A Tale Of Two Cities

Well.  We have hauled out the holly yet again.  Didn't we just have Christmas?  Is it really only 2 days away?
Every year I go through at least 28 decorating dilemmas.  Should I use the same old lights?  Do I put out the Santas in the same place?  Is the wreath too worn out to hang up?  Should I pack up and protect the handmade ornaments?  Or hang them? 

How do we ever survive the holidays?  I have a knack for turning the smallest decision into a huge headache. 
The traveling, the gift buying, the decorating, the entertaining... I can make it all much more stressful than it has to be.
A few years ago, I received a beautiful new nativity set.

I love it, but now I have two.  Actually, I have 4 or 5... most of which are safely stored away in layers of paper.  I still display the one we bought the first year we were married.  This set is old, and the folks are a bit worn out... kind of like us.

 

 

So instead of packing up the old sentimental set, or not using the new fancy set, I put them both out.  Two Marys, two Josephs, two babies, six wise men, two donkeys, two shepherds, two sheep, and one cow.  I told you I like to complicate things. 

The more I look at them, the more I like having two.  I suppose the scene in Bethlehem is one thing we can never have enough of.

If I Run Away

For the boy's Fall Break, we went to The Happiest Place on Earth.  Again.

 

 

 

If it were up to me, I would go to Disney every year.  Maybe twice.  Three times a year isn't inconceivable.  But I'm not independently wealthy, and Dan/Daddy says we need to go on other trips and see other places.  Blah, blah, blah.  Tell that to these faces...

 

 

 

 It was a fantastic vacation, and there was only one sad moment... The day we had to leave.

 

 

 

If I ever go missing or run away from home, you will know where to find me.



Tweezers, Eyebrows, And I'm Back

I have developed a bad habit of not keeping up with blogging.  Maybe it's the busy pace of life.  Maybe I've been out saving the world.  Maybe I should stop lying.

To the 3 of you who read my random stories, please accept my lame apologies.
Now here's a tale I promise I didn't make up.

A few months ago,  I had my eyebrows threaded for the first time. Have you heard of threading?  The practice of threading apparently started thousands of years ago.  A piece of thin thread is used (by a person who knows what they're doing) to pluck your eyebrow hairs.  It's supposed to be less painful than waxing.
When left alone, my eyebrows look like 2 woolly caterpillars.  I've used tweezers on them for years, and I've had them waxed from time to time. 
I had heard of threading, and when a friend told me she did it, I thought I would give it a try.

The young girl who led me to a chair looked at my face and said,
"Do you know your eyebrows are two totally different shapes?"
Well. 
How have I been walking around?
My verdict on threading?  It hurt.  A lot.  My eyebrows looked good, but it took about 18 hours for the redness to calm down.  On my second visit, the technician took off so many hairs, I looked like a plucked chicken.
That afternoon, I asked the boy if my eyebrows looked bad.  He said,
"How fast do eyebrows grow?"
I was done with threading, and I decided to grow my eyebrows back out.  Well, first I had to actually grow them back.

Not long after the plucked chicken incident, I lost my favorite pair of tweezers.  No big deal, you say.  Buy new tweezers, you say. 
I did.  I bought about 5 sets of tweezers.  I tried and tried to find a pair like the ones I'd lost, but none of them were the same.
Then one day, while vacuuming out my car, I found my old tweezers.  Under the seat.
I have no idea how they got there.
Maybe they were trying to run away from home... Dying of embarrassment from my plucked chicken eyebrows.

I've always had a chap stick/lip gloss hoarding problem.  Now I have tweezers to go with them.

Happy Soggy Halloween

The last few weeks (months?) have come and gone and we may never recover.  The blur of activities is winding down a tiny bit, so I decided to decorate for Halloween.

That is the sad state of my back porch, friends.  I threw away some lifeless brown plants and then regretted not moving them to the front porch for added spookiness.
Our weather forecast for the day is dreadful... pouring rain, wind, and a chance of tornadoes.  Sounds lovely for trick-or-treating, doesn't it?

Stay safe today, eat lots of candy, and leave the spider webs until tomorrow!

Smarty-Pants-ivity

School started 28 days ago, and I am 28 days behind on my sleep. I'm not even sure I could catch you up on what we did with the end of our summer... I'm too tired to remember.

This is the boy's last year of Middle School, so I may have had a "moment" after dropping him off that first day.  He is changing and growing so fast it makes my head spin.  I know all moms say that about all kids in every stage, but these time are mind-numbing for me.
Gone are the chubby cheeks and the crayons.  Now his voice is deeper than his dad's, and I don't even know how to turn his math calculator on.

There is, however, one thing I can count on no matter how big he gets. 
Make that 2 things.
His creativity and his sarcasm.  One is a gift, and the other is spoken like a second language in this house.

We were discussing an English test the boy took recently, and he explained to us he "disagreed" with the teacher about his answer.

The test question asked, "How can a letter be delivered majestically?"

The boy's answer?

"By a king or strapped to a unicorn."

I laughed for at least 30 minutes.  He is right... kings and unicorns are majestic.

We came to the conclusion the teacher was looking for a description or a definition of the word "majestically."

He does "think outside the box," and he is sarcastic.  So we talked about how his answer could have been perceived as both.  The "X" mark on the question will hopefully cause him to think before answering so quickly next time. 

I am still chuckling to myself about a unicorn delivering a letter.  I'm also praying a little harder for his teachers.

And It's Not Even Shark Week Yet

We "vacationed" to see Dan/Daddy's family for a few days last week.  It's always great to see family, but it's even better when they live at the beach.
It's not so great when it POURS rain almost the entire time you're there.
It's also not so great when your child gets strep throat while you're there.

We made a visit to Urgent Care with the boy's temperature at 102.7, and the physician wouldn't even let us leave the office until they were able to start bringing the fever down.
We've actually made lots of visits to Urgent Care with the boy while in Florida.  It's become a tradition.
At least 3 times for strep... more when he was younger.
Twice for hives.
Once to the ER with a sea catfish barb embedded in his thumb.
Do we know how to vacation, or what?

The boy is convinced the ocean hates him, even though he loves it.  He told me he thinks his death will be by sea life... which makes the rest of my story a little freaky.

The sun came out for the last 2 days we were there, and I let my sick kid go to the beach. 
The water was beautiful.

I was taking off my flip flops and putting my stuff down on a towel when I heard the boy calling me.

Apparently, Dan/Daddy had dived right into the ocean, and a lady in the water close by was yelling,
"Sir, there's a big fish near you!"

Dan/Daddy called back to her, "That would be a shark."

She was on the shore in about 1.3 seconds.
Dan/Daddy started making his way to the sand (but not nearly as fast as the lady).
The boy yelled to me,
"Come watch Daddy get eaten!"

Maybe we watch a little too much Animal Planet.
Perhaps it was the heat and sun.
He was running a very high temperature the day before.
Please don't think he was being cruel... he loves his dad. 
I just think he has his mother's sense of humor.

Youth Camp And The Zombie Apocalypse

The summer is more than halfway over, and I don't even have a tan to show for it.
I do have a few itchy streaks of poison ivy, and the boy has strep throat.  We know how to have fun.

We knew this summer would be a busy blur, but I don't think any of us realized just how fast it would go.
Our schedule has included (or will include):
1 week of Soccer Camp
6 days visiting the Florida grandparents
6 days visiting the South Carolina grandparents
1 week of VBS at church
1 week of Youth VBS at church
1 week of Youth Camp
13 episodes of The Walking Dead

Those last two items on my list are more closely linked than you can imagine.  The 3 of us recently started watching what is - quite possibly - the grossest and scariest TV show I have ever seen.  It's a very well-written show, because the more I watch it, the less it becomes about the zombies.
I start to wonder what I would do in a survival situation... which may or may not include dead people coming back to life.
I've contemplated packing a backpack with food... and a hatchet.
I've also decided that watching this show may be the only thing that ever motivates me to lose weight and exercise.  You know what happens to the slow people.

When I chaperoned the boy's Youth Group week at camp, I was able to put my zombie apocalypse skills to the test.  I functioned on very little sleep, lined up for my food, rationed out meds, screamed, and ran.  Not in that order.
We spent 3 days doing different types of mission work in Kentucky, and we had a great time.  We had 31 teenagers and 7 adults  in our group, and everyone made it home alive.

By the end of the week, I felt and looked more like the undead than a survivor.  There were dark bags under my eyes, I was moaning, and I think I was even dragging one leg.

Just Call Me Trashy

The boy and I were out running errands over the weekend, and we ran into Belk to buy a Father's Day gift for Dan/Daddy.
If you aren't from the South, you may not be familiar with the Belk.  It's a department store that has been around since the dawn of time.  Well, maybe it hasn't been around that long, but I remember my teeny tiny small hometown having a Belk store before we had much of anything else.  Even McDonald's.

The checkout lines in our Belk men's department were a mile long, so we found a half-mile long line in the women's department.  We also apparently got in line in front of the Fashion Police from 1937.

A group of 4 senior ladies behind us began to chat about the long lines.

"I remember back when you went to a department store, you had one sales person all to yourself.  They brought you clothes to try on, and they knew what looked nice."

Another one chimed in,
"I'll bet that salesgirl was dressed up, too.  They knew how to dress up for work back then."

Then the next one piped up,
"I can't get over how these young folks dress these days.  Especially in church!  They don't even wear pantyhose anymore!"

Now remember, I have a 14 year-old boy standing with me.  At this point in their conversation, we had stopped talking to each other and completely tuned in to them.

Grandma #4 joined in,
"I'm just glad they are coming to church, even if they don't have on pantyhose."

"Well I remember my mama saying a lady always wears pantyhose.  Not wearing pantyhose was just trashy."

At this point, I said a silent prayer of thanks that pantyhose aren't the standard anymore.   I'm always thankful to avoid that nylon prison of torture... especially in Summer.

The commentary continued.
"People just don't know what looks nice anymore."

"It's hard to find anything that looks decent."

"And then you have to stand in a long line to pay for it."

When it was finally our turn to pay, the boy was purple from holding in his laughter.  I wasn't far behind him.  We paid, and left the 4 Grannies to solve the rest of the fashion world's problems.

Only in the South can four total strangers bond over the trashy lack of pantyhose in our society.

I only hope they don't see me on Sunday morning... without my pantyhose.

73 Days

Hey there!   Remember me? 

I was driving home a few days ago, and I was thinking about the old blog here.  I was considering shutting it down.  I wasn't sure if anyone really "blogged" anymore, and I wasn't sure if I was just writing for myself. (Which really isn't a bad thing.)
Then, out of the blue, my friend "L" mentioned she was waiting on me to post.  Really?

So to the 5 of you who visit here,  I'm sorry.  To myself (who finds this therapeutic),  I'm sorry.
A lot of things have happened since April 2nd.  "A lot" is an understatement.  73 days worth of stuff has happened.
Hold on tight... here we go.

In the past 2 and a half months...

1.  We ate, slept, and breathed soccer.  The boy and his school team placed 3rd in the playoffs, and the rec season ended with a pool party.

 

Now my car is mud-free.

 

2.  We celebrated Mother's Day.

 

3.  The school year ended.  Hallelujah.  We trudged through those last few weeks like zombies.  The kids had standardized testing, Yearbook Signing Day, Field Day, Awards Day, and 2 field trips to Nashville.

 

One of the field trips was to present a project, and the other was to tour the capitol building and the Legislative Plaza.  During the tour, a certain student saw a photo of the famous Tennessean, Ida B. Wells.  He asked if it was Paula Deen.  I won't tell you who that student was, but I will tell you our family obviously watch way more Food Network than the History Channel.

 

4.  Winter/Spring finally left us, and Summer arrived.  In case you don't know me, I was sad to see the cooler temps go.  Now we are mowing the grass and weed-eating the weeds.

And my neighbor found a baby snake.

Good times.

 

5.  We put in a pool.  I wish.  Our house is a rental, and I don't think the homeowners would approve.  Instead, we bought a kiddie pool.  It's fun to goof off in, and it beats the heat.  We also get a kick out of holding our puppy in the water and watching her doggie-paddle.

 

6.  We ended the AWANA year at our church.  The boy earned his book award, and the leaders had about 392 water balloons thrown at us.  I will not post the pictures of me, sopping wet and begging for mercy.

 

7.  We've slept past 5:30 am on as many days as possible.

 

8.  We've been to the movies, invited friends to the movies, watched movies at home, and planned the movies we want to see in the next 60 days.  We like movies.

 

9.  We went strawberry picking, put strawberries in the freezer, and ate enough strawberries to give ourselves hives.

 

10.  We just finished Vacation Bible School at church for the youth, and (late last night) the boy finished a week at soccer camp.  My car was mud-free for .8 seconds.  Now he's considering playing on one of the travel soccer teams.  I love having mud in my car.

 

I think I'm going to need a summer break to recover from summer break.  And now I'm tired from all that catching up.  Maybe I won't neglect things around here again.  Maybe. 

 

Stay cool, friends.

Happy Birthdays To The Boy

In typical fashion for our family, we have celebrated the boy's birthday 4 times.  We have 2 more "parties" to go.  Whew.  We can drag out a birthday.
In sanity's defense, they haven't all been real honest-to-goodness parties.  One celebration was dinner with grandparents; another was doughnuts at school.

I could celebrate every day for this kid.

Happy 14th Birthday to the most awesome son a mom (and dad) could ever have!  Your kindness, goofiness, humor, and honesty make us so proud.  Rock on, kid!  We love you!!

Springing A Break

The first day of the boy's Spring Break looked like this:

That's my non-glamorous back yard.  All covered in snow.

Day 2 of Spring Break looked like this:

 

That's my non-glamorous doggie frolicking on the snow-covered deck.  And those are my legs in my snowman pajamas, striped socks, and orange Crocs... very glamorous.

 

Now it's Day 4 of Spring Break, and this is what we're doing:

 

 

We've had our fair share of Old Man Winter.  The sun shone for a few hours, and the temperature rose to 57 degrees, and we thought it was July.

All Things Soccer

Soccer season has cranked up again, and it may kill me.
Since the boy was about 6 years old, I've spent countless hours on the sidelines and driving back and forth from games and practices. 
This year, in addition to the Recreation league he plays on, he tried out for the Middle School team.
He made the team (Go, E!), but being on 2 teams translates to a lot more hours on the sidelines and in the car.
He has at least 2 practices a week, and there are times he has 3 games in one week.  That is a lot of back and forth in the car.
I'm tired from just typing it out.

Two of last week's school games were played in sub-zero temperatures with a little rain/sleet thrown in for good measure.  The parents all huddled on the sidelines and contemplated lighting a fire in a big metal trashcan.  The players' lips were blue.
Even when we got home, I was afraid to take off my boots for fear my toes would break off and stay in the boot.  Brrr.
 I've vacuumed mud out of my car seats about 14 times. There's even mud on the dashboard.

One of the weirdest things about teenage soccer players is their ability to sweat in 36 degree weather.
When your sweet little 6 year-old soccer player turns into a 6-foot soccer player, the smell is just as large.
Who knew shin guards could stink?  How much can a shin sweat?
I make the boy hang his shin guards in the garage.  When he takes them off, he sprays them with both Lysol and Febreze.  And they still stink.  The shoes are another story altogether.
In the last few weeks, Winter has decided to dig in and not leave; it's been COLD.
But I am riding home from practices with my windows down and my shirt pulled up over my nose to try and keep my gag reflex in check.

Good times.

All the hours in the car and all the hard work in bitter cold practices must be paying off...
The boy's rec team has won both of their games, and the school team has won all 3 of theirs.
I want a trophy for all my hard work, too.
It can be inscribed:

"For your driving around,

Sitting in the cold and sitting

in your car,

Cheering loudly when you can't feel your face,

And enduring the smell

of a thousand stinky shins"





More than likely, it will be 97 degrees in two weeks.  I just think those shin guards stink now.
I'll trade my windburn for sunburn, and I'll still be driving all over town for games and practices, but I will be sweating as well.
It's a good thing I love the boy.

In other news, it's the first day of Spring Break, and our yard is covered in snow.  More snow is in the forecast for tonight.  I'm one of the rare people who enjoys the Winter season and its companion, snow.  But now?

Dear Snow,
Why did you wait until Spring Break to pay us a visit?  Where were you on that sleepy Monday morning back in January?  We could have used you then.  We would have loved you more then.  Now, you are a cold nuisance.
Love,
Me

I'm waiting for my phone to ring and one of the coaches to tell me we have an impromptu practice... because it's snowing. 

The Day The Elderly Abused Me

I love senior citizens. I practically am one.
I love their ability to be blunt in every situation.  If your hair looks bad, they tell you.  If you have bad breath, they will tell you.  If you whisper in church, they'll turn around to shush you. If you've gained a few pounds, they'll tell you.  They are like toddlers with more money and more life experience.
And... if you let them, they will steal a shopping cart right out from under you.

Yesterday, I had to run into the Mart.  Sadly, it was pouring rain, so all the carts were soaking wet.
I tried, unsuccessfully, to loosen a cart from the jammed up cart pile for about 5 minutes.  When I finally got one free, I pulled it over to the side and wiped it off with an old Kleenex I found in my pocket.  Then I spied a roll of paper towels near the cart wipes.  (The "cart keepers" of the Mart were looking out for us.)  So I grabbed a few paper towels and kept on drying.
That's when the elderly man started stealing my cart.
He grabbed the front of the cart and was rolling it away with my purse in it.  For a grandpa, he was fast.  I had to jog a tiny bit to catch him.  Laughing as I ran, I finally grabbed the handle and said,
"You're stealing my cart!"

He said, "Oh.... I thought you worked here."

Well. 
I took my dry cart back and started my shopping.

For the record, I do not consider it an insult to be mistaken for an employee of the Mart.  But yesterday, there were some glaring differences.
I was drying off ONE cart... not the whole group.  The Mart employees are great, hard-working people... But none of them has ever dried off a shopping cart for me.
I was dressed up to meet Dan/Daddy for lunch.  By "dressed up," I mean "not stretchy pants and flip flops."  I had on a necklace and real shoes.  The employees at the Mart are nice, well-kept workers... But the sweater I had on was not "Mart blue." 
The Mart employee who stands at the door is friendly and chatty... But I wasn't even smiling.
So somehow, some way PeePaw thought I was a Mart cart wrangler.

My husband, my brother, my friend, and the boy all got the biggest laugh when I told them my story.
Dan/Daddy thought it was funny I had to run to catch the guy.
My brother told me he gets mistaken for a worker in stores all the time.
My friend said she didn't want to read about me abusing the elderly in the news.
The boy argued with me for at least 30 minutes about the color of my sweater.  He swears it was "Mart blue."  It's not.

When I paid for my things and left the Mart, PeePaw was walking out right in front of me. 
I laughed to myself, but I kept my eye on him.

Baby Jesus Goes To School

As a family, we don't usually celebrate Mardi Gras.  We don't live near one of those beautiful Deep South cities that holds a parade, and I can honestly say I've never shown any part of my body for a strand of beads.
We do, however, take any and every opportunity to expand our knowledge of the world around us eat cake.
We want the boy to know what other religions, cultures, and communities believe and how they celebrate.  If that includes food, then we're all a little happier.  And educated.  And fat.

So in honor of Fat Tuesday, I headed over to the local Publix to buy a King Cake.  The traditional King Cake has the baby Jesus baked inside, but in the Publix version, he comes taped to the lid.

My friend, M, went on a similar quest for a King Cake with a plastic Baby Jesus.  For some crazy reason, her cake box had no baby.  She sent her husband back to Publix for 3 more cakes.  None of them had a Baby Jesus.  Several people had theories, but I think someone went through those boxes and cleaned out the babies.  Sicko.

Before we ate our cake, I un-taped the plastic baby, flipped the cake over, and smashed him into the layers of sugar and cream cheese.  (The more I think about it, the more bizarre the entire ritual seems.)  We devoured the whole thing in about a day and a half, and the boy got the piece with the baby in it.  Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he stabbed into every area of the cake with a knife before he actually cut a slice.  (More and more bizarre by the minute.)

The plastic Baby Jesus hung out on the kitchen island for a few days, and then I saw him in the boy's bathroom... sitting on the counter.
Almost a week had gone by when I realized I hadn't seen him.  We were getting in the car, and the boy shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and said,

"Wheeeew!  I thought that was Baby Jesus in my pocket."

"Ummm.... why would Baby Jesus be in your pocket?  Where is he, by the way?" I said.

Without any hesitation, he said, "He's been going to school."

"He's been doing WHAT?" I asked.

"Going to school."  He said it like you might say, "I have a math test."  Or, "I need pencils."

"Just how many times has Baby Jesus been to school?"

"Lots.  Don't worry, though... He only comes out at lunch, because we don't want him to be taken away."

Truthfully, I wasn't worried about Baby Jesus being taken away.  I was worried about the phone call I might receive from the school office.  Or the school Security Officer... whose main station is the cafeteria. 

"What are you going to do if Officer B sees him?" I asked.

"Oh, he already has.  He came by our table, and we showed him Baby Jesus, and he even held him."

The boy rolled his eyes as I said, "Baby Jesus needs to come home."

"He can't right now," he said.  "I don't exactly have him."

"Who exactly has him?" I asked.

"My friend has him at his house,"  he said.  "He's making him some clothes.  We were feeling bad because he's naked."

"Well, as soon as he gets some clothes and comes back to school, I'd like you to bring him home."

He rolled his eyes again, protested, and tried to convince me the tiny plastic Baby Jesus would not get him into trouble.  He said something about Baby Jesus being the highlight of lunch, and he probably said something about me ruining all his fun.
I reminded him it's my job to ruin his fun, and I take it seriously.

It's been a few days since that conversation, so I asked the boy last night about Baby Jesus.  He is, apparently, still at the friend's house.  He's still naked, but I have a sneaky suspicion he has been back to school.  How do I even begin that phone call with another mom? 
"Hi!  I was wondering if our naked plastic Baby Jesus is at your house?  Could you send him home please?"

My poor friend, M, finally did get her Baby Jesus.  Another friend who knew of the missing Publix babies was at a (real) baby shower and stole a plastic baby from the centerpiece and brought it to her.  I guess it's not technically Baby Jesus, but my friend, M, was satisfied.

I may have to make a surprise appearance at lunch to confiscate Baby Jesus.  There's nothing like your mom walking into Middle School lunch to take away your plastic baby. 
While I'm there, I may take lunch to Officer B.  The man who is the first line of protection in the school took a few minutes to goof around with a table full of 7th grade boys.
And their mascot, Baby Jesus.

A Penny For Your Texts

At the rate I am posting blog entries, I may have a big whopping 12 by December.
It's not for lack of material... Life is full of great stories, but getting them to the page is another task altogether.
If I stopped long enough to record my thoughts, I might be able to think more clearly.  Get some of that craziness out of my head, you know?

Speaking of craziness, have you ever scrolled back through your "received" and "sent" text messages? 
It's scary just how quickly those messages pile up.  The content of my messages is even scarier.

Last week, I was sitting and waiting in the car line at the boy's school.  Instead of catching up on my Bible reading (I'm behind) or catching up on my Bible study (I'm behind), I scrolled through some old texts.
Here's a small sampling of what my friends and I had been chatting about:

1.  Cat food is like crack to my dog.

2.  Caramel cheese popcorn is like crack to me.  (How do we all know so much about illegal drugs?)

3.  The DMV is a pleasant place in our town.  (This may or may not be an exaggeration.)

4.  Skin tight leopard print pants are not acceptable church attire.

5.  Has the "no Saturday mail" thing started yet?

6.  There are 2 houses in our neighborhood with Christmas wreaths still on the doors.

7.  Baby Jesus went to school.  (This is a post all on it's own.)

8.  Someone stole a plastic baby from a baby shower centerpiece.  (This is directly related to #7.)

9.  I need to justify my Target run.

10.  I'm stuck in the bathroom... I will text you my order.

11.  I tried to cut off the end of my left thumb.  Again.  (True story.  I cut the same thumb I whacked the end off of years ago.)

I was going to list an even 10, but I couldn't leave out the thumb text.  The doctor reattached the end of my thumb the last time I removed it.  This time, I manned up and glued it back together.  I have no idea why I hate my left thumb.

Thankfully, no left thumb is necessary to type out the "Plastic Baby Jesus Goes To School" post I'm working on.
In the meantime, I will be cleaning out my text messages.

Knots In His Shoelaces

I love proud mom moments.  The boy is smart, funny, talented, and full of life... we are always proud of his accomplishments.

Last week, I had my proudest mom moment ever, and it had nothing to do with an accomplishment.  I think it's safe to say no one even saw what happened.  Thankfully, the boy tells me everything, so I got to hear about what he did.

It wasn't a huge thing; it was a small gesture, but it made my heart feel like it would burst.  It was plenty big enough for me.

In my typical nosey mama style, I was grilling him on the day's events at school.
He told me about lunch (a big deal for 13 year-olds).  He told me about a test he'd taken and grades he'd gotten back.  I'm sure there was conversation about who was going to the dance or who likes who now... all the gritty Middle School details.
And then he said,
"My shoe was untied before Social Studies, and I didn't have time to tie it.  So when I sat down, my Special Needs friend, C, asked if he could tie it for me."

"Well?" I asked.  "Did you let him?"

He said, "Yeah.  He wears shoes that zip, so I didn't know if he could do it.  So I let him try."

Holding my breath, I asked, "How did he do?"

He said, "I could tell he's been practicing!  When he finished, I had like 5 knots in my shoelaces!"

And then he moved on to the next item of teenage conversation.  Just like that. 
What he didn't know was that I was dying a tiny bit inside. 
What he didn't know was how I felt like crying.

"I am so proud of you for doing that," I said.  "That was kind of you to let him practice tying on your shoe."

"Yeah," he said.  "I didn't mind."

"Well, thanks," I said.

Sometimes (daily) I wonder if I'm getting it right.  I doubt my own steps, and the one thing I doubt the most is whether or not the boy is getting the messages we want him to get.
Sometimes we tell him how to behave.  Sometimes we yell at him for not behaving.
Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to a techno-lump on the sofa.

When I heard him tell about his friend tying his shoe, I knew he'd gotten it.
His intelligence may get him far in life, but his kindness is what I want people to remember.

He is so funny, and he makes all his friends laugh, but I want him to be a friend to all.

His athletic ability is amazing; I love to watch him score a goal. But, I would trade every goal he's ever made to know he's always going to be willing to have knots in his shoelaces.

We've always said we want him to have a heart like Jesus.  Knotty shoelaces seems like a good place to start.

Teeth, Bottoms, and T.M.I.

If you are the squeamish type, now is the time to stop reading.

 I warned you.

I only posted once in January, and it was to proclaim my new improved attitude about being less overwhelmed.  Less overwhelmed with the bad and more overwhelmed with the good. 

Well.  There's a saying that goes... "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans."
I think He spent the last few weeks chuckling to Himself over me.

First of all, Dan/Daddy had some dental surgery.  It was a scheduled procedure, but that didn't make it any easier. He was given some medicine to help him relax beforehand, so sitting with him in the waiting area was very entertaining.  He flipped through a decorating magazine and declared to me his future home would not have any lower cabinets in the kitchen.  When I tried to explain how his plan wouldn't be practical, he dozed off.  When the nurse came to put him in a wheelchair, he told her he didn't need it... then he promptly fell over.  The surgery involved a gum tissue graft, and - for the record - it is not pretty to look at. This surgery was also the first of 3 more to come, so the good times will continue.

Four days after Dan/Daddy's procedure, our cat had emergency surgery.  In case you are squeamish and STILL reading, I'll just say the surgery was in a very "private" area.  Because of the nature of the "injury" and the bacteria, the vet had to leave the wound open to heal.  Yep.  OPEN. Not only was the wound open, but it needed to be cleaned out twice a day. Not only cleaned, but scrubbed.  Dan/Daddy held her down, and I did the scrubbing.  It is as unpleasant as you are imagining.
It was also as expensive as you are imagining.

On the day after the cat's emergency surgery, I left our new puppy home alone... in her crate.  She's been doing fine with her potty training, and she loves her crate.  When I got home, she was not in her crate anymore.  She had unzipped the door and was hiding under a chair.  In the short time I was gone, she had gone "potty" in the house 6 times.  She left little presents in the den, in the dining room, and under the beds.  I spent all afternoon cleaning up tinkle and poopies.  We now refer to January 29th as Poop-A-Palooza around here.

That night, while the boy was playing with Miss Poops-a-Lot, she nipped him on the ear with those razor puppy teeth.  His ear bled like a faucet... all over the den floor.

I think it was while scrubbing the blood from the carpet that I considered jumping off the roof.  Or maybe it was while scrubbing the puppy poopies?  Or was it the cat's hind end?

Now we are 6 days into February, and Dan/Daddy is recovering well.  He loves showing off his gross graft.
The cat is much better also, and we have been released from scrubbing duty by the vet.
The puppy hasn't broken out of her kennel since Poop-a-Palooza, and the boy's ear healed just fine.
I am, however, sporting a gash over my right eyebrow from those same puppy teeth.

I was glad to see January go, but I have high hopes for the rest of this month. 
Even if things around here don't improve,  my Girl Scout cookies are on the way.  I can do anything with a Thin Mint by my side.  Except maybe scrubbing the cat's behind.

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Pants

The boy and I have some of our best conversations in the car.  We also have some of the strangest. We spend a lot of time in the car, so there's no shortage of words... good or bad.

While driving home from karate a few days ago, he asked me,

"Why do stores have that sign on their doors... the one that says
 NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE?"

I said, "Well, believe it or not, some people would try to go into a business or a restaurant without shoes or a shirt.  Gross, isn't it?"

Instead of agreeing with me, (because all 13 year-old boys agree with their mothers) he said,

"The next time I go into a restaurant, I'm going in with no pants on.  The sign does NOT say
NO PANTS, NO SERVICE 
 I want to see if I will be served.  They have to serve me."

"You'll be served with an arrest warrant," I said.

"Then they need to be more specific on those signs," he said.

My friend, Y, also has a 13 year-old son.  She and I often talk about the strangeness that comes with having 13 year-old sons. 
We have no answers; we just hug and pray for each other.
We've promised to call each other if one of us sees the other's son anywhere without clothes.
Mine will be obviously be trying to buy some lunch.

My Word

Lately, I've noticed a trend.  At the start of a new year, people are choosing a single word to live by... A word to inspire.  A word to motivate.  A "word of the year."
Some of the words I've seen are:
"BREATHE"    "HOPE"    "HEALTHY"

I like the idea of choosing a word to guide me through the year, so I've been thinking and thinking.
All I can come up with is "OVERWHELMED."
Go ahead and laugh; I did.
I really tried to be more positive and creative.  But, "OVERWHELMED" keeps coming back to my mind.  So I decided to go with it, and here's why.

At the end of 2012, I was overwhelmed with sadness.  The tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut made evil glaringly real.  I was overwhelmed by the brokenness of humanity.

Between Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve, I was overwhelmed with traveling.  Military families don't usually live close to relatives, so when there's a holiday, you either celebrate alone or hit the road.  We logged a lot of miles in the car, and it gets old.  I was overwhelmed with gas station receipts, cricks in my neck, and a car-sick kid.

When January came, I was overwhelmed at the "things to do" list that hadn't been done.  I was drowning in laundry from the trips,  we had no groceries in the house, and there were piles of things to be put away.  I was overwhelmed with all I needed to accomplish.

I am still overwhelmed at the amount of junk I consumed between December 1 and January 1.  If I drink only water until May, my body will be able to live off the stored calories.  As the new year started and everyone jumped on the weight loss/fitness bandwagon, I was overwhelmed with my lack of motivation to join them. 
To celebrate, I ordered some Girl Scout cookies.

I am currently overwhelmed by the newest addition to our family.  We have a new puppy, and I have dark bags under my eyes.  She is only 9 weeks old, and she has a bladder the size of a pea.  (No pun intended.)  When I take her out in the freezing cold 38 times a night, I am overwhelmed.  I am also reminded WHY I have only one child.  Newborn people and puppies are overwhelming.

So my word for 2013 is OVERWHELMED, but I have decided to turn it around.
Well.  I am going to TRY  to turn it around.  There's another side to "overwhelmed" I like better.

Instead of being overwhelmed by the brokenness of humanity, I want to be overwhelmed with the good I do see.  I want to be overwhelmed by God's grace. I am overwhelmed by His love for us.

Instead of being overwhelmed by all the traveling we will do (again) this year, I want to be overwhelmed by the blessing of family.  I will be overwhelmed with thankfulness that we all get along and want to spend time together. 

I want to be overwhelmed at the abilities I have and the opportunities I have to get things done.

I want be be overwhelmed enough at my good health to not loathe myself.  I want to be overwhelmed enough to get healthier.

I will be overwhelmed by gratitude when those cookies arrive.

I don't want "OVERWHELMED" to be a bad thing.

And, as soon as she's totally potty-trained and sleeping though the night, I will be overwhelmed with love for the new puppy.  In the meantime, I'll settle for being overwhelmed by her cuteness.