Ode to a Seven Year Old

It is no secret that I am in love.

I am in love with his blue eyes and his sour breath.

I am love with his view of the world, his innocence, his loose front teeth and the way he can't remember time sequence.

"Is it tomorrow or the other tomorrow?"

"Is June the summer?"

"Do I have extra time?"

"Is it bednight?"

I am so in love with him, it actually hurts.

And I don't care who knows it.

Tonight, we read Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. Remember this book?
It was published in 1939. My mother read it to me when I was a child. I have read it to all my children.

Rob really liked it because he was fascinated with construction equipment.

Gush. I am in love with Rob, too. But he has whiskers and high cholesterol and it would be considered inappropriate for me to say too much more....

Michael, on the other hand, still fits in the curve of my lap. He thinks (no he understands) that I run the universe. And he is still so freshly placed upon this earth that he can accept what is true without question.



Michael says, "Worry about nothing, pray about everything".

"Jesus loves all of us".

I am so grateful that I am an old mom.

Peter Pan, Power Rangers, Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny....I've got them all! And we all know that it doesn't last forever.

Each day, I see the world through the eyes of my sweet boy. He reminds me of the important stuff.

God, goodness, wonder and sweaty feet!

If you want a thrill, pick up Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. Find a chair. Sit and read it, again.

Mike Mulligan and Mary Ann are still heating the City Hall of "Popperville".

Together.

Sigh.

~J

Basketball Season - A Hoops Whodunit

A "Hoops Whodunit"?

Okay, relax. No one has been murdered. At least not yet.

Instead of "whodunit", I should say "whodoesn't".

Who doesn't love the spirit tunnel.....


And the national anthem...

Then, there's the huddle....1-2-3-TEAM....

I especially like the half time show, because of this....

And this....(Martha shaking her bootay)...

I wish I was a better photographer, because it would be so much more interesting if I could show you shots of the ACTION....the blood, sweat and tears...the agony and the defeat...and the veins popping out of my husband's neck....

Other than my poor photography skills and lack of the appropriate lens, there is also an element of fear buried in my subconscious that keeps me at a distance!

For protection, I stay close to another "whodoesn't"....the fans...

WHO DOESN"T appreciate the fans? Thanks, guys.

I am the luckiest woman in America. I spend my weekends in a gymnasium, with my family. Even Michael is there....mostly playing tag in the lobby, but it counts. He has his "basketball game family".

I treasure the moments of community....
The behind-the-scenes hilarity....

The greasy fries....
I feel like I should say this in a whisper, but....this has been a successful season. We are champions of a higher sort, even if the "record" doesn't reflect a lot of wins. I always measure things from an eternal perspective not a secular one.

2010-2011.....we done good.

It will be nice to have a Friday night at the homestead, and I am glad that we can finally eat supper before 9 pm but I am already thinking about next season.

And "whodoesn't" love that?

~J

The Sacred Order of Tattered Pajamas

For me, one of the greatest joys about raising children has been watching them develop friendships. As they enter high school, one or two of the familiar faces I have seen around become even more familiar....they become a part of my life, too.

These friends have standing invitations to spend the night.

They have free range of my pantry/freezer/refrigerator.

They see me in my pajamas - a lot. I have "new friend" pajamas that are matching and cover up most of my skin and make me look appropriate.

Then there are "broken-in-friend pajamas". I will let you think about that one.

Lydia knows. She has seen the "broken-in-friend pajamas"....many times. She noticed it first.

They give me nicknames and fashion advice. They eat....and leave empty cans and paper wrappers everywhere. Cold cheese dip is hard to get out of a bowl. Especially after it sits out for several days, unnoticed. On the floor, beside the sofa.

They hang out in my kitchen. With me. With me, in my pajamas.

I like that.

Anyway, all 3 of the "big kids" have been so lucky to have a "bestie".

Martha says that a good friend is "someone you can trust with your deepest secret".

For Martha, this would be Kate.

I sing to Kate.

"KKKKKatie, beautiful lady, you're the only gggggirl that I adore....and when the mmmmoon shines, over the valley, I'll be waiting at the kkkkkitchen door"!

Martha says a good friend is "someone who doesn't judge you".

Are ya'll listening?? This is wisdom.

For Rob, this would be not just one or two friends, but a POSSE!

I'm not seeing much judging going on here....I feel the love, baby! And the effects of drinking all day.

Or here....just love....

Rob and Carson have been friends since 8th grade. She is like a family member - brotherly/sisterly love. Wonderful~

Martha says "a good friend will stand beside you even if they don't agree with you".

Carol Anne brought Lydia into my life....Lydie-Bug. She has seen the tattered, skimpy, worn out but comfortable pajamas so many times that I consider it an honor that she still shows me some respect.

This picture is at least 2 years old...a golden oldie....but I like it. Lydia is at a different college from Carol Anne, but she still has first rights to the tattered pajamas and has an open invitation to spend the night here. She recognized that when a NEW GIRL spends the night at our house, my pajamas improve until a) I can break her in or b) she is too terrified to ever come back.

Martha says "a good friend is someone you can dress up with and be silly and they don't care"

Hands down, this is the photo for those well spoken words....


This is a shot of Kate and Martha rolling on the floor in a fit of laughter. The laughter being over their ridiculous clothes....hard to tell it here, but it was a moment of hilarity. For whatever reason. Warms my heart.

Note: I was in my tattered pajamas when I took this photo.

With Rob turning 21 years old yesterday, I have been pondering what happens to "grown-ups" and how friendships endure throughout our lives.

Except when they don't.

It happens.

I think it is a lot like the way squirrels collect their nuts in spring and store them for winter.

During our youth (spring), we collect and build these wonderful relationships and store them in our heart.


When winter arrives (aging parents, illness, hardships, sick children, demanding jobs, broken marriages, financial worries) the friendships are still there....waiting and ready...trustworthy....living inside you and standing beside you. Maybe even holding you up when you can't stand alone. No judgment.

That is how it should be, anyway.

From my perspective, a friendship will last forever if it is characterized by grace and mercy. You gotta give and forgive. Not always in equal measure. Sometimes, it is just a simple matter of perseverance.

Some friendships come later in life. These friends are icing on the cake....a late harvest...an Indian summer.



Thanks, kids, for all the good times. Work hard. Hold hands....and don't talk about my pajamas except with the "besties".

From the house,

~J

Decompressing

Question.

Do you know that feeling of total mental exhaustion?

The feeling of being so overwhelmed by the daily grind that you can't think anymore?

I am betting that you definitely know this feeling.

It is, unfortunately, a normal part of the human condition these days.

Rage days.

Road rage, "unknown caller" on your caller ID rage, cell phone rage, incompetent people EVERYWHERE rage, burnt dinner rage, overdrawn account rage, late fee rage, GET OFF YOUR PHONE rage, why can't this zit heal rage, tear in your last pair of black tights rage, what is so hard about spelling the word "equality" rage, don't use that tone with me rage, a meeting shouldn't last more than an hour rage, where is that smell in the pantry coming from rage....

I dunno. The list is endless.

Feel free to add a few rages of your own to the above list.

Tired days.

So tired that you can't be nice, so tired that you can't smile, so tired that you kick the dog and snap at the kid and say some really bad words....you burn dinner because you are staring off into space and then you fall into a rage.

Usually, it is only a temporary feeling. Mike and I use the term "decompress" to describe what we do when we feel this way.

We need to "decompress" after a long day. Alone. Separate from everyone, from each other. For half an hour. Where it is quiet. Then, after we have calmed down, we can converse with one another. Practice spelling "equality". Eat the burned dinner. Speak to the "unknown caller" and tell them never to call again.

Sometimes it is a deeper problem. Half an hour doesn't fix it....and there isn't a vacation in sight. As my friend, Harriett, said "I miss blue water". Me too, Harriett. Me too.

Additionally, the weather has been a bit gloomy. And the husband has been with his fire pit.

This is when I go to bed at 7:00 pm.

So that I can wake up at 2:00 am and start obsessing about nothing in particular.

My bird feeder has actually been helping me through the rage days and the too-darn-tired-to- think days.

This is the view from the outside, but the best part is what I can see from the comfort of my kitchen....


If I am really quiet and still, I can watch them eat and flutter and admire the beautiful colors that God has adorned them with.

Ahhh, my little chickadee!


These little guys are eating about 5 pounds of seed a week! Whoever coined the expression "eats like a bird" must have never had a bird feeder.


Matthew 6:26 - Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? (NIV)

I am channeling this to you....quiet kitchen, sunny window, favorite beverage, fuzzy slippers, no sowing or reaping or storing.

Happy Friday!

~J

Macbeth, Er, Macmike, Er Whatever

My husband is having an emotional affair.

With our fire pit.


It is all my fault, really.

I guess I'm not HOT enough.

Snicker. Wink.

Plus, I whined and whined and pleaded for this seductress. I wanted the fire pit more than he did! I just knew it would be an awesome addition to our backyard.

And I finally got what I wanted.

He spends a lot of time out there. Stacking, sweeping, arranging, fueling.....gazing.....sigh.


It is very tempting...you know...to make all the oh-so-easy sexual innuendos....about "poking" and "blowing" and so on....but, ahem....anyway....you get the drift? He is out there. By the fire.

Come home, honey.

We miss you.

In all fairness to me, it has been a little chilly out there - even with that blazing, toasty, hot inferno that is roaring and popping.

I went and traded my extremely fashionable night-on-the town-with-my-man attire for night-by-the-fire-pit attire. It was easy to do. I mean, I already had the stretchy pants and bulky hole-filled sweaters.

But the smell of wood smoke makes me sneeze and get all stuffy.....and somebody has to cook supper, right?

When the weather warms up just a wee bit, I will go fight for my man. I can gather kindling or something, yes? Throw a hunk of meat on the grill? Sweep ashes?

Listen to the gurgling, babbling fountain.....


The owls really get cranking with their "who-whos" and the sunsets are nice....

But for now, the nights are absent of husband.

Well, not technically. He is OUT THERE. With a little Bruce Springsteen and a cold beverage.

I always thought it would be something (some ONE) different.

Curve ball.

Sniff.

Sneeze.

Out! Out! Woodsmoke! (This is where the Shakespeare reference comes in, o.k?)

Ya' know....I DO like stretchy pants....and old sweaters.

~J

To My Critics

My critics (AKA the "big kids") have given me writer's block.

They, the critics, have asked me to stop blogging about such serious/deep topics.

The critics want me to be funny....that is what they like. Laughter.

I told them you just can't conjure up funny stuff. It has to just happen.

Apparently, this hasn't been a very light-hearted week for me. I am still waiting for the slap-your-knee event to occur. When it does, you will be the first to know.

However, I did get a little delirious and laugh until I cried just after Rob kissed me good-bye and then said, "Oh, can you give me that $134 bucks that I had to use at the grocery store this week?"

I love you, Rob. But you weren't letting me out the door without cranking that check out, huh?

Scenes from Rob's life....

Just musing....

Anyway, he didn't see why that $134 was so funny to me, so I guess I can't blog about the fact that I am really just an ATM machine. With good skin.

Which brings me to another, not funny, but shallow thought.

Skin care.

It haunts me to think how many products I use on my face/body - not to mention how much money I spend - trying to slow down the aging process. Here is a sampling:

There are 2 different body lotions here. One promises to deliver "age defying" moisture and the other one is a "firming body cream".

I am using the firming body cream on my not-so-firm thighs and my wrinkly ole chest....I will have to get back to you in about 5 more years on the results.

Then, we have under eye creams and some kind of acid....I don't know. This really isn't funny.

What does the most to keep me young is in my shower. Oh, yeah, I AM going there....

It is....

Get ready....

Something quite underestimated....


Toys! In my shower! Because I have a 7 year old! And I am a 48 year old! And he keeps me young!

Goodness gracious! This is depressing. See what happens when you listen to your critics?

If you listen to your critics, you get writer's block and then you find yourself soul-searching for something humorous and you end up with some overly-examined, shallow thoughts on aging and ATM machines.

Is anyone laughing???

Nap time.

~J

Fruit From the Tree

Inclement Weather.

School canceled.

Another excuse to not get out of my pajamas. Or put away laundry, run errands, clean out a closet, return phone calls or attend meetings.

Other than scuffing around in my pajamas, I have done so much "nothing" that I feel a kind of lethargy that seems illegal!

One more day, and I will have eaten a pound of Dove chocolate.

One more day, and "cabin fever" will be a real and present danger in this household.

I can't help it. I like busy.

Yet, I did read a good book and that good book has me thinking and thinking gets me blogging.

Still Alice by Lisa Genova.

Hold on second. Commercial break. Mrs. Kilpatrick (high school English teacher), I am sorry I didn't underline the title to this book, but I can't figure out how to do it on blogspot. It seems BOLD and ITALICS will have to suffice!

OK. Sorry.

Anyway, Still Alice tells the story of a fifty year old professor at Harvard who is diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's. It is described as "at once beautiful and terrifying".

I agree.

Kind of simultaneously to reading this book, I received some terrible news that a dear friend's brother had died, suddenly, at the age of 54 years old.

I know. You want to shoot me. It is sad. But stay with me, ok?

In Still Alice, the main character comes to realize that "... just because [butterflies'] lives were short didn't mean they were tragic... See, they have a beautiful life."

And...

"Her mother had comforted her and told her not to be sad for the butterflies, that just because their lives were short didn't mean they were tragic. Watching them flying in the warm sun among the daisies in their garden, her mother had said to her, see, they have a beautiful life. Alice liked remembering that."

And, a man dies too young. 54 years old. A man of integrity. Loved. Admired. Appreciated. A mentor. A leader. Accomplished. Respected.

Tragic ending? Yes.

Tragic life? No.

A tree is known by its fruit.



Memories are sustaining. They teach. They carry forward what is not lost, but learned.

A life is so much less than we think and so much more than we realize.

It is nearly impossible to understand this when you are the loved one who has lost someone.

I have been there, already, too many times.


But when the veil of grief is lifted and your soul has had some healing, it is there. We live on. Long after our bodies die. Short life, long life - either way, but a life lived well isn't tragic, it is a gift. It is a foundation stone. For your friends, for your children and in the case of this young man, for a community of people.

I am inspired. No, I am convicted to try harder. To make everyday count. Every hour.

Hug harder. Laugh louder. Ignore the dust bunnies and play pirates. Serve. Savor. Set an example.

Who am I? I am the people I love. I am the lessons I have taught. I am a disciple of the One I reflect.

I am a butterfly.

And a bug.

~J