by someone eventually) and a bag of items headed for the Goodwill. Middle Child's computer finished up the list of items to be remembered as it heads back in to Electronic Big Box for another repair. With multiple stops, this was no day for an extended visit to the food pantry seeking photo ops.
During our outing, someone suggested in response to our plans for the Thanksgiving Honduras trip that it would be good to at least attempt to teach the offspring about serving those in our community. Eh? We.should.be.serving.those.closer.to.home. My mind immediately responded with concern. Oh, dear. Oh, my. We are so busy caring about the people in La Miskitia that we are failing to care for those right here in our own neighborhood, city, county...
That is patently, utterly false. The Boy grinned as I began to verbally list ways we ought to be helping others. He said, "Mom, where have we been today?" Oh. Yeah. "The food pantry... where they know us by name," I respond. He adds, "And Goodwill. And we are dropping off clothes to help another family. Mom, again with the Really?!" He is right. The friend who received the clothes for the household full of sweet, little girls commented on how easily guilt can be triggered, and that friend and the Boy are both certainly right in this instance.
During our outing, someone suggested in response to our plans for the Thanksgiving Honduras trip that it would be good to at least attempt to teach the offspring about serving those in our community. Eh? We.should.be.serving.those.closer.to.home. My mind immediately responded with concern. Oh, dear. Oh, my. We are so busy caring about the people in La Miskitia that we are failing to care for those right here in our own neighborhood, city, county...
That is patently, utterly false. The Boy grinned as I began to verbally list ways we ought to be helping others. He said, "Mom, where have we been today?" Oh. Yeah. "The food pantry... where they know us by name," I respond. He adds, "And Goodwill. And we are dropping off clothes to help another family. Mom, again with the Really?!" He is right. The friend who received the clothes for the household full of sweet, little girls commented on how easily guilt can be triggered, and that friend and the Boy are both certainly right in this instance.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Guidance
The Boy and I sat in the counselor's office at the high school in June making sure he had a schedule for the 2010-11 school year. She suggested that we call in August so he could walk through the building and find his way around before the first day. This morning Evan phoned to discover that he has a new counselor. The new guidance counselor could not find him in the computer system. Uh-oh. The grades from summer school reflected that Evan had received A's for both sessions, and he has been diligently running mile after mile with the Cross Country Team. Despite these activities that would seem to indicate his status as a student of Pleasant Suburban Independent School District, a glitch had caused him to be un-enrolled. Eh? Oh.but.no.
A flash of, "Say what?! Really?!" burst out, but was quickly contained. Assuring the counselor that we would be right over with a set of new registration documents including shot records and proof of residency, the phone was replaced in the base while Mama steamed. Some choice words were spoken, and the Boy and I hopped in the car to run over to the school right away. After registering our son for high school, I walked with him back to the front office. We waited until the counselor came to retrieve us so that a schedule could be created. The last counselor signed Evan up for the least challenging possible schedule and seemed less than enthusiastic when he insisted on taking Latin. It was not an experience that built our kid up, and it was not one that really needed repetition.
Except that sometimes a re-do is exactly the thing. The new counselor who we met with today? Was all over the Boy. He took one look at test scores, previous grades, and began to ask questions. In the end, Evan signed up for classes that likely will challenge him, and he has received a thorough pep talk and words of encouragement from a guidance counselor who clearly has a passion for seeing kids work to reach their potential. He even left with the assurance that his final schedule had been created complete with first period Athletics, the surprise of an AP History class, and the much-desired Latin class.
A flash of, "Say what?! Really?!" burst out, but was quickly contained. Assuring the counselor that we would be right over with a set of new registration documents including shot records and proof of residency, the phone was replaced in the base while Mama steamed. Some choice words were spoken, and the Boy and I hopped in the car to run over to the school right away. After registering our son for high school, I walked with him back to the front office. We waited until the counselor came to retrieve us so that a schedule could be created. The last counselor signed Evan up for the least challenging possible schedule and seemed less than enthusiastic when he insisted on taking Latin. It was not an experience that built our kid up, and it was not one that really needed repetition.
Except that sometimes a re-do is exactly the thing. The new counselor who we met with today? Was all over the Boy. He took one look at test scores, previous grades, and began to ask questions. In the end, Evan signed up for classes that likely will challenge him, and he has received a thorough pep talk and words of encouragement from a guidance counselor who clearly has a passion for seeing kids work to reach their potential. He even left with the assurance that his final schedule had been created complete with first period Athletics, the surprise of an AP History class, and the much-desired Latin class.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Morning People
Sure. We can be up and out the door before dawn for a few days with coffee in hand and a cheery, "Good Morning!" to greet my sleepy-headed teen as I slap a yogurt and a breakfast sandwich in his hand to be eaten (oh, shame...) in the car. No big deal. The sunrise is pretty reflected through all the highway emissions. Yes, it is. Makin' with the sunshine...
Um, wait. The information imparted at last week's Cross Country meeting clicked into place as I plied my too-bright morning cheer during the early morning cruise in the mom-mobile to get The Boy to practice. The regular school day practices will begin at 6:15. The boys are supposed to be on campus by 6:00. That means driving him to school before 6:00. Every single day. Oh, my. I wonder if it is possible to un-know this tidbit to spare my thoughts from the anticipation of the return to being Morning People that, all too soon, heralds the dawn of the new school year?
Um, wait. The information imparted at last week's Cross Country meeting clicked into place as I plied my too-bright morning cheer during the early morning cruise in the mom-mobile to get The Boy to practice. The regular school day practices will begin at 6:15. The boys are supposed to be on campus by 6:00. That means driving him to school before 6:00. Every single day. Oh, my. I wonder if it is possible to un-know this tidbit to spare my thoughts from the anticipation of the return to being Morning People that, all too soon, heralds the dawn of the new school year?
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Alongside
I cannot seem to slow enough for my thoughts to gel. And so many of my thoughts are not my own. Or mine to tell. This morning saw an errand to meet with an old ministry partner. Last night we spoke on the phone, and it turned out that the study she had written for women healing from sexual abuse is in the process of becoming a book. The final, or latest product, is in editing now with an expected release in six months. But I needed it now. Because there is a young woman who is trying to sort through her own nightmare, and she is using the pen rather than the sword to fight her way to freedom. I am just along for the ride.
The idea that one in four women falls prey to sexual abuse of some sort in her lifetime makes me ill. I feel the color leave my face even as a red haze tinges the out most edges of my vision with each new tale of pain and shame related by women who are each beloved of Christ. These are the children of God. How dare anyone take what God put in place as a mechanism of love, life, and the spark of creation in us only to twist it into a hideous image of depravity? Every single day it happens somewhere. And in the sense of being a drop in the bucket, I will walk alongside another sweet soul who searches for the living water that can wash her clean. How I wish there was no such need.
The idea that one in four women falls prey to sexual abuse of some sort in her lifetime makes me ill. I feel the color leave my face even as a red haze tinges the out most edges of my vision with each new tale of pain and shame related by women who are each beloved of Christ. These are the children of God. How dare anyone take what God put in place as a mechanism of love, life, and the spark of creation in us only to twist it into a hideous image of depravity? Every single day it happens somewhere. And in the sense of being a drop in the bucket, I will walk alongside another sweet soul who searches for the living water that can wash her clean. How I wish there was no such need.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Grudge
November, 2000: Library books helped maintain my sanity while stuck on bed rest in the final trimester of pregnancy with Erin. The mister turned in the last batch of books while I was in the hospital after delivery.
March, 2001: Library notification of a missing book and the bill for replacement cost arrived. (Mad search ensued. Book found under bed. Uh-oh.) The book was returned to the library and the baby displayed to the librarian along with the bill. Despite the explanation of, "I was GIVING BIRTH," the librarian in charge of fines proved unsympathetic to the circumstances. She decreased the amount owed to reflect the $21 late fee rather than the $22 book price. How gracious. Irate library patron left without paying the fine, and vowing to forgo the benefits of an active library card in the face of stupidity.
June, 2010: Leaving Erin at home under her Daddy's care to watch t.v. while clutching her glitter-covered plastic box of baby teeth and chomping on gauze post-extraction, the elder offspring and I headed for the new library branch a couple of blocks from the house. The big kids have lived with Mom's enmity toward the Pleasant Suburban Library since Evan was in kindergarten. It seemed reasonable that they should accompany Mom on this errand of restoration.
We entered the long avoided coolness of my one-time haven as defensive supplicants. I explained a tad too cheerfully to the nice lady that, "I need to pay the most asinine library fine ever levied." She took a step backward, but then proceeded to the keyboard to look up the offense. I paid the fine while explaining how it came to be. The lady very apologetically explained that there would be a $1 fee for a replacement card. (The original was recycled into confetti. Very small bits of confetti.) Fair enough.
The big kids and I each picked a couple of volumes off the shelves, checked out, and stepped out of the building with our shiny renewed library cards. The kids waited very patiently while I entered an abbreviated portion of each title into my phone so the calendar will alarm two days prior to the due date. We are reinstated into good patron status, and none of us is anxious to sacrifice another decade of library access over late fees anytime soon.
March, 2001: Library notification of a missing book and the bill for replacement cost arrived. (Mad search ensued. Book found under bed. Uh-oh.) The book was returned to the library and the baby displayed to the librarian along with the bill. Despite the explanation of, "I was GIVING BIRTH," the librarian in charge of fines proved unsympathetic to the circumstances. She decreased the amount owed to reflect the $21 late fee rather than the $22 book price. How gracious. Irate library patron left without paying the fine, and vowing to forgo the benefits of an active library card in the face of stupidity.
June, 2010: Leaving Erin at home under her Daddy's care to watch t.v. while clutching her glitter-covered plastic box of baby teeth and chomping on gauze post-extraction, the elder offspring and I headed for the new library branch a couple of blocks from the house. The big kids have lived with Mom's enmity toward the Pleasant Suburban Library since Evan was in kindergarten. It seemed reasonable that they should accompany Mom on this errand of restoration.
We entered the long avoided coolness of my one-time haven as defensive supplicants. I explained a tad too cheerfully to the nice lady that, "I need to pay the most asinine library fine ever levied." She took a step backward, but then proceeded to the keyboard to look up the offense. I paid the fine while explaining how it came to be. The lady very apologetically explained that there would be a $1 fee for a replacement card. (The original was recycled into confetti. Very small bits of confetti.) Fair enough.
The big kids and I each picked a couple of volumes off the shelves, checked out, and stepped out of the building with our shiny renewed library cards. The kids waited very patiently while I entered an abbreviated portion of each title into my phone so the calendar will alarm two days prior to the due date. We are reinstated into good patron status, and none of us is anxious to sacrifice another decade of library access over late fees anytime soon.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Seeded
Our friends the Waits (who Middle Child and I followed to Honduras mere weeks ago) have a line of scripture at the end of their e-mails. The words are those given to King Lemuel by his mother and detailed in Proverbs Chapter 31 verses 8-9 saying, "Open your mouth for the mute, For the rights of all the unfortunate. Open your mouth and judge righteously, And defend the rights of the afflicted and the needy." These words wait at the end of each message. With each reading, they become ever more firmly planted seeds.
Still, many seeds fall on inhospitable soil never to sprout. Last night, these may have begun to germinate. Four student artists at a small college near Pleasant Suburb are speaking out for the afflicted and needy. They are crying out for the mute. Three women climbed into a car for a road trip into the world these young people have visited. The students' journey into shade is detailed in a documentary on human trafficking that led them to India last year, and will draw them back this year with a larger group. Their road does not end far east of the Eden from which the women hailed, though.
The documentary moved swiftly from the red light district of Pune, India to a suburban strip mall in Houston, Texas. A quarter of calls reporting human trafficking in the U.S. come from Houston according to the film. Having brought their report to our doorstep, the artists asked those present to be part of their as-yet-incomplete film. Prior to the screening, each entrant passed through a dramatic recreation of
massage parlor footage to be seen later in the film as he or she walked into the ballroom where the movie would be shown. At the end of this hall of sorrows, a 1'X1' square of styrofoam with a colored sticker was given to each person on which to write a message to the young women being rescued from the sex trade in India. The night's events saw each of those squares used to fill in the outline of a universal woman symbol that was surrounded by the attendees for part of the film's ending.
The three of us who headed back to Pleasant Suburb after the screening were somewhat quieter. Each one given over to her own thoughts that occasionally broke out into speech. The feeling as we hurtled over the highway pavement was not quite subdued, but perhaps the sense of something unfurling. Or germinating? But what?
I fell asleep last night praying for an answer to that, "What?" Praying in renewed consciousness of those women who would know no rest during the same hours in which I would immerse myself in troubled dreams.
If nothing else at this moment, then through this forum I can share the message of Rescue the Girl! immediately. The web site loads after one patiently watches the numbers fly past. Numbers that represent women. Girls. Slaves. Four students made their journey, and they brought back seeds to scatter in hopes that some yield a harvest to benefit those mutely crying out to God for rescue. In the days to come, perhaps the seeds planted will begin to reveal just what has been planted.
Still, many seeds fall on inhospitable soil never to sprout. Last night, these may have begun to germinate. Four student artists at a small college near Pleasant Suburb are speaking out for the afflicted and needy. They are crying out for the mute. Three women climbed into a car for a road trip into the world these young people have visited. The students' journey into shade is detailed in a documentary on human trafficking that led them to India last year, and will draw them back this year with a larger group. Their road does not end far east of the Eden from which the women hailed, though.
The documentary moved swiftly from the red light district of Pune, India to a suburban strip mall in Houston, Texas. A quarter of calls reporting human trafficking in the U.S. come from Houston according to the film. Having brought their report to our doorstep, the artists asked those present to be part of their as-yet-incomplete film. Prior to the screening, each entrant passed through a dramatic recreation of
massage parlor footage to be seen later in the film as he or she walked into the ballroom where the movie would be shown. At the end of this hall of sorrows, a 1'X1' square of styrofoam with a colored sticker was given to each person on which to write a message to the young women being rescued from the sex trade in India. The night's events saw each of those squares used to fill in the outline of a universal woman symbol that was surrounded by the attendees for part of the film's ending.The three of us who headed back to Pleasant Suburb after the screening were somewhat quieter. Each one given over to her own thoughts that occasionally broke out into speech. The feeling as we hurtled over the highway pavement was not quite subdued, but perhaps the sense of something unfurling. Or germinating? But what?
I fell asleep last night praying for an answer to that, "What?" Praying in renewed consciousness of those women who would know no rest during the same hours in which I would immerse myself in troubled dreams.
If nothing else at this moment, then through this forum I can share the message of Rescue the Girl! immediately. The web site loads after one patiently watches the numbers fly past. Numbers that represent women. Girls. Slaves. Four students made their journey, and they brought back seeds to scatter in hopes that some yield a harvest to benefit those mutely crying out to God for rescue. In the days to come, perhaps the seeds planted will begin to reveal just what has been planted.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Say What
I remember being told that we were expecting The Boy. I especially remember my pique on discovery that babies take 40 weeks to gestate. How exactly does the popular 9 month myth manage to survive when women have been producing offspring since the dawn of time? It's generally a bit late to back out by the time that news is sprung for the first time.
I'm feeling about like that tonight. Saturday's showings were honored despite the offer, and had there been any already set for Sunday, then they would also have been honored. Today the assorted parties completed the execution of the contract to sell our existing home, scheduled the inspection for tomorrow afternoon, and the mister and I decided on which house we would place an offer this evening. I could not understand why realtors continued to book showings, and was none too accommodating, though still willing to let the property be visited. The lack of accommodation resulted in the showing service calling our still out-of-town, due-at-an-awards-program (where she was receiving an honor) realtor. She called us, and the announcement that we still need to keep showing until Buyer is through her 7 day option period. Just in case. She also attempted to soothe the "What?! Why?! Who sees a house that's not available?! Isn't this stupid?!" She pointed out that everything is moving very quickly. After all, the house sold in one day. How often does that happen?
So. Tomorrow morning we have back-to-back showings of our house that is not for sale, and three hours when we need to be gone so it can be inspected in the afternoon.
These are good things. Inconvenient, but good.
I'm feeling about like that tonight. Saturday's showings were honored despite the offer, and had there been any already set for Sunday, then they would also have been honored. Today the assorted parties completed the execution of the contract to sell our existing home, scheduled the inspection for tomorrow afternoon, and the mister and I decided on which house we would place an offer this evening. I could not understand why realtors continued to book showings, and was none too accommodating, though still willing to let the property be visited. The lack of accommodation resulted in the showing service calling our still out-of-town, due-at-an-awards-program (where she was receiving an honor) realtor. She called us, and the announcement that we still need to keep showing until Buyer is through her 7 day option period. Just in case. She also attempted to soothe the "What?! Why?! Who sees a house that's not available?! Isn't this stupid?!" She pointed out that everything is moving very quickly. After all, the house sold in one day. How often does that happen?
So. Tomorrow morning we have back-to-back showings of our house that is not for sale, and three hours when we need to be gone so it can be inspected in the afternoon.
These are good things. Inconvenient, but good.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Invitational
Our church embarked on 21 Days of Prayer... missional prayer chasing after God's heart to reach people who don't know Him. And guess what? Unlike the invitation to go to Poland that arrived via e-mail, the latest invitation was a Facebook status update. (I kid you not.)
Who: Middle Child and her Mama
What: Short-term trip in preparation for the long-term relocation of our sweet friends
Where: Honduras
When: Likely Pleasant Suburb's Spring Break in mid-March
What: Joining the adventure in response to the calling our one-time neighbors are following
How: With humble, excited hearts, and anti-malarial meds
Middle Child's passport forms are filled out, her photo taken, and necessary documentation readied for a passport fair at Pleasant County Courthouse this weekend. One can only imagine how her world view will be changed (perhaps turned upside down) by what she (well, we) will discover in response to this invitation to join the group forming for this mission trip.
Who: Middle Child and her Mama
What: Short-term trip in preparation for the long-term relocation of our sweet friends
Where: Honduras
When: Likely Pleasant Suburb's Spring Break in mid-March
What: Joining the adventure in response to the calling our one-time neighbors are following
How: With humble, excited hearts, and anti-malarial meds
Middle Child's passport forms are filled out, her photo taken, and necessary documentation readied for a passport fair at Pleasant County Courthouse this weekend. One can only imagine how her world view will be changed (perhaps turned upside down) by what she (well, we) will discover in response to this invitation to join the group forming for this mission trip.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Talk
One can only imagine what was said around the I wonder at Mary. She took on the likely ridicule of sporting the best known baby bump ever, and in return had the opportunity to raise the only perfect child ever born. She also followed her sinless firstborn to His death so He could save us all. I really wonder at Mary. I can only imagine the kind of Faith that would allow one to put aside ordinary dreams to step into the most extraordinary circumstances of any mother throughout all of time.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Cake
It all started off well enough. I dressed in double layers in anticipation of walking a good five miles in the damp and cold, but Walker opted out. Pleased to get a jump on the morning's tasks, there were quickly two of three white chocolate cake layers baking before the lovies were all in school. Then I realized the makings for the filling, frosting, and third layer were all on the grocer's shelves rather than in the pantry.
After relentlessly pestering Erin into readiness early, I wandered the house with my coffee cup in hand searching for the car keys.
Turning up the car keys just as the first two cake layers were perfectly baked, I discovered that my wallet was nowhere to be seen. The last place I recalled seeing it was... uh-oh. It was definitely in the console of the mister's car. The mister's car was miles away where he was sipping coffee at his weekly Man Meeting. Remembering an envelope of cash earmarked for something else, a resolution quickly became apparent. Jabbing the button to stop the timer, I popped open the oven door. Slipping on my oven mits, I leaned in to pull the hot pans from the oven. Down I fell as something very bad happened in my left knee--- while maintaining a death grip on the hot pans and escaping any hot metal parts touching bare skin solely because of the double layer of winter workout wear.
A couple of hours later, my left knee was in a brace that looks like a prop from last summer's G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra for the next couple of weeks and pumped full of cortisone. (Well, actually, the doctor prescribed a brace for the other knee, too. Really, it was only a matter of time.) I was back home to stack the three cake layers with raspberry filling. Slapping on a coating of made-from-scratch white chocolate frosting, I decided it was time to take a teensy break. For the rest of the afternoon.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Tacky Gifts
The girls and I were wrapping gifts tonight at the dining room table. The paper was purchased at 90% off during a way, way after Christmas sale at the Hallmark store. It never occurred to me to read the labels because gift wrap is gift wrap. It's all paper.
Upon closer examination this weekend, it turns out that some of our super sale paper has a most unfortunate feature. It is self-adhesive. And the stuff tears... repeatedly while one is trying to unroll it. I like to position, and reposition the packages to maximize paper use, but that is not possible with gummy goo on the back of the paper. It sticks to skin. And hair. There might have been some teensy shrieks of minor fury from the dining room. I'm not really sure what was happening outside the growing red haze of a narrowed focus on the persistently uncooperative paper, but I do recall the mister coming into the room and promising to replace all the paper with new at any price if I would just put down the self-adhesive stuff.
Eventually the screaming stopped. The girls opted out on the self-adhesive paper, but I can say that it looks rather nice once it is carefully smoothed over the planes and angles of a box. The great irony of the stuff is that once one folds down the ends there is still a need for tape to close the ends because the folds cover the adhesive. The stuff sticks to itself very well. Fortunately, the paper can be peeled oh-so-slowly back in a Herculean exercise of patience to be replaced in a new position without any real reduction in tackiness.
There are two rolls of the self-adhesive stuff still unopened, and there is the option to include gift wrap with our Angel Tree goodies. It is time to take the mister up on his offer of new paper because it would be wrong to wish the frustration of sticky paper on our Angel Tree recipient's parents. It's one thing to demand such rigid "Waste Not!" measures of oneself, but quite another to impose them on someone else.
Upon closer examination this weekend, it turns out that some of our super sale paper has a most unfortunate feature. It is self-adhesive. And the stuff tears... repeatedly while one is trying to unroll it. I like to position, and reposition the packages to maximize paper use, but that is not possible with gummy goo on the back of the paper. It sticks to skin. And hair. There might have been some teensy shrieks of minor fury from the dining room. I'm not really sure what was happening outside the growing red haze of a narrowed focus on the persistently uncooperative paper, but I do recall the mister coming into the room and promising to replace all the paper with new at any price if I would just put down the self-adhesive stuff.
Eventually the screaming stopped. The girls opted out on the self-adhesive paper, but I can say that it looks rather nice once it is carefully smoothed over the planes and angles of a box. The great irony of the stuff is that once one folds down the ends there is still a need for tape to close the ends because the folds cover the adhesive. The stuff sticks to itself very well. Fortunately, the paper can be peeled oh-so-slowly back in a Herculean exercise of patience to be replaced in a new position without any real reduction in tackiness.
There are two rolls of the self-adhesive stuff still unopened, and there is the option to include gift wrap with our Angel Tree goodies. It is time to take the mister up on his offer of new paper because it would be wrong to wish the frustration of sticky paper on our Angel Tree recipient's parents. It's one thing to demand such rigid "Waste Not!" measures of oneself, but quite another to impose them on someone else.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Eh?!
Um. Little Bit turned nine this weekend. And I was completely prepared for that even if it does mean she has less than a year before she hits double digits. What I was not prepared for was a photo editing session involving some quick snapshots of Middle Child. I wanted photographic evidence that she dressed up for a band field trip to a Big Metro Symphony Orchestra performance last night. (If you were the "older couple sitting in front of us"? I am so sorry they were too uncouth to shut up instead of commenting on the conductor. Thank you for suggesting they do so.) I edited the photos, and the results were good enough to be added to an album on Facebook entitled "Centered" that starts with Miss Kate's newborn photo (awww.) and ends with whatever has been recently uploaded. 
And when those photos are viewed
in order? The inescapable reality that our first precious, longed-for baby girl has somehow slipped over the threshhold from childhood into adolescence. It's one thing to know this, but quite another to see it.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Blogher
On a day in the somewhat distant past, I attended a women's convention. Imagine my surprise to discover a Blogher sitting a row behind me when the programming convened. (I recognized her from her online profile. I could practically hear Middle Child's voice in my head saying, "Stalker!") Anticipating the break after the first session, I intended to introduce myself. Until I found myself missing large portions of the program because the Blogher that I happened to run across was talking and giggling in the seat behind me throughout the presentation.
Rather than an introduction at the intermission, it was time to attempt to find a new seating arrangement. I was irritated, but my companion was threatening to light up Bigmouth Blogher with a cell phone spotlight so we could see what all the noise was about in Row 8. What came across as bubbly and fun in a blog turned out to be incredibly rude in public. Without an introduction, we moved our seats, and after returning home I removed my follower status.
Rather than an introduction at the intermission, it was time to attempt to find a new seating arrangement. I was irritated, but my companion was threatening to light up Bigmouth Blogher with a cell phone spotlight so we could see what all the noise was about in Row 8. What came across as bubbly and fun in a blog turned out to be incredibly rude in public. Without an introduction, we moved our seats, and after returning home I removed my follower status.
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