Blake woke us up this morning a little before 9:00, and we all got ready for church. I have a new playpen thingy for the nursery to either a) better contain the wild ones who try to escape the moment your back is turned or b) protect the tiniest babies from the aforementioned wild ones who tend to throw toys indiscriminately. Blake had his tithe in a little baggie and was excited about finally being there to give it. He was also hoping there would be a time during corporate prayer that he could stand up and tell everyone he'd asked Jesus into his heart and was a child of God. I was looking forward to church with the whole family for the first time in over a month, as we've either been gone or Rob's stayed home with Blake for a World Cup game and house-cleaning.
We got there to a surprisingly full parking lot/street at 10:25, and as we pulled up to the door, I looked down the hall and it was dead empty. No greeters, no friends filtering into the sanctuary (that's really a gym because we meet in a school).
"OH CRAP. Church starts at 9:30 during the summer!"
Rob didn't even come to a full stop. We continued through the roundabout and went home to change into shorts and tennis shoes, then went on a walk up South Cottonwood. I was in full micro-mode, finding wildflowers known and unknown, discovering tiny snails in their cinnamon-roll-shaped shells, and enjoying Blake telling us how stron he was for being on a hike and using his muscles because he didn't need us to carry him.
For someone who takes pride in being on top of things - being hip and with it - I can be remarkably absent-minded.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
but i'll beat the pants off you in scrabble
Can't read my... can't read my...
No, he can't read my poker face.
HAHA! Yeah, right. Too bad I am an open book, and one of the most difficult things I've been learning over the last year or two is discretion. No matter how much something might affect me, if chatting about it affects someone else negatively, I get to shut my trap, at least publicly.
It's more gracious and generous than I'm accustomed to being. It requires less self-indulgent navel-gazing and more consideration about how whatever I might say hurt someone else. It's really hard!
Rather than hinting at anything epic or disastrous (because there's neither), I'll just say this: no, I will not play poker with you.
No, he can't read my poker face.
HAHA! Yeah, right. Too bad I am an open book, and one of the most difficult things I've been learning over the last year or two is discretion. No matter how much something might affect me, if chatting about it affects someone else negatively, I get to shut my trap, at least publicly.
It's more gracious and generous than I'm accustomed to being. It requires less self-indulgent navel-gazing and more consideration about how whatever I might say hurt someone else. It's really hard!
Rather than hinting at anything epic or disastrous (because there's neither), I'll just say this: no, I will not play poker with you.
Friday, July 9, 2010
not r-rated, but not pg-13 either
A friend shared something today that, given my frankness about sexual intimacy, I had to share here.
It's an excellent blog post about grace-driven sex in marriage. Challenging, encouraging, and I highly recommend it.
It's an excellent blog post about grace-driven sex in marriage. Challenging, encouraging, and I highly recommend it.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
stupid flavor blasted goldfish...
There a few precursors before I share this little story:
I looked down and saw that I had broken it. The part that was buckled was still neatly buckled, except that the belt had torn clean through just past the hole. There they were, two ends of my belt, dangling slightly, waving at me.
Nothing makes you feel quite so svelte as having your tummy tear your belt in half.
- It wasn't leather.
- It was old.
- I bought it quite large, but had moved to the smaller settings some time ago.
I looked down and saw that I had broken it. The part that was buckled was still neatly buckled, except that the belt had torn clean through just past the hole. There they were, two ends of my belt, dangling slightly, waving at me.
Nothing makes you feel quite so svelte as having your tummy tear your belt in half.
Monday, July 5, 2010
a slightly frantic story wherein my neat-freakiness comes in handy
I was getting ready to pick Blake up from Peacemaker Clubs (my church's version of vacation Bible school), when I got a call from an unknown number. The realtor on the other end mentioned that we were listed as short notice, and he was wondering how short was too short.
I scanned my counter, littered with the debris of life: a loaf of bread, my planner, work papers, bananas, a laundry basket, breakfast dishes, and asked what he had in mind.
"We can be there in about ten minutes, but I do not want to put you out."
I made a quick calculation and said, "Nope! This is a perfect time. I have to pick my son up from somewhere, so I was going to be gone anyway."
Before I'd closed my phone, I'd grabbed that (freshly emptied) laundry basket and swept through the kitchen and living room. The little dish containing my wedding rings was unceremoniously dropped into the mop bucket, along with my purse and a newspaper. Blake's room was mostly okay, but they'd definitely know that a small boy who loves LEGOs lives there. Our room was also pretty good. I had time to put away shoes and clear off a desk and coffee table. I cleaned the kitchen counter off to bare bones. I turned on the lights and turned the bluegrass music playing down to an ambient level.
As I threw the (now full) laundry basket and mop bucket into the car, I called Rob and warned him not to come home, as it was being shown. He was as surprised as I was at the brevity of the notice, and asked how the house looked.
"I've finally found a purpose and reason for why I'm wound so tightly and have you and Blake stay so tidy! And thank you thank you THANK YOU for making the bed this morning and helping Blake make his."
I scanned my counter, littered with the debris of life: a loaf of bread, my planner, work papers, bananas, a laundry basket, breakfast dishes, and asked what he had in mind.
"We can be there in about ten minutes, but I do not want to put you out."
I made a quick calculation and said, "Nope! This is a perfect time. I have to pick my son up from somewhere, so I was going to be gone anyway."
Before I'd closed my phone, I'd grabbed that (freshly emptied) laundry basket and swept through the kitchen and living room. The little dish containing my wedding rings was unceremoniously dropped into the mop bucket, along with my purse and a newspaper. Blake's room was mostly okay, but they'd definitely know that a small boy who loves LEGOs lives there. Our room was also pretty good. I had time to put away shoes and clear off a desk and coffee table. I cleaned the kitchen counter off to bare bones. I turned on the lights and turned the bluegrass music playing down to an ambient level.
As I threw the (now full) laundry basket and mop bucket into the car, I called Rob and warned him not to come home, as it was being shown. He was as surprised as I was at the brevity of the notice, and asked how the house looked.
"I've finally found a purpose and reason for why I'm wound so tightly and have you and Blake stay so tidy! And thank you thank you THANK YOU for making the bed this morning and helping Blake make his."
Sunday, July 4, 2010
celebrating america by blowing up tiny pieces of china
I grew up kind of a pyro. I get it from my dad, and I remember one Fourth of July where he packed us three girls into a big Suburban with one of his friends and the friend's kids. Because bottle rockets had been banned from being sold in Montana, we had to drive ALL THE WAY TO WYOMING for them. Going without just wasn't really an option.
We came back with several hundred dollars of bottle rockets and other assorted colorful explosives. Us girls would shoot the little bottle rockets down the street out of our hands, and we'd use the old school snaps (the ones these days are disappointingly wimpy) as mini-grenades, putting holes in each others' clothing as we tried to tag each other. Dad created a few structures for firing bottle rockets, because some of them were far too big for any bottle to contain and aim. One was a five-gallon bucket with concrete in the bottom for stability, a lid, and a PVC pipe going through the lid like a straw. We'd light one up, drop it down the PVC, and stand back.
Despite fireworks being illegal in town, none of our neighbors ever reported us, because they were all out on their lawns in their chairs, enjoying the show. Families would drive over, and the pile of firecrackers grew and grew. Myers girls were the only non-adults allowed to work the propane torch, and we did so with panache. The smell of black powder, the fun of small, controlled explosions, the excuse of patriotism to validate starting things on fire... I just love it.
When I asked Rob how much I could spend on fireworks this year, he was pretty vague. "Spend it from your vacation savings," he hedged. Clever man. I'm eager to go to Hawaii, and he must have known that making me borrow from one fun thing to have another fun thing would rein me in. Blake and I went to my favorite local stand yesterday (they use all their earnings from fireworks to send their two kids to a local Christian school - I just think that's cool), and we went a little nuts. By the time we were done, he saw the tanks and began to ask for one of them, too, but I had to say no.
"We've spent my budget for the fireworks. I literally do not have enough cash on me to buy a tank, unless we put stuff back, and that gets really confusing. Maybe Papaw has a tank in his stash." The young man who'd helped us grabbed his dad to take the money (you have to be 18 or older to physically receive the money from these sales), and once the father realized that the big pile on the counter was all mine, he threw in a tank for free.
I called Dad, "Just wanted to inform you that I just dropped a hundred bucks on fireworks."
"Ha! Oh, Addie, I've got you beat by a long shot."
"I was counting on it. Rob's going to faint at my number, but what he doesn't realize is that I'm restraining myself!"
Blake's fairly vibrating with excitement, and I've had to have stern lectures with him about safety with this stuff: "These are NOT TOYS. Explosives. Please do not play with anything until I've lit it on fire and handed it to you!"
We came back with several hundred dollars of bottle rockets and other assorted colorful explosives. Us girls would shoot the little bottle rockets down the street out of our hands, and we'd use the old school snaps (the ones these days are disappointingly wimpy) as mini-grenades, putting holes in each others' clothing as we tried to tag each other. Dad created a few structures for firing bottle rockets, because some of them were far too big for any bottle to contain and aim. One was a five-gallon bucket with concrete in the bottom for stability, a lid, and a PVC pipe going through the lid like a straw. We'd light one up, drop it down the PVC, and stand back.
Despite fireworks being illegal in town, none of our neighbors ever reported us, because they were all out on their lawns in their chairs, enjoying the show. Families would drive over, and the pile of firecrackers grew and grew. Myers girls were the only non-adults allowed to work the propane torch, and we did so with panache. The smell of black powder, the fun of small, controlled explosions, the excuse of patriotism to validate starting things on fire... I just love it.
When I asked Rob how much I could spend on fireworks this year, he was pretty vague. "Spend it from your vacation savings," he hedged. Clever man. I'm eager to go to Hawaii, and he must have known that making me borrow from one fun thing to have another fun thing would rein me in. Blake and I went to my favorite local stand yesterday (they use all their earnings from fireworks to send their two kids to a local Christian school - I just think that's cool), and we went a little nuts. By the time we were done, he saw the tanks and began to ask for one of them, too, but I had to say no.
"We've spent my budget for the fireworks. I literally do not have enough cash on me to buy a tank, unless we put stuff back, and that gets really confusing. Maybe Papaw has a tank in his stash." The young man who'd helped us grabbed his dad to take the money (you have to be 18 or older to physically receive the money from these sales), and once the father realized that the big pile on the counter was all mine, he threw in a tank for free.
I called Dad, "Just wanted to inform you that I just dropped a hundred bucks on fireworks."
"Ha! Oh, Addie, I've got you beat by a long shot."
"I was counting on it. Rob's going to faint at my number, but what he doesn't realize is that I'm restraining myself!"
Blake's fairly vibrating with excitement, and I've had to have stern lectures with him about safety with this stuff: "These are NOT TOYS. Explosives. Please do not play with anything until I've lit it on fire and handed it to you!"
Saturday, July 3, 2010
that's what he said
A: Do you like your teachers?
B: Yes.
A: Why?
B: Because they teach us not to do stuff that's bad for you. And good stuff that's good for you.
...
And they let us play.
*****
B: I need to hang on a bar so my hands will be stron. They are pretty fragile right now, so I want them to be stron.
A: And hanging on a bar makes them stron?
B: Yeah. Right now they are fragile like little noodly things.
A: Can I write that down?
B: Yes. You should tell Grammie so she will laugh and hug me.
*****
B: I just wanted to say that I love you and I love tooting most of the time. But I don't like it when Dad toots.
A: Why not?
B: Because he copies me. All the time, he copies me.
*****
B: (after a sip of Dr. Pepper) Ooh, it's hot. Spicy, like pepper.
A: Yep. I love that part about it.
B: Me too. I love it. It's sugar.
*****
B: Mom, when I'm smoking once a day, a cigar a day, I have to just quit.
A: Uh, okay.
B: Because I heard that on T.V. (instructively) Mom, you gotta quit!
A: Blake, do I smoke?
B: No. (pointing at me with his forkful of French toast) Because you quit!
B: Yes.
A: Why?
B: Because they teach us not to do stuff that's bad for you. And good stuff that's good for you.
...
And they let us play.
*****
B: I need to hang on a bar so my hands will be stron. They are pretty fragile right now, so I want them to be stron.
A: And hanging on a bar makes them stron?
B: Yeah. Right now they are fragile like little noodly things.
A: Can I write that down?
B: Yes. You should tell Grammie so she will laugh and hug me.
*****
B: I just wanted to say that I love you and I love tooting most of the time. But I don't like it when Dad toots.
A: Why not?
B: Because he copies me. All the time, he copies me.
*****
B: (after a sip of Dr. Pepper) Ooh, it's hot. Spicy, like pepper.
A: Yep. I love that part about it.
B: Me too. I love it. It's sugar.
*****
B: Mom, when I'm smoking once a day, a cigar a day, I have to just quit.
A: Uh, okay.
B: Because I heard that on T.V. (instructively) Mom, you gotta quit!
A: Blake, do I smoke?
B: No. (pointing at me with his forkful of French toast) Because you quit!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
it's like wild kingdom around here!
Hand to God, we've had three baby bunnies playing tag in our yard and our neighbor's yards. We've had a female mallard dining on bird seed under my feeder while house and yellow finches cavorted (Blake has permission to chase off any blackbirds, red-winged or no). And upon walking back towards the back door, a small field mouse darted back under our little patio, to peek out at us three or four more times before deciding that our talk of "traps" and "killing it" made it want to stay hidden.
All this happened within a ten-minute span while I started up the grill. Holy moly!
All this happened within a ten-minute span while I started up the grill. Holy moly!
Monday, June 28, 2010
the problem is that's not going over too well either
At what point does protecting my new-born nuclear family become selfish?
At what point do I know I am doing enough to care for the feelings of all the families I am related to? When do Rob and I get to decide how much seeing of everyone is enough, how much is not enough, and how much can and should be done from our home base?
My head and heart are spinning and hurt and confused about all the people I want to come through for, make sacrifices for, and bend over backwards for.
The problem is that the two men I live with are getting lost in my shuffle and my need to meet everyone else's expectations. And so I quit. I'm not traveling anywhere without both Rob and Blake, not for long weekends or get-aways, not for camping or meet-ups or drop-offs. I'm tired of feeling widowed all over again when I have to go somewhere without my husband, and I'm tired of Blake's time looking more like that of a child of divorced parents. I quit.
Come to us. We just can't go anywhere right now.
UPDATE: And praise God for understanding from those I am disappointing. Just to be perfectly clear about that.
At what point do I know I am doing enough to care for the feelings of all the families I am related to? When do Rob and I get to decide how much seeing of everyone is enough, how much is not enough, and how much can and should be done from our home base?
My head and heart are spinning and hurt and confused about all the people I want to come through for, make sacrifices for, and bend over backwards for.
The problem is that the two men I live with are getting lost in my shuffle and my need to meet everyone else's expectations. And so I quit. I'm not traveling anywhere without both Rob and Blake, not for long weekends or get-aways, not for camping or meet-ups or drop-offs. I'm tired of feeling widowed all over again when I have to go somewhere without my husband, and I'm tired of Blake's time looking more like that of a child of divorced parents. I quit.
Come to us. We just can't go anywhere right now.
UPDATE: And praise God for understanding from those I am disappointing. Just to be perfectly clear about that.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
context omitted, for your reading pleasure
S: You and your dummy are on fire!
...
I don't know why I like saying that so much... DUMMY.
*****
B: You learn from a black guy.
A: That's what she said.
*****
S: You don't believe me, but I AM REALLY TIGHT!
*****
B: Yeah, I'm tighter than a Target Q-tip.
*****
L: Let's BOTH do it, H!
H: OKAY!
*****
A: It feels good. I like it.
*****
M: See, that's why there's wet spots!
H: Because we're cheaters.
*****
C: She's bisexual? Well, if you're gonna screw up, go all the way.
*****
B: Are you my chicken goddess?
...
I don't know why I like saying that so much... DUMMY.
*****
B: You learn from a black guy.
A: That's what she said.
*****
S: You don't believe me, but I AM REALLY TIGHT!
*****
B: Yeah, I'm tighter than a Target Q-tip.
*****
L: Let's BOTH do it, H!
H: OKAY!
*****
A: It feels good. I like it.
*****
M: See, that's why there's wet spots!
H: Because we're cheaters.
*****
C: She's bisexual? Well, if you're gonna screw up, go all the way.
*****
B: Are you my chicken goddess?
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