Back to the Blackboard

I am 46 years old. I have been out of high school for 28 years. In 1991, fresh out of the hallowed halls of WHS I took one semester of college at NEO. I hated it. I enrolled in 18 hours. Whoever let me do that was a total moron. My parents didn't really support me. I mean, they didn't not support me, but they sure didn't cheer me on and tell me it would all be worth it. I think if someone wanted to analyze me from a psychological standpoint there's a whole shitload of baggage thumping around inside my head, but what that dreaded first semester taught me was: college is hard.

I was a stellar student in high school. I always got good grades and they came easy. No one warned me that college was going to be the actual opposite of high school. They didn't warn me that the instructors were going to have different opinions than I did AND that they could actually argue (some quite angrily) with me about them and there was no penalty for that. The work was harder and while I still got good grades, I worked a lot harder for them. I put a lot of pressure on myself to be successful in college as I was in high school and before long I was having migraines almost every day. I stopped going to class. I. Hated. It. And so I quit.

Fast forward to 2007. I had three kids - 10, 8, and 5. I had a husband who didn't want me to go to college. My advisor was a neat guy, but I met him once and he didn't really give me what I needed from an advisor. (Let's face it, some of us are more high-maintenance than others. Me being the most high maintenance you can get.) I took ALL online classes that fall. I took algebra online. Whoever let me do that was a moron. (Oh wait, it was me.) However, I managed to enroll in another semester that spring and took classes for my actual major, I wrote for the campus newspaper, I enjoyed my classes. However, at that time we only had dialup internet and online classes were only getting harder and harder to do with internet that slow. I couldn't just go to town every day and use someone else's - that kind of defeated my purpose of staying home to do school. And so I quit. Again.

Over the years I convinced myself I didn't need the degree. I worked at DHS as an aid/secretary. I worked for a mom-and-pop small business as a secretary. Both jobs were not degree-worthy. But then I was asked to apply for a job at the other junior college in the area. I applied. I interviewed. I felt really good about the interview. They said they'd call the next day. They didn't.

So I had all weekend to stew over it. I was in crisis. I don't like disappointing people. I had all but decided not to take it, no matter how much I had vibed with the people who did my interview (my future coworkers) and no matter how much I longed for a change. I just didn't want to let down my then current employers and leave them in a bad spot. But I also had some issues with them over my husband's employment there. Yet still I felt loyal. I wrestled with the decision for a whole weekend and had pretty much decided to not take it if it was offered to me. And I was also deep down 100% convinced they were not going to offer it to me.

Then Julie called on Monday, just as I was getting in my car to go to town. I leaned against the hood as she started with pleasantries and how they all thought I was so funny and "one of them," then she said, "Okay, so all that to say, we'd like to offer you the job!" I was speechless. I was quiet as she talked about pay and scheduling. And my heart sunk as I realized that I was going to have to turn her down, she was so nice and bubbly. But then she went on to say, "Oh and as an employee, you get free tuition if you choose to enroll, plus Sam will get his tuition free and you husband and any of your other kids!" I literally just kind of flopped down into the seat of my car and sat there stunned. I told her I needed to think about it and she was kind and gracious and said, "Absolutely! Can you let me know in a day or two?" I told her I'd let her know the next day, hung up and just sat there. Free college. F R E E  C O L L E G E.

I called my mom, sister, husband, daughter, son, basically everyone just shy of the Governor of Oklahoma. They all said basically the same thing: "You're stupid if you don't take it."

And so here I am, 10 months later, a very happy employee of Crowder College and also a full-time college student once more. I am currently taking two online classes this summer and will take 12 hours this fall. I am a Journalism/Public Relations major. I'm not sure I will ever do a thing with that degree because honestly, I'm very happy with my job as the secretary for ProjectNOW, (where it's true, I am definitely "one of them" and we are all just a little twisted and weird and that seems to be what people love most about us.) but in a few semesters I'll be able to say I have a degree. My sweet little Kady With a D is also enrolled as a full-time student at Crowder in the fall as well. We have math together. I offered to switch to a different class, but she said, "No, stay. That way I know I won't be the only one crying in class every day."

If I wanted to take more than 12 hours a semester I could finish by May 2020, but I don't want to, so I'm not gonna. It will work out to where I'll take one final science class in the fall of 2020 and graduate in December. I haven't decided if I'm going to walk yet. I doubt it. But we'll see. The more blood, sweat, and tears I put into this, the more I may decide I want to.

I had a proper meltdown on the first day of classes. But I feel like I got it out of my system and should be good from here on out. I still put a lot of pressure on myself to be nothing less than 100% perfect, so I feel my stress levels rising quite often. All self-inflicted. It's just who I am. But this time I have support. I have colleagues who are cheering. Friends who are cheering. Family who is cheering. And I'm kind of cheering for myself this time. That's a new one.

And now I have written my first post in six months all while waiting impatiently for Blackboard (the website where all of my college sits and awaits my attention) to stop being broken. IT sent an email assuring they were on it. I took yesterday evening off to just watch some TV ("Westworld" - go watch it. It's amazing.) and did zero homework. Today I haven't been able to do any. I told Kady I was being punished for being a slacker. She assured me the universe doesn't give two shits if I take an evening off to watch a weird robot cowboy show. Always the pragmatist, that Kady.

Get Out of Town!

(Originally published in the Miami News-Record)

Given the fact we have had a slight stay in the usual October busy-ness at work, I had this brilliant plan to take a little quick weekend trip, just Paul and me. I should know that my plans never go as planned. He himmed and hawed as to whether we even *should* go, given Petal is a colicky, angry baby and Wemberly has just learned to walk and is cutting six teeth at once. He felt like we should stick close in case Abby needed us. I felt like I had threatened Dakota with his very life enough to be super helpful that we could safely leave town for a few days. Kady was going to see family down by Stillwater and we didn’t have to worry about finding a place for her to crash and I all but begged him to just relax, let it go, and for crying out loud, GET ME OUT OF TOWN. He relented. I think he finally saw the crazy in my eyes.

Work ran late on Thursday and I started to feel panicky he was even going to stick with the plan, but finally we got out of there. I hadn’t made any reservations or packed due to the fact he’s wishy-washy as all get out, so while I threw clothes in a bag I was scouring the Internet for a motel near Mt. Vernon since we wanted to check out Apple Butter Makin’ Days. Reservation made, bags packed, kisses doled out to grandbabies, we flew down the road. When we got to Seneca he said, “Go ahead and put the address in the GPS and we’ll see how long before we get there.” I pulled up my confirmation email and immediately realized I had made the reservation for Mt. Vernon ILLINOIS. I called Illinois to cancel, couldn’t find a room in Missouri any closer than Monett, but finally got a reservation. It was 8pm. We hadn’t had dinner. I was frustrated. Once we got to Monett I still couldn’t relax because I still had to find a place for us in Branson for the rest of the weekend. Fortunately I found a cabin fairly quickly that boasted seclusion and peaceful wooded serenity. I was sold. I could’ve cost $8,754 a night and I’d have been sold.

The next morning we drove into Mt. Vernon, took one look at the gigantic crowd of folks high on natural fruit sugar by way of inordinate amounts of apple butter, turned our Camry around and headed on to Branson. We shopped, we looked at the leaves, we talked, we laughed, we even held hands as we walked. Okay, really it was more of me dragging him by the hand from The Disney Store to Baby Gap to Osh Kosh and beyond. He was a trooper, though. Around 4 we decided we were tired so we headed out of town toward the cabin. The directions from the owner and the GPS didn’t quite match, but that’s not uncommon.

We ended up at the wrong entrance – the entrance where the fancy, rich owners of the glorious homes nestled in the woods go in. A quick call to the owner and we were back on track and went in thorough the back entrance. Then we got lost inside the resort. A security guard led us to our “secluded” cabin which was actually a duplex in a long row of duplexes. They’ve apparently never seen Hooverton Mountain. We know seclusion. The floor squeaked, there was a strange buzzing hum whenever you ran water, and Saturday morning a track hoe woke us up at 7:03am. But we got an early start to our day of more shopping and ended it with seeing Six, the a capella group.

There’s significantly less crazy in my eyes this week and my Christmas shopping is about 35% done. And if winter will hold off a little longer I can probably convince him another trip is in order. Or I might just shop online. In proper seclusion on the Mountain.

Terrible Horrible

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on May 29, 2016.

One of my favorite children’s books is Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. It’s about a little boy who has just has a rotten day from start to finish and declares he’s moving to Australia. This week I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day of my own.

Tuesday morning’s hair-fixing took me longer than usual. I recently cut my hair short and short hair is a fickle, fickle entity. The least little thing can anger it or at the very least be fuzzy and willful. I finally got it where I wanted it, hairsprayed it into submission, and decided I had time to water my freshly-planted garden before I headed out the door. I opened the front door to find three very happy dogs, one of whom was covered nose to tail in dirt. I ran – okay, haha, I don’t run – I walked briskly to the back yard to find every single mound where I had planted squash or zucchini had been happily dug into by Abby’s dog Jojo (who now lives with us). I stood there in the middle of all the disaster, my sparkly aqua flip flops sinking into the dirt, my fists clenched, fighting back tears. When Jojo came gleefully running toward me all I said was “JOJO. NO.” The words apparently had some serious power to them because she hit the ground and belly crawled all the way back to the front of the house. Finally I just decided to go ahead and cry while I replanted what seeds I could find, said a prayer over each mound, and went back in the house. Standing at the mirror to wash my hands I looked up and saw that my hair had become a fuzzy, wavy, unkempt mess and my makeup was streaky from the crying.

I text my coworker and told her I’d be late, fixed myself the best I could, decided I didn’t have time to pack a lunch and eating was overrated anyway. I flew out the door with Kady who was going to spend the day with me at work. The night before, I had left a bag behind at Walmart. When I realized it, I called and they said they had it and to come pick it up at my convenience. But by 8:45 the next morning they’d put it all back on the shelf. I did not have time to re-shop because for the life of me I couldn’t remember which boxers I had bought Paul the night before so I just asked for my money back. I had promised Kady a 99¢ morning Sonic drink and figured since I was apparently going to be skipping lunch, I deserved a breakfast burrito. Two bites in and I dropped a big hunk of cheesy, greasy sausage on my shirt. I just shrugged and laughed. I’d already cried enough.

The day got better when Mom called and said she wanted to buy me lunch, so bonus food! And even though I had to go to the salon where all the pretty people work that afternoon to pick up Kady with flat, weird hair and a burrito grease stain on my shirt there are much worse things in the world than looking unkempt and sloppy. I had the money to buy my husband’s boxers and the gum they put back on the shelf – and even a breakfast burrito. I have a house with a garden and a daughter who pulled weeds and visited with me while I planted, that same daughter who is currently incubating my beautiful granddaughter. I have a husband who watered my garden that morning because in all the hullaballoo I forgot to actually do that. I have a momma who buys me chicken strips when I have bad days. I have clothes, food, a Sonic nearby, and Jesus. My life isn’t so terrible horrible.

Bad days are going to happen. They are inevitable. They are also survivable. And just so you know, Sonic chicken strips usually help. 

Disorganized

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on April 3, 2016. 

I came to a realization this week: I will never be organized.

It’s not for lack of trying, mind you. I just feel like I’m fighting a battle that literally cannot be won. Ever. By anyone. Even the most organized person on earth has that one secret area of their life that is never quite where or how they want it to be or look. And don’t tell me about the award-winning book by Suzy Homemaker or the foolproof method taught by Linda Betterthanyou. Total Organization is the impossible dream. I love FLYlady (check her out at www.flylady.net) and think her program is amazing. And I get super duper amazingly organized when I’m following her steps. But then suddenly I find myself just…..not. Not doing it, not following it, not trying, not FLYing, just….not. Because my life tends to be a little more out-of-control than her “Control Journal” allows for. Oh, I do have a Control  Journal – I dusted it just the other day. After I found it peeking out from the bottom of a stack of papers and bill stubs that needed to be filed. In 2014.

Just this past week our youngest daughter had her wisdom teeth removed. I cleared my calendar for the week knowing that she’d be convalescing and that was the perfect excuse to not commit to leaving the house for at least the work week. My goal was to get the file cabinet cleaned out to where only the current year’s stuff is in there, get April and May’s school assignments in my planner and begin the countdown to The Last Day Of School (yes, it must be written in capital letters and it must be said with extreme reverence), get the craft cabinet and my sewing stuff cleaned out and organized, and get the kitchen island and the dining room table cleared of anything that doesn’t belong there.

As I write this, it’s nearly 11pm on Thursday night. The file cabinet is cleaned out and my sewing stuff is organized. That’s as far as I got. The school assignments are still in their purgatory of being on paper, but not officially in the book. The craft stuff was partially cleaned out and organized, but then I found some pretty scrapbook paper and a Pinterest tutorial on how to make origami bookmarks and well, let’s just say I need to read more books to utilize all the bookmarks I made. Like, about 126 more books than I’m reading now. And my goal to rid the island and table of things that don’t belong there? Well, it seems that both surfaces have been occupied by all that stuff for so long everyone just assumes that’s where those things belong. I can assure you, though, that the three cans of spray paint, a coupon from the vet for heart worm medicine, four mini candy bars from someone’s Christmas stocking that no one claims yet everyone hollers when I head for the trash with them because they “might want to eat that after dinner”, four broken pencils, roughly four dozen paper clips, a container of bb’s, four opened packages of Juicy Fruit (and oh yeah, my Control Journal) don’t actually belong there. I think.

Funny thing is, though, in the midst of the clutter and apparent disorganization, there is a system, a method to my madness, if you will. If Paul decides he needs the instruction manual on a battery charger he bought in 1998 or a check stub from last year, I can go right to the file (or pile) and pull it out. If Sam needs a copy of his high school transcript, I can tell you immediately that I did not file it the last time he needed a copy of it, but instead laid it on my desk to file it later and can go to the correct pile and produce it for you in less than a minute.

So I suppose that while I’ll never win an award for my mad organizational skillz, nor will I ever be featured in House Beautiful, I do have a very alphabetized DVD collection. And if you need an origami bookmark (or twelve), I’m your girl. 

Much Too Busy

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on January 17, 2016.

Most weeks I succeed in achieving my goal of not going off the place for days on end. And then sometimes I have weeks like the past couple where I find myself in town pretty much every dadgum day. I don’t like those weeks.

Homeschooling is a flexible adventure, but at the same time I like order and well, it’s their futures at stake, so yeah. We don’t take many days off. We don’t even take snow days as a general rule. (I know, I know, I’m awful, just ask the kids.) They’re in 8^th and 11^th grade, so most of their work is self-directed, but they still need me around to guide them and keep them from “accidentally” playing X-Box and Candy Crush when they’re supposed to be learning about percentages, Puritan settlements, and Moby Dick. The weeks I have appointments and errands, I leave them in the capable hands of their daddy who works evenings and is here to help during the day. Of course, he loves him some Candy Crush as well ….. but that’s a story for another day.

Week before last I ran to town on Tuesday to pick up a prescription for Paul. Then the next day I realized we had four car tags due (poor car-buying planning on our part), two of them overdue. I hauled myself back to town to pay the overdue tags because ignorance is bliss and the fact that I was suddenly aware of the overdue tags meant I just KNEW I’d get a ticket. The day after that I had a dentist appointment. Friday and Saturday I got to stay home and do laundry. Sunday was church, Abby’s boyfriend’s baptism, lunch with the family, more church. I had officially been to town more times in four days than I usually am in an entire month.

When I checked out the calendar on Sunday night and it showed a fairly easy week with lots of time at home. I was glad.

Then…this week happened. A homeschooling friend invited us over for lunch. I had forgotten about Kady’s orthodontist appointment. We spent a day in Tulsa at doctor’s appointments. I attended the visitation of a dear lady from a family that was a major part of my growing-up.

I was missing my house, my routine, my sweats, my husband. My heart was heavy. After the day in Tulsa I left Kady at Abby’s house while I attended the visitation and had plans to just get her and go home afterward. But Abby had had a bad week and I was kind of missing her so I said, “Be ready when I get back and we’ll all go grab dinner.”

No boyfriends, no husbands, just me and my girls. We sat at a corner table at Arby’s for much longer than it took to consume our food. We laughed. We solved the world’s problems. (Now to get the world to listen to us.) We laughed some more. We got a few dirty looks from people who were not having near the fun we were. At one point Kady made a face that prompted Abby to say, “You looked like a lion….if that lion were about to eat a deer…..and you were possessed by a demon….yeah, that’s what you just looked like.” I laughed so hard I nearly cried off my mascara.

I think much too often we get caught up in our exhaustion, our stresses, our schedules, and our running that we forget to slow down, breathe, soak up time with the people we adore the most, laugh loud enough to get weird looks, and just be loved. I didn’t know how desperately I needed that crazy dinner with my girls. And I’m looking forward to this week and a ridiculous amount of time in my sweats. And I hear my husband is still hanging around, anticipating seeing my face again soon. I remain hopeful. 

Hang On, Momma

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on November 1, 2015

 I have teenagers. Two of them still live at home. Every day of their lives I love them more than I love myself, but there are days I think if a band of traveling gypsies came across our property I’d send them off with a smile. And then, I am instantly flooded with such an overwhelming sense of shame at such thoughts when there are parents all over the world who are missing their kids for so many different reasons. Sometimes I’m a great mom. Sometimes, I’m awful. Whether we are Pinterest Perfect Parents or whether we are constantly seen struggling to balance it all, the constant truth is this: Parenting is hard.

Babies don’t sleep much. They poop and cry a lot. They suck on your nipples until they are as cracked as the Sahara. But oh, do they smell nice. Well, after a bath they do. After the pooping everywhere, not so much.

Toddlers are angry little creatures. They are easily frustrated. They’re sticky. They have perpetual boogers in (and on) their cute little noses. They want to do everything all. by. themselves. and God help the adult who tries to assist them. They still poop a lot – except now it’s in larger amounts and it smells horrible. They will make your exhausted heart melt into a puddle when you watch them sleep.

Lower elementary kids tend to be easy. They love Santa and the Easter Bunny. Their teeth fall out so adorably. They write you phonetic notes saying you’re “beeuteefool.” They believe in magic and fairies and monsters – and you.

Upper elementary/tweens are typically the spawn of the devil. They know everything. They smell like onions. They giggle one minute then cry for seven hours after. They become hyper-aware of the opposite sex. Their friends are all awful, fickle, and obnoxious, but truthfully… your kid is, too.  

Teenagers are cool for the most part, but that whole “they know everything” they started as tweens is ongoing. They are even more hyper-aware of the opposite sex. They become very sure then unsure about their future and change their post-high school plans 400 billion times in the span of one week. When your child nears graduation you learn to just keep college and scholarship applications filled out and on hand because depending on the week they plan to send them in – or they tearfully rip them up and declare they’ll just become a hobo.

And through all of this, we parents just hold on for dear life.  We endure sleepless nights, bullies, breakups, Algebra, and food allergies and we’re all expected to just come out of it with our sanity and the ability to create science fair posters and bridges made out of toothpicks. Some of us do it with flair; some don’t. Some of us spend so much time keeping up with Suzy Homemaker that we fail to realize that perhaps she also is running on 2.6 hours of sleep a night, her husband won’t help her with bathtime any more than yours will, and her child is also terrified of the tub drain. Does her ability to show up without a perpetual spitup stain on her shirt make her a better mom than you of the multiple mystery chunks? Absolutely not. Who’s to say that she doesn’t lock herself in the bathroom to eat Fun Size Snickers and cry a little every night just the way you do?

We’re all just muddling through. These beautiful, wonderful, noisy, smelly, amazing creatures God gave us are life-sucking and marvelous, but they definitely didn’t come with instructions. The best thing we can do through all the stages of their lives is pray. And just hang on, Momma.

Go ahead and stuff that Hershey bar in your bra as you race past the kids to devour it away from their little hawk eyes. Just hurry though, sister. Boob heat makes chocolate melt pretty fast. So I hear. 

A Whole Lot of Nothin'

[Originally published in the Miami News-Record on August 2, 2015.]

I try not to miss writing this column too often, but sometimes it can’t be helped. Last week 4/5 of us came down with a horrifically vile stomach bug that had me changing trash cans, spraying Lysol, applying cool cloths to hot faces, bleaching anything that looked remotely germy, and washing every sheet, pillowcase, and blanket in the house every time someone recuperated only to begin the whole process over again when the next one bit the dust. I just opted to just take the week off. I don’t think I could’ve written anything intelligent anyway. Paul and I slept on the couches or an air mattress for a solid week while the kids convalesced in our room close to a bathroom and nightly my slumber was punctuated multiple times by barfing teenagers or husband. Needless to say, I was kind of doofy by my Friday noon deadline anyway. But hurrah for “mom-munity” because once again everyone in the house got sick except me. Although … a few days in bed sounded kind of nice by week’s end.

In my “free” time I have been working on lesson plans. My dining room table hasn’t seen the light of day since July 4^th . I am in the home stretch, though, and by the end of the weekend should have both kids’ lessons written out through Christmas break. I have been having strange dreams about Moby Dick, the Jamestown colony, Hiawatha’s wedding, sentence diagrams, sonnets in iambic pentameter, and business ledgers for the better part of the month. Something tells me I need a vacation. Well, either that or some medication.

Not long after we moved a year and a half ago my washing machine stopped agitating. The repair guy said it was the transmission and it was on borrowed time. Well, we borrowed three days then she gave up the ghost. We took our monthly date night to Lowe’s to purchase a new Whirlpool. The new machine was fancy and weird, but we adjusted. Over time I grew accustomed to the strange clanking noises the owner’s manual said were normal as the load leveler and automatic doohickeymabobber did their jobs. But alas, a mere week after the one-year warranty went out, she began her death cry – a horrible racheting sound that makes the coyotes howl and the cats run for cover. It also makes my husband grumble and the kids moan. It just makes me see dollar signs. A call to my favorite repair guy went like this:

“Did you buy any kind of extended warranty on that washer?”

“……No…..”

“Well, you should have.”

*sigh*

Last June I began the construction of my very first rag rug. I got this crazy Pinterest-fueled idea to make all of my sister’s and my kids a handmade (with love!) rug. The idea was to present them as graduation presents. Since Abby had already graduated and my nephew Trust was about to be born I decided to tackle Trust’s first as a birthin’ gift then would finish Abby’s immediately after then be on track to finish my niece’s long before her graduation this coming May. I put the last stitch in my squishy baby nephew’s rug last Monday, a week before his 1^st birthday. So his birthin’ gift has turned into his birthday gift and I learned that homemade rag rugs aren’t to be rushed. I also hope he doesn’t mind that toward the end I jammed the needle into my finger so hard I kind of bled on his rug. But it’s on the underside, so as long as no one inspects it too closely, we’re good. It turned out really pretty and I’m proud of how it looks (blood and all). I know how to make things go smoother for the next one. And the good news is my niece should expect her rug in May.

Of 2025.

'Tis the (flu) Season

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, on February 8, 2015.

Our son had his wisdom teeth removed last Wednesday. We left our youngest in the capable hands of her older sister while we took the boy to Joplin and back again (sans four teeth). We got home, got him settled in, and I no more than took a deep breath to center myself when here came my baby girl with this pitiful look on her face. “I feel bad. Like, real bad.” Her main complaint was a headache and I figured it was just stress over worrying about her brother (with whom she fights and fusses with almost hourly, yet adores him endlessly) so I told her to take some Tylenol and go lie down. By evening her throat was sore and she was running a low-grade fever. The kid is a strep magnet and I figured that’s what it was. She slept with me that night because she was whiney and pitiful and I’m a sucker when it comes to my kids being sick.

The next morning her fever was over 102 and she was just generally miserable. There were tears. It was awful. So I left the swollen and narcotically medicated boy in the still capable hands of the oldest sister so I could run the girl to urgent care. Typically we get in with little wait, but when we pulled in Kady groaned loudly at the number of cars in the parking lot. She felt so rotten by then and we were both hoping for a quick in and out. I mused that maybe they just had extra staff working. Wishful thinking: the waiting room was full. We found a spot in a corner and she pulled out her iPad and I, a book. I noticed she was pulling her shirt up over her nose and thought, “Aww…she is so thoughtful, she is trying to keep her germs to herself. What a sweet kid.” Then she sent me a text message that said, “The guy next to me stinks like a dirty butt. And my nose is stuffed up! It’s bad, Momma. Can we move please?” The only chairs left were over in the area closest to the toys, the area I like to call Viral Chernobyl. Or The Place We Don’t Sit Because It Usually Smells Like Poop and There Are Boogers On Everything.

This is where met an adorable little tyke with curly hair, a fetching smile, and, as his mother loudly announced, “a funky rash on his hands and feet.” Oh, holy antibiotics, Batman, the little fella was probably incubating a hefty case of hand, foot and mouth and he wanted to be my friend. And he licked everything. in. the. waiting. room. Except my daughter and myself. I gently placed my hand on his forehead when he came at us, tongue at the ready.

Fortunately we were called back soon after we moved, but only for them to swab her, then they sent us back out. Over the last 20 minutes of our wait there were a few times I saw spots because I had held my breath for too long.

When we finally made it to an exam room the nurse told us she was positive for Flu type B. Kady promptly busted into tears. The doctor hugged her. She got a script for the good codeine cough medicine and I think if she would have asked, Dr. A would’ve bought her a new car or at the very least, a puppy. I just bought her a Sonic slush and tater tots. And even though she was a veritable Petri dish of viral cataclysm, I let her sleep with me again that night. I also came perilously close to Vitamin C toxicity before her fever finally left five days later. I’ve also decided my new signature fragrance for the rest of the winter is Purell with a hint of GermX and some Lysol undertones.

Yes, Yes, Yes

Originally posted in the Miami News-Record on November 16, 2014

Sometimes I overextend myself. I don’t do it intentionally and most of the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it until it’s too late and I find myself sitting in the middle of the classroom floor surrounded by piles of tulle, cotton batting, and glitter, tears streaming down my exhausted face, swearing to anyone within earshot that I will never volunteer for anything again. Oh wait - there is no one to listen to my wails and declarations because they all went to bed hours before. They’re all nestled snug in their beds with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads whilst I accidentally hot glue my fingers to the same piece of cardboard over and over again.

It’s not that I can’t say no – that’s not it at all. I can say it and say it often - it’s that once I start saying yes, I can’t stop. It’s a slippery slope, my friends.

For nearly a year now I have said no quite a bit actually. We resigned from our youth ministry positions shortly after the first of the year and then moved to a whole new part of the county soon after that. The lack of 25 extra youth to keep track of greatly reduced the amount of stress in our lives right off the bat. Then add in that we moved roughly 45 minutes from everyone and everything we were used to being close to - that also reduced our activities. We needed some rest. Youth ministry ain’t for sissies (and it’s usually done by folks a lot than us). We soon settled into our new, quiet lifestyle and it was good.

Our weekends have been spent mostly at home since January. Our evenings have been spent mostly at home as well. Before we moved, the kids were begging to stay home on the weekends – as of late they have been asking to please go somewhere, anywhere besides our house or yard. When my husband and his oldest brother built a fire pit at the brother’s place this fall and suddenly we found ourselves ‘round a campfire a few nights a week the kids thought they’d won the social lottery.

Then our son asked to play basketball. And we said yes. We went from binge-watching half a season of Hell on Wheels or LOST at a go, to (gasp) leaving the house for hours at a time, several days a week. Then, in a moment of social weakness, I agreed to participate in our homeschool co-op’s Christmas Craft Fair. That youngest kid of mine is so dang cute sometimes she should be considered dangerous. She can talk people into stuff they have no intention of ever doing. The second I said yes to the fair, she whipped out her iPad, opened up Pinterest and started talking a mile a minute about decorated clothespins, snowman tea lights, Christmas trees made from sticks and ribbon (like I have any intention of going out and picking up sticks) and other hand-crafted items of extreme cuteness and adorableness that some women find enjoyable. I only see the work involved, laid out in the Excel-like spreadsheet of my overly analytical mind.

We are a week away from the craft fair. We’ve narrowed it down to two crafts. I’m voting for the one that uses the half bag of cotton balls in the bathroom cabinet and that partially dried-up watercolor set in the craft bin.

And as I write this it’s now 11pm. Not only am I just now writing my column, but I also just remembered I volunteered to create new classroom signs for the homeschool co-op. Chapel begins in 10 ½ hours.

Oh well. In all honesty, it has been a few weeks since I hot-glued my fingers to some cardboard. 

Bliss

Any of you who have more than one child knows what sibling rivalry is and how it sucks your will to live most of the time. On the other hand, though, as a parent of more than one child you also probably know that when they get along, that time is fricking golden. GOLDEN, I'm telling you.

When my kids were little, they'd fuss over who was breathing whose air, whose bum was getting more of the backseat, who got more spaghetti at dinner. Those things were just a part of my daily - nay, hourly - life as a mother of toddlers, preschoolers, elementary-aged kids. While I was silently suffering on the inside, breaking up fights without even realizing I was doing it, and even becoming so adept I could change the youngest's diaper with my hands while keeping the other two from ripping out jugular veins with one leg extended behind me, my husband had far less patience with the harping, nagging, fussing, squealing, arguing, and sometimes downright caterwauling. He'd go from completely detached from the universe to threatening bodily harm in 2.1 seconds. I could endure for days. And I did. Maybe it was because I was young. Maybe it was because motherhood had been my lifelong dream. Maybe it was because I knew if I stopped being a stay-at-home mommy I'd have to get a job that involved wearing a bra on a daily basis.

So now I am the mother of teenagers. Two are full-fledged teenagers, one is mere months away from being there officially, although her attitude argues otherwise. (Girl is rockin' those teenage hormones and eyerolls these days. Ugh.) The fleeting moments of shining parental happiness when your children get along is no different when they become teenagers. In fact, I think it's even more precious. Now that they are older, the arguments are more in the range of who is louder, who is more obnoxious, who is my favorite, who gets all of our money when their dad and I finally kick the bucket, and those kinds of things. And with taller bodies, apparently comes longer vocal cords and increased lung capacity with which to throw insults and slams at much higher volumes than when they were little, compact, and cute. Days where the insults fly from sun-up to sun-down are exhausting for me. Since we homeschool, there is very little opportunity for me to ever get a break. I love them all dearly and am so happy that God has given us the chance, blessings, freedom, and grace to educate them at home, but I am being completely honest when I say this: there are days I have considered tying them all three together with duct tape and kicking them out of the car in front of the school, driving on with a smile on my face and going straight home to just sit on my couch in the complete silence. Not taking a nap or a hot bath. Just sitting. Where it's quiet. Never mind that our oldest child has graduated high school and would have no need to step foot on a high school campus - but that's the least of what I'm thinking of when I'm daydreaming.

But oh. There are days that I see their sibling relationships developing right before my very eyes, the dynamics of sister/sister, sister/brother, and all three together. I see how big brother looks out for little sister. I see how little brother asks big sister for advice. I see how big sister steps down from her lofty heights of being nearly 18 to help little sister with an outfit or hair. I try to focus on those precious, stolen moments when little sister is invading her older siblings' personal space or when brother is tormenting the dickens out of his sisters with stinky socks or his retainer. I see them taking selfies with each other, making stupid faces or being serious either one. I see how little sister looks up (literally) to big sister with little stars shooting out of her eyes. I see how little brother looks down (literally) on either sister with a grin of mischief and dare I say it - love. I hope and pray with all that is in me that their relationships only strengthen as they get older. They are going to need each other when they get out there in the real world. They are going to experience heartache that they won't want to come to me or their daddy about, but a phone call to big sister is going to make it better, perhaps put things in perspective. They are going to call each other as Paul and I age to share stories about how we're losing it or something senile we said or did. And they are going to become aunts and uncle to my amazing future grandchildren, telling the new offspring about their growing up and stories to embarrass and laugh over.

So I am taking these little moments of bliss and filing them away in my mind and in my heart. I pull them out and remember them on those days when a math lesson has left littlest sister crying and oldest sister rolling her eyes in disdain at such a display. I pull them out on other days as well. The days when I feel like I am the worst mother in the world. On the days I forget to make French toast even though she asked me four times, but I got busy. On the days I snap at someone for not understanding something the way I teach it the first time. On the days the new Pinterest recipe is a great big fat fail. On the days I feel like I am fat, ugly, unloved, un-special, unwanted, unimportant and so much more "un"everything.

Because on those days, the days I have a hard time loving myself, I just look at those three crazy, prayed-for kids and see the perfect combination of their father and myself, the ultimate expressions of our insane love and roller coaster marriage, the fulfillment of so many hopes and dreams, the proof that God loves me enough to entrust these three humans to me to mold, shape, teach, lead, and love on until He's ready to call us home.

And then on other days? I lock myself in the bathroom and go back to that daydream about duct tape and a drive-off.

What, Me Worry?

I woke up worrying this morning. My heart and mind were heavy from the second I opened my eyes. Before I ever even got out of bed, I prayed. Even though God knows my concerns, needs and yes, worries, I went ahead and just, you know, reminded Him. These are legitimate needs, not wants.

As I shuffled into the living room to turn on the pellet stove, I again went to God and said, "You know, God, if You could just....help me out here....that'd be great." And on I continued with my worrying and figuring and mental evaluation of the situation. I even went to God again and said, "Hey, here....look at this....I have a solution for You!" but still I felt an unease in my heart, my soul. That was not the solution, apparently.

I got busy packing Paul's lunch, made some coffee, and I think I sighed about 20 times as I made his sandwiches. My feet felt like they were concrete blocks as I walked to the classroom to turn on the computer so I could get started on the kids' school sheets. I was still heavy-hearted and worried because all of my human solutions and suggestions felt stupid and inadequate and simply not solutions. As I flipped on the classroom light, then turned away from the light switch, my eyes, after adjusting to the light, went straight to the white board where my youngest child had written this:

It's been on the board for a few days now and I have noticed it and thought, "Aww, how sweet, Bug wrote a scripture," and wondered why.

Now I know why. It was for me. Today.

Those needs are still there, but I know that God is going to take care of it the way He sees fit. Not the way I see fit. He will supply all all my needs. He doesn't need my planning, suggestions and input because He already has this situation under control.

And I am trusting in that.

Classroom Chaos

Being involved in youth ministry, we use the term "controlled chaos" a lot. We rarely ask the kids to be quiet and noise isn't an issue during most gatherings in the youth room. We want to the kids to holler, laugh and have fun. The only time I ask for quiet is when I am teaching them the Word. And I always keep it short because I know that there is only a small window I have their attention.

That being said, for me to embrace the concept of controlled chaos is HUGE. As I've mentioned before, I have diagnosed OCD. Not self-diagnosed, but actual diagnosed-by-a-doctor Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. (It drives me a little bit bonkers when someone says, "Oh yeah, when my sock drawer is a mess I just OCD over that." Uhm....OCD is a noun, not an adjective. But that's a rant for another time. :)) I enjoy order. I enjoy normalcy. I enjoy schedule.

So why on earth am I submerging myself into the bowels of chaos right now?? And it's not even controlled chaos! It's absolute, mind-bending, topsy turvy, make your brain melt CHAOS.

I'm doing it because WE'RE GETTING A CLASSROOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Yes, overuse of exclamation, but they are so totally appropriate here. Trust me.)

Awhile back I got this brilliant idea to divide our bedroom in half and make a classroom. Paul liked the idea - liked it especially more than my first idea to turn the playhouse turned storage shed into a classroom. The only problem was money and time and help. So the idea sat on a shelf and I would occasionally sigh dramatically and speak wistfully of the classroom I longed for and how much easier it would be to teach Algebra and sentence diagramming on a white board rather than paper. I would occasionally threaten to put up the 5-foot wide posters of the human anatomy or paint a living room wall with chalkboard paint or pin up the "East Meets West at Promontory Summit" poster from Union Pacific Railroad (Big thanks to Jenn T. for the heads up on that! Union Pacific sent out a free info packet on the railroad in honor of their 150th birthday.) right by Paul's recliner, but still the classroom idea sat.

Then one Saturday morning we had a rare opportunity to sleep in. This never happens anymore, so we all took advantage of it, sleeping in all the way until 8 (which seems strangely early compared to my younger days when sleeping in always involved waking up in the PM, not the AM). I had just finished my first cup of coffee when my phone rang and my mom asked, "What are you doing?" then immediately launched into a frantic plea to "hurry up and get around and get to Grove because there is laminate flooring in the auction and the auction didn't make it into the paper and there's hardly anyone here and oh my gosh, hurry".

We recently re-floored both girls' room with vinyl flooring because it is way cheaper than laminate and Paul didn't need any special tools to do it. He did both rooms in two days each and they look great. Ab's room has a dark wood texture and Bug's is very light, golden Oak. We did each room for about $120. Ab's allergies have gotten so bad we had to get the carpet out of her room and just planned to do a room at a time when we could afford it until the whole house was carpet-free.

But Mom's urging to get to the auction had us making scrambling. We started yelling for kids to get out of bed. That was fun. Then we called our pastor because he's a pro at laying laminate flooring and has all the tools. He advised what would be a good price and what would be an insane price and wished us the best.

We got to Grove as fast as we could. Fortunately the auctioneer hadn't made it even close to the flooring yet, which left us ample opportunity to bid on such necessities as a box of golf balls, a box of owl knick knacks, a box of spray paint and the bargain of the day: a golf set for Sam for the whopping price of $2. Unadvertised auctions rawk. And it also gave me the opportunity to freak out a little old Native American woman who wouldn't go near the box of owls and literally moved across the yard away from me when I started bidding on them. I know it's real to a lot of older Native Americans. I, however, have managed to live quite successfully even though my kitchen is full of the feathered harbingers of death.

Finally it came time for the flooring. I had in my mind what I would pay per box to get us the "insane" price Brother Jerry quoted us and was determined to not go above it. $12 a box was my price in my head. The auctioneer disclosed that he would be bidding to a point for an absent bidder, but when the price went above his bid, his bidder was out. He started the bidding as $12 a box and bid for his bidder. AGH! So by cracky, when he hollered out $13 I TOOK IT. And his bidder was out.

I got 41 full boxes and a partial box of laminate flooring for $533! Roughly, that works out to .50 a square foot. That is actually cheaper than the vinyl we put in the girls' rooms!

So that set everything into motion to get the classroom done. Fall Break is next week and even though we hadn't planned to take those days off like public school does, the pastor is a teacher and said he was free to do the work. Paul got two vacation days on the calendar at work and BOOM, Project Classroom is now underway.

Our bedroom is a converted garage, so it's extra long with high ceilings. The previous owners turned the garage into a den, put up a half wall in the back half of the room and that's where her elderly momma slept. When we moved here, we made the partitioned part of the room my office and the other half a toy room. Enter surprise Kady and we suddenly were the proud owners of a gigantic bedroom to make room for baby. Over the years our bedroom has become the black hole of the house - it's the largest room and therefore, everything that needs a home goes there. It's awful. I have never liked our bedroom for that reason. It's always cluttered. Always. It makes my brain hurt.

So now, we are removing the partial wall completely and constructing a full wall to divide the room in half.  We'll have to build a closet in the bedroom part since the classroom will retain the closet. We'll finally  have storage for all the out of season clothes, the classroom will have a large closet with doors and our bedroom will have a door. A real door. With a knob. And a lock. Right now, the door to our bedroom is a louvered folding door. It's a wonder we haven't scarred a wandering child for life, if you know what I mean. Hubba hubba.

So the countdown has begun to remove all the crap, clutter and mess from the bedroom/office and temporarily displace it to other parts of the house for the next week. I am overwhelmed beyond belief. So much so that I find myself blogging. Yeah. I am seriously avoiding the mess. It hurts me to look at it right now. But I have had a glass of sweet tea while I've typed this and find the anxiety ebbing away, so in a few minutes it will be back to the grind.

Unless I decide to look for classroom organization ideas on Pinterest.

And here it is....November

Back in May we left the church we had been attending for just over a year. We made a smooth transition to another church with nary a Sunday off. The church we attend now is the first church I ever attended as a toddler. It's a small country church and always has been small, even at its biggest. Some years have been better, some not so great, but the doors of the church never closed - even when just over a year ago, there were 10 people attending and five of those were the pastor and his family. Now we average 80-something in Sunday School and Wednesday night Bible study sees 65-70 people as a general rule.

I have always had a heart for youth and at every other church we have attended, was never used in that capacity (or any capacity for that matter, but I'm not bitter). I began to doubt the desire I felt God had put in me, began to think I had misinterpreted what I felt so deeply in my soul. All five of us were discouraged that we had left yet another church and felt like we were wandering aimlessly.

Enter Hudson Creek Baptist Church.

We started attending there mid-May and the third week of June I was packed up and headed for my first week of camp as a sponsor (that week was Children's Camp, grades 4-6). By the second week (Youth Camp, grades 7-12), the pastor was already talking about Paul and I taking over the youth group some time in the future. About three weeks after that, while standing in the LifeWay store with the pastor and his wife, waiting to pay for our purchases, the pastor looked at Paul and I and said, "Oh and by the way, you're going to start teaching the Youth Sunday School class, right?" It really wasn't a question, more of a statement, and Brother Jerry said it so assumingly that either the statement itself or the look on my face amused the clerk so much he laughed out loud.

And so it was decided - Paul and I had officially become the Youth leaders.

When the new church year started, we split the Youth kids out of the Older Children Sunday School class and moved into our teeny tiny room just off the church office with bright red (hideous) carpet, two cinder block and two paneled walls and an abandoned church pew from the old sanctuary. We had about 11 kids that first Sunday. We average about six now. But Wednesday and Sunday nights our Youth come crawling out the woodwork to see what crazy stuff we've cooked up for them to do, witness or be subjected to. We've since painted the room so it's less dismal and have added some posters, a bulletin board and a white board which is the focal point of the room and usually covered in grafitti, names, hearts, stars and declarations of God's love, written by these kids who can smell a dry erase marker a mile away and are inexplicably drawn to them.

We average 11 kids on Wednesday nights and have had as many as 17. We've thrown rubber ducks at each other in a game meant to illustrate focus. We've snorted at each other in an attempt to make our peers laugh. We've played some very violent games of Red Rover and Cat & Mouse tag. We've wandered a corn maze with 23 kids. Paul and I spent an hour one night paintstakingly emptying a can of Sprite of its contents without breaking the seal on the pop tab then refilling the can with Coke as an illustration on judging things and people from the outside. I also sucked the insides out of a Twinkie and refilled it with ketchup and mayonnaise for the same illustration. We discovered that, unlike my youth group when I was a teen, this particular group of teens does not enjoy a rousing game of "King Frog", which leaves us scratching our head and wondering WHY? because, dudes, that game rocks. We've played many a "Minute to Win It" game. We've stayed up all night at a lock-in and plan on doing it again on New Year's Eve. We've answered texts asking for prayer after Midnight. We've listened to kids cry, gripe, whine, complain and argue. We've had our hearts broken by their disrespectfulness. We've laughed until our stomachs hurt. We've taught the unfailing, inerrant Word of God and learned many things in the process. We've opened our home to any number of them on any given weekend. We've been invited into their lives, something we've learned is an act of highest honor to a teen. We've taken the "Sword Drills" of old and turned them into Bible Trivia Smack Challenge: Extreme Church Edition. We've watched more football games this year than we have in all of our years of marriage because with a couple football players, three band members, a couple of cheerleaders and some on the dance team, we show up to see "our" kids do their thing. We've gone the cafeteria to eat lunch with them a few times, reliving our days of cafeteria corn dogs, cold tater tots and cartons of milk. We've been frustrated beyond measure, cried many tears, laughed at their antics, gotten more hugs and "thank you's" than we ever dreamed and even though yes, we have had times of doubt still that maybe we'd misinterpreted the calling, God quickly shows us that we are right where we are supposed to be.

It's exhausting. It's time-consuming. It's frustrating. It's difficult. It's fun. It's hilarious. It's rewarding. It's .....

It's one of the best things God has ever allowed us to do.

So when I break the cardinal rule of blogging and give excuse for my lack of posting and frequent absences, just know I think of you often, Constant Reader, and know that you're still out there somewhere. Hopefully your patience hasn't worn too thin. I am doing my best to find a balance for everything in my life right now - Christian, wife, mother, Youth Leader, Independent Sales Consultant for Thirty-One, babysitter extraordinaire and anything else my kids and husband throw my way. We're gearing up for our display at the Park of Lights (after a year off). We're trying to schedule our many family holiday gatherings and dinners. And somewhere in there I have to sleep. Some nights that works better than others.

I write a lot of blog posts in my head as I'm shuffling laundry from one machine to the other, while I'm scrubbing the soap scum from the shower walls and driving from one end of the county to the other, but when I finally get a moment to sit down....writing them with my actual fingers slips away as does my consciousness.....

.....but I'm working on it.

A Van-tastrophe

Vehicles are kind of a sensitive subject for a lot of people. You have your Ford people, your Chevy people, your Jeep folks and then, the really amazing ones who are Dodge people. (Yes, we're Dodge people. Why do you ask?) There are some who are brand-loyal and some who drive whatever Consumer Reports says is best. Some drive beaters that are so environmentally unfriendly they are on the EPA's Most Wanted list and some, like my parents, who drive those hybrid ninja cars that make no sound and I never know they've driven up my 1/10 mile driveway until they knock on my door, scaring me to pieces and making me holler "Wait a minute!" while I scurry to find a bra.

Now, before I start this and you all immediately think I'm a whiner, please know that I truly do recognize my blessings. I really do. I know that there are a lot of people out there without homes, much less vehicles, but please indulge me a moment if you will.

When we got married in 1993, myself on the verge of turning 20, I was still driving the car my parents had given me at age 16 - a 1986 Chevy Cavalier that was still sporting the badly crackled paint job, the dent in the rear driver's side door where I crunched into Jerry Friend's pickup bumper in the school parking lot my Senior year and there was literally a brick holding the driver's seat in an upright position. I ran her out of oil once and still she kept on doin' her thing. She was a good car. When it got to the point where I had to put a quart of oil in her every single day, we decided to let her go. A family friend who owned a car lot gave us $2000 trade-in on her and boy, was that generous.

We traded the Cavalier for a 1989 Ford Tempo. A two-door Ford Tempo. And for a Ford, it was a good little car -- until we had our first child in 1996 and crawling in the back seat to buckle in a carrier carseat got real old real quick. We made do until  May 1997, then we drove to Tulsa to the car lot where my cousin worked and he finagled us a decent deal on a 1993 Mercury Sable. It was a spunky little car with a ginormous motor. That motor meant nothing to me, personally, but it was always a topic of conversation with Paul who took great joy in showing people how much space the engine took up under the hood.

In December 2001 we had our third child. The formerly spacious back seat of my car suddenly shrunk. Trying to get a forward-facing car seat, a rear-facing car seat with a base and a booster seat all crammed safely into that car became something requiring just short of an engineering degree. In March 2002, after literal tears from me, we decided we needed a minivan.

It was hard on me. It didn't bother Paul very much at all. Of course not -- he had just traded off the fancy new truck he had driven off the lot with 17 miles on the odometer for a big ol' honkin' Chevy pickup with dual exhaust that would rattle the fillings in your teeth. He wasn't compromising his manliness, his youthfulness, for a.....a....minivan. I found myself at 29 years old, a mother of three and sentenced to an eternal life of carpooling, chauferring and hauling. Granted, I'd have done all those things in a car as well, but there was just such a stigma attached to driving a minivan.

We found a 1998 Chevy Astro Van, a gigantic box of a thing, built on a truck chassis and capable of hauling approximately 742 people. Okay, I kid - it seated eight. I think it could've hauled a regular minivan around in it, strapped next to one of my kids in their carseats. It was a monster and definitely NOT a minivan. It took me about two days to fall desperately, madly in love with that ugly monstrosity. And I drove it until the back door would no longer open, the driver's window would no longer roll down (made ATM's and drive-thru's always fun) and Paul was worried the transmission was going to shift so hard one day we'd leave it behind us on the highway. I mourned the loss of the Astro before it was even gone, because I knew he  meant business. He was bound and determined to get me a new vehicle. I whined. I bulled up. I pouted. I griped. I begged. I pleaded. He wouldn't budge.

Then one day he called me and with an excited tone in his voice told me he had found me a minivan. I was less than happy. I said, "Fine. I'll come drive it, but I refuse to like it. No matter what." It was a shiny red 1999 Dodge Grand Caravan. A little old couple had driven it to and from the grocery store and church (sounds so silly, but it's true!) and it was in immaculate shape. I scoffed at the light tan interior, imagining the McNugget crumbs and melted suckers that would soon adorn it. I grumbled at the leather seats which were cold on my rump. I grumbled more when the salesman flipped the switch to the bun warmers, thus promptly toasting my backside, certain that I would end up with 2nd degree burns when they shorted out. I said I hated the dual sliding doors. I said the Astro only had one, why would I need two? Hmph. We took it home for the weekend to drive it. We ended up selling the Astro over that weekend, so ..... yeah, that next Monday we bought that stupid Caravan.

And now, here I am nearly five years later, pre-emptively mourning the loss of her. She's got new creaks and thumps, the air conditioner/heater is tempermental at best, she's got 160-some-thousand miles on her, she's 12 years old now, she smells like sweaty socks (probably because for some reason the kids like to leave sweaty socks in her overnight when she's all shut up).....I guess it's time. I hadn't fully admitted to Paul it was time, though, until last week. I have been quietly contemplating a new vehicle, mostly because with a new (to me) vehicle also will come a car payment and after three years of being totally debt-free, this causes me stress. Dave Ramsey himself says car payments are unacceptable debt. I know this. But we haven't really stuck to that whole "pay yourself first" thing because heck, we're doing good to tithe, pay the bills and clothe the kids these days, much less set aside any for an impending vehicle purchase. It's totally our fault. We know this. So we'll have a car payment and we'll survive. We just won't like it.

So, the other day, when I saw a brand spankin' new, probably 2011 Grand Caravan in the Walmart parking lot I nearly wet myself in excitement. THAT WAS THE VAN I WANTED! It didn't look like a traditional minivan, heck, it doesn't look like the Grand Caravan I'm driving now. It's lower profile, boxier shaped, looks more like a longer SUV than a van.....I call them SUVans. And I want one. So I parked close to it. Mosied over by it and gave it a look-see. Paul scoffed. And proceded to tell me it was a $40,000 vehicle and I couldn't have it.

SAY WHAT??? For one thing, I was pretty sure it wasn't a $40,000 vehicle and for another, he drove a truck off a lot with SEVENTEEN MILES ON IT, eleven of those put on by us on the test drive! Why CAN'T I have a new vehicle? I've never ever gotten a new one, never even gotten one less than four years old! He drives a 2004 Ram right now that is simply gorgeous and we paid wayyyyyyy too much for because he saw it and he wanted it and he got it.

Well, his laughter just infuriated me on the spot. I ignored him and went on into the store. We shopped. We checked out. We stopped by my Mom's office and I had her look up a 2011 Grand Caravan online.

HA! $26,000, BUCKO!

He grinned and said, "Okay, let's go find one and test drive it."

I crossed my arms and firmly said, "No. I will drive the one I have until parts start falling off of her. And then when the parts do start falling off of her I will just duct tape them back on. Because I'm not getting a new van. Period. I simply refuese."  His reply: "Okay."

Grrr.

Yeah. I showed him.

I turned on the air conditioner yesterday and the sound that came out of the vents was, I'm pretty sure, the van's signal to the mother ship, to beam it up, it's tired and wants to go home. Paul made a funny face, looked sideways at me, grinned and crossed his arms across his chest.

"So......you got any duct tape?"

I so do not find him amusing sometimes.

This is the Stuff

The life of a stay-at-home mom is not for the faint of heart. When your children are infants you yearn for the voice of another who isn't screaming to be fed, changed or burped and doesn't want to suck on a couple of your appendages. When your children are toddlers you yearn for the voice of another who isn't screaming NO! to every plea, request or bribe. When they are preschoolers you just want to hear someone NOT ask you question after question after question about poop or the color of the sky. And then they go off to school.....and if you're me, you start all over by babysitting.

Don't get me wrong, I love what I do and I dearly love staying home what with me being anti-social and all, but there are still days that the crazy starts to creep in.

Thursday night is Paul's golf night and I'm totally okay with that. I value my "me" time and I respect his desire to go walk around with his friends on a lush green pasture whacking at a tiny ball with a skinny pole. Usually he goes with his work friends and is home by 8 or 8:30, but this week he went with the men of the church and you know how Baptists are - they had to eat afterwards because Baptists think it's not fellowship unless there is eating. He didn't get home until 10. Normally I would still be up then, but I've been fighting off a weird stomach virus this week and just didn't feel well, so I was in bed when he got home. I had spent the whole day parked in my chair because I didn't have the energy for much else and rather than be unproductive, I started scheduling activities for the church youth group. I did so without any counsel from my fellow youth leader (Paul) or the pastor, so I was a little worried I had made flawed plans and hadn't taken into consideration some such other activity or event.

As soon as I woke him up Friday morning I kind of barraged him with talking. Looking back, this was a bad decision and I shouldn't have said all. those. words. so early in the morning, but I had spent all day Thursday feeling half sick while taking care of two three-year-olds (okay, so they watched a lot of Disney Junior that day) and had only seen him for about 10 minutes between him getting home from work and leaving for golf. I enjoy our usual after work conversations and frankly, I miss him all day while he's at work. I had a lot of things to say! Imagine how quickly my chirpy, caffeine-fueled chattering got under his skin and he told me to just please stop moving my mouth and allowing words to come out. Then when I didn't, he just shut down and ignored me altogether. Then I got my feelings hurt. Then he told me to quit being so sensitive and get off his back. Then I started crying. Then he stomped out the front door and slammed it behind him. Then I started crying harder. Then he drove off. Then I got mad and called his phone. Then he didn't answer it.

Soon after that my newest babysitting ward, Mary, arrived in full-scale three-year-old diva mode, bawling her face off while her father tried so sweetly to tame the savage girl-beast he was carrying. I totally related to her and was pretty close to a diva meltdown of my own. She eventually mellowed and her daddy felt like my safety and well-being wasn't going to be endangered by that of his youngest offspring and he left. Shortly after that Conner arrived and brought yogurt parfaits, thus further soothing Mary and myself (because I didn't have to fix breakfast!). I was feeling pretty confident that even though the morning had started off a little rough, it was going to be just fine. We were out of dog food for our swiftly growing German Shepherd pups and the plan had been to go to town and pick up a 740,439 pound bag of food because that's roughly how much those beasts eat in a week, a few groceries and be home by lunch time.

I called Mom to see if I could print off a few things for my Sunday School lesson and was given the go-ahead to stop by the house when I got to town. Oh yeah, I had the morning under control. In the short 45 minutes that had elapsed from the end of breakfast to that particular moment, Conner and Mary had managed to empty the toy box, Lego box and Hot Wheels box into the living room floor, so I told them to clean up quickly so we could go to Walmart. They both gasped in excitement and turned to, what I thought was, clean up. I grinned smugly to myself that oh yeah, I was doing great. I hurried to the bathroom to finish my makeup and while doing so heard the sounds of toys hitting plastic and three-year-old conversation. I assumed they were doing as I had instructed.

Silly me. They're three. Duh.

I finished my makeup, gave my hair one final spritz of hairspray and exited the bathroom only to see WHAT?!?! HOW DID THEY GET MORE TOYS OUT??? I thought they had already gotten out all there had been to GET out!! Did the toys somehow multiply? My living room looked like Santa's Workshop had vomited onto my living room carpet. I said, "Conner! Mary! Didn't Kiki tell you to clean up your toys so we could go to town?" They both nodded. I continued, "So why did you not do it?" Conner shrugged and said, "We didn't want to," and turned back to his Lego tower. Oh no he di-n't. I gently informed them that it wasn't really an option to which they resolutely ignored me and continued playing. I literally had to get all up in their faces and again, gently explain, clean up or else. Not sure what "or else" would entail, but fortunately they didn't try me. They understood I meant business at that point.

Then I discovered Conner had wet his pants. Wardrobe change. Tears.

Sigh.

As I was buckling Mary into her seat while Conner kicked up dust in the driveway even after I told him to get. in. the. dadgum. van. my phone rang and it was the school's number. Lovely. It was Abby telling me she had gotten a mosquito bite in Ag and it was swollen. Ooookay? My silence prompted her to continue, "No, Momma, you don't understand! It's REALLY swollen! Like, Ms. Tina even TOLD me to call you! It's HUGE!" I sighed and said I would bring her a Benadryl. I dusted Conner off from the self-inflicted dust storm and loaded him in, his butt hitting the seat and poufing up more dust. Usually I park right by the door of the high school and just run in when I have business in the office, but there was no parking by the door, so I had to unbuckle both kids and herd them into the building.

Sure enough, Abby's mosquito bite was about the diameter of a nectarine. She is allergic to them anyway and always reacts with huge welts, but this went beyond ridiculous. I marked the edges with an ink pen and told her that if it got bigger after the Benadryl to call me.

After re-buckling both kids we headed to town. I went through Sonic because at that point I needed a sweet tea. It wasn't until I was nearly to Walmart that I took the first swig to find it was about the strength of water. With a hint of sugar. Grrrr.

Sam has taken on this gigantic growth spurt as of late and is outgrowing clothes as fast as we buy them. He is currently jeans-less and since we are still holding out hope that eventually the weather will stop being quite so hellish here in Oklahoma, I figure it's time to buy him some. Yeah, you try buying jeans for a swiftly growing almost-13-year-old without him being with you. Not easy. As I was searching a rack for the ever-mysterious boy's size 18 of which only three pair are made in each style and each one of those three are sent to separate stores approximately 1300 miles apart, I hear this little voice go, "Kiki? Mary frew up."

*blink blink*

I quickly ran to the front of the cart to see Mary looking up at me with her big blue eyes, hands in her lap, certainly not looking like she had just "frew up". I said, "Mary, sweetie? Where did you throw up?" She pointed down. I looked under the cart. No barf. I said, "Mary, honey, where were you when you threw up?" She said, "I am sitting in the cart, silly." I said, "No, honey, the cart was moving....were we here when you threw up or over there?" and pointed to the boys clothing section. She shook her head. I continued looking around for this phantom puke. Then I heard her giggle. Then I heard Conner giggle. I put my hands on my hips and said, "Guys.....are you pretending to throw up?" They both busted up and then Conner grabbed his belly and said, "OOOOOH I'M GONNA FROW UP!" Well, I was in on the joke at that point, but those shopping around me all looked up in absolute freak-outed-ness at his very loud proclamation. I just grimaced and said, "No, no, no....they're pretending." Old women shook their heads and did not appreciate the imaginative play of my little darlings.

I continued to shop, fielding strange looks as they continued to "frow up" throughout the store. But when we got to the produce aisle it was then that Mary demanded popcorn chicken. I said, "No, sweetie, no popcorn chicken. We'll go back to Kiki's house and have lunch." Her requests got louder. Conner, not to be outdone, joined in. The cries of frowing up changed into yells of  "WE-WANT-POP-CORN-CHICK-KEN!" I firmly said no. They yelled louder. And louder. I then walked to the front of the cart where I could see their darling faces and said, "You are not speaking kindly. You are not asking nicely. You are yelling and you are being rude. You will not get popcorn chicken. Ever." Yes, it was an empty threat since their parents may probably someday feed them popcorn chicken, but I had suddenly turned into "that mother" in Walmart and neither of them were actually my children. People were staring. It was after my lecture that they both promptly busted into cries of, "BUT WE'RE HUNNNNNNNGGGGRRRRYYYYYYYY! Feeeeeeeeeeed ussssssss!"

It was then that the kind man stocking the bananas gave them each one in an attempt to make the screams stop because I'm pretty sure the Walmart police were getting ready to swoop in on me and either escort me out or call DHS because I was apparently starving the children.

We made it to the checkout line where the Associate said the words "d*mn" and "h*ll" three times apiece while checking out the woman in line ahead of me. In her defense, the other woman was saying them as well. I guess she felt peer pressure. I just felt annoyed.

I had to remove the kids from the cart because the groceries and plastic bags would've suffocated them and yes, while that would've made them significantly quieter, it's just a hassle to explain to their parents and the police. I threatened them that if they removed their tiny little hands from the carts that kittens all over the world would die. Actually, I did not say that, so please don't call DHS. I just told them that Kiki really needed them to touch the cart and to do what I said. I think they noticed the tic just under my right eye and they complied.

After some jackwagon barreled through the parking lot and nearly broad-sided me, I made it out onto the road. The kids were being incredibly quiet and I felt bad for the whole "we're hungry" pleas in Walmart and we had been shopping a long time, so I wheeled into McDonald's for Happy Meals. Again with the demanding of food. I quietly told them that when they could ask for their food the right way, they could have it. They both crossed their arms and pouted. Two peas in a pod, I'm telling you. I just drove on. They just continued to pout. I was okay with that. Finally, at the edge of town, I heard two tiny voices asking so sweetly for food. I was happy to pull over and comply.

By the time we got home they were fed and happy once more. I deposited them both at the table to finish up their apples and went out to unload the car. The dogs could apparently smell the Puppy Chow through the van windows, so they and the cats attacked me as I walked to the van. After kicking them all away I managed to get the dog food open and dumped some out onto the ground (who needs bowls) and then unloaded the groceries. I cleaned Mary and Conner up, took them both the potty and then told them to get their nap towels and blankets.

They wanted to watch Little Bear. I said no. They were already 30 minutes past naptime. They cried. I said they could watch Little Bear after nap. They threw themselves onto the floor. I said, "Fabulous. You're already on the floor for nap. Sweet dreams." I handed them their blankets, kissed them both and walked into the kitchen. Strangely enough, they both went right to sleep.

It was after I finally had the groceries put up and the kids were softly snoring their adorable little preschooler snores that I sat down and found myself humming this song:

Thank you, God, for the reminder.

Wowie Wow Wow

*phhhooooooooo*

(That was me blowing the cobwebs off the ol' blog here.)

I've been kind of scarce lately.

"No, really, Diva? We hadn't noticed. Sitting here, waiting patiently for you to come along and entertain us. In fact, we may  have gone looking for greener pastures. Whaddaya think of that, oh absent one?"

Well, I think it's deplorable. Not you. You're not deplorable. Why would I call you deplorable? You're the ones who've been sitting here in this cobwebby mess, probably playing spider solitaire til you're nearly cross-eyed, perhaps a random game of rock/paper/scissors with another pitiful person waiting around....

And I apologize. Sincerely.

But can I give you a run-down of the last couple weeks? Then maybe you'll be more willing to maybe offer me your bosom on which I can lay my weary head and receive the comfort I so desperately need.

Woah. Wait. I just asked you to offer me your bosom. Scratch that. This ain't that kinda blog. No bosoms. Really.

Okay, so here goes. This is my desperate attempt at gaining your sympathy (but not your bosom -- I repeat NOT YOUR BOSOM). In the past three weeks:

* Here at the ranch we hosted 20-some people for the 4th of July, which was actually on the 3rd. I was told by one sister that I am "no fun" as the host and she wasn't going to let me anymore if I was going to be that crabby.

* We hosted a second, impromptu day of shenanigans and holiday overeating on the 4th when my mom and dad, Tater, her handsome beau and the Tots spent the day with us. There was food and fireworks, a rousing game of Spoons in which my tablecloth was ripped, Abby's (now ex-) boyfriend bled and now my spoons are ten kinds of wonky.

* I got to spend a whole week with my niece and nephew, the Tots. That was heavenly.

* My son was introduced to golf and now I have TWO rednecks who look forward to Tuesdays at the Country Club like a couple of little boys hoping for a Red Ryder BB gun from Santa. While Paul is slightly more sedate, Sam bounces around like a chihuahua from the time he gets up on Tuesdays until his daddy gets home from work. Also, there has been a documented event where both of them got up before 7am on a Saturday to go play.

* We have had a big ol' camping party in the living room for a week now. For those of you non-local folks, we here in Oklahoma are in the midst of yet another Oklahoma summer, also known as HELL. Our 1,922 square foot house is cooled by one very brave window unit and does a spectacular job - until the humidity gets as high as it's gotten lately. Last Sunday it got up to 87* in our house with the thermostat set on 67*. So it was either camp out in the living room or go stay with my parents until December. Now there is an air mattress in the middle of the floor, pillows, stuffed animals and sheets everywhere, the blinds stay pulled 24/7 and the TV goes off in the middle of the day because that gigantic thing could probably power a small third-world country with the heat it puts off. Can I just say this? Momma has a slight case of MY CHILDREN ARE DRIVING ME CRAZY.

* I made my very first 911 call.

* I argued with the police dispatcher during said 911 call because when I had made a non-emergency call prior to the 911 call she wrote the address down wrong and sent the police officers a block east. Then when I called and actually had an emergency she argued that I was wrong.

* I was visited by a process server for the very first time in my life.

* During that pleasant process-serving party I received my very first subpeona to appear before a judge. And can I just take a moment to appease my inner 12-year-old?  SUBPEONA SUBPEONA SUBPEONA SUBPEONA SUBPEONA *giggle* It's just fun to say because it sounds kinda dirty but it's not. SUBPEONA.

* I now have a much more sensitive BS detector.

* I have learned to rely on my God, my faith, my family and my church family in the past two weeks. God put that group of cowboys and cowgirls in my life for a reason and I am so thankful, blessed and awed.

* My youngest daughter called me "strong". I have really never thought of myself as strong, but if I can come across that way to an 8 year old who is looking to me in the midst of crisis and upside-down-edness I must be doing something right.

* And finally I have learned that sometimes while you are nervous and anxious and exhausted a late-night phone call from a friend who tells you a story about a flag-stealing midget in a pickup truck will make you laugh until your stomach hurts - and is probably the best medicine out there.



So see? I really do have valid reasons for being slighty....uh....removed from the blog the past few weeks.

Forgive me? Promise to come back if I use the word SUBPEONA more?











SUBPEONA!

140 No More

I don't like change. I like routine. I like normalcy. I like to do things the same way I've always done them. If you throw a monkey wrench in my plans I wig out. I do the quinessential cartoon run around in circles, waving my hands in the air, screaming my lungs out. On the outside I appear flexible and I will more than likely just go with the flow, but my guts are churning and my head is pounding and my heart is beating fast and I am fighting the urge to vomit. But only those closest to me see that ugliness. Everyone else sees me just smiling and saying, "Hey, great! Sounds good to me. You know me, I'm flexible."

But a change has been brewing for awhile now. And I've been sleeping and hiding and avoiding like a mad woman.

For the past few weeks I have been in a nearly constant state of unrest. Sure, the end-of-school activities were crazy and we're leaving on vacation next week, but that hasn't been the cause. I have been borderline mopey even, quick to tears and the main way I know something is wrong way down deep is when all I want to do it sleep. Sleep is escape from the things plaguing me. Some folks get insomnia when they have something on their mind, but me, I just want to sleep until the problem is gone. The problem with that, though, is that it's really hard to solve a problem while you're asleep. 

I have been blogging just almost six years here at Redneck Diva. I have been writing for WelchOK.com since January. Last month we launched The Real Housewives of Oklahoma. I have a Facebook page, a Facebook fan page for Redneck Diva and I tweet more than that nest of birds in the oak tree out front. And I'm not doing justice to any of them.

My last article for WelchOK was about my intense love affair with my electronics. I realized the other day that I literally carry my cell phone with me from room to room because I'm afraid I'll miss something if I leave it unattended. I have permanent heat scars on my thighs from the laptop. (Okay, I really don't have scars, but I possibly could in the near future.) My thumbs ache. (Okay, they really don't, but when I'm an old lady I bet that's where the arthritis shows up first.) My husband has told me on more than one occasion he wishes he'd never bought me in iPod and that I'd never bought a laptop. I've been telling myself that at least with a laptop I'm in the living room with the family, rather than out in my office on the desktop, but if you're in the room physically and not there in spirit you're not really there and that's kind of insulting to my family. Recently I find myself giving my kids absent nods as they talk because I'm mid-text, tweet or status update. I should be ashamed of myself. And I am.



I love writing. It is truly a part of who I am. When I write and it all comes out the way I want it to, it is euphoric. It's cathartic. It's liberating, exhilating and I'm proud of my talent. When I write and it doesn't come out the way I want it to, it's a challenge, it's something to tackle, re-work, ponder over and fix until it does come out right. I cannot fathom not writing. God has given me a talent. I hope I don't sound conceited when I say that, but I know I have something here. If a person who has a beautiful singing voice sings in public they're not conceited, they're using their talent. They're not flaunting it, they're utilizing what God gave them. Right now, pretty much all I'm doing with my talent is putting out little 140-character quips. It's all appetizer and no meat and very unsatisfying.

What I'm doing with all of my many endeavors right now is like having a balloon that is fully is blown up with air. It's huge with potential energy. If you let out a little at a time, especially if you pull the opening taut and make it squeak, the results are okay, moderately amusing (sometimes annoying) and eventually the balloon is empty. But if you just let that balloon go and it flies around the room all crazy, bumping into things, making you jump and dodge and giggle, it's more fun. And much more gratifying.

That being said, I have decided to back off the Facebook and Twitter. I'm keeping Facebook because I have a 20 year class reunion coming up next year and that's how I intend to get in contact with the majority of classmates. I am, however, disabling mobile alerts. I will keep the Twitter account for awhile, but it will probably be deleted in the very near future. I'm nervous about this because it's a habit, and a fun one at that. I literally had a moment of panic this morning as I thought, "But how will I know what everyone's doing when they are doing it??" Then I remembered, I don't have to know what everyone is doing all the time. There was a time in my life when I didn't know who had PMS, who was shopping for a swimsuit, who just saw a celebrity in a coffee shop and who is the mayor of what location on 4square. Strangely enough, I survived and was happy living my own life. Now I am obsessively trying to keep up with the shenanigans of the 333 people I follow on Twitter (most of whom are total strangers), the 100 fans of Redneck Diva and 371 friends on Facebook (some of whom I haven't spoken to since 6th grade). It's exhausting. My phone chirps constantly. I'm sure my phone is tired. I'm tired.

I'm using all my potential energy in little blasts all the time and when it comes time to produce something I'm already deflated. I feel like writing these days is homework and who likes that? What I'm producing these days is comparable to essays like "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" and "The Person I Most Admire" assignments from 8th grade English. I miss making you laugh. I miss your comments. I miss feeling proud of what I'm putting out here. I miss using inspiration to create something good.

I love my little blog here and I love all the people who made it what it is. I love writing for WelchOK because it's fun and different and makes me feel all grown up and important and stuff, like the syndicated columnist I someday hope to be. I am thoroughly enjoying the adventure that is the Housewives site and can't wait to see where it takes us and what we can accomlish though it. I have no intention of not doing what I'm doing here and those places (unless the housewives kick me out for being a heinous procrastinator), but above and beyond being a blogger and a writer I am a wife and a mother and a person who needs to reconnect with the four most important people in my life - the ones who live in my house.

And I'm going to do it in more than 140 characters at a time.