Joni’s Joy

Aftermath

2012-01-30T17:45:00.005-05:00

Although in possession of more #2 sharpened pencils than the law should allow, our twelve year old still felt ill-equipped for the SAT taken on Saturday.

In his words, the aftermath of math.... minus the joy:

Saturday of Horrors

2012-01-28T10:53:00.004-05:00

He would rather have a tooth removed than to participate in the events of the day. Chase, our twelve year old son, growing faster than the bean stalk Jack climbed, is appalled at the way his Saturday will unfold. Today he will take the dreaded SAT for the first time and tonight he will attend his first school dance.

A double whammy for the hormones of a pre-teenager, perpetually teetering precariously on the edge of a meltdown.

First, he will wake up at the same unmerciful hour our neighbor’s dog is allowed outside. While Chase showers, the stranger dog will yip around our yard with such a high pitched bark that all canine peers will use paws to cover their ears in distress.

In the meantime, my husband John, will bounce happily around the house with coffee cup in one hand, and a fist full of #2 pencils in the other, finely sharpened to a point of perfection. Although we were told that Chase would only need two pencils, my Eagle Scout husband added extras, because you can never be too prepared for the onslaught of disaster a broken piece of lead can bring.

Last night, John organized the testing packet, laying out the entrance ticket and school identification card by the back door. In his scholarly mind, this test represents the academic’s ultimate environment to regurgitate all stored information one will never use again.

It never ceases to amaze me the joy that comes to those who test well and the disdain that comes from those who do not. Call me a cynic, but the idea of any five hour test makes me want to poke out my own eyeball with the finely sharpened #2 pencil. For John, it is prime opportunity to showcase understanding of an endothermic reaction, knowledge that Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliaphobia is the fear of long words, and offer complete explanation of the Binomial Coefficients in Pascal’s Triangle.

(Now I would like to poke out my other eye)

The above provides insight into why my own SAT scores weren’t all that stellar. The only scientific fact I could remember from high school science was that the brain is made up of 80% water.

For some of us, I believe it’s closer to 90.

Later today, after Chase emerges from the scholastic coma the SAT will induce, he will reluctantly dress to prepare for the middle school dance. In the meantime, I will frolic happily around the house with fabulous tie in one hand, and all manner of cameras in the other, charged and ready to document this long awaited milestone. Although we were told that there would be a photographer at the dance, a meddling mom can never be too prepared or too irresponsibly reliant on the artistic eye of another.

Last night, I laid out the freshly pressed pants and newly purchased shirt. In my fashion conscience mind, this dance represents the ideal setting to example how one should never underestimate the effects of a well contrasted necktie.

It never ceases to amaze me the joy that comes to those who love a school dance and the disdain that comes from those that do not. My husband would rather chew off his right arm rather than to ever have to attend again a middle school social function. For me it is the perfect opportunity for my son to prove that the lessons learned in Junior Cotillion were worth all the pre-pubescent tantrums thrown in transit, that the box step can indeed be used to replace the gyrations of hip hop nonsense, and that tucking one’s shirt into belted pants does not bring about community catastrophe.

(My husband would now like to chew off his remaining arm)

The above proves insight into why the social aspects of middle school weren’t all that stellar for John. Understanding the color wheel proved of little use to one who tested color blind and dance of any sort only heightened awareness of double left feet.

As for Chase, he has little interest for either – test taking or dance step making – and continues to claim this day as horror of all horrors. In his opinion, a Saturday bookended by sharpened #2 pencils and color coordinated tie is enough to make a kid poke out his own eyeball AND chew off his right arm.

And remove another tooth just for hormonal effect.

Maternal Chord

2012-01-27T11:22:00.002-05:00

It would seem as though I struck a maternal chord.

Soon after I published this post, I received a call from a close friend who lives in my community. She is a rock star mom of sorts, dealing with ongoing difficult circumstances in an exemplary manner that defies explanation. She has strength I’ll never have and is a humble, unassuming example of motherhood thriving in the middle of the trenches.

Like I said, a total rock star. Not to mention that she is well groomed in carpool line.

Even as I answered hello into the phone, she was already laughing. “That is exactly the way I feel and I just had to call to let you know. In fact, I am going to print a copy of your post for my husband to read so he’ll see that I’m really not crazy.” Her giggles intertwined with her own monkey fit story that included a Chick-Fil-A sandwich somehow thrown in the direction of her spouse’s head, mustard splattering in a way that left her momentarily stunned.

And I’ll admit, the two of us laughed at that little scenario until our guts hurt.

Throughout the day, I opened emails and messages that included statements like, “I feel like that ALL THE TIME.” Another said, “Did you write this just to make me feel better about my own fits?” And then this email, from an acquaintance through this blog, wrote, “I really thought that I was the only incapable mom. I’m so glad that you’re incapable, too.”

Thanks! I think?

Later that night, I received the following text from another involved and intentional mom, who always has a smile on her face as she juggles the demands of her own three children and any others that happen to find their way into her SUV.

“Transparency must not only be allowed, but encouraged," she texted. “Right now, I have laundry going because my son doesn’t have clean pants for school tomorrow. We all had different stuff for dinner because, dang it, we were going to church! I have about 40% of my life together at any given time. You need a monkey fit?! Come to my zoo. We can swing from the trees together. Anytime.”

Clearly, this friend was speaking my love language. I stood a little taller.

I headed to bed, smiling about the many responses that had come my way. I marveled at how encouraging it is to have someone relate, how comforting it is to know that you’re not alone.

But most reassuring was the realization that joy can be found even in the biggest monkey fit.

Sometimes it just takes a few funny moms to remind you.

Posers and Pretenders

2012-01-25T14:16:00.006-05:00

Lately, I have felt rather beaten down. Work related obligations, household responsibilities and child-rearing in general have taken its toll on my temperament, my time and the shininess of my hair. The spring in my step hasn’t been quite as bouncy, the grin on my face not so quick, the witty retorts not readily available. I’m not necessarily unhappy, but the joy just isn’t as exuberant.

Mistakenly, I make comparisons with my peers, sitting perfectly showered in carpool, chatting away happily on cell phones in the grocery store, buying supplies for family craft night at the hobby store, and wonder aloud in my capital letters voice “HOW DO THEY HAVE IT ALL TOGETHER?!”

Or do they? Are they pretending on the outside in well groomed attire but on the inside full of shameful dismay over the state of their laundry room? Are their children really that obedient or have they successfully casted an unbreakable spell over their offspring with the all-powerful evil eye? Is their crockpot really simmering away at home with something delicious and healthy or do they zip it through the drive thru, in dark sunglasses and hooded jacket, ordering all manner of preservatives they will throw later on a plate with mandarin oranges from a can?

Which is it? Poser or Real Person? Pretender or Real Deal?

Are these well dressed, well liked, well-spoken moms just posers? Pretenders? Frauds? What is it that they do, or say, or accomplish that is currently impossible within the realm of my own capabilities?

Am I the only one that seems to always be an hour late and a laundry load behind?

Feelings of incompetency had been building for weeks, and overcome with perception of ineptness in all areas of which I am responsible, I sat down on the floor of my closet and had a full blown monkey fit. It was similar to the kind of hissy fit you throw post-partum, when sleep deprivation and total exhaustion leaves you literally incapable of dealing with ONE MORE STINKING DIAPER. (Pun absolutely intended.)

As timing would have it, my husband walked in as I was in full crying fit mode. He looked at me wide-eyed as I sat crossed legged on the carpet with tears streaming from eyes already twitching from overtaxed tear ducts. Through embarrassing hiccups and words that didn’t quite string together as logically as I would have liked, I elaborately confessed all of my shortcomings.

Immediately he grabbed my hand and lovingly began popping a vein in the skin to prepare for IV insertion that would administer large dosages of sedatives to yours truly.

Not really.

After sixteen years of marriage, my spouse knew that I didn’t need to be fixed, just encouraged. Not necessarily helped, just unconditionally loved. But most importantly, after being together for over a decade and a half, my physician husband fully understood the healing powers of a good, cleansing ugly cry. Science should never overlook the medicinal effect of a properly thrown monkey fit.

A few weeks later, I was listening to a friend describe how beaten down she felt by her responsibilities. Her shoulders sagged, the sparkle absent from her eye. Understanding exactly how she felt, I described to her in full detail the fit I threw in my closet.

She looked at me in puzzled silence.

And then some more.

Finally, in all seriousness and confusion she said, “Really? Really? But you’re so funny. And you always seem to have it together.”

And that’s when I realized, in the same way I finally accepted that there is hair above my lip and my thighs will touch when standing, that I could be a poser. Maybe not intentionally, or with impure motives, but that I could be seen as a pretender, too. Other moms were looking at me like I was looking at them, falling pitifully short of the expectations as set by peers, Pinterest and upbeat status updates on facebook.

Our outside can be pretend. A put together appearance doesn’t hide marital discord, a well decorated home doesn’t masquerade financial difficulty. Humor can’t camouflage pain, and plastered smiles can’t wipe out struggle. Falling down, falling short and falling apart somehow has become unacceptable, even though the truth is that we all do it.

Why is there such shame associated with imperfection?

Posers are for the world’s cameras. Pretenders are those needing to perform. How disappointing to think I may have been thought of as either.

If you happen to find yourself with similar feelings of inadequacy, let me offer this short bit of advice as retribution for my own misgivings, this quick fix absent of any kind of academic support or clinical finding.

I won’t set myself up for failure by thinking you have it all together, if you won’t think the same of me.

Think of the monkey fits we could prevent together.

New York City:Day Three

2011-12-23T07:20:00.019-05:00

On our final day in New York City, we decided to culminate our trip true to our nature, as shameless, full fledged, Southern tourists. Loading up on a double-decker bus in barely double digit weather, we took in all the sights with wide-eyed appreciation.

Statue of Liberty:

Wall Street

Empire State building. Please do not leave backpacks unattended.

Protesters. Don't get me started.

Smurfette walking along Park Avenue. Huh?

After our tour came to an end, we headed back to our hotel to thaw. Later that night we went to the Minskoff Theatre to see the Lion King, a spectacular production we will never forget.

Our trip was all that we had hoped for and then some, creating lifetime memories in a city we came to love. As we headed to the airport the next morning, I couldn't help but smile at one final sign that offered this last, fitting reminder:

I believe I will.

New York City: Day Two

2011-12-10T08:21:00.030-05:00

Rockefeller Center
Top of the Rock

It is a phenomenon that seems to follow us wherever we travel. While some may say that we attract unsolicited commotion, I maintain that it is a haphazard stumble upon circumstance, a coincidence if you will, that finds our family in the middle of bizarre events.

The fellow on the right witnessed a sweet marriage proposal during our visit to Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center. The hyper-aware one on the left almost had to make a citizen's arrest.

While most were watching the man on bent knee profess love and devotion, I noticed sudden activity among the security guards around us. I followed one guard who was speaking frantically into a walkie-talkie, hurrying in a direction opposite of the proposal.

Surely, my help was needed. And I had three children to protect on top of a VERY tall building.

The security guard and I raced around the corner to find five other officers circled around a suspicious looking backpack lying ominously on a bench. As they called for police back-up, I asked the guard closest to me if we should start handing out parachutes to all of the visitors.

He did not think that I was funny.

And I was not trying to be.

I reminded the concerned guard of our location of 70 stories high on top of a building. And that I had small children on top of said building. He used his capital letters voice when responding, "MA'AM, I'M GOING TO NEED YOU TO STAND BACK! WE HAVE THIS UNDER CONTROL!"

What is it about my personality that brings out such emotion in others?

Clearly, he did not appreciate the potential skills of yours truly when sniffing out a crime. Or the lengths a mom will go to in order to protect her offspring. Once, again, my hope for a citizen's arrest would be squashed.

After spending several minutes in a law enforcement huddle, the officers concluded that the backpack was not a bomb, that it had been irresponsibly left by a knuckle-headed teenager who was trying to get to the real life, Bachelor version of a wedding proposal taking place on top of the rock. The only drama it lacked was the rose ceremony and the tear-streaked leftover riding home in the limo of broken hearts.

So, it all ended well. I didn't have to assist the security guards with their almost emergency, which is a good thing, because I don't know a thing about parachutes.

Santa Land at Macy's

We rode escalators past eleven stories of retail. I hadn't felt that much temptation since fighting the urge to break out into the Charlie's Angels two-handed pistol stance at the top of the rock that morning.

Gum ball joy.

Santa had better get his game on. Only 23 more days until Christmas!

We weaved through a line that took us through a holiday forest. This picture was taken moments before seeing Santa. The kid in the brown sweater is gritting his teeth in this photo. He will find coal in his stocking this year.

I was told that my Christmas list was unreasonable. Apparently the jolly old man can't accommodate plastic surgery or heavy sedatives. He also said that he can't do a thing about the stalker who follows me everywhere - Mr. Double Chen. Maybe I should have brought it up to the security guard?

American Museum of Natural History

After Santa Land, we took a taxi to this museum. My heart rate was elevated throughout the entire ride. Never once did I see the driver's hands in the safe two and ten position on the steering wheel. He was too busy honking at the innocents and running down the elderly.

I forget the educational significance of this picture. It just makes me laugh.

In fact, I wish that I could offer more insightful facts about each of these photos...

...but I was a little distracted by these three when trying to engage in the learning process.

He is a very friendly child.

Pretending to hold the head of a skeleton.

A spontaneous moment where everyone is acting like they have some sense.

It didn't last for long.

A genius design. I could really benefit from having an extra head.

We ended our day in the Nintendo store......

and the American Girl store.

She had to be restrained. : )

New York City: Day One

2011-12-08T06:08:00.023-05:00

After a shaky start to our trip, we grabbed our luggage and jumped into the van with our driver. The kids were wide eyed as they encountered for the first time the sights of the city. I was wide eyed as we weaved in and out of traffic in a manner that resembled the poorest contender in Mario Cart. While the driver’s eyes appeared to be open, he drove as though they were shut.

Through God’s mercy we made it safely to our hotel. As we exited the van, Chase asked me why I kept stomping on the floor of the van during the roller coaster ride. “I was using imaginary brakes, “ I replied, receiving a well-earned eye roll from my twelve year old.

We dropped off our belongings and headed to Times Square. Loaded down with cameras and backpacks, we all craned our necks towards the sky as we walked, clearly identifying ourselves as tourists.

And we didn’t care.

Hard Rock Cafe

(Please excuse the creepy finger in the corner)

Toys R US

The clouds parted and the angels sang:

These are my people.

Times Square

I loved this dude's hair. Mary Mac said I was "soooooooo embarrassing."

Taking it all in.

The M&M Store

This is what Chandler hopes heaven will look like:

Bottom's Up!

What a joyful job! These folks eat candy all day and dance all night! Maybe my husband's practice should adopt this policy.

The sign above us reads, "Inside everyone there's a little nut." How fitting.

Radio City Christmas Spectacular with the Rockettes -

My Peeps

Ellen's Stardust Diner

Our waiter singing on top of a table - the family version of Chippendales.

Yes, his fingers are lit. And no, he's not a descendant of ET.

The day was full and fun, and ended just as exciting as it had begun. At midnight, we made our way back to the hotel, and fell into sound sleep.

And double-dog dared anyone to wake us in the morning.

Is There A Doctor On Board?

2011-12-07T19:23:00.005-05:00

The morning of our flight to New York was uneventful. We made it through airport security without taking much offense, and found our gate without losing our way or a small child. Boarding the plane with our crew of five, I remember thinking how relieved I felt that the hard part was done, that we could finally take a break from work responsibilities and enjoy our brief trip.

I must have momentarily forgotten that where we travel, shenanigans are sure to follow.

We all were seated in the same row, in the middle of the plane. The flight was smooth, the children well behaved, and the landing perfect. As I unbuckled and began to collect my belongings, a frantic stewardess raced from the back of the plane, almost colliding with another stewardess coming from the opposite direction. The commotion was enough to gather the attention of everyone on board.

Before long, a huddle of four panicked stewardesses arranged themselves around a passenger sitting five rows in front of our family. In a high pitched voice, an attendant yelled out the question that always causes my chest to tighten, my heart to race, and my palms to sweat: “Is there a doctor on board?”

My nervousness doesn’t come from lack of confidence in my spouse, who has practiced medicine for almost twenty years. There is very little he hasn’t seen or responded to. The anxiety comes from that same place that finds you holding your breath when your child is up to bat with two outs in the bottom of the 9^th, or wringing your hands when another is only one of two remaining in the school spelling bee. Time seems suspended during those moments when you are praying for the best outcome, but prepared to comfort your loved one in case of the worst.

John stood from his seat and made his way towards the huddle of stewardesses. Years of dealing with the medical induced hysteria of yours truly only served to help his cause as he encountered the plane personnel, who made me seem calm, cool and collected. While trained in first aid, the dire situation before them was more than the training manuals had covered.

A young lady traveling alone was unresponsive. Apparently, she had boarded the plane in a somewhat confused state but not enough to warrant concern from those sitting beside her. Eventually, she closed her eyes, appearing to sleep, when in fact she was unconscious.

John arrived in time to prevent a stewardess from forcing orange juice into the mouth of the ill passenger, potentially asphyxiating her in the process. A medical alert bracelet and insulin pump identified the young lady as a diabetic, but clenched jaws prevented sugar intake. John found glucose pills in the woman’s purse and held one to the side of her mouth, hoping it would absorb through the lining.

In the meantime, passengers were directed off the plane, filing past John, the woman and the array of flight attendants. Mary Mac, our seven year old, began to feel nauseous. After turning the shade of green that signals imminent upheaval, I picked up my daughter and raced to the back of the plane to the bathroom. As she vomited, I looked towards my other two children, one of whom had taken out the video camera and WAS NOW RECORDING THE MEDICAL CRISIS OF THE POOR LADY. Holding one child over the toilet, and wishing that I had arms long enough to snatch the other, I yelled across the plane, “STOP FILMING RIGHT NOW!” I added the evil eye to emphasize the point. The flight attendants all looked at me as though I may be their next emergency.

It would be another thirty minutes before the EMT’s arrived with a stretcher. After conferring with my spouse, they carried the still unconscious lady off of the plane and through the terminal.

Another thirty minutes later, after conversations with the pilots, and forms to complete with airport administrators, we were allowed to finally disembark the plane.

We had officially arrived in New York City.

We're Gonna Be A Part Of It

2011-11-30T16:52:00.010-05:00

We are taking our family nonsense to New York City. With great joy and excitement, we have been planning this trip over the last four months. Our children have never seen the city and my husband and I have never seen it decorated for Christmas.

The suitcases have been prepared.

The children have laid out their clothes. (FYI - the wig Chase hoped to bring below was confiscated by yours truly. As though we need to bring extra attention to our shenanigans.)

Chandler's pile included five pairs of flannel pajamas (for a three night trip) and a wrap around Georgia Snuggie. Is it just me, or is it very possible that we are going to be WAY out of our element?

Mary Mac's stack - what a great name for a pancake restaurant! - includes her very worn Hoppy and handwarmers. She would appear to be such a practical child until you see the bejewelled flats and the princess dress up high heels laying to the side.

It was a little work filtering through the attire chosen by my three, but I think we are ready to cross state lines.

Our reservations are in place, and broadway show tickets purchased. We have gathered our belongings and packed the suitcases. Plane tickets are in hand and passports tucked safely away in backpacks. We are ready for New York City!

But is New York City ready for us?

iPhone Joy

2011-11-30T05:24:00.015-05:00

Recently, I downloaded photos from my iPhone to our home computer - all 612 of them. Glancing through the pictures taken, I realized that the majority of them were not familiar to me. Apparently my phone is considered shared property, much like that of my always missing hairbrush and the poorly hidden swiss cake rolls in my closet.

The following pictures were captured by the wayward children in our home. I have tried to discern the purpose behind each but even the most creative of minds would have trouble finding rational explanation.

I do not know why Chase is dressed like this. Or why one would want documentation of it.

Although he does look eerily similar to a man I sat next to on a plane this past September.

The Jonas Brothers captured on TV, hopefully taken by Mary Mac and not my spouse.

Just once, could I have the bathroom to myself?

Olan Mills, American Girl style.

The nut........

....does not fall far....

...from the tree.

The waxing of eyebrows clearly a fascination to a certain seven year old, and worthy of capturing such a special moment. (Edited to add: okay, the upper lip was waxed as well. CAN'T A GIRL HAVE ANY SECRETS ANYMORE?)

Documented proof taken by Chandler that indeed his little sister had finally gone to bed.

Family memory caught by Chase of his desperate mom using coins to enter the restroom in a condemned gas station off of the interstate. My hand is trembling in the picture.

No words.

I had a hard time finding explanation for this this photo. After a few minutes, it finally hit me that a child took this for sentimental reasons....

...as a sweet reminder of their mother's neck.

The Man Who Intruded My House

2011-11-28T07:33:00.004-05:00

It was late at night. John was at the hospital, and the children were in bed. I was standing at the sink washing dishes, with my back to the room. I rinsed the 39th glass to place into the dishwasher, wondering why the offspring in my home insist on using twelve different cups for their beverages in the same day.

But then I immediately realized that this is the same genetic defect that causes them to change into seven different outfits in the same day, while throwing every piece of clothing used for thirty seconds into the dirty laundry basket. Unfortunately, this won’t be corrected until brilliant scientists break up the dynamics between the nucleotide sequences from those of the amino acids.

(Special thanks to Encyclopedia Brown – also known as my spouse- for that titillating piece of trivia. In my humble opinion, I think the phrase “they get this from your side of the family, not mine” provides sufficient scientific proof.)

Lost in thought in my own little world, where dishes are cleaned and clothes laundered like those in the household of George Jetson, I never heard the footsteps creeping up behind me. Suddenly, a deep, unrecognizable voice said somewhat emphatically, “COME WITH ME RIGHT NOW!”

(Anytime someone uses their capital letters voice, it strikes fear to my core.)

I’ve seen all the Oprah shows that demonstrate what women should do in an emergent situation - thumb to the eyeball, elbow to the groin, karate chop to the throat. I’ve always wondered which method I would choose when placed in a precarious, threatening situation, one that demanded quick thinking and instinctive reflexes. The technique of choice?

I wet my pants.

Three children later, it should come as no surprise that my bladder fights like a girl.

I prepared to take on the intruder in my damp pajama pants. Personally, I can’t think of anything more intimidating, or frightening, than a grown woman facing down her attacker emulating an odor that rivals those found in the church nursery.

Spinning from the sink and landing in a Karate Kid Crane Stance, I faced my attacker on one wobbly leg. Struggling to maintain balance, I stared incredulously at the person standing before me. It was Chase, our twelve year old son, staring back at me in a manner that suggested he was as scared of me as I was of him.

“What are you doing?!!” I exclaimed. (Really, I yelled but the word “exclaimed” sounds better to those nice folks at the child protective agency)

“What are YOU doing?” Chase countered right back.

“Why are you talking in that voice?!!” I asked. (Really, I yelled but the word “asked” sounds better to those nice folks at the child protective agency.)

“What voice?!” he yelled in exasperation.

And then realization hit me in the same way it struck when I finally comprehended that the parentheses marks between my eyebrows were indeed permanent punctuations to my face.

Oh, no. It’s here, I thought to myself. But, I’m not ready.

Twelve year old hormones had been raging for weeks. Irritation with me, impatience with siblings, impossible mood swings and irritation with me pointed to the day that I had been dreading since the day Chase was born. Transforming from a boy into a man despite pleading prayers that he stay little for just a while longer, the fellow who presently stood in front of me as tall as an adult, now spoke like one. In a matter of hours, his voice, intermittently squeaky and weirdly pitched over the last few days, was now unrecognizable and very deep.

Bottom lip quivering just slightly, I took in fully this new man-child, my heart full of joy yet breaking at the same time, and said, “Never mind. Why are you up so late?”

“The toilet is stopped up and making this funny sound. Somebody needs to fix it quick!” Chase said.

“Okay,” I responded, “but you know, Roto Rooter is at the hospital. I’ll give it my best shot, though.”

As we walked down the hallway together towards the offending toilet, Chase turned to me and said, “By the way, did you get that move from the Karate Kid movie? And what’s that terrible smell?”

There were two lessons to be learned that night - one for me and maybe one for you. The first is that children grow up overnight. In just a blink of the eye, they go from diapers to kindergarten to shaving a sparse beard. And, of course, that’s the way it should be, even if I don’t like it, even if it hurts more than I thought.

Secondly, let this be a warning to all those out there who may consider intruding into our home, or worse, kidnapping yours truly. I fight back with my bladder. You better borrow a buddy’s car because your upholstery will never be the same.

Thankful Heart

2011-11-26T09:06:00.017-05:00

1. I’m thankful for this fellow who is calm when I am dramatic, steady when I am unsure, and patient when it is almost humanly impossible.

2. I’m thankful for our three little riots who make life an adventure and one full of joy:

-This one who makes me laugh, cry and laugh some more - better than anyone I know:

-This one whose kind heart and tender nature makes me want to be a better person.

-This one who delights and inspires and chooses to dress as Thing 1 for Halloween instead of a twirling princess.

3. I’m thankful for family willing to drive ten hours round trip to listen and laugh at old stories as though the first time heard.

4. I’m thankful for friends who love our family like their own.

5. I’m thankful for heavy duty concealer, miracle denim and good hairspray.

6. I’m thankful for the NOGs whose friendships have stood the test of time, adult orthodontics, various jean sizes and a humiliating cry fest in a public setting.

7. I’m thankful that in adulthood I have finally found the security to admit that I once listened to Menudo, permed my hair until it was brittle, and thought that Milli and Vanilli had great voices.

8. I’m thankful for little girls who hold hands while they nap.

9. I’m thankful for tight harnesses in Mexico.

10. I’m thankful for bathing suit cover-ups when caught in an unflattering position.

11. I’m thankful for hallways that are semi-secure during Tornadoes.

12. And most importantly, I’m so thankful for my relationship with Jesus, who makes all things possible, despite my glaring inadequacies and weaknesses.

And dramatics.

Blog Resuscitation

2011-11-25T07:47:00.005-05:00

They said it would happen. Those wiser than me made mention that it would occur overnight, catch me completely unaware, imprisoning me a in a freaky time bubble that would suddenly burst and land this harried, time traveling housewife into an unknown place six months later.

Oh, the surroundings are the same. Laundry still spills out of our home and into the streets, children continue to begin every sentence with, “Mom, have you seen my….?” and the frantic phone calls to my husband’s medical practice about the latest household emergency carry on as usual.

However, it’s this stage of life, this season of get up and go and pick me up and drop me off and take me there and retrieve me here that has me spiraling in different directions in a car that shows its grievances with a transmission that whines in a higher pitch than a tantrum throwing toddler.

But even more than the shuttle bus navigated by the poorly compensated driver, the all-consuming change that sent me straight into the time traveler’s bubble that snatches all unaware moms, was the arrival of pre-teenage hormones that had the audacity to challenge its rightful place against my own.

And so, the battle of the Hormonal Monsters began.

And it was not pretty.

And only recently have I been able to disembark from the Time Traveling Bubble after finally demonstrating with sufficient proof that adjustments can be made to the new, that two Hormonal Monsters can reside in the same home together without losing their joy.

Since my time bubble release, I realize that much has happened that I will have to backtrack and record for posterity’s sake. There have been broken arms and the vomiting of blood, travels with suspected terrorists on 9/11 and yet another encounter with a police officer and a gore.

For now, though, I am going to relish in the fact that our crazy household is back. We are just as chaotic and busy and off-kilter as before. Time is not always our own, emotions not always that stable, and every once in a while, the hormonal monster will rear its unkempt head, but somehow, through it all, we have managed to keep our joy.

Letting Go

2011-06-27T09:55:00.006-04:00

I have let go of him before.

Reluctantly.

With quivering lip.

And shaky knees.

But this....this request for solo flight into the unknown was beyond what the lining in my stomach should have to handle.

Summer camp for Chase has always been a great experience. He loves the independence it brings as well as the adventure. Bonding with old friends and new counselors reinforces the camp camaraderie that beckons his return each summer.

This year, as an active twelve year old with specific interests, the date of the summer camp coincided with a sport camp that Chase really wanted to attend. While it is still one that is overnight, it takes place in our town, on a campus in which I am familiar, in an environment that is controlled and well monitored.

I responded with admitted relief when Chase discussed with us his desire to change camps this summer. The distance of the previous camp coupled with the remote location always caused me great concern and intense gastrointestinal distress. All the angst, the worry, and the wringing of hands would be but a distant, unpleasant memory.

But then our rascally church interfered, popping my summer security bubble, cutting away the safety net I have so diligently weaved under my children, by announcing a summer trip that would take our youth group to the Colorado mountains. The trip would last ten days, with a three-day ride on a tour bus to and from their destination.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

Georgia.

Colorado.

The distance between each is a kajillion miles and beyond what my apron strings can reach.

And Chase is twelve, with questionable grooming habits.

And for a child who keeps money in his SHOE, how will he responsibly pay for meals while trying not to get lost, abducted or left behind?

Not. Gonna. Happen.

So how is it that I found myself watching this monstrosity leave our church, with thirty youth, four young leaders and an Australian driver?

And my oldest boy waving goodbye joyfully from the back of the bus.

You Know It's Summer When....

2011-06-20T08:37:00.003-04:00

1.Suppertime is random as well as the food you serve. Six thirty one night, eight thirty the next. Well-balanced meals become off-balanced meals, sometimes in the form of pure preservatives. Cheetos with a side of Oreo cookies is a standard request, and the unbearable heat tricks you into believing it has nutritional value.

2. Sighting of the ice cream truck in the neighborhood rivals the discovery of Santa Claus in the chimney. Barefooted children joyfully dart across the yard, waving arms in desperation and screaming in high pitched tones, all to buy a $3.00 ice cream sandwich that currently resides in their home freezer.

3. Your children’s attire chosen for the day resembles that of colorblind hobos, but you are too hot and too unconcerned to put together anything remotely resembling precious.

4. A highlight of the day is retrieving the mail. You watch for the mail truck like a child watches for said ice cream truck, and you begin to seem borderline creepy and stalkish-like to the unsuspecting mailman.

5. You crave barbecued anything like a pregnant woman craves pickles and a glimpse of her swollen ankles. Suddenly everything tastes better grilled and topped with a little barbecue sauce including deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, and summer squash.

6. Your calls to your husband at work increase ten fold. Highlights of The View are surprisingly not received warmly from your spouse even if the segment on bikini waxing was highly informative.

7. You see canning jars at the local grocery store and for a brief moment consider canning vegetables for the upcoming winter. That is, until you remember you don’t know how to can and wonder how canned vegetables can be better than the miraculous “steam in the bag” vegetables found in the frozen section. Not to mention that it is tough to get the daily summer dose of preservatives in fresh vegetables.

8. You reluctantly put on a bathing suit for ALL to see, all in the name of taking your children to the local pool, even when normal, every day modesty prevents you from allowing family members (or friends for that matter) to EVER see you in your undergarments.

9. Every time you glance in the mirror you see a multi-colored ring around your lips because you can’t seem to stay out of the children’s Popsicles.

10. You realize the enormous amount of “summer grooming” that has to take place after the ongoing neglect that has occurred during the school year. Appointments attended for highlighting the hair, pedicuring the toes, and waxing the eyebrows begin with your “specialist” saying, “So exactly how long has it been since your last visit?” After wiping your eyebrows out of your eyes, you lie, and say just a few weeks.

He Is A Dad

2011-06-19T08:47:00.003-04:00

He is a dad.

He leads by example. He loves unconditionally and corrects with kind words. He is devoted and dynamic, funny and forgiving. He humbly serves, generously provides, fiercely protects and joyfully plays.

He is a dad, a calling that suits him, a passion that delights him. He remembers all occasions and forgets all wrongs. He is intentional, engaging, inspiring and encouraging.

He is their dad.

Happy Father's day, John! The children unabashedly adore you, look up to you, and want to be just like you. And the dog thinks you’re the best.

All my love,

Joni

Mexican Adventures

2011-06-06T13:45:00.004-04:00

I have spent the better part of my life protecting them.

I held them as newborns to my chest while sleeping, synchronizing their breathing with my own, listening for any hiccup that sounded unusual or worrisome. I hovered over cribs in the middle of the night, when the cough was too raspy or the nose too runny. I clutched little hands tightly as we walked quickly across a street or through the vastness of a mall or the strange doorway of a new classroom.

I have sun screened skin, administered band aids to scraped knees, fastened the puzzling restraints of car seats, tied shoelaces in double knots, secured safety rails around toddler beds, buckled bicycle helmets under chins, and buttoned winter coats all the way to the collar.

And yet.

All of that watching and hovering and preventing and protecting were of little use when we climbed the 66 foot tower that would sling our three offspring through a thick Mexican jungle.

“But, we’ll be in a controlled environment secured by fitted helmets and strong harnesses,” my husband countered when trying to reason through my high-pitched protests.

“Come on mom, it will be fun,” our children pleaded, leaving little choice for the only level headed person in the family. “Fine,” I tersely responded. “But I’m taking antibacterial soap that you all will have to use because you never know who might have touched the ropes before you."

(As if sanitary hands would protect us from the free fall that was sure to happen. We may break our necks, but at least we would be germ free.)

It turned out that the adventure package we purchased included more than zip-lining thousands of feet. We received the supplementary bonus of rappelling down an additional tower as well as swimming in an underground cave ridden with bats, and snorkeling with turtles that were as big as my Expedition.

The day began with a van ride to a desolate destination only accessed by a bumpy, gravel road that had to be five (or five hundred) miles long. We were assigned a guide, Carlos, who would take us through the many activities. The first thing he showed us was the diagram of our first adventure and I threw up in my mouth a little bit.

These towers would be the ones my children would be slung from, immediately disregarding all the many years spent under parental protection. But why worry when you have these strong harnesses and fitted helmets to offer security?

My husband, John, was the first to zip line. He intentionally tried to send me into orbit with all of his unnecessary antics, flailing arms and legs in an exemplary example for the children.

It would be a miracle if I made it through the day without severe emotional scarring.

One by one, each child was attached to a cable and pushed off the tower by Carlos with an enthusiastic, "Adios amigo!". I fervently prayed in both English and Spanish just to make certain God could understand me in Mexico.

The first one made it....

and then the second...

and then the third.

I could finally breathe and enjoy my own ride.

This would be short lived, however, as the next activity involved rappelling down a rickety tower and then hurling one's body towards the ground. While the gloves we all wore smelled offensively, my gratitude for the protection they offered as the rope quickly slid through our fingers easily overcame the stench.

(It's a good thing the level-headed one of the group thought of the hand sanitizer.)

DON'T....

LOOK....

DOWN.

Carlos hiked us to our next adventure - an underground freshwater cave.If this were a video you would be able to see our teeth chattering from the cold water and my knees knocking from the bats. I really don't care for rodents that fly.

We finished our day with a trip to a private beach to snorkel with the turtles.

I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting, but swimming with this gigantic joker wasn't what I had in mind.

Dear Mr. Titanic Turtle, please do not eat the small children. If you are hungry, the man who flails his arms and legs unnecessarily will be a very tasty substitute.

Our escapades for the day were certainly a bonding and memorable experience. My children remained safe despite the fact that I couldn’t watch or hover or prevent or protect. We were stretched to our limits and faced fears out of the ordinary as we all were flung in different directions through the Mexican jungle.

For the remainder of our vacation, however, the only thing I would hurl my body into was a lounge chair by the beach, Amazon Kindle in one hand and fruity drink in the other.

That's my kind of Mexican adventure.

Forty-One

2011-05-11T21:39:00.000-04:00

Forty-One Things Worse Than Turning Forty-One. Enjoy!

1. Grown men who wear parachute pants
2. A tube top of any kind
3. A fanny pack of any kind
4. Haircuts that are business in the front and party in the back
5. Restricted access to underwire
6. Those who wear dark socks with shorts
7. Potty training
8. Being told, “You‘re too late for the epidural.”
9. Check writers with 40 items in the 15 item line
10. Parentheses mark between eyebrows
11. The skinny jean
12. Hormones of a teenage boy
13. Athlete’s Foot
14. A McRib sandwich
15. College kids who call you ma’am
16. Adult braces
17. The movie Xanadu
18. Anything having to do with Lindsay Lohan
19. Hair growing from unnatural places
20. Nair
21. Potted meat
22. Irritable Bowel Syndrome
23. Eyebrows that cannot be tamed
24. Carpool line
25. Using a Port-A-Potty in hot temperatures
26. Karaoke involving selections by MC Hammer
27. Music Videos of Menudo
28. Blue lights in the rear view mirror
29. Post pregnancy incontinence
30. Halitosis
31. Keeping up with backpacks and permission slips
32. Keeping up with the Jones’
33. Any song by Wham
34. Pap smears
35. Jean Nate perfume
36. Commenting on the pregnant stomach of someone not pregnant
37. A spiral perm
38. One-ply toilet tissue
39. Piano Recitals involving 50 children
40. Laundry of any kind
41. Turning FORTY-TWO

Christ Is Risen

2011-04-24T19:38:00.006-04:00

He is risen indeed! Hope your Easter is full of joy!

"Surprise, surprise, surprise." - Gomer Pyle

2011-04-04T15:43:00.003-04:00

My husband and I were feeling pretty smug about pulling off the vacation surprise for our children. A few moments after the reveal and as we waited in line for the gates to open for Islands of Adventure, Chase commented, “I can’t believe that I didn’t catch on to what you and dad had planned. I mean, I understand Chandler and Mary Mac not understanding– ‘cause they’re younger and all – but I should have figured it out. Why didn’t I get it?”

I looked at his eleven year old face, so mature looking yet still so innocent, remembering the astonishment I felt when I first found out about him, the day that the pregnancy test stick positively defined the line of mommyhood as before and after. From that moment, nothing would ever be the same again, a welcome change in stage that would catapult John and I both blindly into parenthood.

The pure joy of discovering I was pregnant was hard to contain. I wanted to immediately phone my husband at work to share the long awaited news but knew that he deserved the same wonder of surprise I had just experienced.

So, as a plan began to form in my mind, I called a local restaurant, explained what I was considering and asked if they would participate in it’s implementation. More than happy to oblige, a time was set for the baby revelation, and the staff prepared for our arrival.

It wasn’t difficult to convince my husband to go out to dinner. At the time, my culinary skills were somewhat inadequate, often relying on the smoke alarm as a kitchen timer. Also, since we were childless, we had more time and economics than thriftiness and good sense.

Arriving at the restaurant, the hostess led us to our table with a smile and concealed wink. My heart beat nervously as I waited for the events to unfold, praying that the waiter would deliver his lines in a convincing manner that would lead the dad-to-be down the path to all things paternal. The waiter did not disappoint.

“Good evening. My name is Matt and I will be your server tonight. May I bring you something to drink?”

John and I placed our orders and then the waiter continued, “Would you like to hear about our specials?”

“We’d love to!” I agreed all too eagerly. It is was with good reason I chose to participate in high school athletics rather than the performing arts.

“Okay,” replied Matt, the well-rehearsed waiter, “The appetizer special tonight is BABY spinach baked with brie. Our salad of the night is BABY greens, tossed together with marinated BABY corn and BABY carrots. This comes with our house vinaigrette. And, finally, our offering for the main course is BABY back ribs served with a side of BABY potatoes.”

The waiter paused a bit as I grinned widely at John, about to jump out of my newly pregnant skin with the exciting news. The silence proved to be too much for my husband who awkwardly said, “Okay, thanks. Give us a few moments to look over the menu.”

Really?

Mouth slightly agape, the waiter glanced at me incredulously before walking towards the kitchen, images of a well-deserved Oscar exploding to pieces in his head.

John perused the menu, totally oblivious to the many baby references, a stomach that rumbled taking precedence over a head that comprehended. Luckily, plan B was fortuitously in place in the event neurons weren’t firing like they were supposed to.

A few moments later, Matt returned to the table with our drinks. He placed a red herring glass of wine in front me and placed a beer in front of John. The beer had been poured into a plastic baby bottle minus the screw-on nipple, the number of ounces displayed clearly on the side, with the foam of the beverage topping out at eight.

Again, the waiter paused a bit.

Nothing.

Reluctantly, the waiter walked away with slumped shoulders, sadly believing that his performance had been subpar. Once out of earshot, my husband whispered to me, “I’m surprised that a restaurant as nice as this would serve beer in plastic rather than glass. They really need to reconsider this.”

All I could do was stare at him in response.

The words baby spinach, baby greens, baby corn , and baby back ribs reverberated in my mind as I sat in silence. Sentences would not form.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, as I looked at him with eyes as glazed as the baby carrots.

He continued,” Do you think it’s okay to serve beer in plastic? Am I being unreasonable?”

“Look.....closer,” I finally managed in a voice that sounded distant and unfamiliar.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” John said as he held up the bottle in front of him.

And that’s when the fog cleared, the light bulb went off, and the events of the last fifteen minutes crashed down on my unsuspecting spouse in all understanding and awe and disbelief.

“ARE. YOU. SERIOUS. Are you serious?!!” he exclaimed, a smile spreading across the handsome face I loved so much. “I’m going to be a dad? I’m going to be a dad,” John acknowledged more firmly. And that’s when he promptly told me to hand over the glass of wine.

While not exactly the way I had planned, the moment of surprise could not have been more idyllic or complete, a perfect beginning to our next adventure.

The memories flooded over me as I looked at Chase as he waited for me to provide the answer of how so many clues could have been missed about our vacation, how he could have overlooked the obvious.

“Three letters for you,” I finally answered. “DNA.”

And we walked through the theme park gates together to begin our next adventure.

An Early April Fools

2011-04-01T09:31:00.004-04:00

For Spring Break, John and I decided to surprise the children with a trip to Orlando, Florida. Ambitiously, we wanted to keep the destination a secret until we actually arrived outside of the gate of the first theme park. We knew that it was an unlikely scenario as our three offspring are very perceptive, sort of like an adolescent CSI team who can sniff out a hidden box of Cheese Nips or discover an imminent trip to the dentist despite concerted attempts at concealment.

Who knew that it would be so easy to deceive them, to fool these little children in the same way we used to years ago when we told white lies about the bedtime hour when they couldn’t tell time. (“I know it’s still daylight outside, but my watch says that it’s 8:00. It’s reeeallly late.” And then John and I would watch the 7 o’clock news in blissful quiet.)

The story (lie) told to our trusting trio was that we were going to go to the beach for a couple of days over the break. We loaded up in the car for the 8-hour drive, explaining that we would break up the trip with an overnight stay in a hotel in Florida. All went well as we unloaded later that night, checked into our hotel and woke early the next morning for the supposed last leg of our trip to the beach.

Heads buried in game devices, none of the three noticed the overwhelming number of signs that screamed all things Orlando. Neon lights announcing the approach of our first destination, Universal Studios, were also missed as Mario took precedence over the revealing surroundings.

As we entered the parking garage, my husband said that we were making a quick stop for coffee. No one said much as handheld games were paused and we exited the car.

The juvenile version of CSI did not think it odd as we traveled on moving sidewalks for several hundred yards. Intuition was not perked as they saw for the first time signs pointing towards encroaching theme parks. My oldest investigator, Chase, even rolled his eyes as I complained to my husband the inconvenience we were all experiencing just for a jolt of caffeine.

As we made our way to the entrance of Islands of Adventure, one of two theme parks located in Universal, Chandler, our nine year old, finally commented, “This place looks awesome! Can you get us some tickets so that we can come back someday?”

It was then that we told them of our deception, relishing in their squeals as they jumped up and down with joy.

Soon after, they handed in their CSI badges, accepting with reluctance that their parents had finally trumped their keen, investigative skills. Not only did it provide us both with enormous parental satisfaction, but restored lost hope that we might once again mislead them about the hour of bedtime.

Fancy Toes

2011-03-25T10:11:00.013-04:00

It was in my twenties when I first discovered the pedicure. For a period of time during college, I never missed a manicure appointment, a deliberate reaction to the end of a collegiate basketball career. Sports dictated that fingernails were to be short and trim, an unsightly punctuation to the damaged looking fingers on both of my hands either broken or inured during games and practices.

During the first week of college basketball practice, as an inexperienced and out of my league freshman, I fractured a bone in the index finger of my right hand. The team trainer, known for his warped and twisted sense of humor, placed a very large splint around my finger, which he then taped to my middle finger for stability. The splint reached about two and a half inches beyond my right hand, in a slight curved position, a cumbersome contraption that sat me on the sidelines for the remainder of practice.

Once the final suicide drill was completed, the team and I headed to the dining hall on campus for dinner. I knew that my injury looked unusual but I completely misjudged the ridiculousness of my hand with its large, perpetual pointing finger, wrapped in mounds of tape and gauze. I would soon found out by a sharp-tongued member of the male species how out of the ordinary I appeared.

I was standing at the salad bar, wondering how farmers grew the baby cobs of corn that are put into salads and if somehow they feel inferior to the larger versions of corn eaten with barbecue, when I felt a lumbering presence to my left. “What’s up, Jones?” he greeted before taking in with wide eyes my alien looking hand.

“Whoooaaaaa, Jonesie! What happened to you? You look like E.T.! Phone home! Phone home!” he finished in all of his hilarity and for all to hear. I rolled my eyes, took the remaining baby cobs of corn –that would show him – and walked to my team’s table, balancing the tray precariously on my injured hand. I would be known as E.T. on campus for a long time, despite begging the wicked trainer to trim back the splint more normally the next day.

Pedicures always seemed a little too intimate to me. I’m not a big fan of feet – either those of others or my own – and the idea of another scrubbing and moisturizing in between toes is not my idea of a relaxing experience. However, exchanging basketball shoes for flip-flops, I realized that grooming in this vicinity was necessary and much needed. So in my twenties, I relented, gritting my teeth when the bottoms of my soles were sanded like an old piece of furniture found in the attic, all the while discussing with the devoted nail tech the difference between a French pedicure and an American.

Mercy.

So, because God is the wittiest person I know, He gifted me with a pink loving six year old little girl full of joy who loves manicures and pedicures “with all her heart” and “forever and forever.” So much that for her seventh birthday party she wanted to celebrate it in a nail salon with all of her friends where their toes would be scrubbed and moisturized all the while discussing the differences between a French pedicure and an American.

So that’s what we did. And a good time was had by all.

And after the party was over, the birthday girl practiced her basketball skills with her mama in the driveway, bright pink fingernails sparkling under the moonlight with each enthusiastic dribble.

Rotten - Part Three

2011-02-25T06:30:00.003-05:00

(Due to excessive words routinely and joyfully used by yours truly, I have divided the following account into three parts. You may want to read part two before continuing to suffer through the wordiness in part three. The little red box in the right-hand corner is always available for your convenience.)

Tonsillectomy recovery was not going well for Chandler. Because of pain, he was unable to swallow liquids. Because of projected hypochondria, I was convinced he was moments away from the evils of dehydration. While it had been less than 24 hours, I picked up the phone to call my husband’s office.

That’s when I saw this outside of my son’s bedroom window.

I blinked my eyes twice, hoping to remove the sight that looked like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie starring a worn-out, dramatic prone parent.

Typically, one can expect to see one or two buzzards meandering about in the sky when the demise of an animal has occurred. They have a good sense of smell and are able to smell the dead they focus upon from great heights. (Thanks Wikipedia.)

The issue immediately at hand was twofold. First, the large quantity of vultures directly outside of my son’s window would suggest that a dead carcass buffet was available to all in my front yard. Looking closely at our lawn recently shredded into Bermuda slaw by winter sledding, I could not locate an animal of any kind – dead or sickly - that might attract such a large gathering.

Secondly, Chandler was the only ill entity within the radius of the flock of gore eating birds and that meant.....

I quickly dialed the phone to my husband’s office and asked a nurse to retrieve him from an exam room (Sorry Mr. Patient. An imminent attack by vultures supersedes your strep throat. Hope you feel better soon!)

Skipping pleasantries, I relayed the emergent situation to John, who held the phone at a safe distance from his ear so that the shrillness of my voice didn’t shatter his eardrums into a million pieces.

“Chandler won’t swallow, and he’s in pain, and there’s vomit currently all over me, and I’m pretty certain he is dangerously dehydrated which the doctor warned us about and you know what that will lead to, well,of course you do because you were a graduate of medical school and all, but I think it is really serious now because there are a hundred buzzards outside of his bedroom window who any minute may eat the flesh right off of his bones.”

BIG BREATH.

“Are you going to come home or should I call an ambulance?”

Long silence.

Even more silence.

“Well, before you call the ambulance citing buzzards and dehydration as your emergency, let me take a look at him in a few moments after I finish up with my patient,” John responded in the calm doctor voice that always has the potential to cause my head to spin off of my body.

“Okay. But I’m telling you that it’s really serious. Did I mention that he can’t swallow? At all? And you really need to consider these buzzards....” I countered, trying to imitate the calmness in my husband’s voice but audibly failing because of the high decibels warbling from my mouth. The dogs in my neighborhood were the only ones who could correctly identify the serene nature of my sound.

John made it home soon after our conversation to assess Chandler’s condition. He did not think that our son was dehydrated. He did not think that the the buzzards would eat him. And he did not think it necessary to summon emergency vehicles. Filling a syringe with water, he was able to convince our son to swallow a little bit at a time, which we slowly increased throughout the remainder of the day.

It took nine days for Chandler to fully recover from surgery.

I may never.

Which is what these vultures know, as they still periodically hang out out in the trees of our front yard, waiting for the day when dramatics, hysteria and projected hypochondria finally cause the spontaneous demise of yours truly.

She's Seven

2011-02-18T23:53:00.016-05:00

Mary Mac turned seven today and I am at a loss for words. How. Did. This. Happen.

“Enjoy it while you can because time will fly,” I have been told repeatedly by those who have gone before me. And they were right.

Right that one moment she’s a snuggly baby, leaving a trail of pink in every room. The very next moment, she’s pontificating about the many varieties of pink available in nail polish.

Right that if I close my eyes I can still feel her weight on my hip, carrying her as often as possible just because I could. In a flash, that baby’s height is well past my hip, and when exasperated, places a hand on her own to show disagreement.

Right, that chubby arms once outstretched for my embrace, are now slender and long, and just yesterday used to wave me away from in front of the television for a better view of Joe Jonas.

Right, that there was a time her dependence was joyfully all consuming, certain needs that could only be fulfilled by a parent. The time is spent now guiding independent footsteps that get farther and farther away.

She is seven today. And time has flown.

But I have enjoyed and will always cherish every single second.

Happy birthday sweet baby girl. You are sunshine and giggles and everything that is good and right in this world. You are so loved.

Mommy

Rotten - Part Two

2011-02-02T18:59:00.002-05:00

(Due to excessive words routinely and joyfully used by yours truly, I have divided the following account into three parts. You may want to read part one before continuing to suffer through the wordiness in part two. The little red box in the right-hand corner is always available to use at any time.)

Some things in life have the potential to bring a mom to the very edge of insanity: A child’s laundry hamper overflowing with clothes that are CLEAN because it was the easier choice over the hanger beckoning in the closet. A carpool line that moves so slowly that one is able to witness the actual growth process of grey hair in the rear view mirror. A monkey fit thrown by a three year old at church, in the main entrance, on the floor and in front of the preacher.

Then there are those moments that not only push you to a teetering position on the edge of insanity, but catapult you deep into the valley known as Lunacy. Recently, I made myself at home in this cavernous space for a good seventy-two hours, wearing out my welcome in such a manner that even the insane residing with me in Crazy Canyon would not allow continued co-habitation.

A child in pain brings me to my knees. I lose all sensibility and rational thought which is then replaced with pure panic. I want to urgently minimize it, impulsively fix it, or irrationally inject myself with it.

Our physician warned us of the pain Chandler would experience after the combined tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. However, he told us that dispensing the pain medication at regular intervals and continued hydration throughout the course of recovery would greatly help in alleviating the discomfort. It was imperative, he firmly told us, that dehydration not occur during the healing process.

After returning home from the hospital, we settled our nine year old into his bed. I fluffed his pillows, placed a water bottle on the nearby desk and watched him fall asleep as his body recuperated from the surgery. Every hour or so, Chandler would awaken and groggily take a few sips of the water I offered before returning to sleep.

This schedule continued for the remainder of the day and throughout the night as the combination of anesthesia and pain medicine given at the hospital provided drowsiness and relief.

Early the following morning, Chandler woke up as a mime. Soreness of throat prevented speech, but from wide eyes and emphatic hand gestures, I was able to surmise that it was time for the pain medicine prescribed.

I am quick like that.

I gave him a dose, which took a little bit of effort as it was difficult to swallow, and then my sweet, obedient child flat out refused to take a sip of water. Mr. Mime placed both hands over his mouth and violently shook his head back and forth like a Labrador drying off from a swim.

The doctor’s echoes warning of the evilness of dehydration rang in my ears and I could feel the panic rising. Chandler hadn’t eaten the day before, and drank very little, and OH NO, WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO IF HE BECAME DEHYDRATED?

An hour passed, and I tried again to get Chandler to drink a little water. This time he looked at me with the stink eye and aggressively pushed the glass away from him. My tenderhearted son, the one who is kind to all and loves his mama, had turned into the devil. He had the red eyes to prove it.

A third attempt a little while later found him kicking the air in my direction. The Mime had added karate to his collection of wayward communication skills and not even Mr. Miyagi would be able to get near him with a cup of water. Chandler looked pale and his skin seemed to shrivel right before my eyes from obvious lack of fluids.

Thirty minutes later, I made another attempt. As I slowly neared him in a defensive stance prepared to intercept a hand sword collar-bone chop, Chandler weakly sat up, turned in my direction, and threw up all over me.

I could have moved in time to avoid the spew of vomit but maternal instinct overrode maternal sense. I held out my hands, in cup like fashion, in an attempt to CATCH THE CONTENTS OF MY CHILD’S STOMACH.

What is it in a mom’s DNA that releases a reflex quicker than that of the feline variety to catch vomit? I don’t feel compelled to catch the throw up belonging to my husband, or that of my best friend. But gagging that involves a child of mine? I turn into an all-star center fielder who will dive across a room to trap regurgitated pop tarts in the palm of my hands.

The pain Chandler must have felt when becoming sick all over me made me weak in the knees. If the vomiting continued, then this would mean that even if I caught my little mime in a weak moment and convinced him to swallow, he wouldn’t be able to keep any of it down. OH NO, WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO IF HE BECAME DEHYDRATED?

It was clear I was in the beginning stages of working myself into a “tizzy” (Southern word for an adult hissy fit or tantrum; also a state of confusion or anxiety), so I picked up the phone to call my husband at work. Surely, sound counsel would calm my fears.

And that’s when I saw the swarm of buzzards outside of Chandler’s window.

Rotten

2011-02-01T14:35:00.007-05:00

Chronic strep throat and sinus infections led our pediatrician to the conclusion that our nine-year-old son, Chandler, should have his tonsils and adenoids surgically removed. (As opposed to the thought had by yours truly that magically wishing them away or clicking my heels together three times would somehow prevent a visit to the operating room.)

A consultation with an ENT (ears, nose and throat) doctor confirmed that the procedure was necessary and a surgery date was scheduled. A week after Christmas and a week before school resumed, we felt confident that the timing of the tonsillectomy would allow an ample recovery period. It ended up however, that physical healing for my son took longer than anticipated and mental recuperation for me is still somewhat suspect.

The day of surgery went well for Chandler. He was calm during the pre-op rituals, rolling his eyes appropriately when I asked if the “happy medicine” given to him could be shared with his legal guardian. The nurse did not really think that I was funny, which is fine, because I really was not joking.

As the medicine took effect, I watched my son drift in and out of goofy joy land, that wistful place I would like to visit when the loads of laundry in my home threaten rightful sanity. Chandler stared with fascination at the ceiling tiles above him, only to then turn his attention to the magic and wonder of the bed rails:

Every once in a while his focus would find me long enough to inquire why my eyeballs were so close together:

or how it came to be that I was the only mom with two noses:

When it was time for surgery, the nurses wheeled my son away and I felt a sob escape from that sacred place familiar to all moms. The place created uniquely for a child the moment they are born, that opening that will leave your heart vulnerable for all remaining days. I stood in the hallway, fighting for composure and losing badly, until I spotted a nurse I knew pretty well. Surely she had some random sedatives to spare......

(Oh, I kid.)

I sat in the waiting room pretending to read the book in my lap but totally eavesdropping on the captivating conversation happening behind me. There was an argument occurring between a husband and wife about whether time permitted a smoke break outside. In summary, the woman’s point was that while she hadn’t had a cigarette since her morning coffee and really needed one or four, she was afraid that she would smell like smoke when the doctor called them from the waiting room. And she didn’t want said doctor to know that she smoked. To which the husband responded, “But you do. So why you fakin’ it? Let’s go smoke.”

My name was finally called and a nurse led me to a small waiting room outside of the operating room. The doctor came in shortly after, removed his face mask, looked me squarely in the eyes, and said, “Those tonsils were rotten.” A simple, direct diagnosis if I ever heard one. I thanked the physician and he led me to my son.

Chandler was wheeled into a recovery room, sectioned off by movable curtains that allow for patient privacy. I sat in the small area with Chandler as I waited for his anesthesia to wear off, thankful that the surgery was a success and free of complications. I closed my eyes in the quietness of the space and prayed, grateful to God for keeping my sweet child safe. A sudden, loud sound interrupted my thanksgiving.

It was a familiar sound, but one out of place. Surely, I misheard.

The sound erupted again, but louder, accurately confirming what I initially identified. A man recovering next to us, separated by only a thin barrier of cloth, was burping. Note the plural form of the word as it was done with repetition and considerable volume.

(As a sidenote, the current Guinness world record for loudest burp is 107.1 decibels, which is louder than a chainsaw at a distance of 1 metre. Thank you Wikipedia.

In addition, Wikipedia notes “Belching in front of people in public places tends to be received in a manner similar to flatulence”. I wholeheartedly concur.)

Every ten seconds or so, the man would release a lingering belch, followed by his companion telling him to “let it all out” so he would feel better. I began to wonder if the man recovering had been anesthetized with a carbonated drink.

Clearly, the patient was uncomfortable, which made two of us. Mercifully, after a fifteen minute chorus of varying lengths of eructation (thanks again, Wikipedia), the burping man and his companion left the recovery area.

Chandler slowly came out of his anesthesia, a little disoriented and in some pain. The worst is behind us, I remember thinking, as I carefully helped him into our car. I could not have known that the next nine days would be so trying, that in my mental instability, I would begin to wish for the presence of the belching patient if only as a distraction.....

Resolutions

2011-01-02T11:59:00.006-05:00

The New Year stretches out before me like an empty textbook not yet written. Pages from the previous year are no longer chronicled – the blunders, the hurts, the trials, the joys – and a second chance is given to edit those that can be better and revise those that can’t.

The list of needed improvements is long - overwhelming even – and the inclination to address them all in the short 365 days ahead a task most likely to disappoint. The approach is good intentioned but the areas of need too large, and failure the result before adjustments even attempted.

Rather than regard all those things I believe warrant change from a secular perspective, I am embracing the upcoming year from one that is eternal. Guidance is uniquely provided in God’s Word - instructions both wide-ranging and many - but a tendency to complicate the simple and over analyze the obvious has potential to distract from the pursuit.

Thankfully, for those like me - simple-minded with an attention span at a deficit - a clear, overall theme for direction is provided in the greatest commands ever given. Following the One who has already written my story, my resolutions come from a response I pray will preface this year’s personal chapters on all thoughts, words and deeds. When asked to give the greatest commandment as found in God’s law, Jesus replies,

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:37-39)

Love God. Love others. A worthy beginning in the pursuit of answers to life’s questions and the corrections to life’s mistakes. Simple instructions that stand firm even in my excess, my worry, and my sin; timeless advice that covers forgiveness, disappointments and grace.

And whatever the year may bring – the blunders, the hurts, the trials, and the joys – I know ahead of time that my story ends well. The perfection of the Author’s edits and revisions guarantees it.

Happy New Year –

Joni

PS-

Because you know I’m silly, and can’t miss out on an opportunity for extra joy, I have written the following amendments to consider with the resolutions above:

1. I will love God. I will love others. And pray that the Georgia Football team recovers by next season.

2. I will not use the smoke detector in my kitchen as a cooking timer.

3. I will attend all eyebrow waxing appointments in a timely manner so that tools requiring electricity will not be necessary.

4. I will schedule office bills to be paid on automated bank draft so that my husband does not worry about taking care of patients in the dark.

5. I will not be tempted by the skinny jean or any type of legging that hugs the skin in a manner that reveals unsightly cellulite of which only yours truly should be aware.

6. I will laugh so hard and so often that fugitive stomach muscles will be forced to come out of hiding.

7. I will exercise patience in the carpool line and deny myself all fantasies of skidding to a sideways stop in front of the school in Dukes of Hazard fashion.

8. I will listen more, talk on my cell phone less and always drive with my hands in the 10 an 2 position.

9. I will better pay attention to the silly little dials found in the instrument panel of my car.

10. I will believe the scale I step on and not think that it is a conspiracy masterminded by Weight Watchers.

11. And finally, I will love those who don’t love me back, and if a turn around ever occurs, remind them later of the nonsense they were missing. : )

Christmas Day

2010-12-26T18:22:00.030-05:00

Christmas Day was unlike any other day our family has ever experienced. From the moment we awoke - an hour earlier than the law should allow- beautiful, giant snowflakes fell to the ground. Because we live in the South, snow of any kind is somewhat exceptional. However, when the worn-out weatherman, donning rolled-up sleeves and a questionable sweater vest, severely broadcasts impending ice and/or snow, folks in our area race to the grocery store in response with paranoid excitement, as though bread and milk the answer to the potential evil of black ice.

According to Georgian historians, snow has not fallen on Christmas day in 150 years. A rare occurrence that found families all over our state peering from windows in disbelief, as if dollar bills were floating down from the sky, declaring all Georgia residents the long shot winners in the weather lottery.

With a fire roaring and tree lights blinking, the silent snow provided the perfect background for a picturesque Christmas Day only highlighted by the reactions of a few silly elves and a sleepy-headed little girl.

Santa’s dubious gift selections this year were a little surprising. However, compared to the arsenal given the previous Christmas, the theme was arguably more peaceful. While Rocky may seem to be a movie about the aggression of boxing, Sylvester Stallone maintains he wrote the movie as a love story. Sort of the same way romance followed the movie Titanic to the bottom of the ocean.

Notice the headphones. Peace.

Curiously, Santa brought this one a cellphone, despite the debates offered by yours truly that a phone is not needed IF THE MOM ALWAYS KNOWS WHERE YOU ARE. Regardless, the man in the red suit must have taken pity after listening in on the conversation between my sixth grade son and a friend from school:

Chase: Can I borrow your cell phone to call my mom?

Friend: Sure. Did you leave your phone at home?

Chase: No. I don’t have one.

Friend: Wow. Your mom must hate you.

The jolly man brought Mary Mac the American Girl doll, Lanie, that apparently will no longer be in production after December. A little known fact that sent Santa's workforce into a last minute frenzy, that left said force with excessive grey hairs that will make her colorist cry. Oh, why must the dolls expire? American Girl People, can't you just give peace a chance?

More Christmas Peace and Joy:

(My husband claims that our gift wrapping looks as though our home is the location for UPS headquarters. During the renovation of our home, the large roll of Craft paper that protected the refinished hardwood floors was not used in its entirety. With a little craftiness (Get it? Craft? Craftiness? Never mind. Please utilize the red box in the upper right hand corner when you've had enough) and an enormous amount of packing tape, a small fortune was saved in wrapping paper.

Until that is, all of the ends of the packages popped open because of the heaviness of the paper, and a small fortune was spent retaping every package two days before Christmas.)

Later that evening, as it continued to snow, we celebrated the day with more family.

Nana, Mary Mac, Aunt JJ and Uncle Curt's arm:

And the next day, while it continued to snow, we furthered the peace and the joy at the home of Uncle Josh and Aunt Julie.

Josh and Briggs:

Mimi, Dude, McKinley and Mary Mac:

John, Chandler, Chase and Tanner:

Rocklan and Jeni:

It’s a day we will always remember - a Christmas winter wonderland that may only happen this once in our lifetime. A gift of peace and joy that will always fill our hearts and our memories. And as so succinctly put as the text sent to me by the phone of my oldest, sitting in the same room with me and just a few feet away, adolescent thumbs a blur of unnecessary activity: “This has been the best day EVER.”

To which I responded via the same, “Stop texting me.”

Merry Christmas everybody!

It's A Family Tradition

2010-12-24T21:04:00.046-05:00

There are certain Christmas Eve traditions that our family eagerly anticipates. Each year we attend the candlelight service at our church, which concludes with hundreds of small, lit candles held by all in attendance. I believe we sing, “Silent Night” while holding the candles, but I can’t say for certain. I’m too distracted by my desperate prayers lifted to the Almighty, begging Him to prevent the catastrophe that is sure to occur when the fire in my children’s hands combusts with the hair of the person in front of us, a combination of flame and heavy-handed Aqua Net that will surely asphyxiate the entire congregation.

I tried to conjure up the miraculous circumstances of Jesus’ birth during this time, but all that came to mind was the Pepsi commercial featuring an inflamed Michael Jackson. Only when all of the candles were safely extinguished did I breathe a sigh of relief. Curiously, I craved a diet Pepsi for the remainder of the evening.

Additional traditions for Christmas Eve include the opening of one gift followed by the reading of the story of our Savior’s birth. The present opened by each of our children is always matching pajamas.

2007

2008

2009

This year, it was met with resistance.In the weeks leading up to Christmas Eve, my two boys repeatedly requested a permanent change in the gift that always leaves them looking identical. “It’s a family tradition!” I would joyfully respond, feeling strangely close to Hank Williams, Jr., and the “song that he wrote.”

“You’re not respecting our individuality,” argued my eleven year old, as though just returning from a parent seminar with James Dobson.

So, reluctantly I made the change. I purchased sleeping attire that would better reflect their personalities, their God-given uniqueness, a modification in tradition that would make everyone happy.

Cozy slippers and flannel pajamas brought this precious one joy.

These two....

...with all of their demands for individuality....

...and requests for recognition of uniqueness...

...brought these two people....

...unbridled....

...wide-open.....

....gut-erupting JOY.

I believe this is a tradition we will keep.

Until, of course, they figure out that the pajamas purchased...

...were more for us than them.

Holiday Baking

2010-12-24T21:04:00.037-05:00

Christmas season somehow brings out the baker wannabe in yours truly. I have never professed to be particularly proficient in this area, preferring to visit our local bakery when an occasion calls for a real dessert. However, the children in our household find it fun to create a little homemade joy.

The one treat we make every year is a delicacy I like to call,"The Lazy Man's Chocolate Covered Pretzel." It could also be known as "Mama's Too Busy Wrapping Presents to Melt Chocolate in The Microwave." Or an even better name: "Can You Believe The Bakery Is Closed and We'll Have To Do This Ourselves?"

Directions:
1. Find your Santa apron and matching hat. I'm not exactly sure where you keep yours but ours was finally found in Barbie's dreamhouse. Preheat your oven to 300 degrees. Or 250. Or 200. Just turn your oven on.

2. Place pretzels on a foil covered baking sheet. Give all broken pretzels to overweight lab drooling at your feet.

2. Top each pretzel with a Hershey's hug. Know that it will take years to unwrap the hundred or so that you will need.

3. Place the cookie sheet in the oven for a minute or more, just until the chocolate begins to melt. Leave them in too long and they could end up like this:

4. If that happens, it will take another year or so to unwrap more hershey's hugs. This is a step you want to avoid.

5. Remove cookie tray from the oven. Carefully, place a M&M on top of each hug. (We use red and green for Christmas, pink and red for Valentine's day, and black and orange for Halloween. We are creative like that.)

6. Place cookie sheet in freezer for at least five minutes to harden. Voila! Lazy Man's Chocolate Covered Pretzels. (Or Mama's Too Busy Wrapping Presents to Melt Chocolate in The Microwave or Can You Believe The Bakery Is Closed and We'll Have To Do This Ourselves?)

To make a Gingerbread House:

1. Take your children to a friend's house. Allow them to experience what it would be like if their mom actually baked.

2. Explain that the Whoppers may cause their houses to implode because of their heaviness. The adults will save them in their pockets for a later use.

3. Remind inexperienced children that the tool they are using is a pastry bag and not anything like the udder they learned about on the field trip to the dairy farm.

To Decorate Sugar Cookies

1. Offer a prayer of thanks for Pillsbury Ready to Bake Sugar Cookies, minus the artificial preservatives that are from the devil.

2. Offer a second prayer of thanks for the overweight lab who will eat all of the sprinkles and random decorations that fall to the floor...

3. ...because Mama is too busy wrapping presents to sweep under the table.

4. Call the bakery again to leave yet another message about their unfortunate, inconvenient business hours during the Christmas season. Email picture of burnt pretzels as proof.

A Revised Letter to Santa

2010-12-17T05:22:00.007-05:00

Dear Santa,

I don't know if you are still taking requests but I have a few that I hope you will take the time to consider. I’m fairly certain that my name won’t be found on the naughty list, unless of course, you take into account the receipt of the unfortunate traffic ticket ,the scuffle with the law at Target, the disrobing in front of a stranger, or the illegal gambling habits of minors in our household.

If you were able to overlook those trivial transgressions, then the following items could really supplement my holiday joy. So, if you can, could you help a mother out?

1. I would like the magic potion – preferably bubble-gum flavored and in liquid form- that would allow my children to sleep past 7:00 am. I'm all for the early bird getting the worm, just somewhere else besides my house.

2. I love my husband - really, I do - but could I also have a wife? One who washes clothes, packs lunches, remembers show and tell and team practices, pays the bills and irons clothes properly (instead of willing the wrinkles out with the dryer). A gal who returns phone calls and emails in a timely manner, makes dinner representing all the food groups, and cares about dirty baseboards and cobwebs.

3. I would like for my children to grow verrrry slowwwwly. While I still want to sleep a little later, I want my little ones to stay little. It's all going by too fast and there's too much I want to remember. Can't you fly around the world super-duper fast and slow the world down? (It worked in the Superman movie.)

4. I would like to use the bathroom alone. ***

5. I would like a razor and a tweezer that produce yearlong results. Unruly eyebrows that point rudely at others is not cool. While you’re at it, please make the hair above my lip non-existent. The hereditary nature of these misplaced hair follicles are beginning to frighten my first grade daughter. ***

6. I would like a turkey I can cook for Christmas dinner minus the unnecessary guts found inside the cavity of every bird. Who decided that gore should be included with the purchase price?

7. I would like a SUV makeover so that when the door opens in the carpool line NOTHING falls out of the door. Not one pencil or one old field trip permission slip, not one shoe or one past due library book, not one empty juice box or one Happy Meal french fry. Nothing. Denada. I want to win the clean car award rather than be humiliated in front of thousands.

8. I would like smooth, luxurious Clairol hair. The kind that withstands the southern humidity instead of the current mane that turns into Bon Jovi concert hair at the slightest moisture in the air. Unless, of course, I am wearing acid wash jeans, jelly shoes and blue eye shadow. Or a sparkly prom dress.

9. I would like to wake up Chistmas morning with everything magically "lifted", certain areas properly "tucked", and all cellulite abstracted. Things pointing North rather than South would be especially appreciated

10. If you happen to have extra coal and switches handy, could you drop some off in the stocking of Badge 97? His manners weren't the nicest. Also, could you place bullet blanks under the tree for our heat-packing patient?

11. And finally, I would like for Martha Stewart's show, magazine and products to be available only in the Netherlands. Reminders of my ineptness in napkin folding, popcorn stringing, gravy making and pillow stitching is cruel and unnecessary.

Just like the turkey innards.

Joyfully yours,

Joni

And Callie

Strung Out

2010-12-16T06:53:00.006-05:00

It is uncanny how the visions we have in our heads result in a manner that would suggest our brains need corrective lenses. There is something about the Christmas season that persuades us to aspire to a level of craftiness and idealism that should only be attempted by the talented or the insane.

Over our long, drawn-out Thanksgiving break from school, I thought it would be fun for the children to decorate the playroom Christmas tree. I furthered the idea with the proposition of handmade adornments, an old school tribute to the snowed in children on Little House on the Prairie.

Except we weren’t snowed in. And the word handmade should have given me appropriate pause.

One of my enthusiastic offspring suggested that we string popcorn for the garland. How fun! And clever! And homemade! Lacking popcorn, needles or thread, we headed to Wal-Mart, hearing that it was still standing despite the Black Friday Tornado that almost caused it to implode.

Surveying the rampaged store, I couldn’t help but think how disappointed the good-hearted Mr. Oleson would have been at the total disarray. The general store he owned was always welcoming and spotless, and not a single customer ever wore their pajama pants when buying merchandise.

Gathering all of our material, we left the store that the American Cross really needs to tend to, excited about the notion of impending craftiness. Driving home, I began to imagine the scene my husband would walk into at the end of the day:

All of my children gathered around my skirt (or sweat pants), stringing popcorn in front of a roaring fire, nodding encouragingly at one another at a job well done. Christmas Carols would play softly in the background as I recounted the true story of Baby Jesus, contrary to the scene currently depicted by our imaginative six-year-old.

We would welcome daddy home with a mug of hot cocoa, and together, ceremoniously place the handmade garland around the Christmas tree. Quite possibly, we could even encircle the tree as a family, holding hands, singing joyfully, provided that our eleven year old’s gag reflex cooperated.

None of the above occurred. I could not get a fire to start, despite the number of Survivor episodes previously seen. The children requested a movie, rather than my Baby Jesus story, because “your animal noises aren’t as good as the ones made by dad.” Repeated finger sticks, band-aid requests, and popcorn malfunctions distracted from the Holiday Spirit I misguidedly tried to manufacture.

It is no surprise that the setting my spouse came home to was much different than the one ambitiously hoped.

Know that disaster relief efforts by the American Red Cross have already been summoned.

A Word To My Sponsor

2010-12-15T06:18:00.003-05:00

Today marks the eighteenth year of birthdays I have celebrated with my husband. A relationship that began in a time when the spiral perm was dying its rightful death, and Whitney Houston’s song, “ I Will Always Love You”, sung by every heartsick female.

Our story originated with a lot of mishap and laughter, details I hope to one day fully chronicle when both time and courage are available. He was a sleep-deprived, overworked medical resident and I was a recent college graduate, ready for the next party and adventure. In those first few months of dating , he relied on some of my energy and I responded well to his calm. Two seemingly incompatible worlds collided, that somehow, by the infinite grace of God, began to make sense.

The mishaps, the nonsense, and the laughter, still describes our marriage today. Our life hasn’t been without difficulty or struggle, but any hardship experienced has only made our love for one another stronger. He is my best friend and I am his, an intimate existence where it is difficult to recognize where one begins and the other ends.

John, I never take one moment with you for granted or the immeasurable joy you bring. The children unabashedly adore you, look up to you, and want to be just like you. And the dog thinks you’re the best.

Long live the laughter and the joy....

Happy, happy birthday!

Joni

All She Wants For Christmas...

2010-12-14T16:38:00.009-05:00

....is her two front teeth.

There is no greater joy than hearing the lisp of a first grader as she attempts words that are inhibited by missing baby Chiclets.

Except for the joy brought by a note to the tooth fairy, inquiring about the economical circumstances surrounding the money that appears under her pillow.

And then that joy is surpassed by the tooth fairy's quick thinking response.

Dr. R, apparently there are debts that need to be reconciled.

Can Do

2010-12-06T11:44:00.012-05:00

It was on a four-burner stove that produced the feast for our large crowd. Each electric coil covered with a well-worn pan, simmering over with the aromas only her hands could manufacture. Somehow, that small kitchen space defied all culinary odds, turning out a meal on Thanksgiving for up to twenty family members, with enough leftovers to do it all again for dinner.

Grandma cooked, sometimes singing, other times laughing, but never missing a beat in the multiple conversations between her five children, their spouses and the eleven grandchildren that filled my grandparents’ home.

As a child, I didn’t fully grasp or appropriately appreciate the enormous task presented before Grandma each Thanksgiving. She never complained, or made us feel as though we were not worth her efforts, cooking joyfully behind the little stove that would make us thankful for the elastic in our pants.

It would be many years later, that a serious stroke would severely limit Grandma’s capabilities and independence. Her speech slowly deteriorated, leaving her with the ability to only speak two words: Can Do.

My Grandmother, when asked how she was feeling, would respond matter of-factly, “Can do.” Alternatively, when told how much she was loved, her answer back was always, “Can do.” Inquiring of her needs, desperate to provide comfort of any kind, the reply an unchanging “Can do.”

In the final days, as family members sat quietly holding the hand of the woman defined by generous service to others, grieving the life that would soon leave them, still Grandma whispered until the end, “Can do.”

It was fitting that those were the only words my Grandmother could speak. It was language familiar to her, ingrained in her very being, serving others, doing for others. Love others well? That, she can do. Provide a loving home that grown children would always be drawn to? That, she can do. Cook countless meals that gather her family in a spirit of thanksgiving and fellowship? That, she can do.

It’s been many years since my grandmother passed away, a loss I still feel sharply at unannounced moments. The large, extended family gatherings at Thanksgiving haven’t happened since her death.

Several weeks before Thanksgiving this year, I issued an invitation to all of Grandma’s children, their children and their children. I wanted to re-create the Thanksgiving that Grandma had provided for all of those years, happy memories that followed me into adulthood. It was with surprise, and pure delight, that all but a few were able to make the trip to our home. The family that had slowly grown to twenty members in my grandparents’ home had now multiplied to well over forty, thirty-eight of which would dine around our tables on Thanksgiving.

I gathered many of the handwritten recipes given to me by Grandma, and passed them around to various family members. For a brief, wonderful moment, the desserts and casseroles brought to the dinner by all made me feel as though Grandma might be in the next room. Laughter was the background to the stories; love the foreground to the fellowship. It was just as I remembered our family.

Grandma may have been absent in body, but I know her spirit was present. It was a reminder to us all, that by striving to love others, to serve others - just like my sweet, Grandma - we, too, can do.

I CAN DO all things through Christ, who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13

I'm Thankful

2010-11-25T06:41:00.014-05:00

- I’m thankful for my children who love me unconditionally even with morning breath, grey hair, and wrinkles.

- I’m thankful to be able say that I never enjoyed New Kids On The Block.

- I’m thankful that my husband is my best friend and willing to pull out the innards of a turkey while I gag dramatically in the corner.

-I’m thankful for friends who love our family like their own.

-I’m thankful for heavy duty concealer, miracle denim and good hairspray.

-I’m thankful for the belly laughs Junior Cotillion provides for me and my husband. (Anyone up for a game of "slaps"?)

- I’m thankful for our home and the absence of construction workers and port o' pottys.

-I'm thankful for those who read our family's nonsense on Joni's Joy.

-I’m thankful for Walt Disney.

-I’m thankful that I was never tricked into buying the skinny jean.

-I'm thankful for the joy God continues to show me every day, even when I am not looking.

-I’m thankful for the NOGS, who make me laugh harder than any group of people I know.

-I’m thankful that I only ever admired parachute pants from afar.

-I’m thankful for relatives willing to travel 9 hours to our home just to spend a few with their family on Thanksgiving day. I’m also thankful for the other 33 members who will travel 4 hours, 2 hours, and fifteen minutes, respectively.

-I'm thankful that as of two days ago, I no longer look like this:

-And most importantly, I’m so thankful for my relationship with Jesus, who makes all things possible, despite my glaring inadequacies and weaknesses.

And morning breath.

Before and After

2010-11-22T07:08:00.024-05:00

Renovations on our home began at the end of July. For twelve weeks, we lived as though in a refugee camp. All three children were displaced from their bedrooms to a small breakfast room containing a table and sectional sofa. Two slept on the couches while another slept on a single mattress on the floor. All of their belongings were moved to the dining room, stacked high in either moving boxes, or strewn on the dining room table as little hands grew impatient over the many weeks of living squatter-style, digging haphazardly through the items packed.

Among the dust and disarray, workers roamed in and out of our house, nodding their heads to the beat of hair bands from the 80's blaring from their radios. If you have not had your morning coffee to the sounds of Guns and Roses or Metallica, you have not yet lived.

The construction workers transformed our property into a makeshift office that offered all the usual comforts to those working nine to five.

They added a lavatory:

And a conference room:

A design room:

And a water cooler:

The results of the renovation bring everyone in our family joy, particularly to those who were able to crawl under sheets on a real bed after twelve uncomfortable weeks of sleeping in conditions that would have made those at child protective services very suspicious.

The house began as three bedrooms with an unfortunate laundry closet. It ended with four bedrooms, a playroom and a laundry room with steel doors to prevent dirty clothes from exploding into the streets.

Before:

After:

(Click on the picture above to enlarge to see the tomfoolery that prevents me from taking decent photos.)

Before:

After:

Before:

After:

Before:

After:

Vomitpalooza 2010

2010-11-07T06:28:00.002-05:00

The abundant joy one experiences in motherhood is immeasurable. It is a privilege and a gift to love all aspects and qualities of your wonderful, remarkable child.

But vomiting is not one of them.

This past week, the stomach bug hit the school my children attend. Cooties rained down on the heads of elementary school students, creating a storm of nausea in homes across our town only remedied by barfing.

Two of my three offspring fell victim to this virus. My oldest, Chase, escaped infection, mainly because I made him gargle with Purell hand sanitizer. We also locked him in a padded room for three days, which seemed to help our cause.

(Oh, I kid. He totally locked himself in his room in a voluntary manner. Halloween candy, ESPN center and thoughts of spending the $25 he won for the middle school costume contest kept him occupied until sounds of the puking ceased.)

I have been a parent now for twelve years and feel confident in saying that out of all of the viruses that have struck our home, this one was straight from the devil. Evidence supported by the manner in which my son, Chandler’s head spun around twice when trying to rid his nine year old body of the evil bug.

Chandler is a laid back, tenderhearted child who exudes kindness. He is mild mannered and obedient and loving to all. But somehow, the stomach bug transformed our easygoing child into a blonde-headed version of Damien.

Beginning at two o’clock in the morning, Chandler vomited every forty-five minutes, yelling, spitting and hissing incoherently as I held his head over a bucket with one hand and a crucifix with the other. This continued through the night until the sickness slowed enough so that we could exorcise him with large doses of Pepto Bismol.

Within twelve hours, Chandler was back to normal, a picture of health and sweetness that made me forget the evilness that had infiltrated his body. Particularly comforting was that after scanning his entire person, a birthmark of three numbers could not be found.

But we’re making him gargle Holy Water, just in case.

Potty Humor

2010-10-30T08:46:00.007-04:00

Inspiration can come from a variety of places. Marvel of God’s handiwork and creativity in nature, appreciation for architectural elements in various complex structures or admiration of detailed brush strokes in a painting are all examples one might ponder when looking to be inspired.

When in conversation with my oldest son, Chase, about the costume he would create for the middle school contest, I suggested that he consider his surroundings to generate some ideas. We were driving home from school as I pontificated about the ingenuity and imagination one can find if pausing to look at the environment for inspiration.

I pulled into our driveway – still using the excessive words with which my children are accustomed - when Chase excitedly exclaimed, “I got it! I know exactly what I’m gonna be for the contest!” pointing enthusiastically to the unfortunate object that stimulated his outburst.

A Port O’ Potty.

Prominently placed in our front yard for the past twelve weeks, it has held enormous interest for my three children. This breeding bastion of bacteria has been off limits to my crew, but attracts a fascination each time they witness someone using the facilities.

Once, Chase and his friend J, watched a worker enter the stall, and the two quietly crept to the outside door. They knocked on the door hard and then ran, arms and legs pumping faster as the heated profanity that emerged from the stall frightened them more than initially considered when planning the prank.

They didn’t do it again.

Chase joyfully prepared all week for the contest, spray-painting a wardrobe box yellow and adding all of the many extras that would correctly identify his creation.

My husband and I curtailed many of the typical eleven year old boy suggestions made - dropping tootsie rolls as he walked in the parade or allowing toilet paper to hang out the back of the costume – in an effort to maintain some sense of decency and decorum. An oxymoron that I assure you has not escaped either of us.

Much to our relief, the teachers at Chase’s school appreciated the potty humor, congratulating him on the originality of his costume. Chase had a great time during the event, except for one minor detail that he found frustrating. His friends kept knocking on the door of his creation, and then running off before he could open it.

Payback, in my opinion, and that of the unsuspecting worker, very much deserved.

Domestic Division

2010-10-26T18:15:00.008-04:00

There are certain domestic responsibilities that I do not participate in for a number of distasteful reasons. Established in our first year of marriage, without prenuptial agreements or contract negotiations, the division of labor in our home happened naturally. For instance, anything to do with the disposal of trash to the outside holds little appeal for me so I pretend that it is not a skill I possess. Likewise, emptying the dishwasher is not an interest of pursuit for my husband, so he feigns lack of proficiency.

For me, yard work brings about allergies, sore muscles and unnecessary damage to nail cuticles. For him, putting clean clothes into drawers defies all logic when it is clear leaving them in the laundry basket provides better accessibility.

I don’t understand how the noise of the vacuum cleaner presents such a deterrent for my spouse when the volume of the leaf blower he uses at every opportunity can be heard in outer space. He doesn’t get how the toilet plunger can be considered so difficult to operate by yours truly when I can defrost meat in the microwave while cleaning out the refrigerator and simultaneously engage in a three-way conversation on the cell phone.

Our systematic approach to household chores may not make sense, but somehow, fifteen years later, it continues to joyfully work. He is Manager of the Maintenance Crew, of which I am the only reluctant member. I am Head of Housekeeping, in charge of just one, whose tendency is to hide from me when given the chance.

A few days ago, I bravely, and somewhat spontaneously, decided to cross the domestic lines that have divided us for so long. Recognizing that my husband, John, had experienced a difficult week at work, I decided to lessen his load by taking out the trash to the outside bins.

Those bins were full so I changed directions and headed towards the yard art that has been sitting on our front lawn for the past ten weeks.

Unbeknownst to me, trash bags weren't necessarily designed to drag across pavement, down steps and then across a path made of sharp pebbles.

Apparently, the folks at Hefty never considered the lengths a wife will go to all for the purpose of helping her hubby.

Certainly, no concessions made by the trashbag manufacturers for someone who stepped from behind her vacuum cleaner in order to attempt the seemingly impossible.

And damaged a nail cuticle in the process.

Thick Skin

2010-10-21T08:29:00.004-04:00

I aspire to age gracefully. Embracing each year with open arms, not folded, with eagerness, not dread, demonstrates a zeal for life, a confidence in stature, that only comes with the experience and wisdom aging brings.

I don’t look the same as I did last year, and already changing for the mirrors waiting in the next. Photographs remind me that elasticity in skin is like a fading friend, lacking the loyalty necessary for longevity and support.

Mark Twain said, “Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been.” Most days I believe that I’ve earned the lines on my face honestly, laughing more often than not, leaving creases around eyes that speak truthfully of surrounding joy. Nevertheless, I wholeheartedly agree with Ninon de Lendos who observed, “If God had to give a woman wrinkles, He might at least have put them on the soles of her feet.”

Just when I think I am nonchalantly gliding through the maturing process, accepting with contentment current stage and age of life, my children poignantly –and bluntly - point out the changes that seem to take them by surprise. Not in an effort to hurt my feelings or make me aware of mounting flaws, but merely in that matter-of-fact tone of voice reserved for report of the unusual.

In a recent conversation with Chandler, our nine-year-old son, he stopped talking in mid sentence about his football card collection to stare intently at my eyes. He paused for a few seconds and then said, “ There sure are a lot of squiggles on your face.” Many of which he caused, I might add.

Mary Mac is fascinated with the various hairs that sprout from my person, a phenomenon that only werewolves would accept as normal. She has pointed out the fancy “fur” that grows in my nose, witnessed firsthand the removal of “coffee grinds” above my lip and more than once inquired about the reasons God would want “hairs to grow from those freckles on your face.” To be fair, I plan to ask Him that very same question at the pearly gates one day. (I also will track down Eve to demand restitution for PMS, birthing pains and monthly bloating.)

Feeling as though my hair color should match that of my runaway eyebrows, and beyond appropriate time to tame the grey, I had my hair darkened to its original tint. Arriving home with a look I thought was somewhat subtle, my oldest son, Chase, glanced in my direction, and said, “You look like you are wearing a black helmet.”

Knowing that a black helmet was better than one peppered with grey, I confidently responded, “This is my original hair color. God made me this way.”Not missing a beat, and in classic Chase manner, he retorted, “Well he made you just one pair of combat boots away from being a Goth. If you get a nose ring, you’re done”.

P.G. Wodehouse is credited with the following quote: “There is only one cure for grey hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.” I would like to add that this would also remedy squiggles, nose fur, female mustaches, and random hairs. As a bonus side effect, halitosis would be but a distant, offensive memory.

Despite ongoing annotations from my offspring about the gerontology aspects occurring right before their too observant eyes, the goal remains the same: I want to age with dignity and grace. Even if it means that in the process, through comments made and observations offered, I develop skin that is supernaturally thick, yet hangs a little loose.

Friday Night Lights

2010-10-17T07:24:00.008-04:00

The head football coach of the school my children attend conducted football camps over the summer. Both of my boys participated in a session and loved it. They came home with t-shirts and DVD’s highlighting the previous varsity season, as well as newly gained respect for the intensity necessary for the sport. Chandler received a bonus from camp – a Friday Night Lights invitation with the coach on the night of October 15th – his ninth birthday.

This date was set back in June when Coach A learned that Chandler would celebrate a birthday on the same date as the high school homecoming game. Not only did he issue the kind invitation, but he remembered the offer almost four months later as he detailed instructions about the night in an email to my husband.

On Friday night, we dropped Chandler off in front of the locker rooms where the coach was waiting. Timidly, he walked through the doors and into a well-muscled room where there were only a few familiar faces. He gawked at shoulder pad wearing boys who looked like giants compared to his own small stature. He closely examined the rituals of the quarterback, who shared not only the same birthday date but also big brothers with the same name. He witnessed pre-game preparation, spirited pep talk, lining up of the players, all moments bigger and more surreal than he could have imagined.

But the big moment was this.

Running onto the field among the black pants and spiked cleats, through the smoke and the tunnel, through the chants of the cheerleaders and the cheers from the crowd, that nine year old little boy in his mind was as big as the players that towered over him, as proud of the team as though he were an integral part.

My heart swelled as I watched my fellow puff out his undeveloped chest, pumping skinny little arms as he ran among the giants, my eyes stinging behind the camera lens as I followed the pure adolescent boy joy that unfolded before me.

I found myself drawn to the unfiltered happiness, that maternal magnet pulling me along after my offspring. I looked up from behind the camera, surprised to find that I was on the sidelines with the team. The coaches, the players, a nine-year-old boy and me.

“Mom, it’s not your birthday!” hissed my six-year-old daughter from behind the fence where I was standing. “GET OFF THE FIELD! IT’S EMBARRASSING!”

Still discombobulated about exactly how I ended up on the sidelines, I looked around in confusion. Should I pretend that I am the team photographer instead of mommy paparazzi directed by quivering womb? Maybe I could pass as the team medic if the heeled boots and sassy pocketbook hadn’t blown possible cover.

I finally caught the eye of my husband, standing next to our appalled daughter. With an imperative nod of his head to the right, I correctly interpreted the directive to remove myself from the sidelines and off the field. STAT.

Chandler experienced a night under Friday Night lights that he will long remember. The coaches, the players, the cheerleaders, the band, and the crowd contributed to the memories of a nine year old boy who celebrated a birthday like no other.

Despite his tag-along mom, with apron strings still strongly attached to the purple and white jersey.

Nine Is Fine

2010-10-15T15:52:00.009-04:00

Chandler is nine years old today. Typically, I melodramatically pontificate about how desperately I want the calendar pages to stop flipping or how I need for the days that rush by too fast to slow way down. Usually I whine about how I’m not ready to accept that another year has rapidly passed me by even though there was never a moment I wasn’t looking. Customarily, I whimper about the innate urge I have to curl up in the corner of my son’s bedroom and stare at him as he sleeps so I don’t MISS ONE MINUTE of the time I am given.

But I’m not going to do any of that.

I’m not going to be dramatic today about the impatience of Mr. Time and his hurriedness with the clock. I’m not going to ramble on about the memories that flood me of Chandler as an infant when that orthodontic smile awakens and realizes that this is the day he becomes nine. And I’m not going to open the albums that remind me of his chubby legs as a toddler, or the toothless grin as a preschooler, all the while listening to sad music that provides proper background for the ugly cry.

No, I’m not going to do any of that.

I will be happy about the progression of another birthday because he is. For his sake, not mine, I will celebrate the number of years that creeps towards the maternal kryptonite known as independence even though it has the power to bring me to my knees. I will join in wholeheartedly on all of the fanfare, knowing that his joy brings about my own.

I’m not going to be melodramatic about his birthday this year.

I’m not going to be dramatic.

I’m not.

Well, maybe just a little.

Happy birthday, sweet boy. You bring us so much joy.

Love,
Your melodramatic, but well-intentioned mom.

2010-10-07T06:27:00.004-04:00

All Manner Of Dancing

2010-09-27T17:49:00.007-04:00

He acted as though we were sending him to a hard labor camp typically reserved for either wayward juveniles who break the law or weary housewives returning home after vacation. The pulling of a rotten tooth, the removal of stubborn wax from ears, a shower utilizing actual soap would all have been preferable over the activity in which we were requiring our son’s participation.

Junior Cotillion. (Also known to adolescent boys as Junior Co-Kill-Ya)

Believing that reinforcement of nice manners and polite behavior is always a benefit, we enrolled our eleven-year-old son, Chase, in classes of a local chapter that would soon have him foaming at the mouth and requesting transfer into another family.

Personally, I couldn’t see how we could go wrong in an organization with the following mission statement:

To act and treat others with honor, dignity and respect for better relationships with family, friends and associates and to learn and practice ballroom dance.

I think that even Chase is okay with the first part of the statement, understanding from an early age that we expect him to behave in a manner that is respectful to others. It’s the second part that has him throwing a monkey fit on the way to each class, much like he used to do during his terrible twos.

Ballroom dancing does not register on the radar of interest for a sixth grade boy. I’m not sure it would interest me. But the lessons are included in the Cotillion program, and highly entertaining on shows like Dancing With The Stars, so how bad could it really be?

I pointed out to my son that athletes like Emmett Smith, Michael Irvin and Jerry Rice had all learned dances like the Fox Trot, the Waltz and the Cha Cha. He quickly responded that he was certain they “took a beating from their teammates in the locker room” because they danced too high on their tiptoes wearing pointy, jazz shoes.

Chase has now completed two sessions of the program. It brings me great joy to retrieve him from the end of each class, listening to him as he rants and raves about having to hold a girl’s hand – ONE THAT HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW – and lead her around the dance floor. “It’s torture,” he says every time. “It’s not fair. I really don’t think I can do it again.”

In the first session, Chase was required to fetch refreshments for several of the girls in his class, spilling pineapple juice on one – I MEAN, WHO DRINKS PINEAPPLE JUICE, MOM!? – and tripping over the daintily crossed ankles of another. He continues to have balance issues in the presence of females, although improvement was seen this past week as he managed to stay upright for the duration of the class.

I hope one day he will laugh about it all, like the well-mannered gentleman he is becoming, as he waltzes his bride across the dance floor, tall and confident.

I’ll be in the corner of the room, throwing a monkey fit about the unfairness of it all, wishing that we could do it all over again.

Last Resort List

2010-09-25T15:15:00.015-04:00

By resorting to the list below, I am admitting the following:

1. I am as behind on this blog as I am on the laundry. And grocery shopping, housekeeping and overall grooming. (I wear pants in 100 degree heat for a reason. )

2. Providing the usual details about recent events and using the usual excess words that sometimes makes my husband’s ears hurt is not going to happen.

3. If I were to do so, it may take me until next year to catch up on all that has occurred, a task so daunting it makes my overgrown eyebrows ache.

Like many situations in our lives, sometimes it is a good thing just to start all over again exactly where you are. The more we get behind, the harder it is to look ahead, a stagnant place that isn’t good for anyone. My wheels keep spinning; they just haven’t been taking me anywhere.

So, today memories comes in the condensed variety. Sort of a cliff notes version to help get me back on track of all things bringing joy.

1. The children started back to school. Just in time. Because the temperatures in our town reached an intensity that only the devil would enjoy,the last week of summer found us all inside together not only jumping up and down on each other’s nerves but wiggling around all under each other’s skin. Clearly, our annoyance with one another encompassed our entire anatomy.

All three look especially old in this picture, as if they could head off to college any minute. They still don’t take seriously my plans to home school them post high school years.

2. As if is not enough that I battle laundry piles that threaten to spill into the streets, we decided to take our chaotic house one level deeper. An ascension into total disorder and disarray that would make Dante’s Inferno seem like Disney World. We are renovating our home, which includes the addition of bedrooms and a laundry room while we live in said home. A decision that may prove to be regrettable as our family of five continues to to fight over one bathroom and sleeping arrangements that include piling children on top of one another like fire logs.

3. This one had his braces removed.

This one had braces put on.

This one continues to suffer from the indignity of it all.

My tag along friend, Mr. Double Chen, resents the attention stolen from him by the orthodontics.

4. My husband is convinced that the squirrels in our small town are retreating to his office to die. Because of keen investigative skills – and a stench that made his nose hairs fall to the ground – John discovered dead squirrels in the attic that had to be dealt with immediately. Unfortunately, the rodent removal occurred during office hours and in between patients. Doesn’t that make you want to make an appointment?

5. Football practice and games continue to unnerve me and make this child very tired.

6. My sedative prescription had to be increased because of repeated sightings of reptiles like this:

7. Some embrace the reptile nonsense. How can she be a child of mine?

8. But then I find a photo like this on my i-phone, taken without my notice by a precocious six year old, and I have no doubt that she belongs to me.

(As an ending side note: if the eyebrow lady ever asks if the hair above your lip is to be removed as well, the answer should always be yes.)

Block and Tackle

2010-08-28T18:32:00.002-04:00

His eyes were intense, his posture one of anticipation. The muscles in his quadriceps trembled slightly at the prospect of sudden, reluctant use. Would muscle memory kick in, summoning the mechanics necessary to properly execute the tackling technique? Or would advancing age and blown out knees betray him, leaving him in a cloud of dust created by the flip-flop clad opponent sitting to his immediate right?

Promises made to an eleven-year-old boy were sincere and full of good intention. Any effort needed to subdue the potential hysterics from the estrogen-filled half of the parenting unit could only be considered a worthy calling and noble cause. Through out the football game, an event that entailed the crunching of helmets and prepubescent grunts that are unnerving to all whom are maternal, the dad squatted uneasily in a three point stance beside the bleacher supporting his hand-wringing spouse .

“It’s a contact sport,” he repeatedly reminded his wife. “The players are supposed to hit each other with intensity and aggression. Laying someone out flat brings the coaches joy.”

“ It’s against all that is good and holy,” she often responded, in the same tone used when telling her oldest child how fun it would be to be home-schooled in college.

An ongoing conversation that always ended with the son pleading for the dad to intervene on his behalf during a game. “Block her, tackle her, do what you have to do to keep her on the sidelines where she belongs. You gotta do that for me, dad,” my son implored in the same tone used when he told us how not fun it would be to be home schooled in college.

So, the man sat tensely, ready to spring forward at the first hint that the mom might sprint onto the field to comfort the shoulder pad wearing boy that just yesterday had been a diaper wearing infant. The man’s running shoes held the advantage over the flip-flops, but her quivering womb edged out his momentum.

First quarter. Second quarter. Third, then fourth. The boy held his own while his dad held the back of his mom’s shorts. “He’s fine. See, he jumped right up after that play. Maybe you’re a motivating factor after all,” he stated while gripping tightly to her belt.

The game ended, the man’s quadriceps relaxed, the technique remained untested. Only ten more games to go.

Little Bites

2010-08-15T19:30:00.005-04:00

Please allow me a small break in the joyful summer recap I have been posting in supposed blogathon form to bring you a public service announcement pertaining to Little Bites.Don't buy them for your children. Not only are they addicting to all those under four feet tall, they will cause a feud at the breakfast table not seen since Captain Crunch offended munchkins everywhere by adding berries.

Each box contains only five packages. Divide that number between three children and suddenly the unfairness of mathematics makes them mad as well.

Our children came up with a method to curb the ongoing war pertaining to the mini muffins filled with ingredients that send shivers up a pediatric dentist’s spine. Each child would stake claim to a box, writing their individual names in bold letters that pronounce undisputed possession.

Mary Mac – our precocious six year old – took ownership one step further.

Not only does the box belong to her, but it absolutely, positively does NOT belong to her brother.

Fore!

2010-08-12T07:08:00.014-04:00

Many, many moons ago – about fifteen years’ worth – John and I often played golf together, a beloved hobby that fell to the wayside once reproduction of offspring began. We were newly married, with fulltime careers, and the weekends were ours for any activity of our choosing. We worked hard and played hard, enjoying all the freedoms available to lovesick newlyweds mercifully unaware of the abrupt manner in which our weekends would change in just a few, short years.

During those carefree, oblivious days, when we had more time on our hands than sense, we often met up with good friends, Kevin and Amy, for a round of golf. We played at all different kinds of courses, riding along in our respective golf carts, enjoying the sunshine and banter the afternoon would bring. Afterwards, we would dine at the closest Mexican restaurant, recounting the shots that ended up in the water (mine) or those closest to the hole (Amy’s). Cheese dip dribbled down our chins and margaritas down our throats as we laughed about the antics of the day, promising to meet up the next weekend to do it all over again. Golf. Sunshine. Laughter. Mexican food.

Life was good.

That first year of marriage found us living in Atlanta. I was a first year teacher, and John was in his second year of medical practice. We were the only DINKS of the neighborhood – Double Income, No Kids – and never quite understood the looks of longing from our neighbors as they wrestled double strollers up the steep hills or pushed the baby swing for hours on end because it was the only method that momentarily stopped the crying. John and I would happily jog by the other families in our neighborhood, waving and smiling with energy to spare, as we wondered aloud to each other about the dark circles under one mom’s eyes and the slumped shoulders of her worn out spouse.

“Don’t they know it’s Saturday?” we would say to one another. “It’s a beautiful day!” we would continue in our oblivious enthusiasm, blissfully ignorant of the sleepless nights endured by our neighbors or the bone weary feeling that comes with changing hundreds of diapers a week and playing peek-a-boo so many times your body parts are numb.

Clueless. It’s the only way to describe us at that time.

It would be several years before understanding took place, the scales falling from our naive eyes the moment our newborn’s wails kept us both up that first terrorizing night. Looking like deer caught in headlights, we would push our baby in the stroller, limply waving at our neighbors who couldn’t help but smirk that our bright-eyed and bushy-tailed appearances had been replaced with dark circles and slumped shoulders.

“Don’t you know it’s Saturday?” yelled one neighbor. “It’s a beautiful day!” continued another. Greetings well deserved as we stumbled home in t-shirts stained with regurgitated formula and refluxed baby slobber.

As much as we loved playing golf together, it was one of the first things to go when DINKhood was exchanged for parenthood. It was difficult to find the time to devote to the practice range or the four hours necessary for eighteen holes. Periodically, and in between call duty at the hospital or diaper duty at home, John would play with some of his buddies. Every once in a while, I would play nine holes with a friend while the children were at mother’s morning out. But, it never was quite the same as the happy-go-lucky days that defined our early years on the golf course.

Until now.

This summer we boldly ventured onto the golf course as a family of five. We loaded up two golf carts with four bags of clubs and a six-year-old, pony-tailed driver. It was a beautiful afternoon, full of laughter and joy that gave us a glimpse of the outings ahead of us on those manicured greens. Afterwards, we dined at a local Mexican restaurant, recounting the shots that almost hit Daddy (Chandler) and those closest to the woods (Chase). Cheese dip dribbled down our chins as we laughed about the antics of the day, promising to soon do it all over again.

Golf. Sunshine. Laughter. Mexican food.

Life is good.

Chase setting up the shot.

An arm cast was not going to stop him from swinging.

Happy Chandler

Pony-tailed driver and unsolicted photographer.

Mary Mac's photos of our backsides.

"Mary Mac! Are you playing with my camera?"

Still happy...

Sand traps are frustrating.

Actions shots by Mary Mac.

Daddy bravado.

Summer Recap

2010-08-11T08:04:00.003-04:00

It has been a full summer. A season that has gone by much too rapidly because of days filled with the celebration that comes with a long waited school break. . Household chores and responsibilities typically associated with duties as housewife and/or medical scut monkey in my husband’s practice fell to the last rung on that ladder known as priorities. It also seems that I have been so involved in making memories that I’ve neglected to record said memories.

For prosperity’s sake, I will be engaging in a blogathon over the next week or so to recap all that occurred while on an unintentional posting hiatus the last three months. To quickly summarize, there have been family golf outings that made Caddy Shack seem prestigious. With our closest friends, we managed to squeeze two beach trips into the summer calendar in the same manner that the brightly colored Cheese Whiz is compressed in a can. We have skied at the lake and sparkled on the fourth. The children enjoyed day camps that included art, cheerleading, basketball, baseball and football as well as overnight camp that entailed zip lines, white water rafting, and homesick letters.

The pool provided a lot of our entertainment in the form of swimming as well as temporary, chlorinated hair color changes to the blondes in our family. We have eaten breakfast when it should have been lunch and eaten supper when it should have been slumber. Rainy days found us in the movie theatres, 3-D glasses perched on our noses, to laugh at the potty humor of Shrek and the spy skills attributed to Cats and Dogs. The Karate Kid made us want to move to Japan until we realized the limited availability of swiss cake rolls and ranch-flavored Doritos in that region. However, that didn’t stop us from karate-chopping every object in sight or relentlessly adding “san” to the end of each of our names.

Our summer break has been just that - a break from schedules and routine, a break from anything typical. Memories made more than beds and vacations taken more than vitamins. It has been a great season for our family.

And one full of wide-open, wide-ranging, all-encompassing, all-inclusive JOY.

Grooming Joy

2010-08-10T10:06:00.002-04:00

Mary Mac's grooming has been a little neglected this summer....

Loving Laziness

2010-07-22T17:24:00.003-04:00

An abundance of activity peppered with sporadic productivity typically characterizes the environment in our home. The frantic hamster wheel, otherwise known as the calendar school year, rotates forward on some days at a manageable speed of controlled chaos, while on others it spins dizzyingly backwards, carrying us to the brink of bedlam. Running a busy household while admittedly running in circles is not a feat for the weak. Or for those terrified of rodents.

Summer days, however, are a stark contrast to the mommy madness that builds towards a hormonal crescendo as the school year mercifully ends. Granted, I always misguidedly begin the flip-flop season with good intentions. Ambitious projects that include organizing closets, cleaning out junk drawers and fumigating the playroom fall to more lofty goals like lounging by the pool, relaxing on the beach and playing infinite rounds of UNO.

The lazy bones in my body rejoice all summer. Out of hibernation they emerge, like a grumpy Mama Bear trapped in a domestic trance, demonstrating a languid and leisurely pace that makes Jabba the Hut seem hyperactive.

Summer time is lazy time. And it brings about great joy. All tasks that normally encompass my realm of responsibility fall drastically to the wayside.

Time to pay the bills? What’s the hurry, Mr. Utility Company? Threat of disconnection doesn’t concern me. Lack of telecommunications and lifestyle by candlelight is the glue that held the Ingalls together in the prairie.

Out of clean clothes? That can be remedied, small, dependent child, but it means all of the laundry mounds we have been jumping up and down in like a pile of Fall leaves will be but a distant memory.

What’s wrong with cereal for supper? As far as I am concerned, the Food Pyramid Police can keep their intimidation tactics and fancy posters to themselves. Our artificially colored preservatives can beat up your leafy, green vegetables any day of the week. And it doesn’t make us nearly as gassy.

Did we miss Sunday School again? Thankfully, grace covers us. There will be many jewels in your crown, Charles Stanley, for providing the Word via television, allowing us to faithfully watch while we ingest Cookie Dough Pop Tarts in mismatched pajamas.

I love laziness and it loves me.

But like that summer romance that lasted as long as the career of Milli Vanilli, the season will inevitably come to a dreadful end. Routine and responsibility will take the place of all things sluggish and slothful. Reasonable nutrition will again be considered. The washing machine will resume with its spiteful mediocrity. And the hamster wheel will be waiting.

But this year I’ll be running it in my flip flops.

Fireworks and Kickball

2010-07-11T14:51:00.032-04:00

Friends invited us to their home to celebrate the 4th of July with patriotic joy that included kickball, sparklers and fireworks.

Chase watching the fireworks with his dad.

Everyone loves sparklers!

Kickball!

Pretty girls playing cornhole:

St George Island

2010-07-11T14:51:00.023-04:00

Beach Joy - St. George Island, Florida

Smile please. Look natural. Yes, you have to hold her hand.

You can stop posing now. Yippee!

The Lighthouse - Smile, if your mom - or wife - is making you look like a cheesy tourist.

Spaghetti Tacos - influences from Icarly

Wiped Out

Beach Games - Football

Red Rover

Chandler's Sting Ray, with a little help from daddy.

Naptime

The Mamas

The Parents

"Has anyone seen the kids, lately? Where's Lambdin? Where's Mary Mac?" : )

Denial Isn’t A River In Egypt

2010-06-22T09:47:00.004-04:00

“Did you realize that you were almost hit by that car?” asked my friend, J, with a twinkle in her eye, suggesting that the near mishap in the parking lot didn’t come as any surprise. And it shouldn’t. Unaware and slightly scattered, I never once glanced at the car trying to park in the spot I hurried across, focusing more on my tardiness than utilizing any God-given sense.

To the outsider it would appear that fault lies with yours truly. A seemingly lack of intentionality and focus that can certainly cause the common mistake. As bold as it may sound, however, I am confidently transferring blame elsewhere, denying ownership of all calamities big and small, because I know that true accountability lies with the following disorder: Apathetic Alter Egos.

The multiple personalities that have taken residence in my person are downright lazy. If they would fulfill their duties every once in a while, I wouldn’t find myself in near the circumstances that leave the impression that I’m a bumbling idiot. Over the years, various identities materialized as coping mechanisms resulting from the varied antics of our household.

There used to be a time when the voice in my head echoed in solitary form. It was a calm place, with minimum noise, allowing for reasonable concentration and awareness based on individualized interests. I remember the introduction of that first personality, when the distinction was forever changed from singular to plural, beginning a shift that would split repeatedly in the fifteen years to come. It was on my honeymoon in St. Lucia, traveling to a remote spot by caravan to view a volcano. Upon reaching our destination, we parked in a very crowded lot, which seemed to have vehicles driving in random directions that only make sense in foreign countries.

As all the starry-eyed newlyweds exited the van, I became concerned about the congestion and how the haphazard parking might relate to the safety of the spouse that had only been mine for less than thirty-six hours. Focus was on him; unease concerted in his direction. All worry, anxiety, and apprehension intended for his well-being, precipitating an event I liken to the breaking of a pregnant woman’s water. Thus the birth of the first alter ego.

Because the new addition to my personality was in infancy, it was not quite ready to take on responsibility for me while it’s alter took responsibility for my spouse. So I never saw the van that hit me as I stepped directly in front of it. I was too busy telling my husband to watch where he was going, reminding him in a nervous Nelly voice that accidents can happen in the blink of a worry wart’s eye.

Luckily, the driver noticed my distraction- and my running mouth - and slowed enough that the impact didn’t knock me off my feet. The gasps from the unbelieving crowd witnessing the misstep, however, were enough to lay me out flat in humiliation.

Since that time, as roles and tasks increased tenfold in my home, additional personalities surfaced to help manage my growing family’s needs. Each supplementary identity seemed to be advantageous, multi-tasking collaboratively, assisting in duties helpfully all while maintaining household joy. But lately they have become a little too comfortable, a little more relaxed with expectations, demonstrating a lazy approach as it relates to assigned jobs. There’s been a slow mutiny of sorts among the many identities, attempting to further distract and disregard the authority to which they are subject.

For instance, while readying the children for church, the personality I refer to as The Stylist, provides shoes for me to wear as I exit our home. Only when I arrive to Sunday School will I realize they are two different colors.

Another alter ego I refer to as The Accountant has been particularly neglectful lately, forgetting to pay the electric bill for my husband’s medical practice. The power company calls my husband at work to inform him that there will be a suspension in service unless prompt payment is received. My husband then calls me to gently ask if I could pay the bill since his patients appreciate overhead lights.

The personality known as The Chauffeur has really been a disappointment as far as expectations are concerned. Finding car keys in the freezer after searching for forty-five minutes proves that organizational skills will soon need to be addressed. And on an additional occasion, The Chauffeur certainly could have spoken up when we were frantically looking for the keys only to discover them later in one of my clenched hands. Clearly, sub par performance.

There’s also the alter ego known as The Laundress, who spends entirely too much time blogging, talking on the phone and examining overgrown eyebrows in the mirror, to ever catch up with the laundry piles that spill over into the streets. Her best friend and cohort, The Housekeeper, never met a vacuum cleaner she liked or a toilet brush worth keeping. They stare back mutely when asked by my spouse what they were able to accomplish that day.

Finally, there is The Nutritionist, who unmistakably fibbed about her qualifications to feed a family of five. The distorted Food Pyramid she consults includes Cheetos as a dairy product and Cherry Coke as a fruit. She uses sugar like salt and preservatives like vitamins.

With the chaos that currently reigns among the personalities, I could almost despair over the loss of control if not for the chatter recently heard. Among the many voices in my head, I have been able to confirm that there is talk of the addition of a strong, persuasive personality to manage the staff of wayward, alter egos. This personality plans to implement a different standard of performance that fosters an environment of ignorance, pretending with supernatural confidence that the household functions fine –JUST FINE - despite inadequacies that suggest otherwise.

Her name is Denial. And she enjoys Cheetos washed down with Cherry Coke.

Some Things Are Worth Repeating

2010-06-20T13:05:00.004-04:00

Some things are worth repeating. This is one of them.

I Didn't Deserve You, But My Children Did.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. Years ago when we first met, I was wild and flighty; you were steady and so sure. My faith was on shaky ground, your feet were planted firmly. Two people could not have been more opposite, but by the grace of God, ended up with everything in common.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You never left my side during those unremitting hours of newborn terror. Neither one of us was all that capable, but your encouragement and confidence led me through those sleepless nights and fearful days when I was paralyzed by inadequacy. I became a good mom because you were a great dad.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You were immediately engaged and enamored with each of our children. It was an instant bond that came as natural to you as breathing, as instinctive as the beat of your generous heart. You simply could not get enough of them. Your patience and your pride allowed for endless rounds of patty-cake and peek-a-boo, then transitioning into hours of UNO and playing catch in the yard.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are a gifted and compassionate physician, with patient burdens I cannot comprehend. Your workload and schedule demands all of you, but you have never succumbed to the pressure. Starting your day extra early and working through lunch, you make it home for dinner with your family, and then tuck each child into bed with a heartfelt prayer, knowing that you will be up to midnight to work on charts that fell second place to your children.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. The way you look at our children cannot be manufactured or contrived, a mixture of love and wonder, amazement and joy. I never tire of watching you watching them. School performances and awards, ballgames and recitals, you always sit in the seat beside me, squeezing my hand with tears in your eyes, still so grateful that you are allowed the moment.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are my closest friend, my most trusted confidante. My love for you defies available words and still stuns me at its overwhelming capacity. The children unabashedly adore you, look up to you, and want to be just like you. And the dog thinks you’re the best.

I didn’t deserve you, but my children did.

Happy Father's Day,
Joni

Afternoon Chorus

2010-06-11T15:27:00.006-04:00

All areas of the house were being utilized. On one end, stationed under the coolness of the porch, Mary Mac quietly painted, enjoying a peaceful afternoon away from rambunctious older brothers.

At the other end, chaos and noise ensued, sounds that included yelling and splashing and all manner of horseplay.

To add an additional layer to the racket, the lawnmower joined in on the chorus of commotion that makes our household such a place of serenity.

I was not at all bothered as this pile of never ending nonsense muffled all of the noise.

And she never heard a thing.

There’s No Shame In Public Places

2010-06-04T08:08:00.005-04:00

I would like to lay the blame elsewhere. The culpability of friends, social contacts, or even Sunday School teachers who collectively play a role in overall influences would be preferable over accepting the responsibility as handed down through the deoxyribonucleic acids of their genetics.

Goofing off in public is a trait common in all three of my children. It is an inherited commonality, a direct derision from the Y chromosome of my better half. While most wouldn’t describe my personality as meek or unnaturally reserved, I can lay claim to an ability to draw upon appropriate amounts of decorum when in public places. The majority of my immediate family cannot, nor do they care to.

For as long as I have known my husband, he has tried to catch me off guard in public outings where laughter would be unbefitting for the normal. He considers it a personal challenge to disrupt the composure of yours truly whether it is in church, the labor and delivery room, a serious meeting or any other setting one does not desire out of place notice. As with any situation, attention is not given to the perpetrator causing the inappropriateness; instead, focus is aimed at the person giggling like a buffoon.

Therein lies my husband’s joy.

I first noticed this unfortunate trait in my oldest son, Chase, when he was two years old. I was standing in the aisle of a grocery store and Chase was sitting in the folded down seat of the buggy. My back was to my son as I scanned the shelves for the desired item, while another lady, only a few feet away, perused the ones opposite mine. We turned to our respective carts at the same moment, just in time for the cute toddler to look the stranger directly in the eye and say loudly, “ Excuse me lady, I pooted.”

Really, there are no words.

Recently, we celebrated the first day of Summer by going to an IMAX theatre to see the movie, Shrek. I gathered our concessions and walked towards our entrance where my three offspring were waiting in line for the movie to begin. This is what I found:

Surely, the Sunday School teachers are to blame.

A Letter

2010-05-29T11:18:00.005-04:00

Dear Atlanta Braves Baseball Players,

It was my son’s eleventh birthday. He wanted to celebrate the occasion by attending an Atlanta Braves baseball game with several of his friends. We purchased eight tickets for our group, a dozen or so rows behind home plate, giving as close of a view to their heroes as allowed by the puppeteers at Ticketmaster.

Arriving early to the stadium, our excited crew headed to the area around the Braves dugout, a location available to fans sitting in our particular section. With stars in their eyes, the boys watched the Players in batting practice, enthusiastically pointing out their favorites, voices becoming increasingly high-pitched in decibels only available to the prepubescent.

These young boys were the only group standing behind the dugout that hot day, waiting patiently for each Player to finish their turn at bat, to complete the drills that would render their arms sufficiently warm. Slowly, after completing the workout process, Players made their way back to the dugout, just a few feet away from the group of eleven year olds struck almost speechless in their adoration. I stood to the side with my camera, ready to capture the very moment a young boy catches the eye of his idol, a mutual recognition between big name Player and small statured fan.

Not a single identity escaped the memories of the boys lined at the back of the dugout. With pure, uninhibited joy, the boys called out the names of each hero as they made their way down the steps leading into the bat-lined abyss that little fellows begin dreaming about the moment that they hold their first peewee glove.

I had my lens perfectly focused, trigger finger ready, waiting for the exchange between Player and boy, hoping for a small wave, but realizing with each passing disregard, that they weren’t going to even offer eye contact. It was a separation of less than five feet, yet not one Atlanta Braves Player acknowledged any of the five boys. Not a single photo was taken as the top of a ducked player’s head does not a memory make.

The field emptied, and the Visiting team took its place. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I looked at the expressions of the disappointed group of boys who regarded each other in disbelief. “They didn’t even look at us,” I overheard one tell another. “And they knew we were there.”

In the 80’s, I grew up watching the Braves play in Atlanta Fulton Stadium. Our family of six often sat in the cheap seats in left field, tickets made instantly exclusive by its close proximity to Chief Noc-A Homa’s tent. As familiar as I was with the names and numbers of each player listed in the program, I became even more so because of the interactions that occurred at the end of each baseball game.

There was an area of the stadium referred to as The Tunnel. At the conclusion of each game, after showers and interviews, the players would walk through the tunnel that connected to the parking lot of their waiting cars. Fans lined the walls, greeting each Player as they made their way among the crowd.

I have vivid memories of those days that momentarily allowed the transition from Player to Person. I remember the boisterous personality of Bob Horner and the reserved one of Phil Niekro. I recall Jerry Royster routinely honking his car horn as he exited the parking lot, causing us all to squeal and clap in appreciation. I remember Dale Murphy talking to my dad, agreeing to an appearance at our elementary school carnival, scribbling his phone number on the white cardboard of a Twinkie wrapper found in the passenger floor of his Chevette. Glenn Hubbard was almost always the last Player to leave, signing baseball cards, church bulletins, and any other scrap of paper given to the beloved second baseman.

I was an ordinary little girl made into an extraordinary fan because the Players took a bit of time for me. A lifelong love of baseball was born in that Tunnel, and I have cheered for the Braves ever since.

Obviously, much has changed.

Frenzied fame and outlandish fortune have catapulted the Player to a plane that has difficulty coinciding with the normal. Times are considerably different, security concerns superseding those that are relational. Pursuit of privacy seemingly more important than appreciation for the public that placed them in said esteemed position.

But, those little boys standing behind the dugout weren’t asking for a personal conversation, or even a coveted autograph. Eager faces with orthodontic smiles hardly a threat to the towering athletes that passed them by. Sadly, because it is a different time, a different day, simple acknowledgement would have been enough for the birthday boy and his buddies.

A few moments after the field had cleared from batting practice, former Braves baseball star Brian Jordan, dressed in attire that suggested a more formal purpose in attendance, glanced in our direction. He may or may not have noticed the disappointment, the silence that had overtaken a typically animated bunch of boys, and walked directly towards our group standing forlornly at the dugout. He greeted each boy with that well-known smile and mischievously asked if any wanted a signed ball, penning a birthday greeting to my eleven-year-old son.

That lone signature, that solitary contact was enough for me to exhale deeply, relieved that my son was given a glimpse of what happens when a Player transitions into a Person, when exchanged appreciation for the sport prevails over the desire to be admired from afar. Our little group of boys took the whole experience in innocent stride, enjoying the rest of the baseball game as if the rejection at the dugout had not occurred, because, regrettably, they don’t know any better.

But I do.

And so should all of you.

Joni

Baseball Preservatives

2010-05-26T08:50:00.006-04:00

Little league baseball season can wreak havoc on a household, much like runaway eyebrows cause mayhem in my appearance.

All three of my children played on a team this year, creating a complication in schedules that would have made Mr. Rubik cry for mercy. Nightly practices intermixed with ballgames three nights a week presented a transportation and supervisory challenge to our family unit containing only two parents.

Often, I would watch one child at one field, while relying solely on the eyes in the back of my head to monitor another. Stationed at the third field was my husband, pile of medical charts beside him on the bleachers, catching up on the office notes cut short for baseball. It wasn't the most perfect of systems in place, but the best we could offer because we are simply outnumbered by the offspring.

Supper proved to be another issue during those nights that began at 5:00 pm and didn't end until well after eight. Our meals didn't come anywhere close to that smug food pyramid that makes every mom feel like a nutritional loser. Some nights it was a hotdog from the concession stand, and when we had reached reasonable quota of Oscar Mayer, it was a well-balanced combo of jumbo dill pickle with a side of Cheetos, filling stomachs that longed for a leafy vegetable.

My husband often rolled his eyes as I fretted out loud in the stands, while eating yet another bag of Doritos, that our children were only a few Flintstone vitamins away from baseball induced Rickets. (Mr. Concession Stand Guy, it could really help a mother out of if you would consider a few dairy products and maybe a banana or two in your selections next time. What's wrong with a glass of milk in between innings?)

Baseball season has joyfully come to a close, and we are slowly reintroducing vegetables to our dietary regime. It has been a methodical and purposeful process in order to counteract the onset of preservative withdrawals. And when the twitching and gagging does occur, we just offer a handful of Cheetos, waiting for the additive levels to stabilize, and start all over again.

(Sing to the tune of Take Me Out To The Ballgame)

It’s supper again at the ballgame
Time to eat with the crowd
Give me some Peptol and strong prozac
‘Cause my sanity may never come back
Let me root, root, root for some loose change
Concessions exceed my price range
For I’m one, two, three hot dogs out
From a gastronomic exchange.

2010 Baseball Season

2010-05-26T08:50:00.001-04:00

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Donkeys and Amigos

2010-05-19T20:08:00.002-04:00

By far, it was the laziest vacation ever taken. Our trip to the Sanctuary in Cap Cana, Dominican Republic, rendered me as peaceful as I have been since the disruption that occurred when learning the stork would not actually bring my first child eleven years ago.

We intentionally chose a resort with a laidback atmosphere and non-existent party scene. Disco queens in gold lame tube tops dancing around gold-chained fellows without rhythm did not seem relaxing to me. Funny and worthy of blog material, but not the tranquility I was seeking.

(Can you tell that yours truly is forty? Just so you know – I KILLED it playing bingo. I also came close to playing shuffleboard, but left my dark socks at home, making participation impossible. It was for the best, as the bursitis in my shoulder would have produced a sub-standard performance. )

During the five-night trip, my intentions were to rest, read and eat, all while laying in a lounge chair.

My husband’s objectives were a little different. For instance, he chose to exercise in the work out room every day, while I exercised my right to lay in a beach cabana.

He sought out fishing partners, hoping to catch an exotic fish passing by, while I sought out chair cushions, hoping to catch the eye of a waiter passing by.

He deliberated over Spanish phrases to use with the Non-English speaking staff, while I deliberated over the best horizontal position that would still allow me to eat.

(As a side note, my good intentioned husband accidentally called the man below a donkey. Because the Dominican Republic are a good people, and are very forgiving of the silly Americans, Raul ended up loving my husband despite language inadequacies.They are BAF - best amigos forever.)

Regardless of our different approaches, a good time was had by all. We arrived safely home to the family who brings us so much joy.

However, it has been difficult to embrace the upright position.

Turning Forty

2010-05-12T19:06:00.001-04:00

Turning forty ended up not being as bad as I had anticipated. It wasn’t near the emotional catastrophe envisioned or as devastating as the crows feet predicted. Even the metal in my mouth didn’t cause the slightest pause in overall joy yesterday, an orthodontic miracle most likely to not be repeated.

For the first time in my adult life, I turned another year older in a tropical destination. And not just any age, but one that in my eyes is quite monumental and one that, admittedly I have been dreading.

FORTY.

While the ocean views and tropical breezes certainly aided my cause, I realized yesterday as I sipped a fruity drink with decorative umbrella garnish, that four decades was just a number, that this age couldn’t define who I am or even categorize me in a certain group that favors comfortable walking shoes over sassy . In fact, stopping to consider the realities of all that entails four decades, I decided that there are worse things than turning forty…

Forty Things Worse Than Turning Forty

1. Grown men who wear parachute pants
2. A tube top of any kind.
3. A fanny pack of any kind.
4. Haircuts that are business in the front and party in the back.
5. Restricted access to underwire.
6. Those who wear dark socks with shorts
7. Potty training.
8. Being told “You‘re too late for the epidural.”.
9. Check writers with 40 items in the 15 item line
10. Parentheses mark between eyebrows.
11. The skinny jean.
12. Hormones of a teenage girl.
13. Athlete’s Foot
14. A McRib sandwich
15. College kids who call you ma’am.
16. Adult braces
17. The movie Xanadu
18. Anything having to do with Paris Hilton
19. Hair growing from unnatural places.
20. Nair
21. Potted meat
22. Irritable Bowel Syndrome
23. Eyebrows that cannot be tamed.
24. Carpool line
25. Using a Port-A-Potty in hot temperatures.
26. Karaoke involving selections by MC Hammer
27. Music Videos of Menudo
28. Blue lights in the rear view mirror
29. Post pregnancy incontinence
30. Halitosis
31. Keeping up with backpacks and permission slips
32. Keeping up with the Jones’
33. Any song by Wham
34. Pap smears
35. Jean Nate perfume
36. Commenting on the pregnant stomach of someone not pregnant
37. A spiral perm
38. One-ply toilet tissue
39. Piano Recitals involving 50 children
40. Turning FORTY-ONE.

The Caribbean......

2010-05-11T19:18:00.003-04:00

.....makes turning forty a little more joyful and a lot more tolerable. That, and the fruity drinks with the fancy umbrellas.

He Looks Like Him

2010-05-01T16:48:00.003-04:00

Before my first child was born, I often imagined what he would look like. There wasn’t a day that went by during my pregnancy that I didn’t analyze the various genetic possibilities, sort of the same way my cravings for fat grams led me to explore every combo meal at Taco Bell.

Would he look like me, with dark hair and unruly eyebrows that have a tendency to point rudely at others? Or like his dad, with kind eyes and longer eyelashes than should be allowed to the male species? Would he have my elongated limbs and curious body shape, resembling that of a circus monkey on bad days and an off-balanced giraffe on the good? Or maybe he would have my husband’s cheekbones and perfectly shaped mouth, minus the strange puffing noises often emitted during slumber?

Our respective sides of the family decided the matter for us the moment our son, Chase, was born. “He looks just like a little John!” declared my mother-in-law, a radiant joy on her face as she peered at her first grandson. “This baby is the spitting image of Joni!” exclaimed my own proud mom, holding the infant tightly wrapped like the many double stuffed burritos eaten during the nine months of consumption that ridiculed caloric quotas.

Throughout our son’s eleven years, opinions have differed where his appearance is concerned. On any given day, this compassionate and funny little boy can be told that he looks like one of us, both of us, or neither of us. Ongoing discussions about the likeness of Chase - who is as quick with his wit as he is with a kind word - has been a common topic regarding a child who is anything but.

Over the last eleven years, and despite familial debate, I’ve finally come to realize that Chase doesn’t most resemble his dad. And he doesn't look exactly like me.

Without a genetic doubt, my oldest boy looks the most like Him.

Happy 11th birthday Chase! Your age makes me feel old, but your joy makes me all that much younger. Use your heart for others and your humor for good. Know that you are more than I – or any genetic possibility – could have reasonably predicted.

Now please tie your shoes.

All my love,
Mom

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful,
I know that full well. Psalm 139:14

2010-04-28T17:37:00.005-04:00

Medicine and Moonshine

2010-04-25T19:36:00.004-04:00

Patients used to bring my husband pound cakes as tokens of appreciation. Lately, they have been bringing him moonshine.

There isn’t much that surprises my spouse when behind closed doors of the exam room. But, for the first time in his fifteen years of practice, the gift offering of illegal liquor stumped him for a few moments.

“I made it myself,” the proud patient joyfully explained as he handed over the homemade booze in canning jars decorated with dainty fruit. “Go on and taste it, Doc. You’ll love it.”

Not wanting to offend the well-meaning patient, but wanting to avoid ingesting possible impurities even more, my spouse slowly undid the top of the jar to take an appreciative whiff of the man’s bootlegging talents. John inhaled both jars, one labeled “P” for peach-flavored and the other “W” for white lightening.

And after the smell taste was finished, all of the hairs in my husband’s nose dropped to the ground.

John’s grandfather was a country doctor many years ago, during a time when freshly laid eggs could be exchanged for stitching a freshly cut lip. Canned preserves offered on many visits when Georgia peaches were more abundant than the state dollar. Patients never arrived empty-handed, whether it was produce or livestock, payment or gift, acts of goodwill and kindness that kept the small town Doc in business.

The ingenuity of the patient has not wavered, even some thirty years later, as testified by the distilled liquid given in the office. While a little unconventional – and a whole lot illegal - the thoughtful gesture behind the moonshine was appreciated just the same.

And the inside of my husband’s nose looks all the better for it.

Small Town Charm

2010-04-21T07:38:00.003-04:00

I didn't expect to love our small town as much as I do. Moving to this community was somewhat of an unexpected detour off of the steady path we had so painstakingly plowed. At the time, it was difficult to understand the purpose behind our transition, to accept a new life when all we really wanted was the old.

God's view was bigger:

While we were only given a glimpse,
.

the dim lights slowly brightened to reveal a little more of the picture.

Small town life suits us well. It is a place where the children's choir in your 100 year old church can still make the adults cry.

And where every Saturday the best entertainment in town is found on the peewee baseball field with all of your neighbors and friends.

It is a place where after school treats can be enjoyed in the quaint bakery downtown,

where you are greeted warmly by your first name and given your favorite strawberry cupcake before it is requested.

I love this small town and all of its charm and beautiful sights.

Well, maybe not all of them.

Expect More, Pay Less.

2010-04-18T15:36:00.003-04:00

I was involved in a little incident this past week. Each time I embark on a day trip to Atlanta, it seems as though trouble seeks me out, sort of like my nemesis, Mr. Double Chin, turns up uninvited in all of my photos.

A misunderstanding with the law occurred the last time I ventured across the Perimeter, an area inside I-285 that offers endless retail joy. That episode of miscommunication between the grumpy police officer and me resulted in a fine that still makes my pocket book visibly quiver and dysrythmic palpitations to my husband’s heart.

While the occurrence in which I was involved didnt entail intimidating law enforcement, it did include the closest thing to it.

Target Security Guards.

They are tougher than you think. Their logo – a red bulls eye – is not as friendly as the red shirt and jolly name tag would suggest. After my experience, I am fairly certain that the Target Security Team boasts military backgrounds with supplemental training on handling pricing guns with accuracy.

It was a two-story Target, complete with escalators, elevators and an attached parking garage. The enormity of the store was a little overwhelming, which led to a scattered approach in shopping that quickly wasted the remaining minutes available before my rushed return to carpool duties.

Hurrying through the checkout line with the pitiful two items purchased, I headed to the store cafe for a diet coke. As I filled my cup with much needed caffeine, I calculated the time it would take me to return home, worrying if I would make it in time to retrieve my three children from school.

I hastily turned to a side glass door that led to the parking garage. In my distractedness, I failed to notice the red lettering that identified the exit as one for emergencies. As I opened the door, screeching alarms and flashing lights momentarily stunned all shoppers and employees in the store. Every eye turned in my direction, the lone figure with one hand still on the door, the obvious source of all disorder and disruption.

Standing somewhat off-balanced in sassy wedge shoes, I confronted the swarm of security guards moving steadily in my direction. In an attempt to lighten the moment, and disarm the serious scowls from the faces of the Target Team, I said, “Should I get down on the ground?”

No one laughed.

“Please step away from the door,” said Target Security Guard #1, holding a walkie-talkie in one hand and the other precariously close to his pricing gun.

“We’ll need to see your shopping bag and receipt for proof of purchase,” continued Target Security Guard #2.

Somewhat shocked to find myself in a situation that labeled me as a potential criminal, I shakily handed over my purchases, all the while explaining how a normal, law abiding citizen might wander through a door clearly labeled for emergencies.

“Here’s the thing,” I began, watching the T-Team rummage through my plastic bag, “I’m in Atlanta to shop because there isn’t a Target where I live and I wasn’t paying attention when leaving because I was concerned that I would be late picking up my children and that would result in the headmaster giving me the evil eye while possibly causing my children to have to attend therapy for child abandonment issues so I walked through that door because I was in a huge hurry and not because I would ever steal anything or want to cause a public commotion because that is just plain embarrassing and who would purposefully do something like that?’’

Big breath.

The run-on sentence didn’t register with the guards because they were too busy smirking at one another over the contents of my bag, mercifully validated by the receipt found inside.

“You drove all the way to Atlanta for these two things?” asked Target Security Guard #1. He laid the offending items on the table beside him.

Baseball cards and one pack of Reese’s Cups.

“Really?” asked Target Security Guard #2.

I didn’t say anything in return as I had already used all available words in the previous exchange. As I stared at them blankly, Guard #1 told me I was free to go and to enjoy the rest of my afternoon.

I picked up my items and turned to leave, only taking a few steps towards the exit when I felt a meaty paw on my left shoulder.

“Ma’am, I don’t think that you want to go in that direction. Remember? That door is for emergencies only”.

A cackling from their walkie-talkies diverted their attention from my continued ignorance and summoned the guards to their next mission.

Twirling their pricing gun on two fingers with more confidence than store management should allow, the Target Security Guards smoothly reholstered their retail weapons and sauntered off towards the aisles in the wild blue yonder.

Sporks, Forceps and Shovels

2010-04-13T18:19:00.002-04:00

He is exactly the personality type that one should want for a doctor. Deliberate and systematic by nature, it is John’s attention to detail that renders him a thorough and gifted diagnostician.

(I say this with complete bias and without a hint of objectivity.)

However, these very same traits, as demonstrated in various arenas outside of my husband's profession, bring me endless joy. Whether it is his concentrated efforts when cutting the grass, or engineer-like approach when building a tree house, the methodology used in all endeavors makes me chuckle in delight. While some (my husband) might say that these anal retentive quirks cause me to laugh AT him, there are others(me) that claim I am totally laughing WITH him.

I’m just waiting for his participation.

In preparation for an upcoming fishing trip, my husband carefully prepared a type written list of those items necessary for a weekend with a few of his buddies. On Friday morning, I watched as he packed those supplies as determined by the inventory created the previous night. Consulting his list with pencil behind ear, the backpack slowly reached its capacity as John checked off the items intended for his fly-fishing excursion.

What he didn’t intend, however, was for said list to find its way into my blogging hands. A rare misstep on the part of my husband, the piece of paper evidently dropped haphazardly to the floor upon his departure, only to be discovered by yours truly.

Let it be known that for a few quick seconds, I considered throwing the list into the trash can.

Until I noticed the check boxes.

And remembered how he ignored the snake that could possibly eat me alive in his absence.

I instantly felt justified.

Perusing my husband’s weekend list, it struck me how different we are from one another. For starters, the word “tent” at the top of the list had me at goodbye. I don’t enjoy setting up camp and sleeping in the outdoors. My idea of camping includes a lounge chair by the beach, camp songs sung by a Mariachi Band, followed by slumber on a pillow-topped bed. In my humble opinion, when one is “roughing it” they are referring to resting on sheets with a thread count of less than 400.

And then, there is the issue of the bathroom. Or lack thereof. Packing a shovel for toiletry needs is barely something I can even write about, much like expounding on the hair found on my upper lip by an esthetician with bionic-like eyesight is a subject still untouched. Certain things really are best left unmentioned.

There were also items on John’s list that proved we speak different languages.I haven't the foggiest notion of the meaning of "hydros" and the words "Tippett and leaders" could only be referencing characters from the Muppet Show. And who knew that "forceps" were necessary when fishing? I know he used them during medical residency, when delivering a few babies, but can't possibly think how they could be beneficial in the streams.

(Speaking of baby deliveries, and of streams, it is very important to wear booties over brand new shoes when in the vicinity of a woman in labor.I'm not saying that this happened to my husband, or that his shoes squeaked for days from all of the fluid. I'm merely offering it as a hypothetical warning.)

Clearly, all of John's planning and orderly packing resulted in a successful fishing trip.

Good times were had with his friends, Jon and Chas, as all worries and responsibilities were temporarily left behind.

But there was still this little matter to address when he arrived back home.

Surely, the forceps will be of help. If not, I hear the spork can be quite lethal.

Swallowed Whole

2010-04-09T14:21:00.004-04:00

I was minding my own domestic business. Sitting on the floor in my bedroom and sorting through a mound of laundered socks that seemed to lack a significant other, particularly since said cotton companion was most likely on the ground next to the trampoline or abandoned in the neighbor’s yard, I haphazardly glanced towards the window in front of me.

The Holly Tree outside my window appeared to have a branch that was mobile. I blinked my eyes, hoping that what I was seeing wasn’t true, sort of the same way I wish that the parentheses marks between my eyebrows were non-existent, but even the best prescriptive bifocals couldn’t correct the horror show I was facing.

A big, nasty snake with creepy, scaly skin that made my own crawl was looking directly at me through the window. Unrecognizable noises erupted from my lips and my hands began to involuntarily flutter as I encountered a creature that is just plain wrong. Unknowingly, I spun around in a few circles before good sense finally took the place of the bad.

With my eyes never leaving the reptile, I backed slowly towards the phone and dialed the number to animal control, a number that also coincidentally summons my spouse.

My husband answered the line in his office. Skipping pleasantries, I yelled, “You have to come home quick! There’s a giant snake – a BOA CONSTRICTOR - and it’s right next to our house!”

Replying in that irritatingly calm doctor’s voice that has potential to cause my head to spin right off of my body, he responded, “Considering that the Boa Constrictor is primarily found in deserts and tropical forests - places ranging from Northern Mexico to Argentina - I doubt very seriously that a Boa has taken up residence next to our home.”

Speaking as though he were Jack Hanna joyfully educating a TV audience filled with curious boy and girls instead of his very freaked out wife, I replied that I was not looking for information about the life of the snake. In fact, I was calling to see how we could bring about its rightful death.

It’s not as though this were the first time we have had difficulty with critters. We’ve had a phantom skunk in our basement, a wayward bat hanging in our window treatments, a spastic bird in our den, a family of frogs in our mailbox and a herd of aggressive deer residing in our front yard.

Clearly, it should come as no surprise to my spouse that a BOA was lurking outside the bedroom window.

In an even, composed tone that only served to incite my own, my husband asked me to describe the terror before me. After ciphering through descriptions like “big enough to eat me and my three children” and “slimy, black monster sent by Satan”, John determined that the evilness causing such distress was a black snake. He further elaborated, “That’s the kind of snake we want around to kill other bad snakes and rodents. It’s a good snake.”

“Really? A seventeen-foot long reptile with teeth and scales and a slithering tongue is a good snake?” I countered in a high-pitched voice that caused our Labrador to howl. “In my opinion, the only good kind of snake is a dead kind of snake.” Over the phone line, I could hear my husband rolling his eyes. It was that loud.

The oddity of the situation, and all others involving the unwelcomed creatures we’ve experienced, is that it’s not like we live in the country or the jungle where animals are welcomed to roam freely. We live in a neighborhood, in a very developed part of town, with actual running water, inside toilets and working electricity.

My husband did not come to rescue me from the snake that day as sick patients took precedence over hysterical housewife. A priority he will sorely regret one day when the thing swallows me whole.

Artwork In Church

2010-04-04T19:51:00.006-04:00

For a six year old, sitting through an hour long worship service on Easter can be difficult. The sermon can be somewhat lengthy and a little more advanced than can be typically taken in by a kindergartner.

I looked over at my daughter, quietly drawing as the pastor spoke, and was pleased to see that while she was not intently listening, the overall point was understood.

My heart was full of joy as I looked at the picture that represented the theme of our church service, the very message expounded on by the preacher, the exact reason we could celebrate in the midst of a week full of sorrow.

After the service, I asked Mary Mac about the picture drawn in church. "Why did you draw a tongue ?" I inquired, thinking that maybe my litle girl thought that Jesus was sticking it out at the devil. Makes sense, considering that He was about to defeat death.

Looking at me as though I didn't understand anything, she responded, "Mom, that's what you look like when you die. But don't worry, Jesus doesn't look like that anymore. Because He's alive."

Indeed, sweet child.

He is alive indeed.

Happy Easter

2010-04-04T19:46:00.005-04:00

Easter Joy:

No Fear In Death

2010-04-02T07:50:00.004-04:00

I write about joy. Sometimes it is contagious joy that erupts from the gut and sometimes it is a barely there smile that leaks from the heart. Regardless of the form, I seek the light that comes from joy in most moments with an intentionality that strives to hold at bay the dreaded fall into the dark.

It is a daily practice, a honed discipline, a concerted effort born from a season of difficulty. Some days are harder than others to capture the seemingly elusive joy, and quite frankly, this week finds me struggling to hold onto what I can.

The young are dying. Just this week, one husband has passed away and another with little children seems to be on that same journey. A human concept of unfairness and unjust timeliness that can astound and paralyze, all the while trying to respond by creating in our own lives a safe and happy home.

But this isn't our home. It was never meant to be.

We toil away our days gathering earthly comforts to solidify our importance and our existence . Somehow believing that we can protect our family from the inevitable, misguidedly attempting to control what has been promised to occur. Ironically, seeking security in this life that will only leave one with feeling more insecure.

For the past few months, I have read detailed accounts or been personally involved with the two young men facing death with the most faithful of postures. Shoulders squared and standing tall, they confronted frightening illnesses with a courage and a hope that few will understand completely until physically facing the experience of final days.

And they did it with joy. The kind that comes from knowing Christ and fully embracing and looking forward to the long awaited reunion. Only wavering a bit when thinking of the sadness that will be left behind, but even then, with an all-surpassing peace that assured others of the Source that provided such confidence.

In an email written only a week ago, my friend who is in the final stage of his illness, said this to me:

"Don't be sad for me, Joni. I'm going to paradise."

I'm not sad for him because I know he will travel to a place that is perfect beyond comprehension. But I am sad for his faithful and courageous wife. I'm sad for his three young children. I'm sad for his family and loved ones. And I'm sad for me.

However, I find comfort that lives were changed in the process. Priorities re-examined during witness to the pain. Perspectives of purpose aligned closer to the only will that matters. Hope held onto because the fear of death was defeated on a wooden cross.

These two young men - husbands, sons and friends - approached their days here as a temporary visit on their way towards an eternal home. To paraphrase what was so succinctly and truthfully written by the young and faithful new widow of one: the love for their God outweighed their love for life.

And that helps me again find my joy.

Living With Big Brothers

2010-03-26T09:29:00.008-04:00

She was playing so nicely. Independent and imaginative, Mary Mac joyfully gathered Ken for a play date with a few of her Polly Pockets. Barbie refused to participate in the fun until Ken agreed to get a haircut. She has very high standards.

Polly soaked up a few rays while Ken set up the beach paraphernalia. He is not happy that he has to do all the work. Sweat is not good for synthetic hair.

Before he finishes, Ken realizes that the pool is empty . Mary Mac leaves the room for a large cup to provide the missing water.

"Mooommmyyyyy!" Independent play is interrupted by shrieks of outrage.

"Look what they did!" More wailing and gnashing of teeth by the six year old.

Mary Mac's brother - who has requested anonymity- accessorized the tranquil pool scene with a pair of his underwear.

In a huff, Ken leaves in search of a shirt and a place for a haircut.

Where The Sun Doesn't Shine

2010-03-17T22:54:00.002-04:00

It took me weeks to make the appointment. Numerous phone calls were made but never completed, pressing the off button as soon as I heard the voice of the receptionist. Clearly, not the nicest of manners demonstrated but somehow, wrongly justified by the self-induced phobia from which I suffer.

Undergoing a tooth extraction or removal of an appendage seemed preferable over the yearly screening that examined all available epidermis. An experience that never fails to disrupt my sense of modesty, it is one that has to occur due to unfortunate skin type and progression of a condition known as delusional paranoia.

The last few visits to the dermatologist occurred while living in South Carolina. On those visits, I disrobed down to undergarments, despite repeated instructions that the physician preferred patients in their birthday suit under the drafty, open-backed gown. Although I complied each time, I did so with my eyes tightly shut, wondering how in the world the doctor could talk about mundane topics like the weekend weather and tasty crock pot recipes, all the while examining personal parts of which only God should be aware.

(My husband, John, just interrupted my blogging to inform me that skin is the largest organ in the body. It reminded me a little of the whiz kid in the movie Jerry MacGuire who knew the weight of the human head. Except John is a grown man. And spits out scientific facts because he cannot help it.)

Since moving across state lines, I have dreaded the inevitable appointment with a new physician, with new eyes, with new topics to endure during an examination. After succumbing to the ridiculousness of the unintentional prank calls made to the dermatologist’s office, I finally scheduled the visit that always finds me desperately praying for the return of Jesus before the doctor enters the exam room.

On the day of the appointment, I sat anxiously in the reception area, mentally preparing myself for meeting a colleague of my husband’s in the buff. It did not escape me that I was blowing the impending interaction completely out of proportion, as though my nudity were a blip of concern on his clinical radar, but the aforementioned condition prevented me from responding like those considered reasonable.

The nurse called my name and led me to the exam room. She handed me a flimsy, see-through gown and instructed me to unclothe down to bra and underwear.

Huh?

“Excuse me, “ I said to the retreating back of the nurse. “ Are you sure I shouldn’t remove, um, well, you know, everything?”

“That is not necessary,” the nurse responded with a raised eyebrow and a questioning look as though I were some floozy patient just dying to get naked.

Don’t get me wrong - on any other occasion I would have been thrilled to keep my stuff covered and all to myself . It’s just that experience would suggest that going commando was standard of care in the dermatologist’s office and I had prepared for such. Said differently, I had not planned for the doctor to see my underwear and had unwisely opted for comfort over cute.

There is some colorful history with these underpants. They are leftover from maternity days - the kind every female loves but pretends that they don’t own. Uncommonly bulky and elastically challenged, yards of cotton provide a roominess that can only be described as joyfully comfortable.

In a panic, I texted my husband at work.

Me: “uh-oh.”

John: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “You know those u-wear you hate?”

John: “The ones I threw away?”

Me: “I saved them. And I’m wearing them. And Dr. C is about 2 C them.”

John: “Just take them off. You have on a gown, don’t you?”

Me: “Yeah, but he’ll think I’m a perv."

John: “Better than thinking you are Baby New Year.”

A sudden knock at the door made the decision for me. Friendly and easy going, Dr. C introduced himself and told me how much he admired my husband. I wanted to say that I hoped poor choice in underwear would not adversely effect his opinion of my spouse, but knew that there really were not enough words to protect against the cloth-like diaper he was about to behold.

Without going into the embarrassing details of the exam, suffice it to say that it took extra effort to clear away all of the fabric to thoroughly examine the area where the sun doesn’t shine. While he smiled throughout the ordeal, and acted as normally as could be expected while drowning in stretched-out cotton, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, speaking of the significant task endured.

I recounted the experience with my friend, Beth, over lunch today. After she stopped laughing at my undergarment faux pas, she said, “Well, you know what you need to do on your next visit, dont’ you? You’ve got to wear some really fancy underwear so that the dermatologist at least understands that you know better.”

But, I can’t do that. I’m not even sure that I can return to an office that probably refers to me as PWBGP - Patient With Big Girl Panties. So, I’ve already started my round of hang-up calls to various offices of dermatologists in the hope of securing another appointment by the end of the year.

In the meantime, I have been unable to find the worn-out underwear that caused such distress for me and a hard day‘s work for my doctor. I suspect that my husband might have actually followed through with his ongoing threat and dumped them ceremoniously into the nearest trash can.

Either that, or handed them over to Baby New Year.

2010-03-14T19:43:00.007-04:00

2010-03-10T16:33:00.011-05:00