Bones, a Wild Boar and a 25 Foot Chicken

Note: I've been trying to get this posted since July!

I don't normally get a vacation in the summer. Sure, I get a few days off from school when I'm not answering panicked emails about IEPs or schedules, but a full on, pack your bags, stop the mail, unplug the coffee pot, and lock the door behind you vacation, not very often. Since The Hubby is a medical administrator there are days he has to be on site. Add the on-call days where he has to stay close and his vacation window gets pretty narrow. Plus, the kids are all on different schedules, so coordinating anything with them is worse than trying to get worms to lie in a straight line. Needless to say, while everyone else gets to post pictures of the beach or the mountains and regale us with their adventures in line to see giant cartoon characters, I continue to battle the mosquitoes and weeds in my own backyard.

Occasionally, the beginning of the school calendar will fall just right and I can take advantage of the wondrous phenomenon known as The World's Longest Yard Sale. It always falls on the first Thursday-Sunday in August (which, coincidentally also happens to be around my birthday). Most years I am stuck in pre-planning (sometimes even the first days of school) and cannot attend this incredible event. This year I got a little bit lucky.

The sale begins in Gadsden, Alabama, goes up US Highway 127, and ends somewhere in Canada. My parents happen to live near a small portion of this route, so if I am only blessed with a one day attendance, I will usually travel this area. This time, I was lucky enough to get two days (had to be back in town on Saturday for senior band pictures), so The Cinderella, The Parents, and I packed up the camper and headed north.

(Rabbit Trail: Picture, if you will, four adult sized human beings in a small camper intended to house only two. Continue to picture those same four beings traveling approximately 400 miles in 48 hours, in intense traffic, with limited "facilities." It literally redefines the phrase "up close and personal.")

The trip is like nothing you can ever imagine. You have to experience it to really appreciate the grandeur and the eccentricity that this weekend brings to the forefront of the American psyche. Sure, there were the typical "one man's junk" items but there were also incredibly beautiful antiques and delightfully odd and eclectic works of art. Right next to the five dollar tub of children's books sat a stuffed and mounted wild boar. Across from a vintage 1969 Volkswagen Beetle was a pile of bones that I dearly hope came from some four-legged animal rather than from the two-legged variety. Down the road was a lady selling metal yard art including a giant chicken. It was wonderful.

However, it didn't really matter what oddities I saw. The best part of the entire trip was the fact that I got an entire uninterrupted 48 hours with The Parents.

I don't usually get that opportunity. With three sisters, their offspring, and my own family unit, time spent with my mom and dad is mostly loud and chaotic. Not that I don't deeply love my extended family. I do, very much. I just enjoy those brief, minute moments of peace and quiet even more.

That 48 hours was not filled with any deep, meaningful, solve-the-questions-of-the-universe conversation. We didn't make any future plans on who gets what heirloom nor were there any disclosures on where the secret treasure was buried. Most of the comments were limited to, "You have to speak up when you want your Daddy to stop," "I really need a shower," and "No, you can't buy the 25-foot chicken." But, it was the best time we've had in a long time and I, for one, am incredibly thankful.

I suppose that is what God feels like when he gets our undivided attention for any length of time. When we set aside our schedules and just focus on him. We don't need to spend every day trying to solve problems or answer the deep questions of the universe. We just need to pay attention the Creator of the universe. That's worth way more than any giant metal chicken!

Can I have a big chicken?

 Please tell me they're not human?

Yep, it's real.

Are you my mummy?

I'm not even sure.

There are just no words.

And So It Begins...Again

There are approximately 500 students wandering the hallowed halls of LHS today. They resemble deer frozen in headlights, though not all for the same reasons. It's registration day for freshmen and seniors. The freshmen half are terrified to be in what is obviously strange territory, and the seniors are beginning to realize that this is the first of many lasts. It's a bittersweet feeling for the parents too, and you can see it on their faces just as you do the students. They realize the babies are growing up and getting ready to leave the nest.

My Cinderella is also a senior this year. It's the first of the last for The Hubby and I as well. When The Eldest graduated everyone told me I would cry. I did not. Nor did I when The Free Spirit walked across the stage and I was privileged to give her the diploma cover. (We pretend here in East Central Georgia. Diplomas are given out after the ceremony. That ensures that everyone gets the correct one without having to hold up the processional.) However, I do not know how I will react this time. I'm telling everyone that I am getting ready to do the "No Kid Dance" but the truth is, I'm a bit frightened.

I have no idea what this year will bring. The Cinderella is a self-proclaimed "high-maintenance drama princess." She is terrified of the coming year. She is focused on the wheres and hows of college but every so often it hits her that this is her last year of high school. Then the frozen deer look comes across her face and the tears well up. I never know what to say other than, "You will be fine." I know she will be. I'm just not sure I will.

The Hubby and I have never been just a couple. We started out with three.  This time next year, there will be just two (not counting The Wonderdog). The Cinderella is planning to move further than 30 minutes away. We won't be able to just run down and take her to the grocery store or out to dinner. I won't be with her at the doctor's office if she gets sick. I have to trust that she will be safe and healthy. All by herself.

That's what it comes down to. Trust. I have to trust that God will take care of The Cinderella throughout this coming year and when she does finally leave the nest. I do, but I suppose I need the reminders now and again. What I have a difficult time with is trusting that he will take care of me also. This is a transition year for me (and The Hubby) as well and I need to rely on my Abba Father more than ever. Maybe I'll cry. Maybe I'll dance. Maybe I'll do a bit of both. Either way, I'm trusting that this last will become the first of an incredible adventure for all of us.

The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It's our handle on what we can't see.  

                                                                         -Hebrews 11:1 The Message

The "N" Word and Other Stones I Throw

I don't usually discuss current events in a public forum but it seems as if so much has happened lately and everyone has an opinion that I might as well put my two cents worth in also.

It started with the US Supreme Court striking down Section 4 of the 1965 Voting Rights Act. Now, Southern states (those that were part of the Confederate States during the War of Northern Aggression) no longer have to get permission from the federal government if they want to amend their voting laws. According to the powers that be, that decision is going to immediately thrust us back into the pre-Civil Rights era and minorities will have to go back to taking literacy tests and paying poll taxes. The media gurus seem to think that voter discrimination will run rampant throughout the nation. I've got a bit of news for them. Voter discrimination existed without the help of the Supreme Court. Why is it that I, born and bred in these here United States and raised in the Southern region of the nation, have to show my ID to prove that I am at the correct polling place and legally eligible to vote, and those individuals in other sections of our country who may or may not be correctly following voting procedures, do not? Reconstruction is alive and well.

Then there is the uproar over Defense of Marriage Act ruling. According to the Supreme Court, it's unconstitutional. My personal opinion is that the definition of marriage is a union, sanctified by God, between a man and a woman. Does this mean I am going to stop talking to my gay friends? No. I don't have to agree with them to love them. That's like saying my husband and I have to see eye to eye on everything (like that's ever going to happen!) or my kids have to agree with every word that comes out of my mouth. (Just because they do...) Having said that, I believe, in this case, the Court is correct. Nowhere in the US Constitution does it say anything about the federal or state governments being responsible for mandating marriages. That is not the government's job. This was not the intent of the founding fathers when the US was established and I am of the opinion that the topic did not even come up in the conversation. Move on, people. Our job is not to try to force others to accept a specific viewpoint through legislation. All that happens is that it continues to divide people and eventually becomes fodder for media rants.

Updated July 11, 2013

http://www.churchleaders.com/pastors/pastor-articles/168778-7-must-know-facts-about-same-sex-marriage-and-the-supreme-court-ruling.html?p=1

Which brings me to the real reason for this particular post. These two rulings were pretty big issues, I thought. However, they were both completely overshadowed by what should have been a minor footnote in the media annals if it were even worthy of mention. The Paula Deen "scandal." It seems that some 25-30 years ago, Ms. Deen made an off-color comment, using the "N" word in conversation. She has since apologized (repeatedly), apparently cleaned up her vocabulary and changed her racist ways. Yet she continues to be vilified in the media, losing her cooking shows on The Food Network along with numerous endorsement contracts. That does not even take into account the so-called "Plantation Party" that never actually happened. (Read the deposition, people. It's a public document.) The odd thing about this whole ordeal (other than the fact that it won't go away) is that most of the millions of people who have come out in support of Ms. Dean and her family are from the South. I mean, aren't we supposed to be the backwoods, cousin-marrying, hypocritical, rednecks down here? Isn't the enlightened media monster supposed to be the all-knowing, all-loving, forgiving entity where everyone makes mistakes and should be given second, third, fourth, and fifth (etc) chances? Does anyone else see the juxtaposition of this picture?

What does this have to do with me? I've done plenty that I not particularly proud of, but thinking back over my relatively short lifespan (ahem), I'm pretty sure I can honestly say that I have never called anyone the "N" word. At least, I cannot consciencely remember doing so. In fact, just trying to remember ever having made such a vulgar remark in reference to another human being makes my skin crawl. I want to cry when I even try to picture what my mother would have done to me if I had barely thought about using that word. Nor do I condone it in my own family. I hope that I have taught my children that all people are to be respected, simply by virtue of being God's creation and that there are no circumstances that justify racial epithets. When we discussed this whole topic, my children assured me they felt the same way.

Have I ever said the word "nigger"? Of course. I am a teacher. That word appears in numerous historical and literary documents and I have read it aloud several times in context within my classroom. I always preface those lessons with discussions about time period and culture and belief systems, and I have never had a problem or a question raised. Kids appreciate honesty.

(Rabbit Trail: I do not condone racial slurs in my classroom, no matter what the student's cultural background. Disrespect is disrespect. If I don't say it, they don't say it.)

Have I ever told a racist, religious, or sexist joke? Not since I was a stupid kid trying to look cool in front of my friends. And even then I wasn't very good at telling jokes, even clean ones. I always got the giggles before I got to the punch line and ended up spoiling everything. Plus, I've always been too fascinated by other cultures to make fun of them. These days what few jokes I do know are usually at the expense of Alabama fans, which is entirely acceptable.

Where does God fit into all of this? He tells us to forgive and to love. A great many people have forgiven Paula Deen for her mistakes and continue to love her. While I may not agree with others on the definition of marriage, that doesn't mean I don't love them. Even if they stop loving me (which is certainly possible). The federal government appears to have forgiven the Southern states for their stupidity in trying to keep minorities from exercising their right to vote (whether or not they love us remains to be seen). Some of us are trying to inch our way in the right direction.

But...can I apply these principle to my every day? Can I forgive The Hubby when he makes a disparaging remark about something I've done (or haven't done). Can I keep on loving the Free Spirit when she makes decisions that cause me to want to wring her neck (or at least shave her head)? Can I forgive myself for the utter chaos I have made of my life by not listening to the Father's guidance even though he has forgiven me? Can I love myself, OCD, wrinkles, grey hair and all, believing that I am beautiful because I am made in the image of the Creator? If I have learned anything from the headlines these past days, it's not been about the stones that I've thrown at others. It's been about dealing with the ones I've hurled at myself. If I am to be a follower and love people then I cannot be selective about the people I love. Not even to the exclusion of myself. That would make me the biggest hypocrite of all.

All Quiet on the Western Front

(with apologies to  E M Remarque)

The house is empty and quiet. For the moment it is just me and Max the Wonderdog in blissful peace and tranquility. We've earned it. We're going to enjoy it.

Once a year the nieces and nephew trek down to spend about a week with us sans their mommies. The kids spend the day in the pool, we try to do some sort of special project (this year we made hula hoops) and in the evening they attend Kid Fest at our church (SRCC's version of Vacation Bible School). Everyone looks forward to this mini-vacation. At least in the beginning.

The ages of said relatives range from 5 (the nephew) to 11. Two of the three are ADHD and only one has medicine which was just begun this week. This year the mommies came down early which meant I had FIVE extra people in my house instead of three. No wonder the husband kept leaving early for work.

I love my family. No, really, I do. In small doses. Like, microscopically small doses. Nanoseconds here and there. As long as they are quiet. Which is seldom. What am I saying?!? They're never quiet.

On the way home, the middle niece talked nonstop for two and a half hours, even while she was being carsick and throwing up.

On the first day of Kid Fest, the nephew decided to interrupt the skit to give the main performer a high five and a pep talk. Twice.

On the morning of the third day with us, Nephew rode his bicycle down our admittedly steep driveway. Unfortunately, he badly misjudged the angle of decent and amount of speed and took a face plant at the bottom of said driveway. I'm betting by the sound of his screams, the entire neighborhood assumed I was beating him.

Every time the kids got into the pool, Max decided they were drowning and kept jumping in to try and save them. For a dog who is actually afraid of the water and can barely swim himself, it was not really as cute as it sounds.

When Cinderella decided the younger ones needed to learn to swim for real, the whining and crying began and my nerves went haywire (as we say down south). They yelled at her, she yelled at them, they tattled, I yelled at everybody, you get the picture. Then the mommies arrived. And the whining and crying began for real. (The husband told me to get a grip.)

Everyone tells me that my children are always nice and polite and oh, so sweet. I look at them like they've got two heads or something and say, "My children? Are you sure you haven't confused them with, say, some alien doppleganger from the planet Raxacoricofallapatorius?" Then I look at the child in question and say, "Who are you and what have you done with...?" Everyone laughs politely, assuming that I'm joking. (I'm not.) My children were pure hellions at home. Not always but enough to make me decide that if Cinderella had been the firstborn instead of the last, she would have been an only child. The question that always gets asked is why do children act so horrible at home and so good around other people?

I think the answer has to do with security and limits. We set limits for our children and disciplined them when they crossed those lines. Children need those limits. They need boundaries set so that they know that they are safe and when children feel safe, they feel loved. Then, within those limits, actions were acceptable or at least negotiable. So, at least in our house, the kids could let off steam, knowing that we would still love them even if we had to discipline them.

It's such an incredible picture of God's love. There are acceptable and not acceptable behaviors that we engage in as human beings. When we sin, there are consequences. Sometimes these are natural consequences, sometimes God must discipline us. Either way, He never ever stops loving us and within that love we are free to do and be so much more than what we were without Him. And I'll take that over peace and quiet any day.

Things we collected this year

A Death in the Laundry Room

I am in mourning. My washing machine is currently in an electronic coma, on it's metaphorical last legs. I am having to haul my laundry to various places in order to keep my family in clean clothing. This is not what I would consider a fun way to spend my Summer break. It's doubly frustrating because we only purchased the machine within the past five years. It's one of those energy efficient ones that is supposed to use less water and less agitation therefore be better for the environment. It's a beautiful glossy black that fits perfectly with my future decor. We even got the matching dryer to keep it company, But it refuses to stay level on the spin cycle. Aggravating does not begin to describe how I feel about this monstrosity that has taken over my laundry room.

My husband swears he can fix it. He says it's just a simple part to replace and it won't take but a few minutes. He also says that when he takes the washer out to make this so-called minor repair he will go ahead and pull out the dryer, clean both machines, paint, finish the flooring, and get everything organized. In short, re-do the entire room according to what I originally planned when we moved into the house. I wait with baited breath.

I don't know why this bothers me so much. It's not like I'm the one who actually does the laundry in our family. The girls have been doing their own for years and I constantly tell everyone that my husband is a better mom than I am. We swapped the traditional roles in our house years ago (don't judge, it works for us). With all due respect, he should be the one all bent out of shape over this, but he's not. He'll order the part, change it out, and go about his business. Talk about swapping roles.

I'm usually the calm one. I'm the one that says, "This, too, shall pass," and the one that keeps everything in perspective. I'm the hand-holder, the listener, the one that taught her daughters how to eat ice cream like a real woman (with a big spoon, straight out of the carton). And, this isn't the first washing machine I've had to go out on me, nor is it the worst difficulty we've ever had with one. So why am I so bothered?

It may be that it is finally Summer and I haven't had a chance to be lazy. It was a very stressful year and I was looking forward to relaxing and working through some personal projects (and maybe my bucket list). It may be that I fought with my annual, end-of-the-school-year-feel-like-I'm-at-death's-door migraine and this is just another nail in the proverbial coffin. Or it's simply that I despise asking others for help. It messes up my sense of control.

Could also be why I have so much difficulty in my relationship with God. I always think I can do it myself. I can take care of me and mine, I don't need help, thank you very much. You just keep running the universe, I'll be fine on my own. Until I get into real trouble, then I start screaming, "Where are you?" Unfortunately, a real relationship doesn't operate in that fashion. You can't use God only when you need him and expect to grow closer to him. I need to work on letting go and relying on him daily, with the good and the bad, the little and the big, the happy and the sad. Even in the midst of piles of endless laundry.

I've always said that God has to use a 2x4 to get my attention at times. This time, I guess He used a Whirlpool Cabrio.

My Cinderella

She wore a black, one-shoulder formal with silver sequins and bugle beads at the waist and on the back. Her hair was slicked into a side pony tail and her make-up was flawless. On her wrist was a corsage of white orchids and on her feet were silver sequined.....Chuck Taylor high tops.

Yep, that's my princess, off to the junior prom in all her glory. I'm not exactly raising an Audrey Hepburn here, no matter how hard I try. She is determined to be her own self.

I can't say I'm not pleased. After all, being born with no left brain cells (see previous post) made me a bit unique in my own family unit. When I started having children, I knew that I did not want cookie cutter kids and since I am definitely NOT a soccer mom, what else would they be but their own little individual selves. So, instead of mom, dad, 2.3 kids and a dog, we've had:

Mom, Dad, 3 kids (all girls), a Yorkie named Killer, a Rottweiler named Clio Aimee Elmira, various cats (all called Cat), a hamster named Bob, a bird named Igor, fish, hermit crabs, snails, turtles and worms. We are now down to a lab-bulldog mix named Max, a cat my husband affectionately calls Crack, and the last remaining daughter at home. Cinderella of the Chuck Taylors. 

Does God just shake his head at my antics the way I do at my children? Does he grin in secret pride at my small social rebellions? I'm pretty sure he's okay with my uniqueness since he created me that way.

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart 
                                                                                                            - Jeremiah 1:5 (NIV)

I'm glad my children are comfortable enough in their own skin to be themselves, for they know they were made in the image of their Creator. Unique, individual, incomparable. Chuck Taylors and all.

Countdowns

Spring Break has ended. The official countdown has begun. There are thirty-five days until the end of the 2012-2013 school year. It's almost as if the stress levels are visible, like some insiduous heat wave, rising up through the hallways, choking out our sanity until just the smallest word or gesture causes us to snap and then chaos can rule. For the final month of school, it seems as if everyone walks on eggshells, praying that we make it without a major disaster sending us into a tailspin.

Our lives seem to be ruled by countdowns. Five days until the weekend, twenty-three days left until payday, 117 days until the new school year (118 until my birthday), 226 days until my twenty-fifth anniversary, 229 days until the fifthieth anniversary of Doctor Who (that's important, too) and 262 days until Christmas. Some of these countdowns are exciting; birthdays, anniversaries, etc., and some are stressful. For example, there are 2 days until my next IEP meeting and I'm starting to feel the pressure.

I did not used to be this way. I am naturally a right-brained individual. Creative, emotional, impulsive, illogical (some would say). Very visually oriented. Don't try to tell me how to do something, give me the instruction book. Draw me a map. Don't read to me or lecture me, give me the book. It drove my analytical family up the wall. I was the "scatter-brain." It was not until I was in college that I figured out why I was so different from everyone else. I had never heard of the whole right-brain, left-brain concept and when I took the assessment, I had only one question for my professor. "What does it mean when my score is higher than the ones on your chart?" She was not quite sure what to do. She had never had that happen before. I was so totally right-brained that my left-brained scores barely made a blip on the radar (I think I had maybe a two). I said, "Well, that explains a lot." It meant that I was not really a scatter-brain. I was not secretly adopted. I was not a changling or a royal princess in hiding (darn). What it did mean was there was a lot of work ahead of me. I had to learn how to be left brained.

I did. It took a long time. I went over the top and became a bit OCD because of it. The right brain stuff is still there, it's just augmented by the left brain now. The downside is, I tend to stress over countdowns and schedules. I became a bit of a control freak. Not of everyone else, I'm not a stalker or anything like that. I just need to feel in absolute control of me and my life and my surroundings.

Which is in direct contrast to a relationship with God. I can't say that I am his disciple and insist on control of my own circumstances. (It would be nice to be able to see his calendar for my life, just to get an idea of where we are going.) But, it doesn't work that way. I've got to get off the throne and give it back to him. Every day. Sometimes numerous times a day. Sometimes numerous times an hour. Which (being transparent here) is the hardest thing in the world for me to do in this whole relationship thing. I spent so much time building up the ability to stay in control that giving it up is anathama to me on the deepest levels. It literally tears me apart each and every time. But, to quote a recent sermon topic (springroad.org) the Kingdom of God was made for and of the broken. So, it's worth it. No matter how many times a day or an hour or even a minute, it's worth it.