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.

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.

Half-Done Holiday

The last time I checked, it was June.
Christmas is coming whether I'm ready or not.  I prefer to be ready, but that feeling of being a little "behind" on things has been taken over by a feeling of "I am a Christmas loser."

I am not lying when I tell you I know folks who've already finished all their shopping.  Their Christmas ham is probably in the oven.

I have friends who own those pesky "Elf on a Shelf," and they've been up to their elf shenanigans for weeks now.

I received 3 Christmas cards on November 30.  Yep... November.

I just thought about ordering our Christmas cards this week.

We are the most "festive" people on our street, and we usually have lights up outside, but right now, our front porch is coldly dark.  The neighbors must think we've died.

I found the garland I like to put on the mantle, but the lights aren't working. 
You'd think I could grab a strand of lights at the store.  Have you tried to buy Christmas lights lately?  There's LED, non-LED, warm LED, cold LED, 60 light strands, 100 light strands, 50 light strands, and lights that hang themselves.  Just kidding.  If there were lights that hang themselves, my mantle would be lit.

Our tree is up, but the topper is missing.  Now that I think about it, the angel quit last year.  Quit "working," as in, stopped lighting up.  She didn't quit her job.  Maybe she did.  Maybe she went to live with a family who has their Christmas act together.

There's a song by Amy Grant called "I Need a Silent Night."
I.  Love.  It.
I'm going to change the words to "I need a silent month."

I understand the song is about the rush and bustle of the holidays; the "chaos and the noise."  But, today - as I was listening to it - I realized (for me) it's also about peace within.  Peace inside my mind.  The ability to stay quiet and calm in my heart... despite what my own voices in my head are saying. 
I not only fall victim to comparing myself to others, I fall short of my own ridiculously high standards.  Why would I do that to myself when life is stressful enough?

So if you drop by our house, the tree may be barren up top.  But this song will be on replay:

I need a silent night, a holy night
To hear an angel voice through the chaos and the noise
I need a midnight clear, a little peace right here
To end this crazy day with a silent night.

Reign In The Elves, I'm Trying To Be Thankful

Ready or not, the holiday season is upon us.
I was in a store last week, and the Christmas carols were blaring. I am a lover of all things Christmas, and I never feel like it gets here too fast. But OHMYWORD. Can we just put the brakes on a little?
One of my neighbors has a tree up and lights on her house. Meanwhile, at our porch, there's a drippy pumpkin.

I've been enjoying reading all the Facebook posts and blogs about what people are thankful for.
We have a chalkboard wall in the kitchen, and every November, we list our 30 Day of Thankful.

We all take turns writing, and it's fun to look down the wall and see who's thankful for what.
So far, we are thankful for:
1. food

2. grace

3. churchy answers... This is the boy's.  He wrote it in response to me telling him to stop giving me "churchy answers" when I ask him what he studied in Sunday School or Youth Group.  I say,
"What did y'all talk about?" 
He says,
"God, Jesus, and The Holy Spirit."
He's a bit of a smarty pants, and I have no idea where he gets it from.

4. Elijah... That's mine.  I had to remind myself to be thankful for the smarty pants.

5. soccer

6. Democracy

7. technology

8. Jack Bauer... We're still deep in the throes of "24," and the world needs a Jack Bauer.  Or two.

9. lacrosse

10. family

11. Baba & Papa

12. Nana & Pops

13. Alabama football... Despite that sad sad loss to Texas A&M.

14. Krispy Kreme... Amen.

15.

I don't even know where to start on this.  On my turn - the next day - I added

16.

I'm going to need lots of it, apparently.

My Adorable Juvenile Delinquent... What Would You Do?

A few weeks ago, the boy was "arrested" in the middle of a math test.

There had been some sort of a fight at his school, and one of the culprits "escaped." (The culprit didn't leave school; he just didn't get caught by a teacher.) We will call him Suspect #1.

Suspect #1 was wearing a brown shirt that day... and so was MY son.
See where this story is going?

The School Security Officer (who wears a uniform and carries a gun and a taser) and a teacher who'd seen the fight came looking for Suspect #1.
They came into my son's math class, looked around the room, and pointed at my son. The officer motioned for him to get up and walk over.
The boy (my son), bless his heart, thought the officer was talking to someone else, so he started looking around. That's when the officer mouthed the word, "You," and pointed again.

The boy said when the whole class realized WHO the officer was talking to, there was an audible gasp throughout the room... including his teacher.

You see, the boy NEVER gets in trouble at school. Never. I'm not sharing this to brag on my child... I can do that anytime. I am sharing this to explain why everyone in the room was shocked. The boy is the kind of student that helps teachers, tutors other students, makes the honor role, and gets nominated for citizenship awards. He's NOT the kind of kid who gets into fights in the hallway.

So when the officer and the other teacher led him out into the hallway, he was totally confused. The officer asked,
"Were you involved in an altercation after 2nd Period?"

"No," said the boy.

The other teacher said, "That's him! That's him! He had on a brown shirt and he took off running!"

Again the officer asked, "Was it you that got into a fight and then ran?"

Again the boy said, "No. It wasn't me."

Once again, the other teacher said she was certain it was him.
After a few minutes of talking, the officer told the accusing teacher he believed my child. The officer realized they had the wrong kid.
They let him go back to class, and they continued their search for brown shirt Suspect #1.

The boy said when he got back into class, the room erupted with questions and noise... including the teacher. No one could believe what had happened, and they were amazed the boy was even considered a suspect. They all got a big laugh, and they finished their test.

When he got in the car that afternoon, the boy told me all about it. He was still amused, and he really didn't seem bothered by it at all.
I asked him if either the officer or the accusing teacher came back to apologize to him.
"No. They didn't," he told me.

Now here is my dilemma.
I would have appreciated an apology to my child for the case of mistaken identity.
Is that too much to ask?
Am I being unreasonable?

Part of me wanted to march into the school and demand an apology. (I know some of you would have fired the principal by now. Or egged the officer's car.)
I definitely do not want to embarrass my son. I also know how teachers feel about parents who "fight their kid's battles for them."
Actually, I know how I feel about people fighting their kid's battles for them.

I want the boy to know that sometimes in life, people make mistakes. They may even accuse you of something you didn't do.
I want him to know that people often don't apologize... even grown-ups. Even if they should.
I want him to be able to do what he did. To stand up and speak the truth... even if he's scared.
I also want him to know we are here to support him, and I know he knows that.
How would you feel if it were your child?
What would you do?

Tiki Idols and Dave Ramsey

At the risk of exposing my old age, I am about to reference the Brady Bunch. Remember the episode where they go to Hawaii and the tiki idol necklace causes all those problems? If you do, then you know where I'm going with this.
And you have to live in a hole in the woods to not know who Dave Ramsey is. He is a smart guy with some wonderful financial advice. He and his minions also makes me feel like a complete failure on a weekly basis.
The connection between Mr. Ramsey and the Brady family? Hold on.

I think somebody stuffed a tiki idol in my luggage while we were on vacation, because the "luck" around here has not been good.

In the course of about 72 hours, I broke 3 can openers and the mixer.
Have you ever hacked into a can with a butter knife? Do you know it is almost impossible to make sugar cookies on Christmas Eve without a mixer? I honestly don't know how the Ingalls family made sugar cookies.

On the day after Christmas, I came home to Dan/Daddy telling me he'd broken a new Christmas platter.
Then he says,
"Oh and the computer died."

Joy.
Nothing is better than having to buy kitchen necessities and a computer within a few hours of spending entirely too much money on a vacation and Christmas.
With our New Year's goals of "spending less and saving more" fresh in our minds, we have started to replace things.
We determined the computer was truly dead and that no amount of geeks in a squad can help us. The fate of our old files and pictures is yet to be determined. I have an external hard drive, but everything wasn't on it... Lesson learned.
I did want a new laptop, but I didn't want it this way.

The mixer and the can opener were a little less expensive, but who wants to spend money on small appliances? The only thing I can think of that would be worse would be buying an iron. Have mercy.

Dave Ramsey would remind me of that $100,000 I am supposed to have in savings in these "emergency" situations. I would be tempted to throw my old mixer at him.

So... I am tearing my house apart looking for that dumb tiki idol. Whoever stashed it in my stuff wile I was away is in big trouble. By the way, whatever happened to that tiki idol in the TV show? Did the Brady Bunch get rid of it? Did they have to throw it in a volcano to destroy it?

If I find a volcano, I think I'll toss in one of our Dave Ramsey books.

A Momma's Confessions About Football

Did you hear a big ol' cheer? It was me.
Our football season is officially over.
(I am in no way referring to the sad Alabama/LSU game. We are still proud and loyal fans, and there was no cheering going on.)
I am talking about the boy's season of tackle football.

This year, he played on a team on the base. We made a 1 hour drive 3 times a week. Sometimes 4. Practice was 2 and a half hours each time. When they started in August, it was 102 degrees. At last weekend's games, it was 35 degrees.
Our days consisted of rushing home, slamming a snack, cramming in the homework, and then zooming to practice. Then it was rush home, cram in some dinner (or spend more money eating out), and then fall into bed. Usually late.
I am glad to see it end.

This was also a "trial season" for our athlete.
You see, the boy has always been a soccer player. He loves it, he says it's his favorite, and he's really good at it. But...
He always talks about playing football. ALWAYS.
He played one season of flag football, and he played once on a traveling team where we were all miserable. So he kept talking and talking and talking about playing again; he just never wanted to follow through with all that talk. This year, he finally decided to give it one more try. One more try to see if it was truly a sport he wanted to play.
He had a blast.
He loved it.
His momma, however, did not love it as much as he did.

(This is the part of this post where I vent my frustrations.)
I would rather watch football than watch my son play football.
It stresses me out.
Y'all have heard my theory on the need for all that padding and protection. I have 4 friends with kids playing football this year... All 4 of them were sidelined with injuries. One ended up in the hospital. As in... surgeries.

I do not enjoy watching ginormous kids tossing my son around.
He was the 3rd skinniest person on his team. He's not built like a football player at all.
But, he loved it.
I will never tell him what he can or cannot choose to play. I will always support him and take him to practice and cheer the loudest on any sideline.
But...
This is what happens to skinny soccer players when they get tackled on a football field.



That's the boy's hip 7 days after the hit and after the swelling finally went down.
He may be able to look me in the eye with his 100+ pound self, but he is still my little boy.
My little boy who never looked like that after a soccer game.

But he loved it.
Have I mentioned how much he loves it?
(He also loved the week his coaches made him sit out of tackling drills because of his injury. There's hope.)

So I will wait for another year to roll around to see if he's going to play again.
It is, after all, his decision.

His newest plan is to play soccer in the Spring and football in the Fall.

I may have to be checked out of the nut house to go watch his games.

Bring On The Artificial Pumpkin Flavoring

Since I last blogged...

Dan/Daddy had back surgery. Yes. BACK. As in cutting around the all-important spine.

We found a teensy tiny itty bitty baby kitten on our front porch on Tuesday. We are now giving her love, food, a warm bed, and very expensive medicine.
But mercy is she ever cute.

I went to the Podiatrist for some foot pain. Foot pain I now know is related to the great Sewing Machine Drop of 2008. Now I have nerve damage, and I have to get a shot. In my foot. Did I mention I hate needles?

All of these big life events are just pushing us along, and I need to stop and post some blogs.

On another note, I had my first Pumpkin Spice Latte of the season yesterday. Mmmmm.

It may take several more of those to get me through the rest of the month of September.

Day One

Well it's technically Day Four, but the picture was made on Day One.

Day One of Middle School.

The first day of my little boy's trek into the land of lockers,
changing classes,
remembering schedules,
figuring out 6 teachers instead of 1,
more choices at lunch (woo hoo!),
and
no recess.

He's not too jazzed about that last one. He said PE doesn't count.

So far, he's doing fine.
So far, I feel old.

The summer was too short, and it was too hot. (I know that's irrelevant, but ya'll. It's been hot.)

Don't misunderstand me... I do love some alone time, and he is a great student... he'll have a successful year, I am sure of it.
I am just not ready to have a kid who's halfway to Graduation.

The night before the real first day, he was lying on the couch with his head in my lap. We were talking about Middle School and him growing up and how I was not a fan of either when he said the words that this momma loves to hear,

"But I will always be your baby."

Yes, baby giraffe, you sure will.

Out-Of-Sorts

I am alive.
Not that anyone really cared about this old blog.
But, I am alive.

The last 45 days are a bit of a blur.
Packing up and leaving one house, traveling all over the Southeast, living with my family, then finally landing (?) in our new place.

None of it was without drama. Especially the "moving" parts.
We are still recovering from the damage done to our puny worldly possessions. Don't worry... there will be plenty to tell.

I am a bit overwhelmed and "out of sorts" at this point.
The house is a wreck, and there doesn't seem to be a "home" for all our junk.
When I feel overwhelmed and "out of sorts" I procrastinate; I don't do ANYTHING. Which makes things worse.
I've spent a lot of time roaming aimlessly from room to room just looking at the mess.
I've moved and moved and moved pieces of things around and around and around.
I've watched entirely too much Phineas and Ferb with the boy.
I've pouted a little bit because I miss my friends and the way things were.
And this heat. Lord, help us all. It's too hot to even think.

So when I manage to get myself a bit more pulled together, I will post pictures of the new place.
And tell you all about the broken things.
And show you what the boy looks like with his braces off. (Brace thyselves.)
And give you a riveting play-by-play of all our happenings.

Here's hoping you are all feeling a little more "together" than me!

The Computer Is Safe For Now

I am sitting here waiting on the packers to arrive.
It is so nice to not have to pack up all your own stuff.
But it is a scary thing to not be packing up my own stuff.

It's as if the packing company gets their jollies out of the little mind games they can play on us.

"Hee hee... put their socks in this box with the remote control. Then let's label it books. Hee hee."

"I know! I know! Let's put her salt and pepper shaker in here with these towels... upside down!"

"Wait, guys... Let's pack the cat!"

I am only kidding about the cat part. She's locked in her carrier which is locked in an empty bedroom.
Well, it's not exactly empty. We've been dumping EVERYTHING in there we don't want the packers to pack.
It looks like a bomb went off in there. And it looks like we are gonna need a U-Haul.

So I wait for the packers to arrive and pack up my computer.
Into a box of potting soil and Lego pieces and a glove.

So you won't hear from me until Dan/Daddy decides his wife needs a new laptop.
Or until I can unpack this dinosaur of a desktop.
Wherever we land.

Have I mentioned we are currently homeless?
Good times.

M-O-V-E. It Really Is A Four-Letter Word

It's not the kind of four-letter word that usually gets people in trouble.
But, in my opinion, it's just as bad.

I may or may not have mentioned lately that we are on the verge of another move. Courtesy of the US Government.
It is our life, and we have come to accept it, and we've learned a lot about actually surviving it.
But that doesn't mean we always like it.

Saying all the "goodbyes" is bad enough, but dealing with the other "stuff" makes my left eyeball twitch.

I woke up at 5:00 am this morning thinking about how I need to buy cardboard mailing tubes to pack some of the boy's wall decor into... so the movers don't squash it all.

We have started taking apart some of the approximately 702 Lego sets that are sitting around his room. We put them into ziploc bags and into plastic containers... so the packers don't dump them into one big box. And label it "Coffeepot."

In the garage, there are 17 cans of spray paint, bottles of plant sprays, a propane tank, container of bubbles, and other "highly dangerous" things that packers won't pack and movers won't move.

The good thing about moving is it forces you to deal with all the junk.
The bad thing about moving is it forces you to deal with all the junk.

Have I mentioned we've been told to move, but we don't have a house?
We are on the "waiting list" for a house at our new base, but we may not get one in time for school to start.
So we may have to rent an apartment.
Or we may have to get off the waiting list and find a house somewhere else.
Good times.

Also on my list:
1. register the boy for school (and this depends on the house situation)
2. find somewhere to sign the boy up for soccer or football
3. find a guitar teacher, new dentist, new hair stylist, etc.
4. change our address on 400 mailing lists
5. spend a very short summer living with and visiting with family
6. eat up all the food in the house... packers and movers won't deal with that either
7. drag a cat and her litter box all over the Southeast
8. find a new church
9. live in a hotel/extended stay for way too long
10. lose my mind

So if I sound a little negative, please forgive me.
I am in the process of dismantling our lives and setting them up someplace else.
And saying goodbye to our friends.

Such is the life of an Army wife.

Oh The Things I Could Tell You

Warning: The following post may contain TMI for some people. Post contains descriptions of medical procedures... human and feline.

I've spent the last 45 minutes trying to whittle down my list of "things to blog about that won't bore people to death."
Let me show you the list and see if you're bored to death:

1. My computer almost died (again) last week, and we spent money fixing it that I could have spent on more fun things. Apparently our processor didn't like us.

2. My elderly cat had us convinced she was on her way to meet Jesus. Instead, I paid the vet a RIDICULOUS sum of money and now I am giving her 2 pills and 2 injections every day. Yep, injections. Shots. To a cat.

3. I spent an entire afternoon having a giant mole-type thingy removed from my leg/booty. You know that spot right where your leg joins your rear end? Well that's where it was and that's where it's not anymore. The highlight of the procedure was when the doctor said (to my bared backside),
"It's not really slicing; it's more like a sawing motion."
That's the exact moment I considered passing out.

So I think I will leave it at that for the moment. Just a "taste" of current events around here. I may or may not feel the need to elaborate on any of these exciting goings ons. I just thought you should know what a thrilling life I live.
And I have to go. Time to inject the cat.

An Open Letter To The Man At The Gas Station

Dear Man at the Gas Station,
I would first like to let you know that I am not a crazy woman. Yet.
It will be folks like you who actually drive me up to that ledge and push me over.

Let me explain, Mr. Gas Station Man. I have a chatty husband. A very chatty husband. And when he starts talking, there's no stopping him.
When he called me the other day, I was just pulling into the gas station parking lot. Remember?... You were standing there, pumping your gas, and my Mr. Chatty was just getting started. Chat, chat, chat, chat, chatty, chat, chat.

So.... I got tired of sitting there and being unproductive. That gas was not gonna pump itself. So, yep. You saw me. I got out of my car right across from you and pumped the gas whilst ON THE PHONE.

Remember that little "warning" you yelled to me? I didn't like it.
"HEY! You're not supposed to talk on the phone at the gas pump!"
You were a bit rude. And I think I had PMS.
You see, Mr. Gas Station Man, you need to work on your approach.
You didn't tell me to be careful in a kind voice. You didn't seem concerned for my well-being... like a grandfatherly type fellow.

In fact, you didn't seem concerned at all for me... You actually seemed worried that I was gonna use my cell phone to blow the gas pumps to Kingdom Come. And take you with me.

Mr. Gas Station Man, I've seen the little stickers with the little stick people telling me not to use the cell phone while pumping gas.



But I have a question for you. With 92% of the free world using cellular phones and driving cars... why aren't gas pumps blowing up all over the world?

And I have another question. Do you yell at the dude who's SMOKING while pumping his gas? I sure hope so, because HE scares me.

Since Dan/Daddy the Chatty was on the other end of the call, he heard you.
And he heard me... ranting and raving like a lunatic about the good citizen putting the smack down on cell phone use at the gas pump. I think he was a tiny bit worried about you, Mr. Gas Station Man. Maybe the cold weather was getting to me. Maybe the gas prices had me stressed out.

Now please don't label me a criminal. Ask anyone who knows me... I am the most law-abiding person they know. I hate breaking rules, and I break out in a cold sweat at the thought of doing something wrong.
But that day at the gas pump, I just needed to finish my phone call AND get gas.

I checked. It's not against the law to use a cell phone at the gas pump in our state. There is no danger of fire from cell phone use. (It's the static electricity that builds up on us when we slide out of our cars that can cause a spark.)

I'm no expert, but I happen to know folks who are.



"Using one’s cell phone while pumping gas/petrol can cause an explosion."

Busted.

"A properly-working cell phone poses almost no danger of igniting gasoline, even when surrounded by gasoline vapor with the optimum fuel-air mix for ignition. The actual risk comes from an electrostatic discharge between a charged driver and the car, often a result of continually getting into and out of the vehicle."

So... Mr. Gas Station Man, I guess this is my way of saying I'm sorry. I am not sorry for talking on my phone, but I am sorry for scaring you a little bit. Or a lot.
Maybe you'll think twice the next time you feel the need to yell out to a stranger in a not-nice voice.
You just may be yelling to a PMSing 40-year old woman on her cell phone who is standing in the cold trying to talk to her overly chatty husband and pay for gas that's entirely too expensive.

Sincerely,
Autumn

I Found Some Peace

In case you read my last post, I'd like to give you an update on my quest for peace.

I found a tiny bit the other night.

It was late (midnight-ish), and I was putting laundry away. (Do it when you can, folks.)

I went into the boy's room, put his laundry up, and turned around to leave.

And stopped in my tracks because a lump the size of Texas jumped into my throat.

The boy... not so little anymore... was sleeping SO sweetly. His favorite blanket pulled up to his chin, and his tiny Christmas tree was lighting up his face.

(Swallow lump.)

And I just stopped and stared at him. And grinned. And sniffed a little. And resisted the urge to smooch him.
And thanked God for the privilege of raising him.

And found a few seconds of peace in my otherwise nutty day.

I Am Not Called to Firework My Backside

There's a really funny commercial playing on the radio lately. I think it's for Dodge cars/trucks? I really have no idea how the whole commercial goes, but my favorite part says...

"Like strapping a rocket to your backside and fireworking yourself across the Grand Canyon."

I don't know HOW that relates to buying a Dodge, but it makes me laugh. Hard. Every time I hear it.

Because I am there. I have, in the last 5-10 days, seriously considered fireworking myself across the Grand Canyon. It would be a fitting way to deal with the chaos that is going on around me and in my head.
With my luck ,something would go wrong and I'd have 4th degree burns where the sun don't shine.

The past few weeks in our Bible study, we've been talking about peace. We're studying Isaiah, and it has been a challenge, I don't mind telling you.

Peace.

It's simple, but it's not.

But here's what keeps jumping out at me. We are CALLED to peace.
Called to it, people.

It's not just something that we sit by and wait for. Or talk about. Or even just pray for. It's not something to wish for at Christmas. It's relevant. Right here and now.
We are CALLED to it. That's active, folks.

I don't know about you, but peace is the last thing I feel lately. Peace is the last thing anybody seems to be looking for. Especially as we zoom up and down the streets trying to finish the "to-do" list from you-know-where.

I know I can't force other people to be peaceful. I can't make centuries-old wars cease. But I can start with my own peace. I am called to peace in my own mind and heart and attitude. Peace in the way I deal with my family and friends and even strangers.

Strapping a rocket to my backside and fireworking myself across the Grand Canyon seems easier at times.

I'm Making My Lists, But I Am Not Checking Them Twice

I'm not even really checking them at all.
I should be, but I'm not.
I wish I could say it's for some great high and lofty reason... Like
"We're simplifying this Christmas." or...
"We've given all our money to charity this Christmas." or...
"I have found the deeper meaning of giving, and all our gifts will be homemade this year."
But, nope.
None of that.

I can't seem to find the motivation to do anything productive, but I can change my blog background 3 times in one week.
My priorities are rock solid.

Thanksgiving was only 1 week and 2 days ago, and Christmas chaos is in full swing.
But I feel like it's leaving me in the dust.
Maybe Thanksgiving was too short.
Maybe I needed to be more thankful.
Maybe I am in rebellion.
Maybe I need coffee and vitamins.
Maybe I am just old and tired.
(A certain birthday is rapidly approaching and it happens to have the numbers 4 and 0 in it. But I won't say in what order.)

I'm probably just becoming more and more like a granny.
"Where does the time go? I wish I could stop the clock."

So I am giving myself a deadline.
2 days. That's it, self.
You and your lazy granny attitude have until Monday to snap out of it.

After that, I'm checking myself into the Retirement Home.

Mystery Diagnosis

I say it every year.

Our summer would not be complete without a trip to the ER.

The boy has obviously inherited his momma's grace and uncanny ability to get hurt. Poor kid.

We spent last summer recovering from a catfish barb to the hand, so this year we had to top that with a case of raging hives. Good times.

The boy has allergies, and we've learned to live with that.
But every now and then, his body throws us a curve ball.

Once - when he was 2 - he broke out in huge horrible hives. Scary-looking hives. And we played the guessing game. What did he wear? Did we change soaps? Did I change detergents? What did he eat?
The only "new" thing he'd eaten was watermelon. Yep. Watermelon. Something that even allergy-prone people are rarely allergic to. So we deprived the poor baby of watermelon for about 3 years.
When he finally tried it again... nothing.
So we really never knew what caused those hives.

Last month, we spent a week with Dan/Daddy's parents on the Gulf. (Yep. The oily Gulf.) About halfway through our trip, the boy woke up one morning with his right eye almost swollen shut and hives all over his face and neck.

I have a photo, but it is a bit yucky. I put it up, and then I took it down.

When did my blog become a place for only the strong-stomached?

After a dose of Benadryl, they didn't go away. Our biggest concern was the swelling all over his face. Swelling on the outside isn't so bad. It's the swelling I can't see that worries me.
So we loaded him into the car and headed to the ER. And the guessing game began again. No new foods. No new clothes. No new detergents. Nothing.
Nothing except he'd been swimming in the Gulf one day before the oil came into Pensacola Beach.
At his point, I'm thinking, "Please let me sue BP."
But the doctor says the words I hear more than I'd like to.
"We may never know."

Agh.

As a bit of a control freak, let me say that those words are hard to swallow.
I want to KNOW.
I feel like I can handle the situation better if I KNOW.
I can even handle bad situations if I KNOW.

But, apparently, being in the KNOW isn't always part of God's plan for this girl.

After week of steroids (again), he was all better.
And the ER doc gave me the advice I had been considering for a while now.
Have him re-tested.
I knew it was probably time... his last allergy tests were done when he was 5.
All those little needle pricks in the skin. Good times.

Who wants to go with us?

Terrible, Horrible, No Good, and Very Bad... And The Sequel That Should Have Been Written

Did you ever read that book?

"The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" was a 70's classic. Now my grey hair is showing...

Have you ever had one of those days when you just wanted a giant "REWIND" button? One of those days when even getting back into bed probably wouldn't go well?

Well... we had ourselves one of those days this week.

But right smack dab in the middle of my complaining, I got myself a reality check. As my hip, cool, and happenin' child would say, I got "served." (Where does he GET this stuff?)

It went something like this...

I...

1. overslept

2. had an early morning shouting match with a 10 year old

3. ran late to drop off pouty 10 year old at school

4. realized that feeling like I had my act together was NOT gonna happen

5. received a phone call from school (from pouty 10 year old)... telling me he'd left his ENTIRE binder on the kitchen table

6. pulled into garage, jumped out of car, grabbed binder, and took it back to school

7. ran late to meet my friend to go to Bible study

8. picked up an even pout-ier 10 year old who informed me that his day had "stunk"

9. came home to a pile of dirt from the plant that the cat turned over

10. met a hermit crab on the stairs... apparently making his break because the cat had turned his cage over too

11. had a long talk with the cat

12. made dinner, cleaned up dinner, checked homework, and got the pouty 10 year old ready for bed EARLY...

13. watched a very disappointing American Idol... even the auditions weren't funny

14. realized that the back of the remote control for the bedroom TV is missing

15. got up out of my warm bed to re-check the locks on the doors downstairs (because there happens to be a nice little criminal invading homes in our area)

Now... it really wasn't that bad of a day. And in light of the tragedy in Haiti and the daily realities of war... none of my petty things are worth even mentioning.

You see... Somewhere in the middle of the day, I found out that a very dear friend of ours was involved in a combat situation. A situation where someone was killed. A situation where several others who were there will never be the same. A situation that our friend will probably replay over and over in his mind and in his dreams. A situation that could have ended his life. A situation that just as easily could have been my husband. Or my neighbor's husband. Or my other friends' husbands.

It was a "wake-up-and-stop-feeling-sorry-for-yourself" moment. I have to confess...

I don't like those moments. At all. I especially didn't like that one.

I know that the "wake-up" moments aren't always that dramatic. Sometimes they're small, and sometimes they're even funny.

I'm starting to believe that the real (honest) drama in life keeps us grounded... so we don't focus on the little petty and insignificant things that we love to focus on.

And the little small things that we think are gonna drive us crazy actually keep our minds off (for a moment) the really big things... the reality of life and it's frailty. Because if that were all we thought about... Let's just say that the small things keep us sane.

In know, I know. It's all about balance.

Finding the right place in your mind where you can be thoughtful and grateful and aware of the precious gift we all have been given.

And then deal with the little stinky things that happen on a day-to-day basis.

The sequel to that book should have been called:

"The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day And The Lesson I Learned From It"

Do you really think anyone would have read it? Checked it out from the dusty school library?

It's one of those sequels you have to write on your own, I think.

How NOT to Start Your Holiday Season

Washing machine...



+
Laundry detergent...



+

1 Cel Phone... tucked away in the pocket of the jeans you want to go on your trip...




=
A trip to this place... Just hours before you should be leaving for the Thanksgiving holiday...




In case you were wondering:

1. Cel phones are not washable.

2. No. It wasn't time for the upgrade.

3. Yes. I did have the insurance. (Please, this is ME we're talking about here.)

4. I realized it when I opened the lid to take the clothes and toss them in the dryer.

5. No, I didn't put it in the dryer.

6. I am beginning to laugh about it now. 6 days later. Beginning.