Throwing Up with Willie and Sara

Since I recently wrote about the 15 seconds I spent with Elton John, I thought should also tell you about another, equally exciting star encounter.

In May 2002 I went to Washington, DC to visit a friend. I arrived on a Thursday afternoon and spent the whole day Friday in bed with an apparent attack of food poisoning. Saturday morning she announced

we'd be joining a group of her friends at an outdoor country music concert. Not one to put a damper on the fun, I sipped Sprite and held my pounding head in my hands as we drove.

One of her friends went to college with (at that time) a rising country music star named Steve Azar, who happened to be performing. I should also interject as a side note that she had conspired to set me up with this friend-who-knew-Steve-Azar. He was not appealing to me in the least because he acted like a know-it-all and was short. And I am sure I didn't do much for him either, since he had to look up to talk to me, plus I looked like I'd been to h*ll and back over some bad chicken.

Upon arrival, the short guy dialed up Steve's cell phone and four golf carts appeared to take us into the concert via the VIP gate. I was smart enough to slip on my sunglasses, just in case I saw a VIP. I didn't want them to see my bloodshot eyes rimed with dark circles.

There were no VIP's near the special gate, but it was lined with fans. Hundreds of them...screaming...waving papers and pens for autographs. As I walked by I heard someone say "Who's she? She looks so familiar." Little did they know the terror that awaited them under the sunglasses. That, coupled with the fact that I can't carry a tune to save my life, would have turned them far, far away from even thinking they'd want my autograph.

Then we were introduced to the place that would become my haven for the next 8 hours: BACKSTAGE! Oh, how thankful I was for know-it-all short guy's connections. Backstage offered chairs, a sofa and a whole table of ice and beverages.

The afternoon portion of the concert, featuring Steve Azar and another fairly new band, Rascal Flatts, began soon after our arrival. We could sit on the side of the stage, well out of view of the audience, and take in all the entertainment.

After his performance, Steve Azar joined our group Backstage for dinner and my wayward stomach somehow became the topic of conversation. "Come with me," he said. "I think I know someone who has something to take care of that." Off we went, past some loading dock and down the stairs to a big tour bus. Willie Nelson's tour bus. Somehow I'd missed that fact he was the headliner of the concert, playing later that night.

Steve gave a little rap on the door and walked right in. I guessed he was good buddies with Willie. "Willie, this sweet gal needs one of your concoctions to get her feeling good again." Now, when you ask Willie for a concoction, you could get most anything. But one thing's guaranteed: if it gets near a flame, it will ignite.

Willie got up, shook my hand (he's short, too) and offered me a seat. Then a small shot glass appeared on the table before me. "Drink up," he said. "Cure all that ails 'ya." Not to be one to argue with 'ole Willie, I raised the glass to take a small sip but was overcome by the fumes. Something close to gasoline + fingernail polish. "Drink 'er down all in one. It's the only way." So I made like I was jumping off a diving board into deep water: took a deep breath, plugged my nose and drank 'er down.

"Now eat this," Willie said. Half a turkey sandwich. And with that I promptly ran out of the bus and threw up.

The opening act for the evening was Sara Evans. The Willie Concoction really did a number on me, but I was bound and determined to see Sara perform. Everyone suggested I eat something, so I tried a little bit of food. Luckily this time I could duck into the restroom (backstage!) to throw-up. So I did. About the time I emerged from the stall to splash water on my face, out came.... Sara! Sara Evans!

"Not feeling well?" she asked. Besides the fact I was horrified that she'd heard me, who wants their first words to a country music star to be "I think I have food poisoning."

"I've been throwing up all day, too," she said. "I just found out I'm pregnant."

We chatted for quite awhile and ended up exchanging email addresses. Then off she went in her cute white pants and sparkly jacket to perform in front of thousands. Me? I just wanted a bed and some Sprite. We did stay in touch for a few years but then she had bigger fish to fry...like her nasty divorce that caused her to drop out of Dancing with the Stars last season.

All throwing-up aside, I did managed to have a pretty good time. As we left, Willie was plucking out the last notes of Whiskey River. The gang was rehashing all the things they'd done, the country music people they'd met and the autographs they'd scored.

"Well, I threw up with Willie Nelson and Sara Evans," I proclaimed.

And, really, isn't that so much better than an autograph?

For the Love of A Soldier

Freedom lies in being bold.

~Robert Frost

March 7, 1943:. We had fresh meat today, in the form of hamburgers, with beans, and everyone was more than satisfied. New shacks are going up all over the field, with materials from packing crates and scrap lumber of all kinds being used. We heard over the radio today, of the news of the big Jap convoy being destroyed in the Pacific, Go to it Boys!

June 9, 1943: There seems to be an epidemic among the forces in North Africa of dysentery, commonly known as the “G.Is” in army slang. They seem to have originated from these wild African flies. Again today, we had two missions to the island of Pantelleria, with the strict orders not to drop their bombs if a white cross is spotted, as they are expecting a surrender.

Last December, on the 65th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, I was thinking about the waning numbers of WWII veterans. There are so few of them still alive. On the 75th anniversary in 2016 there will be virtually none still with us.

My father served in the European Theater, 320th Bomber Group, 441st Bomber Squadron during WWII. He enlisted in July 1943 and was honorably discharged on September 28, 1945. I don't remember him talking about the war at all. Not one story. Nothing. He passed away in August 1996 taking along his war memories. I am proud of him.

As a tribute to him and all who serve our country so valiantly, I decided to do something to help. The 320th Bomb Group's website said they needed volunteers to transcribe war diaries before the originals and microfilm copies are ravaged by time. I immediately sent an email to volunteer, and a few weeks later diaries of the 443rd Squadron arrived.

May 12, 1943: They now have a Red Cross hut here on the field, which offers some means of relaxation for the men. Lt. Chesire, of the 444th, returned today after being adrift for some time. Six German prisoners were captured by our group today, after they had escaped from a prison camp. To most of us, it was our first glimpse of Germany’s “Supermen”.

For every soldier who has served or is serving our country, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The Porch Project - End of Week 6

We have lots of progress to show this week. Below is a picture of the back

wall of our kitchen Thursday evening...

and Friday when we got home from work...
another view - this one from the new room looking towards the kitchen

A Meaty Issue

Since I confessed my complicated love affair with beverages a few weeks ago, I figured I might as well go ahead and lay it all out there for you, my dear readers, and tell you about

me + meat

Honestly, I've never really loved meat. I've never been known to say things like, "Oh, I'm just craving a plate of bacon, sausage and ham." I would never order a Meat Lovers Pizza.

Growing up in Iowa afforded me a lot of opportunities to eat meat...really good meat...corn fed Iowa beef and pork. To this day, in the rare instance I sit down with a steak in front of me, I always wish it had been hand-selected from Neal's meat case at my hometown grocery store.

Once I have decided that I will eat meat, the real problems begin. I say problems because...well, I'm so very, very picky.

Any red meat that I eat cannot have any evidence of red. You will never hear me say, "I'd like that medium rare." The outside of the meat must be more than golden brown, but less than charred. The grading scale of doneness on the outside trickles over into other genres of food like toast, pizza and just about anything that gets baked in the oven, but that's another whole post for another day. My husband has nearly mastered the grading scale of this absurdity.

He also has two rules to guide all the helpless souls who might have to cook a piece of meat for me:

#1: Cook it until you think you can't cook it any more...and then cook it five more minutes.

#2: Start grilling Jill's meat now, and then add everyone else's in half an hour.

Bless his soul. Not only does he have to deal with the beverage graveyard in our house, he must also deal with my meat issues, which really are more complicated and annoying when you're the person on the other end of the tongs.

Once my meat is (finally!, finally!) cooked, I simply cannot bear to cut into it. Slicing up hunks of meat just doesn't work for me. I really prefer if it's cut up for me into bite-sized pieces.

Yes! Like you'd do for a child.

So this weekend, as you fire up those grills and BBQ your chicken and ribs, think of me.

No...actually.... think of my husband. Perhaps say a little prayer for him. Because grilling at our house is a bit more INVOLVED and DEMANDING than it should be.

Oh....Can I have a drink with that?

If Only Life Were a Carnival

If I were The Carnival of Life I'd fall somewhere between

a tiny little hometown fair and Disney World.

I'd be colorful with a huge WELCOME banner with fat, curvy, lime green letters.

I'd have lots of tents for special events like talent shows where little girls wear hand-me-down tap shoes and keep time by chewing gum.

Boys could show off their dogs and the tricks they taught them.

There would be music playing and balloons floating this way and that.

Around every corner would be a beverage tent with your

choice of cubed or crushed ice.

And, oh....the food!

****

You can see that I'm a little bit fun, and a little bit sentimental. A little traditional rolled around some gosh darn fun.

I love to get down and roll around with Adam. Flip him upside down and chase him around the living room. We read, swing, play with the garden hose, and drive to the playground in his "ca-wa".

But Adam's buddy Mr. Getting My Way doesn't think I'm fun at all. Adam and G.M.W. want what they want, when they want it. They want what they want even if they can't have it. If it's dangerous or breakable or will get my clean kitchen floor messy... they want it.

Mr. G.M.W. likes to pull Adam to the floor and put his head down while he cries really loud. And then they conspire with each other and whine "mommy, mommy, mommy" over and over and over again. And when I ignore that, Mr. G.M.W. pulls Adam up and attaches him to my leg to pull and whine some more.

Honestly, after a long day of working and daycare sometimes it's easier to give in. It's easier to convince myself that he's been gone from me all day and a handful of jelly beans is really a treat he deserves. It's easy to rationalize the need to comfort him, a lot.

As Adam becomes more aware, so, too, do I. I'm aware that these are the days and weeks that will form the foundation for his expectations of who his parents are and how his parents act. Consistency is key and it is what he needs. More than jelly beans or climbing on the dishwasher door, he needs me to be consistent and absolute about certain things.

When he gets older, I don't want to be the parent explaining in a lengthy disertation why his dad and I have certain rules.

Mr. Getting My Way....

meet Mrs. Because I Said So

and her Sister, That's Just the Way It Is.

You Must Be a Mom If...

...you leave yourself this

message on your home voicemail:

"Remember to find the sippy cup of soy milk Adam was playing with this morning. I think it's in the bottom door of the amoir in the bedroom but not sure. DO IT RIGHT THIS MINUTE BEFORE YOU ERASE THIS MESSAGE!!! Thanks. Bye-bye."

All Decked Out

I need your help again. Not with mascara this time, but with patio/deck furniture. My talented husband, with the help of a couple neighbors, will begin building our deck this weekend. We've already planned some outdoor entertaining for early June and I need to purchase furniture soon.

Wrought iron, aluminum, treated wicker or teak?

Home Depot?
Target?
Pottery Barn?

Removable cushions?

The great umbrella debate?

Suggestions and words of advice much appreciated.

Turn Something Simple into Something Grand

Adam had his first taste of corn on the cob last weekend.

He grabbed the "corn holders" like he was riding a motorcycle and went to town.

To see that sweet face dig into those golden kernels

reminded me that we should take time to enjoy the simple things more often.

So this week, let's all savor something special

make something simple into something grand....

a long bath, a cool glass of iced tea, an ice cream cone.

Leave a comment and let me know

what little treasure you paused to enjoy this week.

This is the Day the Lord Has Made

Today was a very special day in our family. Bayley was baptized.

I didn't attend the actual baptism. It was held at the church Kendra and Bayley attend with their mother and things between she and I aren't great. Actually, I avoid her at all costs, including this one. It was a hard decision, but one that Doug and I agreed on.

We wanted Bayley's day to be special and focused on him.

I was there with him in spirit, though. Doug said the pastor said he knows lots of children who love the Lord, but few who love Him like Bayley. His heart is pure gold... tender and sweet.

He is a great big brother to Adam. He knows he's a role model and takes his responsibilites seriously.

He says things to Adam like, "You need to say please. When you are a man and have children of your own and marry a wife, are you just going to yell 'Mommy, Mommy' and expect her to bring you something?"

Bayley was four when I met his dad. He's now eight. These past few years have been glorious, watching him grow and change and mature.

Who could ask for anything more?

We Invited Summer Over to Play

We don't have any porch pictures to share this week. There was progress, but only with electical wiring and such.

We all had a wonderful time outside today moving mulch, planting geraniums, herbs and tomatos. We mixed in a few water fights and some basketball.

Our neighborhood also had Maintenance Day. The pool is now offically power-washed and ready for its grand opening next weekend.

School's out on Friday.

Summer's on it's way.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Looking Heavenward

When I was a little girl I thought Jesus sat in heaven in a big white chair with cushy arms. The chair was nothing ornate, since I knew Jesus also walked barefoot a lot. He had dark brown hair and a beard and wore a white robe with a rope for a belt. God, his Dad, floated in the air behind Jesus' chair. God had long hair too, but it was getting gray. His robe was light blue. God didn't have any legs (he didn't need them to float) but he had r-e-a-l-l-y long arms that could reach out and touch someone if they needed help or if they needed a spanking.

I thought God and Jesus were high up in the sky, but not too high up that they couldn't reach down and part the clouds or push along an airplane flying by. I knew rain wasn't really Jesus crying, and I knew they were far enough away from the sun that they wouldn't get sunburn.

When ever I was outside playing I knew both God and Jesus could see me. They kept an eye on me sometimes, but not all the time. They had other children to watch over, too. I wasn't much of a daredevil, so I never thought about God scooping me from the jaws of destruction at the very last second, though I did wish that He'd scoop me up and put me somewhere away from my pesky neighbor Mike. His nickname was Boob...and for good reason.

If I was inside or if it was dark and I couldn't see the sky very well, I thought God and Jesus couldn't see me....out of sight, out of mind. At some point I learned when it was dark on my side of the Earth it was light on the other. When I was sleeping or inside watching All in the Family at 8 o'clock at night, I figured Jesus was sitting in His chair overseeing the Chinese kids with God floating there behind him. They knew all languages since they invented them and understood every word anyone spoke.

Of course now I know that's not true. God sees all, knows all and hears all. Kind of like moms when their kids are too quiet in the other room. I feel just as close to God when the sky is dark as I do when the sun shines bright. I know He is much more than a man sitting in a chair or floating with no legs. And I know sometimes He doesn't rescue us from the pesky neighbor.

But I am so thankful I looked heavenward when I was young. I knew He was there...up there somewhere. It was a good start.

I think today...

bright sun, crisp blue skies and puffs of clouds floating about...

is a perfect time to point heavenward and say "Look, Adam. It's God!"

Don't Worry, Your Garbage is in a Much Better Place Now

Recently I've noticed a lot of businesses with names apparently meant to make the consumer feel as if they will be a little bit more blessed should they decide to use them.

Holy Land Realty

Fish and Loaf Lawn Care

Commandments Stump Removal

But the one I saw today just takes the cake. It's beyond ridiculous.

Divine Sanitation

I worry about a lot of things. But the life-everlasting of my trash is not one of them.

The End of An Era

OK, I admit it. My son still has a bottle every evening before bed. He's 16 months. A little old, I know. It's comforting to him after a long day at daycare. And it's even more comforting to me after a long day at work. Let's not kid anyone. A lot of the things I do concerning Adam I do to make my life easier.

That being said, he hasn't had a bottle at daycare for at least 2 months. I figured I could start weening him that way since seeing all the other kids with sippy-cups would be great enticement for him to use a sippy cup as well. And it worked fine.

But....oh....when we get home, the pining for the bottle begins. It does not end until it's firmly planted in his mouth.

My husband and I said in unison one Sunday afternoon, "When this can of formula is gone we're not buying any more." We've slowly been adding soy milk to replace the formula and he's fine now with a bottle of 100% soy milk. So that part's out of the way. And what better time to nix the bottles than when the last scoop of formula is dispensed.

This is the end of another era in my son's life. First go the little zippered sleepers, then the baby bath tub. Soon he no longer needs to wear onsies and eat baby food from a jar.

I know once the bottles are gone, something else will soon go down in the history books. That's what life is all about. Part of me wishes I could hold him on my lap, just the size he is today, for a very long time. If only that sweet little face would stay suspended in time for just a little longer. Little toes, baby talk, chubby thighs.... all gone too soon. Wonder if I'll be this melancholy over the last diaper?

I'm guessing the answer is no.

For An Iowa Mom

Many of you probably know I'm from Iowa. Grew up in the same house, in the same small town and went to the same school my whole childhood. Then moved to Ames, Iowa to go to Iowa State. I love Iowa for many, many reasons.

So imagine my delight when I found An Iowa Mom. Wendy is funny, creative and has four of the cutest kids you've ever seen.

If you need a gift for a little girl in your life, her beaded socks are a great choice.

She's in a bit of a funk right now. We all have times like that, right?

Go say hello...leave her a cheery comment. I'm sure she would even get a kick out of a joke about corn and beans. Thanks!

First, Learn to Help Yourself

I think one of the most important things young children can learn is the importance of helping others. And I think one of the ways they can learn to help others is to learn to help themselves. At our house we call this "learning life skills".

Adam, at 16 months old, knows how to take his clothes off and carry them to his clothes hamper. He also takes great delight in putting his diaper in the diaper genie. If he could get into the bathtub himself, he would, but he needs a little boost right now. He is learning how to scrub his hair once I put the shampoo in. He takes his plate or bowl to the counter when he's finished eating, and he is usually pretty good about putting his toys and books away. We help him with this by singing "pick it up and put it in the basket". Nothing makes chores a little more fun than song and dance. Even if it's mom doing the (bad) singing!

We think Adam also needs to learn the end result of doing things he's not supposed to do. Saturday he managed to fling all of his pasta and sauce around the kitchen in the time it took me to put a load of laundry from the washer into the dryer. I was mere steps away but not within his sight. The oven, pantry door and floor were covered. He got a strong talking to, emphasized by a thump on the diapered bottom. And we made him help clean up the mess. Suffering consequences is the first step in learning right from wrong.

The "rod" of discipline comes in many forms. Its effectiveness comes not in its size or hardness, but in its consistency and delivery. I hope our son's life skills are many and varied. And I hope he will seek to honor others by extending hand and heart to someone in need.

The rod of correction imparts wisdom,

but a child left to himself disgraces his mother.

~ Proverbs 29:15

The Porch Project - End of Week 4

The windows are in and the siding is on. The french doors were made incorrectly and had to be re-ordered. This has delayed the "busting out" of the kitchen wall. We're all waiting for that !

My Mom, the Census Bureau

In honor of my own mom on Mother's Day, I thought I'd tell you about one of the things for which she's best known. For more about my mom, read this.

I grew up in a very small town in Iowa (pop. about 1200). My mom was the City Clerk and also served on the school board for several years. Talk about public scrutiny...she got it.

When I say City Clerk, that means she was the one and only person sitting in City Hall when a person walked in the door. So, if they wanted to pay their water bill, complain about a wayward dog, look up an ordinance or buy a cemetery plot, they dealt with my mom. And she dealt with them. For over 35 years. Whew!

It's an understatement to say she got to know about the people, their property, their families and their whereabouts pretty well over the years.

A conversation with her, even today, could go something like this (*names changed because it would take me forever to think of real people to use as examples since I haven't lived there for 20 years):

Loraine Smith is spelled with one "n". Lorraine Jones is two "n's". Loraine is the sister to that guy that married Mary Brown. They live up there in that old brown house on 2nd Street next to the high school. Before they moved there Bill and Sandy Black owned it. Remember, they had that old beat up car and every morning they'd come down to the cafe for coffee, rain or shine. She always wore a headscarf and he smoked a pipe.

Or this:

I see that kid of Sandy and Tom Rinken got married. He was something else. A wild little s**t if you ask me. Always in trouble up at school. I can think of several times they'd come to the school board meetings complaining about how he got treated and I'd just tell them how it was. I think he joined the Army and when he got out spent time down in Independence in the pen and now I see he's marrying that Chitty girl. Her mother was s sister to Delores Hopkins who used to work for Mike at the telephone office.

A virtual walking information booth, my mom. I can't tell you the number of times, especially as I got older, that someone would tell me they'd ask my mom if they needed to know something. "She's almost always right," they'd add.

Even she admits she has an opinion about almost everyone and everything.

One time I remember her telling about the census taker coming to City Hall to talk about their procedures for taking the census. My mom told her she could save her time and a lot of footwork by just asking her. She knew the house numbers, the street names, who owned the house, who lived there and which houses were vacant.

And really, when it comes right down to it, wouldn't you rather spend an afternoon listening to my mom's version of Greene, Iowa than hoofing it up 2nd Street?

Breaking Bread with the Dry Cleaner

Just so you know, my dry cleaner's name is Raj. He owns the place, along with his father (who has terribly stained teeth from chewing tobacco by the way). His wife Rania works there, too, but only from 9:00 to noon, because she has to be home to meet their two daughters after school. Raj is thinking of going into the fabric business because he can get really good deals on silk from India. He has a friend there who can make window treatments cheaper than they can be made here. Raj also owns the Great Wraps franchise nearby and if I just mention his name when I order, they will give me 10% off. My husband thought that he heard on the news that their dry cleaning business had been robbed and that one of the workers got grazed by a bullet, but it wasn't them. It was another dry cleaner on Peachtree Street and Raj knows that because his sister's neighbor knows the person who got grazed. I guess the dry cleaner world is pretty small.

Eleven years ago when I moved to a very large metropolitan city from a very small town in the Midwest, I soon learned the customer service here is severely lacking. OK...let's just be honest. It stinks. I'd get frustrated at people who were supposed to be in want of my business. I tried complaining, but it didn't seem to work. Eventually I learned I had to get to know them, because quite frankly, there's nothing people like better than talking about themselves. And every once in awhile I'll interject a little about me. And before you know it, we've got ourselves a nice little friendship going. And as a bonus I get some good service...

The lady who does alternations for me recently brought her mother her from China. The hardest thing for her after she moved here were "all the cars. They scare her!" And no, she does not eat at the Chinese restaurant two doors down, even though she has carry-out menus in her alterations shop. She knows the people and her son goes to school with their daughter, but she prefers to cook her own fried rice.

Phillip, my nail guy, recently brought his mother her from Vietnam. He hasn't mentioned that she's afraid of cars but she has told him on no uncertain terms that she is not interested in learning English except for "How are you today", "Do you want a pedicure" and "What color polish?" I've told him that I think she should try to learn the language, because if she asks what color someone wants and they say "Raspberry Twist" she needs to be able to turn the nail polish bottle over and read the little names on the bottom.

The gal at the coffee shop that hands me my $5 latte at least once a week rides Harley's and goes to school full-time. She's "over 40" and trying to lose some weight.

And then there's Mindy who gives the best eyebrow wax this side of Texas. Oh, for the love of tweezing, she's up and moved away again. First she left me for love to follow her boyfriend of less than 3 months to Florida. I told her she probably should give that a second thought but she did it anyway. And then she came back. She was studying to be a yoga teacher in addition to putting hot wax on people's faces and then ripping out their hairs. I guess she needed a calming profession to balance all that torture. But the yoga thing didn't seem to work out. And now the girl is gone to California - just up and moved on me.

Now I'll have to find another waxer to befriend.

Maybe Raj's sister knows someone.

Sink or Swim

My fondest memory of summer was the day the public pool opened. I still go ga-ga over the smell of chlorine and the sight of a glistening pool waiting for someone to take the plunge.

I spent most every day - all day - at the pool. I went through at least two bathing suits each summer and by the time the pool closed my skin was brown and my hair was nearly white.

I lifeguarded at that same pool when I was old enough. And I taught swimming lessons to hundreds of kids. When I tell people now that I used to teach swimming lessons, I am invariably asked for helpful hints about getting a kid to
a. get in the pool
b. get their face/hair wet
c. learn to hold their breath
d. learn to actual propel themselves through the water with their arms and legs.

The most important thing to know is that sometimes kids just aren't ready to swim. And some many never be ready to swim. Water is scary. If I had a child who refused to get in the water after two lessons I spared the parents, myself and the child the agony and told them to try again next year.

Swimming is all about the arms and the breath. If you put a child in water deeper than they are tall they will instinctively move their legs. They will not instinctively move their arms.

The first step to swimming is getting their face wet. The next step is learning to hold their breath. I started dribbling water on Adam's face during his bath when he was 3 months old. Now I pour bowls of water over his head when I wash his hair. He holds his breath and he thinks it's great fun. If you have young children you wish to swim, start with this.

Private swim lessons work for some kids because they like the one-on-one time and comfort of having someone to themselves. Group swim lessons work better for other kids. Peer pressure can be a positive thing in this case.

If your summer consists of some struggles at the pool, this may help. I'll be keeping you posted about our summer with a 1 year-old at the pool.

The Life That's Chosen Me

I'm a step-mother. But we don't really use that word in our house. I refer to Kendra and Bayley as "my husband's children" when talking to someone I don't know. They call me Jill. I once referred to Bayley as "son" (a term of endearment) a few months after I met their dad and he said, "You're not my mom and I'm not your little boy." True.

I don't try to be their mother and I don't attempt to mother them. I want to teach them things, guide them when and where I see fit and be a positive influence on their life. Maybe they don't think I'm doing any of those things or doing them well. And that's OK. I will keep doing the best I can anyway. I leave the hard discipline up to their father. I know that might not always make it easy for him. We've been together for four years and that's what feels comfortable right now. Maybe when seven or ten or twelve years rolls around I'll feel differently.

I am the mother to their half-brother. We don't use that term either. We just say "brother" and "sister". There's no half about the situation. They love each other wholly. And I love to see them together.... running and hugging and laughing. Adam calls Kendra "dok-ta" and Bayley "bobby". It's really wonderful. More than I expected.

I am their father's wife. Sometimes I say I am a second wife. Doug corrects me and says "You are my wife." I love that about him, along with hundreds of other things. He is really devoted to me and he loves me. He is really funny and handsome and he is one of the most positive people I know. He loves to have a glass of wine with me sitting in the kitchen. And he jokes about his hair. I love him, with all of my heart.

I don't really know my husband's first wife, though I've been around her several times and she lives nearby. I tried to get to know her and she wasn't very receptive. Most likely she felt the same about me. She's called me terrible names and falsely accused me of things out of her own view of her life vs. ours. I have uttered harsh words to her out of frustration. I have considered myself more than I have considered her. One day I hope that things improve. I'll be working towards that.

A family situation like ours is not easy. No family is perfect, nor is any marriage. I think one of the things most people who know me would say is I am forthright and real. I don't pretend my life is one big happy carnival. Nor do I pretend it's the pits. It's a little of both with a lot of normal in between.

There's child support and visitation issues. There's the void my husband must feel when he wishes he could tuck his three children in every night, instead of just one. There's the issues we have when the kids feel they must side with their mom, just so they don't hurt her feelings. And there's always those precious children. Stuck there in the middle, though we try to avoid that at all costs.

This is my life. The life I've chosen and that has chosen me.

For all the love you give, the hurts you mend, and the hearts you touch:
Happy Mother's Day!

Mom, step-mom or another kind of mom...
We're all in this together.
And who could ask for anything more?

The Details

Do you often feel bogged down with details? So many little bits and pieces to remember you feel your head might spin off, fall on the floor and damand "no more!"? Do you sometimes feel your list is getting the better of you?

Thought so.

Me, too.

My drive to work consists of sipping on coffee and making notes - both mental and written - about all of things I must do that day, forgot to do yesterday, need to remember tomorrow, and want to think about in the future. My mind is a myriad of information, often not really very important, but never-the-less there.

It's a fact of life, all these details. It seems like the more technology advances us, the more information and details it produces. That's why I refuse to get a Blackberry. I don't want my emails to be able to reach me at all times of the day and night. Because then I would want to read them.

But I still know God is in the details. He's just not in the details I spend most of my day worrying about.

God is in the blue of my son's eyes.

God is in waterfalls and in the petals of a buttercup.

He camouflages birds to match their homes amidst the trees and leaves.

He made my fingerprint unique among millions

And did the same for each snowflake on a winter's day.

God is there each time we see rainbows and rivers, fog and moonlight.

God is in the details.

Every last one.

The important details He creates.
The unimportant He helps us manage.

I'm Just Having One of Those Days

It's Monday.

I've been awake since 3:30 am.

I had to do payroll this morning.

For the love of overtime, decimal points and time clocks please let it be correct.

I've had

two multi-vitamins

two omega 3 capsules

a large vanilla latte

seven peanut butter pretzels

two Diet Cokes

and a bag of baked Lays.

And it's only 11:30.

Maybe a large iced tea will help.... or chocolate.... or Advil....

....maybe I'll have all three.

The Porch Project - End of Week 3

We were blessed with another good week of weather, and major progress. The windows and french doors will be installed this coming week.

The roof is on the kitchen addition!

For The Love of A Horse (continued...)

continued from Part I below:

...He couldn't believe that someone had tried to throw something at the horses. Hours later, as they boarded the bus that would take them home, he was still so very sad. As they drove the dark stretch of highway home to Chicago, he studied the Derby program. Over and over he read the pages. And then he got an idea....

The next day he set about writing a letter to each staff and management person listed in his program. Each letter was carefully hand-written and thought out. Each time he said how much he loved The Derby, and how much he loved The Horses. He related his story about the drunk-fest he'd endured. And then he asked, humbly, if there was anything he could do, work during the summers for example, that would help him get a seat in the stands.

Only one man wrote back. He was a stable hand and grounds keeper. He'd been there a few years. He wasn't in a position to make any decisions, offer any jobs, or offer any tickets. But he was so touched, he said, that he would keep the letter forever. He, too, had a love of the horses.

Years passed. My professor never again went to The Derby, but never lost his love of the Race and of the horses.

One day his mother called to say that she'd gotten a strange letter from the offices of the Derby. She sent the letter to him.

"You may not remember me, but I remember you. Several years ago you wrote to me, asking what you could do to get a seat in the stands at The Derby. I couldn't help you then, but perhaps I can help you now. I've worked my way up through the ranks at Churchill Downs and I am now in a position to offer you two box seat tickets. I cannot give them to you. You must pay fair market price. But they are yours now and forever after, as long as you pay for them. Box seats don't come along often. But I have never forgotten your love of The Horse."

Needless to say, the Professor jumped at the offer. When he told us the story in 1987, he'd had the tickets for a few years. I imagine he still does. I imagine his love of The Horse has grown exponentially since then.

And I imagine he is there today, celebrating his Love of a Horse.

For The Love of A Horse

One of the few things I remember from my Psychology 101 lecture class was this touching story the Professor told all 500 of us one Spring day in 1987.

When Professor was twelve years old, growing up in a bad part of Chicago (his parents were loving, hard-working and poor) his class took a field trip to the Kentucky Derby. He was beyond excited, because he had watched The Derby every year since he could remember.

Sure, he liked the pomp and pageantry. He liked the celebrations and the nostalgia. But he really loved the horses, each and every one, year after year. He loved their names. He loved studying their pedigree. He imagined, all those years sitting inches from the television screen, what it would feel like to be close to a race horse, to see its nostrils flare, to see the shine of sweat on its hide. The sinewy grace laced with pure, raw power of a horses' body never ceased to amaze him.

So, when his class arrived at The Derby and he found out they would view the big race from the inner field, he was excited. He spent the whole time wrangling the crowd, attempting to stay as close to the fence as he could. He would give anything to be mere feet from those beloved horses.

After hours of waiting, the time for the Big Race finally came. And then the greatest 2 minutes in sports was over in a flash. The horse he had bet on didn't even finish in the top half. He'd had a hard time seeing parts of the race because he was short and the crowd was pressing in at the fence. He should have felt elated that he'd gotten to experience the beloved Derby. But he felt quite the opposite.

It wasn't that he didn't love the day. It wasn't that he was ungrateful for the trip. He felt broken-hearted because the crowd on the inner field was nothing like he'd expected. It was a bawdy drunk fest. Dirt and alcohol overtook the pageantry. He'd endured drunks for hours. And when it came down to the two minutes he'd wait his whole life for, he was nearly knocked unconscious by a flying beer can. A can threw by a drunk man. A can meant to hit one of those magnificent horses.

To be continued.....

7 Things

Both Lauren and Sue tagged me for the 7 Things About Me meme.... those 7 Things being random facts and/or habits:

#1.
My left thumb is double-jointed. I can bend it all kinds of interesting ways!

#2.
I have an irrational fear of falling from a high place (and ultimately I guess falling to my death). I am not so afraid that it keeps me away from high places and I don't honestly think that it will happen if I'm in a high place, but even throwing an empty box down the basement stairs makes me shudder.

#3.
I lived in the same small town and the same house my entire childhood....until I went off to college.

#4.
I am a fan of lotion. I slather it all over morning and night and I apply hand lotion several times a day. And, to make this habit even more strange, I often run my just-lotioned hands through my hair to tame it down a bit.

#5.
The one taste I hate most in the whole wide world is cilantro. It is so repulsive to me I just can't even put it into words.

#6.
I had braces (lower teeth only) the entire time I was pregnant. As if being nauseous 24/7 for eight months and gaining 50 pounds wasn't enough!

#7.
I cannot remember the last time I drank a glass of milk, but I know it was at least 20 years ago. Milk ranks right up there with cilantro.

Consider yourself tagged if you'd like to play!

Bubbles of Fun

There are lots of bloggy ideas floating around in my head, but I'm a little short on time this week. So, I thought this was a perfect time to share this picture

of my little guy having some bubbly fun.

May Day

Construction paper rolled into cones.....

Styrofoam cups with colorful pipe cleaners for handles...

As a child, I eagerly anticipated May Day. It was much more exciting to me than Halloween because I didn't have to come up with a costume, and it was just as much about what the candy came in as the candy itself.

Ringing the doorbell and making a mad dash around the corner so as not to be seen added that extra thrill and sense of mystery.

And finding May Baskets on my front porch was a little slice of heaven on earth. The only time I ever "spied" someone leaving me a basket was in third grade when Mike Bramer lost one of his shoes running down the porch steps. But, I never told.

My mom was very creative, so we had some fun times through the years making and delivering May Baskets.

I'm not sure if May Baskets are still popular today, but I hope so. If not, I'm going to make them anyway when Adam gets a little older. I hope he will delight in the creativeness and anticipation as much as I did.

Until then, here's a little May Basket from my family to yours.

Happy May Day everyone!