tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9639048863446756532024-03-05T12:28:31.533-06:00If Mama Ain't HappyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger209125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-5798402086508005082016-02-20T06:26:00.002-06:002016-02-20T06:26:58.956-06:00On PauseSo, I've been on pause for a little while. Back in November I had the idea of starting a new blog. The idea wouldn't leave me alone so I am now blogging at <a href="http://karakshepherd.com/">karakshepherd.com</a><br />
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I am not sure what that means for this blog. I love it here, I love my writing here, but it was time for a new chapter.<br />
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Please join me at <a href="http://karakshepherd.com/">karakshepherd.com</a> where I will blog about everything...and nothing.Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-83859597309655071722015-10-17T21:34:00.000-05:002015-10-18T07:40:57.853-05:00Our Week in Pictures<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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We've had lots of sick here this week, but lots of fun, too. Here are some highlights.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMm5d70bSdXmNnv5oonkGDARHVOvnw7TTE2F2rKwlszpfJIrYSWn-OPEg5KArBaZGoDNXRfx7Ua0sNqdUbQAasbOE55UDBwaTxiwJWAb4VGhWivcyiTjcCZASHKE8B0yTVZ_V7LiWvAh0/s1600/IMG_8911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMm5d70bSdXmNnv5oonkGDARHVOvnw7TTE2F2rKwlszpfJIrYSWn-OPEg5KArBaZGoDNXRfx7Ua0sNqdUbQAasbOE55UDBwaTxiwJWAb4VGhWivcyiTjcCZASHKE8B0yTVZ_V7LiWvAh0/s640/IMG_8911.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Greenhouse light came in the mail - may the venus flytraps live!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our finds in nature this week.</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWne2UZFxQ-fS5KC4bydsdgtfapTBImZoc1eJv4Iuzu_p19jwoM3-ovIft1I0EhLfcK40-nDvurODiwiVgSbR8jHw3irxn8TekfhB_4I-qHdazwxY_obkz-xNeZlt4XIiWyKT7h6OwdgA/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWne2UZFxQ-fS5KC4bydsdgtfapTBImZoc1eJv4Iuzu_p19jwoM3-ovIft1I0EhLfcK40-nDvurODiwiVgSbR8jHw3irxn8TekfhB_4I-qHdazwxY_obkz-xNeZlt4XIiWyKT7h6OwdgA/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Working on All About Reading...making progress. :)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Liam loves to catch me in candid moments. Does it look like I'm gritting my teeth?</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">No October is complete without a pumpkin patch visit.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A great time at Bi-Water farm! Photo by Izzie Montgomery.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Corn! Photo by Izzie Montgomery.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A nap was necessary.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm best at blurry photos.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My early morning coffee partners.</span></td></tr>
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This boy turned six.</div>
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This girl knits, and knits, and knits. Etsy shop coming soon!</div>
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Godzilla and I <i>almost </i>conquered the boys' room.</div>
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Hope you've had a fantastic Saturday, friends!<br />
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<br />Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-749039098407108502015-10-12T21:36:00.002-05:002015-10-14T20:25:02.124-05:00Among UsDo you think of Sunday as the first or last day of the week?<br />
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I've been making the conscious effort to consider Sunday the first day of the week so that I feel like I'm starting off relaxed. Because, you know, it's relaxing getting four kids ready to go to church.<br />
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This Sunday I woke up to a kid who needed his bottom wiped. He asked so sweetly I couldn't pretend to be asleep. The dark outside gave the illusion of it being much earlier than 6:30 - my body was certain it was 3 a.m. The cold had creeped into the house, my knees were stiff and my feet already aching. My eyes were like cotton balls; dry, puffy, and unable to focus. My only thought was 'coffee, coffee now'.<br />
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That's actually my first thought every morning.<br />
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My second thought depends on where I set my sight.<br />
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Some days I choose resentment. Some days I think, "I can't dig any deeper." Some days I think that being an adult is a really stupid goal and that being a parent shouldn't be this hard.<br />
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Some days I just want all the noise and the need to stop.<br />
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Some days have been coming a little too regularly for me.<br />
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<i>Sundays</i>, though, are a weekly miracle.<br />
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I choose, on Sundays, to be refreshed, to drink deep of the living water.<br />
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Yesterday I was particularly weary and worn. The o'dark thirty wake up call didn't help, but other things had me twisted up. Things like the news, and choices for my kids, and so many changes, and jobs, and laundry - always laundry.<br />
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Then I cracked my bible open and read from Matthew 21:25-28:<br />
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But Jesus called them together and said, "You know that the rulers in this world lord it over their people, and officials flaunt their authority over those under them. <i>but <b>among you it will be different</b></i><b>.</b> <b><i>Whoever wants to be a leader among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first among you must become your slave.</i></b> For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve others and to give his life as ransom for many." (emphasis mine)<br />
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<b><i>But among you it will be different.</i></b><br />
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Sundays are the day to gather with brothers and sisters, when we claim the truth that among us it will be different. Then we take that truth and live it at home first and then out in the world.<br />
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At our home this week, right now, forever, I am desperate for the motto to be "Among you it will be different."<br />
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I want our lives to be marked by a different way of life.<br />
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It's too easy to fall into the trap of animosity and annoyance, to begin to treat one another with disrespect and to make excuses for that behavior.<br />
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"Oh, I just need a break."<br />
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"We've been so busy."<br />
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"I'm not sleeping well."<br />
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These are just anchors keeping us in the choppy waters of poor excuses, because among us it <i>should</i> be different. Among us the world should fall away and the Kingdom of God should reign. Among us serving should be our natural instinct and excuses should be few.<br />
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I've thought about this much for the last 24 hours. I've always known our family was different (no one should talk about bodily functions as much as we do), but I want to make sure our <i>different</i> is because of Jesus. I want to know that the root of our upside-downess is because Jesus came in and made it so. I need to be certain that we are each seeking relationship with Christ and each other in an authentic way so that when we go out into the world our faith is credible. I know that it is not all on me, but I know that it begins with me. </div>
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Some days Sunday's carry me through, some days I have to fake it, some days I don't and I mess up and I have to apologize. </div>
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Today when I found weariness and exasperation shrugging around my shoulders like an old friend I repeated '<i>among us it will be different</i>' in my head, as a prayer and plea. I tell you I could feel the transformation take place, feel my shoulders flinging free, feel resentment being replaced by willingness. </div>
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I felt different, and I knew, at least, that kind of different was right.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://jenniferdukeslee.com/for-those-times-when-you-dont-see-a-happy-ending-to-your-story-tellhisstory/">#TellHisStory</a></b></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D963904886344675653%23editor%2Fsrc%3Dsidebar&media=https%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-8EARkjH24OA%2FVhxf8ur9kfI%2FAAAAAAAAAGs%2FxideS8fqsNY%2Fs400%2FPicMonkey%252BCollage.jpg&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=a0SEFQmdfe4b&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 153px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 1044px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D963904886344675653%23editor%2Fsrc%3Dsidebar&media=https%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-8EARkjH24OA%2FVhxf8ur9kfI%2FAAAAAAAAAGs%2FxideS8fqsNY%2Fs400%2FPicMonkey%252BCollage.jpg&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=a0SEFQmdfe4b&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 153px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 1044px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-19998908532525866972015-10-02T16:13:00.001-05:002015-10-02T16:19:03.353-05:00Wardrobe Rules of Fall <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
October has come with quite a snap here in the southeast. We had 85 degree weather and then <i>snap </i>it's cold, wet, and 50.<br />
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I love it. The cooler weather makes me breathe easier, makes change feel right, makes me want to take walks three or four times a day.<br />
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It also means it's time to switch out my boys' clothes. Change does not come easily for these two.<br />
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In the summer my little men ( I should say little and tiny men since they are 11 and 5) wear the same clothes until their sisters pitch a fit. They know the Wardrobe Rules of Summer : if you have had sunscreen and/or bug spray applied you get a bath; the sprinkler counts as a bath; don't wear your clothes to bed; flip flops mean more toe nail clipping; clean clothes for church.<br />
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That's pretty much it. Lee didn't know about the Wardrobe Rules of Summer and was spraying our littlest one down with bug spray a few weeks ago. The mosquitos love that kid so by the time August rolled around he looked like he had chicken pox. Anyway, Liam starts bawling, "No, no, no! Now I am going to have to have a bath!"<br />
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At least one of my men knew the rules.<br />
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The Wardrobe Rules of Fall are not so laid back. My rules center around the fact that we are in close quarters more often and clean clothes mean happy noses. Not that these two care about the contentment of our sniffers. After all, they are most impressed with me when I fart and lock the van windows, or stick their head in my armpit after a workout. Boys are dazzled by bad smells, and that is for real.<br />
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My goal for Fall and Winter is for my boys to be wearing clothes that are clean enough and warm enough that people at church don't anonymously donate warm apparel to us.<br />
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I kid you not.<br />
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It's not that I'm opposed to donations. It's that I don't want the warm things to go to waste. In the darkest parts of winter my boys are in their room sporting nothing but their underwear as they roll around in Legos. I have pictures and can prove it. They stay in their rooms because their sisters won't sit next to them if all they have on is underwear.<br />
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I live in a constant state of tension, people.<br />
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Anyway, so as we prepare to haul out the tote holding the cold weather wardrobe I have to steel myself against the arguments, tears, and pulling of hair. Can you guess which ones of us will be arguing, crying, and pulling out their hair?<br />
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These boys must have had a conversation about their tactic for this year because the oldest boy already had sit down conversation with me. If only he had been wearing a suit for the arbitration.<br />
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"I really feel most comfortable in shorts. I <i>will</i> wear shoes and socks <i>and </i>a hoodie, but I would prefer to keep my shorts out," said Spencer who will be 12 very, very soon. He then reiterated, "I'm just more comfortable in shorts and it's not my legs that get cold."<br />
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He entered negotiations with a really deep voice to show me he was serious and in control. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Also, he insisted his hoodie come from Walgreens because he saw one there for $10. His socks had sat useless in his drawer since April (we've been through 5 pairs of flip flops since then), so he's ready to go in the footwear department. Since we did indeed buy the hoodie, in his mind, he's set for winter.<br />
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The younger one, though, didn't mind starting out hard. All I did was ask him to try on some jeans and sweatpants from last year to see where we were size-wise.<br />
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Liam went all spaghetti legs as soon as he saw the jeans, crying <i>real tears</i> immediately, while moaning, "Please, not the long pants. Please, not the long pants."<br />
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"What is the problem?" I asked. For pete's sake, since when did long pants make children cry? He's happier to see the dentist than a pair of dungarees.<br />
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"They're too long. I step on them. They make me hot. The pockets are too tight to put stuff in," he tallied off, tears still streaming.<br />
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"Look," I said, "you've grown. They fit better now."<br />
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He stopped crying and looked down. After a couple of seconds his eyes re-filled with tears.<br />
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"But they're so long, mom," he cried. Then he noticed the snaps. "Oh, no. Oh no. Oh no. Not the snaps. Not the snaps, mom. And a zipper. No. NO. NO. NO." He could barely catch his breath.<br />
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I had a full on melt down headed my way over a snap and zipper so I had him put his shorts back on before he started throwing up or something ridiculous like that.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One or two lingering mosquito bites. No jeans.</td></tr>
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"Is it just too hard to do the snap and zipper?" I asked.<br />
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"Yes," he answered as one single tear slid down his cheek, "and, if we're playing our game and I have to go to the bathroom I have to go fast and not get my pants wet or then I have to change again and Spencer makes us end the game."<br />
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Honestly, this makes it easy. The Wardrobe Rules for Fall will be: elastic waisted; deep pockets; not hot.<br />
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I'm thinking pajamas with deep pockets and treated with spray-on waterproofing.<br />
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Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-43121155961147450812015-09-28T15:40:00.003-05:002015-09-28T15:40:45.917-05:00Monday, Monday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dang, it's Monday already!<br />
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I wrote a great post on Saturday that just disappeared. I've got no idea what happened, partly because I still kind of feel like the interwebs are actually magical and there's some kid(s) from Hogwarts who are in charge of making it all work. At any rate, it was a good post and it disappeared and I probably cried about it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNLEnmJvCykU4vQ_qldqWAMCk2Ld4H8jIFcwFP-yy0Itwwulpv3t_JNeXf1xpst3s1z22IfTyEPudlXhyUgZQFkWBofH3KjNDcjA6faR_ISGKXRnLBMlB0VGkrA9dXXejpvJ-88IN1mc/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNLEnmJvCykU4vQ_qldqWAMCk2Ld4H8jIFcwFP-yy0Itwwulpv3t_JNeXf1xpst3s1z22IfTyEPudlXhyUgZQFkWBofH3KjNDcjA6faR_ISGKXRnLBMlB0VGkrA9dXXejpvJ-88IN1mc/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tried to get a pic of my early morning partner. Too blurry</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then tried to get another. He would have none of it. Still blurry.<br /></td></tr>
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<br /><br />I wrote a post yesterday, too, maybe not great, but I wrote it. The day was done and gone before I had blinked. We had church, lunch out together, a quick power clean when we got home. Lots of playing outside. Our crazy dogs escaped the yard not once or twice but four different times. The last time we got them back home the odor coming off of them was so intense I wretched, then I gave them a bath. Why do dogs roll in nastiness? What is fun about that? </div>
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We had a thrown together dinner last night of stuff I found in the fridge. One kid went to a friends house, one kid went shopping with me, two kids stayed with their dad at home for a movie. Then it was dark and we had to go out and check on the blood/eclipsed moon situation every thirty minutes. My husband and I and our older daughter watched Fear the Walking Dead. Anybody else a fan? I cannot explain why but I love zombie shows. I am mildly embarrassed to admit that when I am visiting different buildings I always check out my surroundings to consider whether it would be a good place to hole up in the event of a zombie apocalypse. Ridiculous but true.</div>
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I have suspicions that if not kept in check I could become a survivalist. However, my love of good food, a soft bed, and sitting around reading will probably save me from that fate.<br />
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It was very late and I was snuggled in bed before I realized I never hit post. You know why? Because I'm a recovering perfectionist.<br />
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Anyway, I woke up and it was Monday. How does that happen?</div>
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I don't always hate Mondays. We take it slow, putter around and read, go to the library so we can read some more. I usually get mean after lunch if no one is motivated on their own. Today I have only had to be mildly mean to one of my students. We've only had one major sibling brawl, and no one complained about chores. I was a grown up and made phone calls and had things faxed and even fixed my hair (kind of).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8tHC_Tc1rTJIZYcNz2R71L5HQcnnA4QIkH3j3S69cXvsjA76IjnzIdEOL4w83OWYTXBQCbPJMkZaJW6CuqCbDKVq88LJA3zshw4euX1nKRbKxrjq0mSwLCzZvu6lZvRRSCaqIio8xuc/s1600/FullSizeRender_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8tHC_Tc1rTJIZYcNz2R71L5HQcnnA4QIkH3j3S69cXvsjA76IjnzIdEOL4w83OWYTXBQCbPJMkZaJW6CuqCbDKVq88LJA3zshw4euX1nKRbKxrjq0mSwLCzZvu6lZvRRSCaqIio8xuc/s640/FullSizeRender_1.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These two want in, then they want out. Dorks, but I love them.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There will always be shoes by the front door. They don't care if I cry.</td></tr>
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Ooh, and I remembered that I have a date with my hubby tonight. That made the last hour and half of our school day go super fast. Woot woot! (The kids hate it when I do that so now it's a compulsion. I do it in real life, too.)<br />
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I am satisfied with this Monday. I can't ask for more than that, right?<br />
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Here's to Mondays, taking it slow, and satisfaction.<br />
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P.S.<br />
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I didn't mean that to sound dirty since I just talked about date night.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-15363607327457063362015-09-20T13:31:00.003-05:002015-09-20T13:33:00.732-05:00Teaching MyselfI love to read, as in I eat books for dinner. It's nothing for me to devour a book in an afternoon (just don't ask me to cook dinner). I think that I have always loved to read. I went to kindergarten knowing how to read. Since my husband also loves to read. I assumed we would have a house full of book worms, kids who loved to read, kids who, like me, stayed up late at night reading even at a young age.<br />
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I thought teaching my kids to read would be easy.<br />
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<span id="goog_1317920119"></span><span id="goog_1317920120"></span>If only I knew then what I know now!<br />
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I have four kids and three of them have dyslexia. I strongly suspect that my youngest, who is 5, is also dyslexic. Teaching them to read has not been easy.. Teaching them to spell has been difficult. Teaching myself how to teach kids with special learning needs has been very, very trying.<br />
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<b>In fact, shifting what I think of as 'education' is the hardest part of my homeschool year.</b><br />
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I don't remember anyone telling me that learning required desks, chairs, worksheets, posters, and a chalk board but those were the things I believed were essential. I recalled being sat in a chair and then given information. My job as a student was to give that information back on worksheets, then again on tests. I never liked school but I assumed that there was something flawed in me. I never dreamed that it may have been the system that was flawed.<br />
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Until, that is, I started homeschooling my own children.<br />
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It's a long story as to how we got here, but the gist of it is this: I have three kids who are dyslexic and I suspect our fourth child is also. My husband is also dyslexic.<br />
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I spend A LOT of time spelling for my people.<br />
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I can laugh about it now, and usually so can the kids, but there was a time when we al though we were doing something <i>really </i>wrong.<br />
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I thought I was teaching wrong. I felt like I was failing my kids.<br />
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My kids thought that they were being kids wrong, that their brains were wrong, They thought that they were stupid.<br />
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<b>I had to completely shift what I thought of as 'school'.</b><br />
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I bought the curriculum everyone said was the best. I followed the directions. I would not deviate from the plan. We schooled in desks during school hours. What my daughters didn't complete during school was to be completed as homework.<br />
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We were not having fun.<br />
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The year that I had fourth and second grade daughters, and a little boy in pre-school was the very worst. The. Worst. Ever. My oldest daughter, Kiley, took a very long time to read anything and would avoid anything with reading. Her times tables weren't memorized and spelling was impossible. Her younger sister, Laurel, was struggling to read and write in second grade. I thought something was not right and called the elementary school in our district and expressed my concerns. "They'll grow out of it," the counselor said, "Everyone learns at a different rate." On one hand I was thankful for the relaxed approach, but on the other my gut was telling me something was really off.<br />
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Most days ended with all of us crying and/or yelling in frustration. I was threatening and demanding about them getting their school work done. I said some pretty crappy things to my girls simply because following directions was so important to me. I just wanted to do it right, you know? I was terrified that I would do something wrong and they would end up missing out on college. Did I say that they were in fourth and second grade? Yet I was freaking out about college!<br />
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<b>One afternoon, after lots of tears, I woke up to the fact that what I was doing was not working.</b><br />
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I thought about why I wanted to homeschool, I thought about what memories I wanted my kids to have from their childhoods. The crying, yelling, frustrated days that were filling in our pages were not part of that story. The realization that I was misdirecting the boat was crushing. I cried very, very hard at what we had lost due to my fear of not doing it right. Then I wiped my face off and had a talk with my girls.<br />
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We stopped 'school'. Timed math tests, worksheets, copy work - it all just stopped. Immediately. We went to the library and I let them pick out whatever books they wanted. I checked out some books on learning styles and one on learning disabilities. I let audio books as reading. For an entire month we did whatever we wanted as long as it didn't involve television. We cooked together, went on field trips, played board games, card games, and I read out loud all of the time. We played lots of types of music, danced, and the girls practiced piano. The kids played outside a lot, too, sometimes all day. Finally the sweet memories I had been hoping for were being made.<br />
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In that month I saw my relationship with the kids, especially my daughters, healing. I saw them lightening up. I felt the weight of the worldWe all stopped being burdened by 'school' and just enjoyed our days. The knot in my stomach unraveled as I finally took charge of our homeschool. I let go of the worry that if I didn't use the 'right' curriculum- the ones that all the homeschool magazines said were the best - that we would fail.<br />
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We fell in love with unit studies and hands on learning. I tried different math curriculums. My confidence in my ability to teach grew exponentially when I walked away from boxed curriculums. I finally started to see what worked for my kids as individuals. Also, in the middle of all of my reading, I came across a book called The Gift of Dyslexia, by Ronald Davis. I remember reading portions of it out loud to my kids and having them gasp in recognition, with shared experience. It was such a comfort to know that there was a name for what they were struggling with, but also that there were some benefits to it. My husband, too, found relief in admitting that his battles as a child and an adult had a name.<br />
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It's taken time, but I am no longer afraid to homeschool.<br />
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<b>I know that learning doesn't take place during a set time, that workbooks don't always work, and that relationship is the most important element of our homeschool. </b><br />
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Figuring out that my kids have dyslexia freed me from everything I thought about education. Once I became aware that they struggle with a learning disability there was nothing I would not try. My mission became to empower them to achieve whatever dreams that they had. I encourage them to hone in on their God-given talents, to choose what they are passionate about, and to never be afraid to try something even if it doesn't turn out the way that they thought it would. Dyslexia has forced all of us to think outside of the traditional schooling box, but it turns out that's what dyslexics do best.<br />
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This is my 13th year homeschooling. While it's definitely gotten easier I still have to evaluate what worked in the past as well as what didn't work. I occasionally still struggle with how to do this thing, and to be truthful I sometimes find myself feeling envious of families whose children are able to just sit down and get their work done (do those families exist??). I sometimes find myself ruminating over the days when I tried to force my children to fit into a curriculum and allowing guilt to paralyze me. At the end of the day, though, when I survey our stacks of books, projects scattered about, when we have awesome impromptu history discussions in the car, I know that education, in my family, happens best without a box.<br />
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Linking up at <a href="http://simplehomeschool.net/the-hardest-part-linkup/">Simple Homeschool</a>, one of my favorite homeschool blogs. :)<br />
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<br />Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-45462645885418919732015-09-12T08:49:00.001-05:002015-09-12T11:11:33.251-05:00Bring it on, SeptemberI think that September is the month of false starts. July is just laid back, too hot to move much, so we lay around enjoying nothing. August is when I start to feel excited about the return of the schedule. Even though we homeschool year round, August is when I envision a giant reset button that I get to push. We start new curriculum. I check out 80 books to supplement the new curriculum. I sharpen pencils and fill out calendars and schedules and print off lots of things to help me in lots of ways. I make all kinds of appointments, too. Dentist, check up, allergist, ophthalmologist. All of it. I make appointments for all of it.<br />
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In August I paint my toenails and vow to stop biting my fingernails so that I can paint them, too. I pledge that the boys will take baths <i>every single night</i> AND that they will use soap, and that they will wear clean clothes, and I mean it, little sirs! I make six months worth of clean eating meal plans and exercise plans and chore charts. There is also more printing to be done. I read blogs about how to do all of these things the right way, not the wrong way, and I am secure in my new and improved plan for life.<br />
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August is like New Year's for me.</div>
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Then September hits and there is an explosion of paper and pencils and the printer ink runs out and we all realize that July was much more fun with the laying around doing nothing. The huge stack of library books I was so excited about are forgotten and returned 7 days late and I owe $3,508 to the public library. It takes me 3 days to download the software for the new science program simply because I hate calling tech support because I am intimidated by tech support. I mean, the thing I call the 'wiggly thing' they call a 'cursor' and that <i>is</i> intimidating. Seriously.<br />
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All of those appointments I scheduled with such verve begin and end with frayed nerves. None of the kids like check ups, it turns out. To top it off I apparently cannot stand to be in a 2x4 room with my children and a doctor. Who knew? I don't tell any of them about the doctor appointment until I have to, because all they want to know is: Will they have to pee in a cup? and Will there be shots? They do not believe me when I tell them I do not know because I am Mom and I am the knower of all things.</div>
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I don't get their fear of peeing in a cup. I think it's because one time one of them (name being withheld to protect privacy), who has a bladder the size of their head and been hanging onto their urine since the night before the appointment, had a little accident. When it came time to actually fill the tiny cup with pee they went above and beyond. I think it was one of the appointments I <strike>forced</strike> asked my husband to help me out with because I have a vague memory of him kind of shouting, "No, stop, stop, it's going everywhere." Pants and socks were soaked, people in the hall got their shoes wet, and at least one hand had to be washed. Again, this was long ago, and they were very little and all the weirdness kind of blurs together.<br />
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My gosh what was I thinking scheduling so many appointments between August and September? I had such high hopes, such plans, AND new pens for my new calendar.<br />
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September is when I realize that I filled in the calendar with the wrong week. It's when I recognize that we haven't had one circle time for my kindergartner. It's when I grasp fully the fact that our socratic discussion revolves around farts. It's when I come into the full knowledge that printables can't save me.<br />
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September is the month where reality meets my dream world and slaps it in the face. Right in the face.<br />
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I think it was on our way to our fourth appointment, after all the kids had all their teeth dealt with at the dentist and two of the four kids had had their checkups, that I hit the wall. This was in between vet appointments for our new cat, mind you. I had the two boys with me, 11 and 5, and they were both kind of crying about having to go to the doctor and I just swerved into McDonald's and bought them Happy Meals (goodbye clean eating) and got myself a Coke. We still made it to the appointment on time,and there was no peeing in a cup and I survived the 2x4 room armed with peanuts I found at the bottom of my purse and a People magazine from 2010. Booya.<br />
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We are 12 days into September, my toenails are still pink (but my fingernails are still nubby), we've only got four more appointments, and I am loaded with an arsenal of printables. The weather is cooling, the children have given in to the fact that I won't forget about math, and calling tech support was actually very simple and quite non-intimidating. Also, I've figured out how to pay off my library fine thanks to Craigslist and a few pieces of my parents furniture. Life is good.<br />
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Bring it on, September.<br />
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Bring. It. On.<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=963904886344675653" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=963904886344675653" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=963904886344675653" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=963904886344675653" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-15594420783193509082015-09-03T07:10:00.002-05:002015-09-04T07:47:14.588-05:00A Boy of ExtremesI found out about a month ago that I was the worst mother ever. I've often wondered about where my ratings fall.<br />
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I was laying in bed enjoying my sleep, which frankly doesn't happen often. Peaceful sleep is fleeting at my stage of life and that's where I was: peacefully sleeping. Usually my sleep ranges from fitful to comatose and neither of those are restful sleeps. So anyway, there I was peacefully sleeping when my five-year old storms into the room. Of course, I don't know that because I'm sleeping. What wakes me up is this:<br />
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"You are the worst mother in the world!"<br />
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I open my eyes and I swear I heard 'spluck' as my eyelids parted. I saw my kid's face and could tell that he was angry. Angry small people are scary, and this kid was ticked. I was still kind of asleep though and my mouth wouldn't work, and neither would be brain, so I just stared at him in confusion.<br />
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"I have been calling you (except he says 'cawing') and calling you and calling you. You do not hear me. I screamed your name. You just ignore me and ignore me and ignore me. You are the worst mother in the world!"<br />
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I'm starting to take in the world at this point. First of all, it's barely 6 a.m if I'm reading the clock right. Second of all, I realize that the kid screaming at me is naked from the waist down, which only deepens my confusion.<br />
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"What's going on, buddy?" I asked as I sat up.<br />
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"I'll tell you what!" he shouts at me. This kid is impassioned. "I had to go a big number 2 and a giant spider came out of the bathtub. I called and I called and I called for you. I screamed. You just ignored me. AND THERE IS NO TOILET PAPER!"<br />
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The nudity now makes a little more sense, although I am still completely bewildered.<br />
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"Okay, okay," I say, "Let's go upstairs and see what's going on."<br />
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"I'm not going up there!" my sweet boy exclaimed. "That spider wanted to eat me."<br />
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I took his hand and we went to the bathroom together. Sitting on the floor right in front of the toilet was a giant camel back cricket. Suddenly I understood his horror.<br />
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That sucker was scary. Super scary. I probably would have abandoned my pants to if that guy came crawling out of the tub while I was...well, you know.<br />
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Bugs do not typically bother me. My older son loves to catch and identify insects so I've gotten used to catching the critters. Camel back crickets, though, don't pin really well. I usually have a live and let live philosophy with the bugs but this one had crossed the line with me. He had entered our domain a<i>nd </i> scared my kid. Two offenses meant he had to go. I didn't want to squish him, though. The crunch these guys make is horrible. Really horrible. I could only think of one thing to do.<br />
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My go to in a bug situation that cannot be handled immediately is a glass jar, so I went to the kitchen to fetch one. We were heading for the zoo that day and we had to get out the door quickly, something we're not great at and the mad rush was about to begin. However, the cricket was contained. Under the cover of the jar the cricket was safe to be examined so Liam got down on his hands and knees to get a closer look.<br />
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He looked up at me and smiled. "You are the best mother in the world."<br />
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"Thank you," I replied and went to go fix breakfast. We were having scrambled eggs so I was certain my position as the Worst Mother in the World would soon be occupied by yours truly.<br />
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<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D963904886344675653%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D1559442078319350908%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dallposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dallposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252Fi.livescience.com%252Fimages%252Fi%252F000%252F069%252F806%252Foriginal%252FCamel-Cricket-Lauren-Nichols_YourWildlifeOrg.jpg%253F1409678332%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=a0SEFQmdfe4b&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 33px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 744px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D963904886344675653%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D1559442078319350908%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dallposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dallposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&media=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com%2Fgadgets%2Fproxy%3Furl%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252Fi.livescience.com%252Fimages%252Fi%252F000%252F069%252F806%252Foriginal%252FCamel-Cricket-Lauren-Nichols_YourWildlifeOrg.jpg%253F1409678332%26container%3Dblogger%26gadget%3Da%26rewriteMime%3Dimage%252F*&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=a0SEFQmdfe4b&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 33px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 744px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-25155043088039089432015-08-24T21:43:00.002-05:002015-08-24T21:43:51.843-05:00when you've been at it so long you forget about firstsSchool has started up in my part of the world. The yellow school buses are out, tons of first day of school pictures are rolling through my feed, and school supplies are front and center at the stores. I'm generally always thankful that we choose to homeschool, but never more than at 7 a.m. Every weekday morning at that time a million parents line my neighborhood street heading toward the elementary school. Heaven help you if you have to back out of your driveway at that time. That car line alone is enough to keep me homeschooling.<div>
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This marks my 13th year. I can't believe it. I can't believe I'm that old. I can't believe my kids are that old. The kids' ages seem monumental to me: I have a senior and sophomore in high school, a sixth grader (MIDDLE SCHOOL! EEK!) and a kindergartner. Talk about a spread. Talk about a balancing act. </div>
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I've been tempted a lot lately to consider my failures more than I ought to, to question decisions made long, long ago. I've been tempted to think on how overwhelmed I am, on how daunting it is to homeschool through high school. I've been tempted to worry that I've done it all wrong, especially as everyone on God's green earth wants to know what my eldest is going to do after high school. I think I've had an elephant sitting on my chest for the better part of two months.</div>
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We've been doing school off and on all summer so first days feel like they've just been running into each other. I want to take pictures of our monumental year. I want to always remember 2015 as the year I had a senior and a kindergartner at the same time, and I want it captured forever. I want to be able to look at a picture and say, "That was a great year."</div>
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And I will. I know I will, because I always do.</div>
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The picture may be posed but I hope it will stir up memories of so much more than the photo can contain on its flat paper. </div>
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These are the things I could write about today, not our first day of school, just a day in our lives: Woke and made breakfast. We went on a family walk to the park. After we got home we did chores. The older kids went to their rooms for history reading and math, while I worked on spelling and handwriting with the younger kids. </div>
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Those things are true, but that's just the skeleton, just the flat part of the story.</div>
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What really happened was this:</div>
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I woke up late because after I watched Fear the Walking Dead I couldn't sleep and stayed up talking to my poor husband till he couldn't answer me.</div>
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I was cranky because it was almost nine a.m. and not what I intended. I like to wake early and have coffee alone so that no one will talk to me. Truly, I don't like to talk in the mornings. I don't know who ate what when. I think my daughter made smoothie to share with the boys. Once my coffee was brewed I announced that I was taking the boys on a walk to the park (not because they needed the fresh air and movement but because I was so irritable and snappy) and made a giant cup of iced coffee to go. My fifteen year old daughter jumped on board, too. The boys drug their bikes out and we were off.</div>
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We made it the the four blocks to the park. I realized I was pushing one little bike and didn't even remember it being handed off to me. At the park my youngest boy chose to just play in the dirt while my 11 year old begged me to play with him.</div>
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"I'm 41. I don't play anymore," I answered crankily. I hadn't had enough coffee. I think there may never be enough coffee.</div>
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We all laughed at how contentious I was and I felt something dissipate within. I noticed that it was already 10:45 and told the boys we needed to get home. Liam, the youngest, was completely covered in dirt and he doesn't like his hands dirty. He doesn't like his feet dirty either so he took his shoes off and demanded that I dry them. A brief conversation followed and ended with him wearing the shoes. My older son, Spencer, took off down the hill heading toward home. Liam screamed with joy as though conquering that hill for the first time. Laurel, who at 15 is like a little mother to Liam, fretted that he wasn't even looking for cars. I smiled and said we'd get him a helmet, then had better thoughts and encouraged her to catch up to him.</div>
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Spencer hollered from across the street. He had found a nest of garter snakes and needed us to see them. So we went and looked. Who can resist baby snakes? We made it home with more screaming than necessary. Spencer tried to embarrass his sister with all antics known to middle school boys. Liam parked his bike in the road just to see what I would do. Laurel wanted to know what was for lunch, which is my least favorite meal of the day. I loathe figuring out what's for lunch. Loathe, loathe, loathe it. </div>
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It turns out I needed to go buy things for lunch because we were out of everything except for hot dog buns. So I went to the store and when I came home my people ate. We did, eventually, do our seat work. Letters were practiced, neat liens were learned, Alexander the Great and his many adventures were pondered, all in the midst of up and down and in and out and "I have to go to the bathroom". </div>
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Now it is dark and I am writing and they are each in their beds. As I look back on the day I realize that the things we have learned <i>just on this day</i> won't fit into any one book or in one simple photo. This day was relationships and work and digging in deeper. This day was apologizing and forgiving and sighing and giving in to the seeming disorder that children bring to life. </div>
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This day left me tired but content and ready to do it all over again.</div>
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For the first time, I'll do it all over again tomorrow.</div>
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Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-35821075384547550622015-05-26T18:02:00.003-05:002015-05-27T08:50:00.616-05:00Unveiled<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<h4>
"Then Jesus shouted out again, and he released his spirit.<br />At that moment the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn<br />in two, from the top to bottom."<br />Matthew 27: 50-51</h4>
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I cannot ponder the cross without rejoicing in the curtain in the temple being torn. My redemption is beautiful, but the curtain, or veil, tearing is significant because it means relationship. Before Jesus' death the only way to enter into God's presence was on the Day of Atonement. A Levite priest had to go through some serious rigamarole to get there, too. He had to have smoky incense in front of his eyes to shield him from God, among other steps. Also, and this part always gets me, he had to have a rope tied around his waist just <i>in case he died </i>from being in the presence of God's holiness.<br />
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That is no joke. It also seems like it would hinder intimacy with God.<br />
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Thanks to Jesus we can enter freely into the presence of the Living God. For those who believe in Jesus the veil is lifted. Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians: "But whenever someone turns to the Lord, <b>the</b> <b>veil is taken away</b>. for the Lord is the Spirit, <b>and wherever the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.</b> <b><i>So all of us who have had that veil removed can see and reflect the glory of the Lord</i>. And the Lord - who is the Spirit - makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image.</b>" (verses16-18, emphasis mine)<br />
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In Christ we are unveiled! No rope around the waist is necessary, no incense needed to shield our eyes; the blood of Jesus has made us clean.<br />
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<b>Yet, often I remain veiled. </b><br />
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In fact,<b> <i>I</i> </b>am the veil.<br />
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I do not fully embrace the joy of my salvation. I treat my freedom as imprisonment, my relationship with Christ as obligation. I forget that there is no rigamarole necessary.<br />
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I want to have quiet time where I light a candle and I journal and listen to beautiful music as I read my bible and talk to the Lord. I am in a season, though, where this is hard and I cannot reconcile the picture I have in my head of 'Quiet Time' with the Lord with Kara In Real Life.<br />
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My picture looks like this: I am at the table with coffee, a candle is lit, and I am reading and absorbing God's word. I am journaling, I am being filled so that my day with my family will want to etch Proverbs 31 into my tombstone.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My reality: I stumble out of bed but cannot find my glasses. I find the candle but no lighter. I start the coffee (gotta make the coffee) but the filter is jammed and there's grounds everywhere. I have my bible but am afraid to turn on a light because if my children see the light they will wake up and be hungry and need to eat and need me to do lots of other things for them too. If I do settle in to reading scripture my body realizes that it's 4:30 a.m., the only time a mother can be truly alone, and demands that I give it more rest.</span><br />
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I am not knocking the candle/journal/bible scenario, please know that. I have had that season and I will again one day. Right now, though, that's not as easy for me.<br />
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I can, though, sit at the table after breakfast and read my bible. I can read verses out loud to the kids (even while they look bored and fidget) and ask what they think. I can tape verses to the mirror. I can listen to podcasts of sermons. Best of all, I can talk to God all. day. long. He won't tire of my voice or be distracted by his phone. He won't demand that I get him a snack or beg me to take him to the park. God won't focus on my fears, or my failures, or my pettiness he'll just see me as me, as I am in Him. All I need to do is talk to him. As Brother Lawrence wrote, <b>"<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There is not in the world a kind of life more sweet and delightful, that that of a continual conversation with God; those only can comprehend it who practice it and experience it</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">."</span></span></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Basically, my hardest job is to not be the veil. I am always the only thing standing between me and Jesus. I can't let the picture in my head keep me from enjoying the picture that God would like to be in. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 16px;">I will remember I am unveiled and embrace the Quiet in the chaos. </span><br />
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Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-66710164757200686182015-05-20T20:59:00.001-05:002015-05-21T07:01:17.000-05:00When You Love Someone Who Makes Life Messy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I walk into the laundry room and can tell immediately that he's been in there. The towels are more rolled than folded, the dryer is stuffed beyond capacity, and the washer is filled with clothes that are covered in suds from too much detergent.<br />
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My brother has definitely been here.<br />
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My first instinct is to roll my eyes, put my hands on my hips and feel irritated over the extra work he has created by 'helping' me. After a couple of minutes, though, I feel bad about my flash of anger. This guy is 34 and he can't even help with laundry without making a mess of it. I clean up the clothes in the washer and dryer then go give Erik my thanks that he got the towels folded for me.<br />
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I hate folding towels, anyway.<br />
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When you love someone who makes life messy you just learn to laugh. (<span style="font-size: x-small;">And sometimes cry in private.)</span><br />
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Six years ago Erik came to stay with us for a while. I had to run some errands and he decided he'd like to stay home alone, which is just fine. He really loves to clean when he's home alone, and I totally get that. I came home and he said, "Happy surprise!" as he revealed my freshly cleaned home school room.<br />
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Hoo boy.<br />
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Here are some things you need to know:<br />
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1. My idea of organized looks nothing like Erik's idea of organized. His version means that all <b>stuff </b>is hidden. Not seen. Gone.<br />
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2. Erik is thorough. Like, OCD thorough.<br />
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3. He never means to mess up.<br />
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I was super gracious and profusely thanked him for his help. Then I locked myself in the bathroom and did the silent scream.<br />
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It literally took me two months to find one of the kids' math books. He had shoved papers, pencils, books, anything not nailed down into any available drawer. Dang, he was so proud of himself, though.<br />
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Another time I left him alone I came home to all of my furniture piled in the middle of the living room. I mean piled - tables, couches, chairs, toys, shoes - just in a heap. Erik really likes to vacuum, like <i>really </i>likes to vacuum and I will refer you above, to #2. Before you start thinking, "Hey, that's what you get for leaving him home alone." please know that sometimes what you come home to beats the heck out of dealing with him in public when he'd rather be home vacuuming.<br />
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Most recently Erik reeked havoc on a tree in my parents' back yard. We'd all been trimming honeysuckle off of some wires and instead of taking a lunch break Erik wanted to keep working. We let him go at it for a little while knowing that hunger would eventually win out. Later when we went out to finish one of the kids noticed some branches that were not honeysuckle. Our eyes went to this:<br />
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This side looked okay, but then there was this:<br />
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He went all Edward Scissorhands on the bush.<br />
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This incident is a pretty great illustration of what it's like to love someone like Erik, someone who's body and brain do not always cooperate. Just like this bush, from the right angle everything looks okay but then you round the corner and BAM - it's a mess. The bush is not perfect but it's okay. We're going to keep it back there because it is still green and it still makes the yard look pretty and it hides the back of our neighbor's house. (My dad, after we all gazed perplexedly at the bush for a couple of days, said, "Well, if I'd known he was going to take that much out I'd have ordered a bigger shed for back there." Then we all laughed because it was funny.)<br />
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That's how my brother is - not perfect, but okay. Unlike the bush with the big hole, Erik is not patient about waiting for the problem to solve itself. He wants to be an active participant in life, not a spectator. So he jumps in with everything he's got. He can look like he's doing okay and then, suddenly, not be okay, and we love him anyway because we know the whole story.<br />
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We know that Erik is the guy who loves to dance in the kitchen, who's favorite name to be called is "Uncle", who smiles on roller coasters like nobody's business. We know he's the guy that would walk one hundred miles to get a coke and candy bar and then gladly share it with you. We know that Erik, unlike this bush ever could, makes our lives richer.<br />
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Knowing Erik deepens my compassion. How can I not feel compassion for someone who has to work so hard at life?<br />
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Compassion is not the same as pity, though. I don't pity my brother. I do wish that things were easier for him, but then I wonder if I really wish he was more like the rest of us so that my life were easier. That's something to think about. Do I want my life to be easier more than I want his to be easier? Because the truth is he does complicate things, he does make life messier, no doubt, but don't I? Don't you?<br />
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When you love someone who makes life messy you laugh during the good times and push against the hard feelings during the bad ones. You remember that making life easier isn't what this world is all about and you dig down deeper into <i>who God says you are </i>and you just keep going knowing that those verses from Ecclesiastes didn't just make good lyrics. They are truth and there really is a time for everything.<br />
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Then you go hide the hedge clippers and pray he doesn't ever decide to paint the house.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-36296763649588034242015-05-13T19:45:00.002-05:002015-05-13T19:45:22.197-05:00While I Was Away...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Over the last month our internet connection has been hit or miss and I have not posted in that time. At first it started out with busyness - I had to take this child here, and that child there. I had to be on the phone for long periods of time figuring out about doctor appointments.<br />
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Then it became about perfectionism. I didn't have pictures to go with a post, or I wasn't quite happy with a post, or I just didn't <i> feel </i>what I was writing.<br />
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As Lee's Granny would say, "Hogwash."<br />
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Since I am a recovering perfectionist sometimes I have setbacks and I suppose this was one. So, here's a quick over-view of what's been going on in the Shepherd Abode for the last month:<br />
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I have been reading this book:</h3>
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I cannot recommend it more highly. I love Joanne Weaver's honest, straightforward look at herself. It allows the reader to do the same. I read the first book in this series, <u>Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World</u>, a really, really long time ago. I think I only had two little girls then. This one, Having a Mary Spirit, has been just what I needed. I find myself re-reading chapters, digging deeper into the questions, and just generally enjoying being introspective.</div>
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Sightseeing around my hometown:</h3>
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Every time we have moved to a new city the first thing the kids and I do is scope out the library. Then we begin to explore our new town. It's always funny to me that the natives rarely take advantage of the unique offerings in their own hometown. Now that we're living back in Lexington, I am recognizing how easily that happens. </div>
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Now, I know that because I was born and raised in Lexington I have a skewed view, but I really think that it is one of the most beautiful cities in the country. It also has quite a distinct personality, and I love that, too. </div>
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Some of our favorite places to explore so far have been the Lexington Cemetery, <a href="http://www.mcconnellsprings.org/">McConnell Springs</a>, and the University of Kentucky's Art Museum.<br />
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These are some of the (not greatest) pictures from our day at Lexington Cemetery:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He insisted on wearing this tie for days. Five year olds are awesome.</td></tr>
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Wallowing in self pity:</h3>
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Well, just a little bit of that. I really miss working at the library in Tell City, and I really miss my friends there. Moving is hard because you can't take your friends with you. You can, of course, talk to them on the phone and go visit them, but that can take away from time spent getting acclimated to your new city and meeting potential friends. Instead of showing you pictures of me wallowing I'll show you what I do when I start to feel wallow-y:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a screen shot of a village I found. I pretend it's real.</td></tr>
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I play Minecraft. I don't even care if the whole world knows. I want the whole world to know. I think that Minecraft is so fun. I can stress mine and it doesn't cost me calories. I can build my own home out of materials that I choose, or in survival mode that I have gathered, and there are no dirty dishes or piles of laundry. It's pretty great. On my survival world I have worked very hard to create a safe environment, keep up with my farms, and explore the area. I've only been killed by lava once. On my creative world I have filled it with sheep that I dye blue, cyan, and pink. I highly recommend Minecraft.<br />
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I let Liam, the five year old, play with me, too, but he does weird things like cover my house in vines. I really like to mine. My friend Deirdre also likes to mine and sometimes when we call each other we talk about our day in Minecraft. I'm thinking of starting a group for Minecraft Moms. We'll see. On a sad note, I accidentally killed my pet pig (in Minecraft) four days ago. I wanted to feed him a carrot but didn't realize I was holding an iron sword. The squealing noise he made before his demise is still ringing in my ears. </div>
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Moving on before I get the itch to go play.</div>
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Doing school at the library:</h3>
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And making a bad name for homeschoolers everywhere. Homeschooling in public is just different than homeschooling, well, at home. There's a little bit more pressure, for sure. Especially when people passing by whisper, "I think they're homeschooling,". It kind of makes you feel like a zoo animal. I have found that there are two thoughts when it comes to homeschoolers. There is group a) that has the false belief that all homeschoolers are geniuses, and then group b) that has the false belief that all homeschoolers are completely ignorant. Thus, the pressure to prove Group A correct and Group B wrong can be insurmountable. </div>
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I don't get the feeling the librarians enjoy having us at the library, either, but I could be wrong. I mean, generally people smile when they are pleased to see you, right? Especially when you come twice at week at the same time. </div>
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There <i>was</i> a train table incident, but surely they don't hold grudges.</div>
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Seriously, though, library clerks across America, smile for Pete's sake. You look happier that way.<br />
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Trying to find things I lost in the move:</h3>
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I cannot find my awesome spelling curriculum, All About Spelling, the only thing that is helping my dyslexic children learn to spell. I also cannot find three of the math books that I need for the upcoming year. I am certain they are in the same box. I am even more certain, after emptying out our 10x10 storage unit that I am not going to find them. I am also almost equally certain that the minute I order new stuff I will find it all. </div>
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The fam was super supportive the first few weeks I began looking. Now if they can't find me they just assume I'm tearing through stuff looking. I've even gone so far as to accuse people of hiding it so they don't have to do spelling. I was so careful when we packed. I labeled methodically.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Where is my spelling stuff??????</b></span><br />
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Okay, moving on again.</div>
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Getting caught up in school:</h3>
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Well, that's not really a thing, is it? No one gets 'caught up' in school. We moved in January so most of December was spent packing. My dad had open heart surgery six days after we moved in, so January was practically a lost cause. My high school age daughters did an excellent job of staying on top of math, science, and foreign language, though. We are in ancient history this year (Year 1 of Tapestry of Grace) which I'm enjoying this go round. Studying ancient culture makes me super thankful to have been born in 1973, though, seriously. We haven't done any big art projects this year, though, and I am feeling guilty. I wanted to make a giant paper mache bull because the Minoans were really into bulls. Kiley, my 17 year old daughter who is in charge of making art things happen, thought I wanted to make a giant <i>bowl, </i>though. Once we figured out why our ideas weren't making sense to the other we moved on. </div>
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Wondering about choices I've made:</h3>
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I am not sure if it's because I'm 41, or if because I've had more time on my hands than usual, or if it's because I'm back in my childhood home, but I find myself just pondering over all the choices that I've made. I've got to tell you, that is no good. It <i>has </i>been interesting pondering the <i>why</i> of some of my choices but I figured out real quick that pondering the <i>what ifs</i> was going to lead straight to a tub of Ben and Jerry's. I've read it a million times, heard it in sermons, and believe it's true: you have to study where you've been to figure out where you're going. I know that's true, and I think it's healthy. There are some places in my life I do not ever want to re-visit but I can say I am grateful for every experience because it's all helped shape who I am today, and where I am today. Putting too much time into wondering what would have happened if just leads to fiction, though. I like to write fiction, not live it. I'm in a full color documentary, man, and I'm choosing to be happy with it.</div>
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So eat that, ghost of Christmas past.</div>
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Enjoying attending church:</h3>
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I've wondered for the past 13 years what it would look like if my husband was not employed by the church. Would we still want to go? What would it feel like to sit as a family in church?</div>
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Well, it feels much the same, but also much different. We tried a few different churches before we found the one that felt like home. We fumbled our way through explaining who we were and how we'd gotten there and before we knew it we had a church family again. Easy peasy. Right as rain.<br />
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This is something I love about being a Christ-follower: you always have people. They may not look like you, talk like you, dress like you, or even eat like you do, but God's people are God's people anywhere you go. When you love Jesus it is impossible not to love his followers and treat them like family. (I would also like to note that when you love Jesus it is is impossible not to love the non-followers, too. You're not doing it right if that's not the case.)<br />
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So, that's it, for the most part. I'll leave you with one of the other things I've been doing when I should be doing other things:</div>
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TTYS, peeps.</div>
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See how down I am with the young folk?</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-8518407434098676402015-05-10T19:44:00.000-05:002015-05-11T08:39:04.329-05:00Dear Kids,<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear Kids,<br />
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So, it's Mother's Day, and just like every year I think it was the best Mother's Day <b>ever.</b> I mean, you didn't make me coffee, you still fought like alley cats, and none of you helped me clean out the van, BUT, you each gave me a hug and made me feel loved, and that's all I really ever need.<br />
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I hesitate to tell you all this because it could lead to disappointment next year, but I actually don't ever need a gift on Mother's Day. I know it will sound cliche, yet I am sincere when I say that you are each gift enough for me. I didn't know it until I was knee deep in breast milk and diaper wipes that being a mother was what I always wanted to be when I grew up. When I became a mother it was as if a key had unlocked a door that I didn't know existed and my true self was let out, or if not let out then enhanced. You each have made me better, deeper, softer, and more transparent than I could have been on my own.<br />
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You remember the story of the Velveteen Rabbit that I read to you when you guys were little? The one that <i>always </i>made me cry? The one about the rabbit who was loved so much he became real? See, <b style="font-style: italic;">I </b>am<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>the velveteen rabbit.<br />
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Thankfully you haven't loved off all of my hair yet, but I'm sure that day is coming.<br />
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The way you all love me inspires me, cures what ails me, and helps me to see myself the way that you do. When you were newborn babies and my body had gone thick and spongy the pure adoration in your eyes made me forget what I thought of myself. You think I'm beautiful and I can't help but feel beautiful under your admiration. Thank you for that.<br />
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I see how willing you are to learn, how eager you are to please and it encourages me to be the same. How can it be that I forget how amazing the world is? It is so fun to learn with you and from you, to explore new places, taste new foods, and find new songs to love with people like you. I never understood it when other mothers complained that their children sucked the life from them, that they felt that they had lost themselves when they became mothers. I felt like I found myself after I became a mom. I felt passion about issues, fell back in love with reading, became unafraid of meeting new people. Its hard, sure, but that's what I signed up for. What I did not expect was that being with young people, <b>you</b> people, is so fun! Even on the days when we yell and go to bed exasperated I can't wait to do it all again the next day.<br />
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After coffee, of course.<br />
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I thought mothering would be about teaching you right from wrong or to make up your beds or feeding you balanced meals. I had no idea that mothering is a kind of never-ending boot camp where instead of doing pushups in the mud you're scrubbing toilets and cleaning up piles of puke. Your drill sergeant is a tiny person whose demands must be met in spite of sleep deprivation.<br />
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Mothering has given me joy unspeakable. I have precious memories of first smiles, first baths, counting toes, and singing songs over and over until little eyes closed. I had no clue, though, that this journey would take me where it has. There were times when I was tempted to feel alone, to feel sorry for myself and then I would shake it off and realize that I was not alone - I had you four children. We took walks together, shared picnics, visited friends, went to doctor appointments - there was nothing we did not do together. I wouldn't have had it any other way.<br />
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Except in the bathroom. I would <i>desperately </i>like to be alone in the bathroom.<br />
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The name 'Mom' must give supernatural fearlessness because I feel so brave when you call to me. In the night or whenever you need reassurance all of my fears are gone because all I want is for you to feel safe. There is no length I will not go to maintain your security. I would not hesitate to go Rick Grimes on someone who threatened you.<br />
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You kids make me brave in other ways, too. I don't want you to have my weird fears (you can have your own, thank-you-very-much) so I force myself to ride escalators and roller coasters to help you be brave, too. You may not believe this but forcing you to do things you don't want to do takes an act of courage, too. It would be much easier for me to let you stay safe with me all of the time but like a mama bird I know when I need to push you out of the nest. How else would you know how amazing it is to fly?<br />
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Thanks to you four kids I know God way more intimately than I might have. My prayers for your lives first drew me to my knees in complete supplication, then later as you got older your temperaments (or maybe mine) encouraged me to cry out to God for assistance. I'm thankful for that time on my knees because I slowly learned the truth that you are not mine forever but for a time. My job isn't to keep you caged and safe but to help you become who God designed you to be. Easier said than done, but I think we're doing okay.<br />
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Thanks for a great Mother's Day, dudes. Thanks for loving me like you do.<br />
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Love,<br />
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Mama<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-80828772433967674882015-03-31T20:11:00.001-05:002015-03-31T20:27:36.528-05:00Go Fly a Kite<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My mom brought home kites a couple of days ago and my big boy has been chomping at the bit to get out and fly his. Today he wore me down and we walked to the park to see what we could do with it.<br />
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At the age of 11 I can see the young man emerging in my little boy. He is almost eye to eye with me, his shoulders are broadening, and he carries himself with more assurance. This is the age when kids are on the cusp. They crave adult privileges with none of the responsibilities. Eleven year olds desire independence, autonomy, but also grow fearful when given too much at once.<br />
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We get to the park and walk beyond the playground to the open field. It takes us a few minutes to assemble the kites and get the string where it's supposed to go. My kid is so excited that he cannot patiently wait for my instructions, he's just got to go try it.<br />
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It's a breezy day, but not constant. His frustration mounts quickly and it's less than five minutes before he throws the kite down in anger and storms off.<br />
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This is new. My words used to be gold to this guy. He would sit next to me, head turned up to hear, eyes locked on mine ready to receive my instructions. "Mom said" was the law in his eyes one short year ago.<br />
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This new thing, the not listening, the forging ahead, the I-can-do-it-without-you, is different.<br />
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My instinct is to chase him and lecture him, to force him to listen to me. To put my hands on his shoulders and remind him that if he had just listened to my instructions in the first place I could have eliminated his frustration.<br />
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The thing is, though, that I remember being frustrated like that. Feeling that <i>just one thing </i>should be easy, feeling like everything was against me, even the wind. So I push against my instinct, turn my face into the wind and run with the kite.<br />
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I run and the kite catches the wind in just the right way and it soars into the blue sky. I let out more string so that the kite can go further. The wind whips it around and the tails fly in a frenzy. The kite settles down and I stand grinning in the field. I have also been joined by my boy.<br />
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Suddenly the kite does a crazy figure eight and crashes to the ground.<br />
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I hand the kite off and tell him he'll figure it out, that I know he can do it, and I mean it when I say it.<br />
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Then I walk away.<br />
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I am playing with my younger son at the park when I hear him laughing.<br />
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"Mom, mom, I'm doing it!"<br />
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And he is. He is flying the kite without instruction, and he's just fine.<br />
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Arriving home my mom is in the kitchen and sees the kites in our hands.<br />
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"Oh, good! You took them out! Did you get it up in the air okay?"<br />
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Me and my boy, our eyes meet over the pitcher of tea he's holding. He is asking a question with his sweet brown eyes. I smile in answer. His body relaxes and he rushes to answer.<br />
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"Yes! It was great, I flew the kite all by myself!"<br />
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I walk out of the room listening to him tell of kite flying and wind and perfection as only an exuberant 11-year old can, and I am so glad I got to fly a kite today, too.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-68036331382475046672015-03-28T11:38:00.001-05:002015-03-28T15:24:06.592-05:00Five Things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm not a big keepsake person. My family has moved so often that I find it's just more stuff to put in a box when it's time to move. There, are however, five possessions I have that mean a lot to me right now.<br />
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- <b><i>My wedding band</i></b><br />
<br />
It is a plain band made from white gold. My husband has two matching ones (that story later). Two nights before our wedding we realized we had never purchased the bands we were to exchange with our vows. We went to Service Merchandise because we had no idea where else to go. We also didn't have a lot of cash since we were both still in college.<br />
<br />
A clerk caught us looking at the bands and kindly showed us some $300 sets. They were pretty, but still too expensive for our budget. We found the plain bands for about $50 a piece and were out of the door 15 minutes later.<br />
<br />
It's funny how a symbol develops meaning over twenty years. That plain metal band is so important to me, not only because of what it means but because of where it's been. We were on a mission trip to Jamaica a few years ago and I noticed it was bent. I have no idea how the tiny dent got there. I've tried to straighten it out as best I can. I could take it to a jeweler and have it fixed but I worry that it wouldn't be my band anymore. I figure I earned that dent.<br />
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<br />
<b><i>~ A drawing from a friend</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Our fourth child was born in October of 2009. I was severely anemic and also had horrible postpartum anxiety. To top it all off I had to have an MRI and a spot was found on my liver, sending my anxiety into overdrive. My other three children felt that there mother had been exchanged for someone who looked like me but acted like an alien. An alien that leaked breast milk and tears. An alien that had to be hooked to a machine to help increase the leaky problem. The alien also came with an alien baby who wreaked havoc in their lives.<br />
<br />
My sweet friend Jenna took the kids for afternoons so that they could escape the leaking alien. She drew this for me on one of those trips. It served as a reminder that motherhood is a privilege not a prison sentence and still does today.<br />
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<b><i>~ My red sneakers</i></b><br />
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I bought these sneakers four or five years ago. I have always loved red, red anything, but these just called to me. Plus, they were on sale for a GREAT price. They are a little flat so I have to get those squishy things to make my feet feel happy but overall they have been awesome shoes. They have been on walks with me, they have helped me look cute as I chase one of my dogs through the neighborhood after an escape. They have walked on the beach at Dauphin Island with me. I love these shoes.<br />
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I packed them away late last fall when we were preparing to move. I forgot about them in the shuffle of everything. A couple of weeks ago I found them in the bottom of a box with some other forgotten items and it was quite a happy reunion. I saw those shoes and recalled all the places we'd been together and couldn't wait to show them around their new city.<br />
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<b><i>~ Baby clothes</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I just can't quite put these baby clothes away permanently. I keep them in one of my drawers and like to look at them a couple of times a year when I'm trying to clean out my drawers. My babies are all getting so big now. My girls are 17 and (almost) 15, and my boys are 11 and 5. On days when I'm finding it hard to remember the sweet stuff I pull these clothes out.<br />
<br />
Some friends just had their third child a few days ago. Bringing home baby to four and two year old sons has been a train wreck. They are exhausted and can barely remember their own names. I told Roger, the new dad, "One day, you'll look back and remember these as the sweetest days of your life." He laughed and said that's what other people had told him.<br />
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"Nah, I'm lying," I confessed, "You'll always look back on these days and remember how hellishly tired you were and wonder how you did it."<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I <i>miss</i> having a newborn, and if someone would hand me (or two) one I would be overjoyed. Being a parent to a new child though, causes you to have to dig deep into the well, especially when you have other small children to feed and clothe. It's hard, really, really hard. I think, though, if you can get through those first six weeks or so and not turn on each other, you're gold.<br />
<br />
I look back on the early days with my babies and I think, "I did that, so I can do anything."<br />
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As long as I have coffee.<br />
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<b>~ <i> My journals</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i><br /></i></b>I don't journal consistently, but I have notebooks/journals filled with thoughts, pictures, writing ideas, bible study notes, and letters to people who have ticked me off. Sometimes I lose them and then will come across them months or years later. I love to peruse their pages and see myself through fresh eyes. I am occasionally really embarrassed by younger me. I am also occasionally surprised at how deep my bible study was. My journals often inspire me to do more of the same.<br />
<br />
Those are my five favorite items <i>right now.</i> I realize that each item is special to me because it has my history wrapped up in it. I read once that knowing our history is important because it tells us so much about where we are and will help us determine where we want to go. These simple items, things I could no doubt live without, hold a special place in my heart. Each item helps keep me grounded in who I was, who I am, and excited about where God will take me.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-27484888013510879692015-03-21T21:18:00.002-05:002015-03-22T15:27:59.206-05:00Why I Keep Hershey Kisses in My Purse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't like clothes shopping. Never have, never will.<br />
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I just feel that the clothing industry is where the real war on women is. Like someone out there wants us all to either wear sweat pants and t-shirts every day or they have something against women in general. I do not understand it, the average woman's weight is steadily rising yet the fabric used to make our clothing gets increasingly thinner. And stretchier. And less forgiving.<br />
<br />
What the heck?<br />
<br />
Last year at Easter Mom bought me a dress. I was pretty excited because it was my size. It was not a style I would have picked but I was game. I put it on in the bathroom and from the neck up I was pretty impressed. I went to the full length mirror and wasn't so sure.<br />
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I called my husband in for a second opinion. He stood behind me while I turned to and fro trying to get a feel for whether or not this dress would accompany me to church the next morning.<br />
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"Well, what do you think?" I asked Lee.<br />
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He didn't answer so I turned to see what was up. "Well?" I probed.<br />
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Lee looked pained, like he had swallowed something the wrong way and couldn't get it out.<br />
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The poor man answered shakily, "I'm so scared right now. Is this a trick? What's the right answer?"<br />
<br />
The answer was I looked like a hot dog that had been left in the water too dang long. Lumps and bumps were popping out all over the place. I had tried to wear undergarments that held everything in before and was not happening again. It took three people to get me out of the contraption and my ribs have never been the same. Also, the dress was obviously made from the same type of material that they must use for topographical maps because every hill and valley was highlighted.<br />
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The next week I exchanged the pretty dress for a pair of pants with an elastic waist band and two t-shirts.<br />
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A few months ago my daughters convinced me to go shopping with them, probably because they know that I am weak after a dressing room experience and that they could get me to say 'yes' to just one more pair of jeans. All shirts are now see through. I'm not even kidding. I guess you're supposed to also buy shirts to go under or have on a fancy bra but I don't get it.<br />
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I'm not the only confused one. I've met plenty of confused women in the dressing room. We take turns in front of three-way Mirror of Shame. We say nice things to each other to try and clear the confusion. Clearing up confusion is not easy under the sickly yellow of fluorescent lights, either.<br />
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"Oh, I think the zipper is supposed to be open at the top a little. It's a thing now," someone will say.<br />
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"When you stand with one hand in the air and one in front of you it looks really good," another offers as encouragement.<br />
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I've told my daughters that it's totally normal to hear soft weeping from an adjoining dressing room. "Just throw some chocolate under the partition and leave. She'll be fine."<br />
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And that's why I always keep some Hershey kisses in my purse.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-69681680514207764152015-03-18T10:16:00.000-05:002015-03-18T10:54:47.070-05:00Yellow Boots<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In my house lives a pair of magical yellow boots.<br />
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That's what the boy who wears them believes, anyway.<br />
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They were on sale and blue was sold out so the yellow boots seemed an easy choice. Now I see that they chose me so that they could make it home to my boy.<br />
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I bought the boots a size too big when he was half way to three. I noticed right away how perfect they were because I could spot him wherever he went. A flash of yellow gave me comfort that I knew right where he was. Immediately they set him apart. Other parents complimented me. "How smart to pick yellow. He can't hide from you!"<br />
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These boots were with him the year he turned three. He was a super hero in pajamas and a cape. The yellow boots were a constant companion, the only thing we didn't lose.<br />
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At four the boots were with him in his dress up clothes. He was a firefighter, Iron Man, a worker guy, and a chef. They were with him as he learned to peddle his bike chanting "Just keep pedawing, just keep pedawing."<br />
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With the boots on his feet puddles turned to oceans that he could cross without harm. Mountains became hills (or is it the other way?), and all trees became climbable with the yellow boots on his feet. He had super human speed thanks to those yellow boots.<br />
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"Close your eyes, mama!" he commands, so I do. When I open them he has crossed the yard faster than normal eyes can track. "Am I the fastest?"<br />
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Yes, my boy you are.<br />
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Gravity has no hold on his boots. He can touch the tallest trees, the clouds, and even the moon with his yellow boots on his feet.<br />
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The boots cause heads to turn wherever we go. His stride shows a confidence only a 5 year old who has not been knocked around by the world can carry. "Nice boots," they say. "Thanks," he replies in a deepened voice. If he had on a cowboy hat I know he would tip it in their direction.<br />
<br />
The boots are tattered and torn, muddy and worn. They are losing their treads. Long ago the liner was discarded. Sometimes my little boy goes days without asking for them. They no longer have to be at his bedside, or on his feet, while he sleeps. I know that his need for them his dwindling.<br />
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I sometimes think that I love these boots even more than he does. They are like the fishes and loaves, continuing to give even when they logically should not. Every time he puts them on I think, "Today will be the day that they don't fit."<br />
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As we walk around the block I ask how they feel.<br />
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"Great!" he shouts as he runs ahead, always ahead and always faster than I am. Skipping and jumping, spontaneously stopping to examine the world.<br />
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He believes they will fit, and so they do.<br />
<br />
I know that one day the boots won't fit, that they will be too small. I know that one day my boy won't <i>care</i> if they fit, that he will no longer want them.<br />
<br />
I know the yellow boots hold no magic. They are ordinary yellow boots that have been transformed into <i>extraordinary </i>yellow boots for a time.<br />
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The little boy runs ahead of me, turns his brown eyes to look over his shoulder and coax, "Come on, mama!"<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>I see instantly where the magic lies, and it is <i>not</i> in those boots. </b></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-66289498804577110282015-03-15T15:24:00.002-05:002015-03-15T17:40:27.044-05:00If Mama Ain't Happy...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A few years ago I said to a friend, "I think I'm going to start a blog."<br />
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So I did. The title came easily to me. I had a a little frame that held the phrase "If Mama Ain't Happy...Nobody's Happy" in it hanging above my desk. A sweet lady from a church in Tennessee had given it to me after I spoke at our church on Mother's Day. There was a companion to it that said, "If Daddy Ain't Happy...Who Cares?" I showed it to my mother-in-law once and she was <i>not</i> happy.<br />
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It's a phrase familiar to me from childhood. It was said jokingly or with great seriousness depending on the situation.<br />
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When I became a mother I took the phrase to mean that it was someone else's job to make Mama happy. That someone else was generally my husband, poor man. Lee tried, he really did, but since he is human he failed. A lot. Don't worry, I was really good about reminding him of his failures.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
One day and three children later I was sitting in my van on a rainy day. I had a trunk full of groceries and was waiting a bit to go in. I took that time to rage at God about what a pitiful husband Lee was and gave him a long list of things He could do to improve him.<br />
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It was a very thorough list.<br />
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God had a revelation to share with me that day, though. Apparently, my husband is <i>not </i>my savior. Ugh. What a disappointment.<br />
<br />
After some weeping and gnashing of the teeth I drew closer to Jesus through studying the bible, reading LOTS of books, talking with other women, and praying.<br />
<br />
I learned that the phrase 'If mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy' really meant that my family followed my lead when it came to my mindset. I read in a book, I can't for the life of my remember the title or author, that the mother is the barometer of her family. If I'm a storm cloud thundering around my family reflects that. However, if I can be content <i>no matter the circumstances </i> my family will also follow suit.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>I have learned the secret of</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">being content in any and every situation, </span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>whether well fed or hungry, </i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>whether living in plenty or in want.</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>I can do all things through Christ, </i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>who gives me strength.</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Phillippians 4: 12-13</i></b></span></div>
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It's amazing how true this is. The bad news is that it's a major responsibility. The good news is that we do not have to do it alone. For years I struggled with feeling inadequate as a mom. I was constantly reading books to help me be a better wife and mother. I may have started out reading a book with a teachable spirit but either by the end of the book, or a few weeks after finishing, I felt like a failure, or that I wasn't changing fast enough. My family certainly wasn't looking like the one I dreamed of as I read these books.<br />
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I was constantly criticizing myself and my family and digging a deeper hole that required yet <i><b>more </b></i>self-help books. Slowly, after a lot of time with Jesus, I came to realize that working in my own power was wearing me down.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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The title of my blog came easily but the purpose not so much. Lately I've been thinking a lot about the purpose of my blog. I mean, I like to write. I like to share stories and goodness knows my life has given me plenty to write about.<br />
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I write because I believe that sharing story is important. Sharing stories connects us to one another, helps us feel less alone. I think one of the meanest things that people can do to one another is not be honest. I feel it's important to say, "Being human is kicking my butt today."<br />
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Being transparent isn't easy because it makes us vulnerable. Others can see our weaknesses which means that they could hurt us. I've got to tell you, I just don't have the energy to cover up all my issues. Plus what good is it to struggle to make the appearance of being okay when at the end of the day there's no pay off? I may as well wear a t-shirt that says "not quite right". It's kind of like, if I show you mine you show me yours, you know?<br />
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SO... here's the low down for today:<br />
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My youngest son wore one of my flowered, lacy socks to church because I just can't find his.<br />
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I don't have chore charts.<br />
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I have pinned hundreds of recipes but still manage to make tacos and pasta meals every. single. week.<br />
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I swear in front of my children sometimes. I sometimes feel bad for it.<br />
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I am inconsistent with discipline.<br />
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BUT...<br />
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I really, really, really love Jesus, and that trumps it all.<br />
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Erma Bombeck, said, "If you can't make it better, you can laugh at it."<br />
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I blog here to help people feel less alone, to give people something to laugh about, and to share what Jesus is doing in my life. Being human is hard. I can't make it better, but I<i> can</i> give you something to laugh about.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>"Every life is a pile of good things</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>and bad things. The good things </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>don't always soften the bad things, but</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>vice versa the bad things don't always </i></b></span><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">spoil the good </span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">things and </span></i></b><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">make them unimportant."</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Doctor Who</span></i></b></div>
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I believe it's <i style="font-weight: bold;">ALL </i>important.<br />
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That's why I write. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-50794051119033288462015-03-10T20:48:00.000-05:002015-03-10T20:50:27.670-05:00Unrefined Palates<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I find it ironic that American parents spend the first ten years of a child's life forcing them to eat, and the next 8 working overtime to compensate for the amount of food which that same child consumes.<br />
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Our pediatricians give us lists and brochures and websites to consult. We worry and fret over the lack of vegetables or the perfect balance of protein. There are now 50 types of milk to choose from; feel free to go fight with someone on the internet over which one is the best. Let's not even get started on bread, or high fructose corn syrup, or quinoa versus rice.<br />
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All young parents really need to understand is this: your children will one day insist that you <i>never </i>get good food at the grocery, and then they will proceed to devour everything like angry locusts.<br />
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I come in from a trip to the store with enough food for a week feeling pretty good. I've got meal plans and our budget's doing okay. I turn to find a place to cram the milk and when I turn back the children are all gone and there's just empty bags and crumbs. They'll even eat dry pasta.<br />
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Another scene that's common around here goes like this:<br />
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I'm making a new recipe and can't find the can of hearts of palm.<br />
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"Were those the white thingy's in that jar thing?"<br />
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"Yes," I say enthusiastically hoping my missing food will be returned without ransom.<br />
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"Yeah, I ate those."<br />
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<i>Silent shriek.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"</i>Did you like them?" I ask incredulously.<br />
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"No. They were gross."<br />
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<i>More silent shrieking.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Honestly, there's no happier day for my husband and I than we discover a food that they don't like.<br />
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"Hey, why don't you make sausage dish you do?"<br />
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"The kids hate that," I answer.<br />
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"Exactly," my sly man says.<br />
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Enough for us to eat <i>and </i>leftovers. Score!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-54193472389226657312015-03-07T07:34:00.000-06:002015-03-07T08:05:35.175-06:00I Wish I Was ThereHey, there! Do you like the new look around here? I woke up silly excited about the new template on my blog. It's the little things in life, right?<br />
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I'd like to thank Kelsey at <a href="http://kreatedbykelseyblog.blogspot.com/">Kreated by Kelsey</a> I highly recommend her. I purchased this template in her <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/kreatedbykelsey1">Etsy</a> store last night, and within minutes were working out the details. She was extremely helpful, uploading my blog header and 'About Me' section. I super appreciate that because coding is like Greek to me. Kelsey offers services ranging from pre-made blogger templates, to signatures, navigation bars, and custom blog design. She works quickly and is focused on making the customer happy - which I am! I still have a little tweaking to do (but am waiting for my 17year old daughter to come hold my hand). What do you think?<br />
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So here the southeast we got slammed with 17.1 inches of snow. I feel that the .1 may have pushed us all over the edge of hating snow. I was not meant to be a Canadian, or Alaskan, or even a Northern Hoosier, I think. Maybe I could learn to love the snow if I had:<br />
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<br />
<ul>
<li>a snow plow</li>
<li>a snow suit</li>
<li>children who did not take my gloves ALL the time</li>
<li>a mudroom</li>
</ul>
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The boys want to play outside in the snow, of course, which is fun until they come in and take off their 97 layers of clothes. We don't own snow suits because 'it never snows where we live'. I just can never justify how expensive they are for just one or two days of snow and you can never find them at Goodwill. Now I'll be perpetually stuck in the should-I-shouldn't-I place when it comes to coveralls.</div>
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Anyway, the front hallway of the house is crowded with towels and boots and scarves and mittens and hats. Oh, spring, where art thou?</div>
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I'll think about it next October. For right now we are where we are. </div>
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My eldest daughter and I were looking through my 1,981 pictures on my phone last night and found the beach ones from last summer. We looked out the back window and simultaneously said, "I wish we were at the beach." At first I thought it would be cool if all that snow out there were sand, but then I realized that would be even worse to clean up than the snow. The pictures serve as evidence that sunny places do exist and that I have been to such places. I tend to start feeling like the snow is permanent and go into survival mode in the winter. Well, I lay in bed and think about what I would do in a post-apocolyptic world that was covered in snow. I don't actually do anything about it but I feel certain that I <i> would </i>be proactive in the event of a real apocolypse. </div>
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Or I would just lay in bed and wish I were at the beach.<br />
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We went to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dauphin_Island,_Alabama">Dauphin Island, Alabama</a> and I have to say I fell in love with the gulf. I wasn't so sure on the first night. We got to the house at about 9 o'clock and it was VERY dark. My darling husband insisted that we walk to the beach immediately rather than be sensible and wait till morning. So we trooped off with the four children and a flashlight that flickered at walked up a 42 foot sand dune. Once we reached the top we were rewarded with <i>more sand.</i> We could hear the ocean but its exact location eluded us. We continued walking in the direction of the surf sound despite the utter dark. We persevered through grass and bog and maybe a fight or two. I can only imagine what the people who were out crabbing thought of us 6 crabs who were not really speaking by the time they made it to the water's edge.<br />
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In the light of the day, though, I decided we had not made a wrong decision.<br />
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We woke early every day and rushed to the beach in fear that it would not be there. We claimed a spot on the beach as 'ours'. We found hermit crabs, shells, seaweed, and a dead shark. It was tiny, don't worry. Our first day out we were all a little timid, except of course for my husband, Lee, who is never timid. We hadn't been to the beach in 10 years and for the boys it was their first time in the ocean. I suppose I was the most reticent, waiting to get in until I was certain my children weren't going to drown or be drug away by a kraken.<br />
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By the end of the week, though, the ocean and I were good friends. I was even starting to have goofy thoughts about writing poetry equating the salt water to the amniotic fluid of my mother's womb. I stopped myself, though. You're welcome.<br />
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It truly was the Best Vacation Ever. The ocean reminded us that our little world is not all there is. The vastness of the water, the never-endingness of it, is comforting. (All beach pictures courtesy of Kiley Shepherd)<br />
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Now back to our regular scheduled programming:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuwbS0WQ_E7cXops8xtNFL3TIbNhLotkmmGCX6GxpXKrzLQjIKFVDueTVMxxUF6hAjAH0ZALBQyIB7vSHaizc4Z2L94aLbLnQz-T9muWpS9mZTK4a42gwxx_hGB3Iry-MadLn8tU-6m4/s1600/10986890_705793939543089_8152714905458942103_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuwbS0WQ_E7cXops8xtNFL3TIbNhLotkmmGCX6GxpXKrzLQjIKFVDueTVMxxUF6hAjAH0ZALBQyIB7vSHaizc4Z2L94aLbLnQz-T9muWpS9mZTK4a42gwxx_hGB3Iry-MadLn8tU-6m4/s1600/10986890_705793939543089_8152714905458942103_n.jpg" height="640" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother, Erik, refusing to let winter win. Photo courtesy of Julie Krieg. :)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i> Remember, if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Live life happy, friends.</i></span></div>
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Brave Misfithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01273506645764478858noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-27252602433357875822015-03-04T11:35:00.001-06:002015-03-04T15:23:41.685-06:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was 18, almost 19, and had just started college. Coffee shops were a new, very cool thing in the early 90's, and a friend had asked me to join her at one. A youth minister, a guy who visited us in high school, had kept up with her and wanted to meet and I tagged along.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6MVgNRriWGbyPBlHgJ-ejrFjocWyLr4ubHykKmaEtLkzgmc1Rro6zDwXbpM4GDeOj_Opc7J5WcnTPegkFtof-P0l6w7fyFNssczNx9Rng0esGwXWGlLKN_RlGADW3Qbcof0Z2pNSg7tk/s1600/P3042792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6MVgNRriWGbyPBlHgJ-ejrFjocWyLr4ubHykKmaEtLkzgmc1Rro6zDwXbpM4GDeOj_Opc7J5WcnTPegkFtof-P0l6w7fyFNssczNx9Rng0esGwXWGlLKN_RlGADW3Qbcof0Z2pNSg7tk/s1600/P3042792.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was in a phase that year, as most young people are during that time of life. I was experimenting with clothes and make up. I had discovered that my curves had power. I had discovered liquid eyeliner. I wasn't great at applying it, but I liked feeling different in my own skin. I had never been one to wear a lot of make up - mascara and lip gloss were about it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD8Ast8lCqrphhpP5-D3UjIU-qeRyeZ7HazPi-EcvL3-K8J9d3MkvyUR5i16P1pXCzEXc_S3CuXyhHLZDTXpD8jwuy9a8VhEZP_OLu1ZQY8ZGrRK7MDwtvq86LRhOAMo38PS4bt5rVlIw/s1600/P3042786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD8Ast8lCqrphhpP5-D3UjIU-qeRyeZ7HazPi-EcvL3-K8J9d3MkvyUR5i16P1pXCzEXc_S3CuXyhHLZDTXpD8jwuy9a8VhEZP_OLu1ZQY8ZGrRK7MDwtvq86LRhOAMo38PS4bt5rVlIw/s1600/P3042786.JPG" height="320" width="225" /></a></div>
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We were sitting at the table with our coffee when he came in. I can't remember his name, maybe Rich, but I could be wrong. He came in and sat down across from us and ordered his coffee. We chatted a little, then he asked what we'd been up to.<br />
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I don't know if I fumbled as I answered or what. I was not making the best choices and I was certainly not proud of it, but I also didn't see a way out. I had been feeling not only directionless and out of control, the perfect combo for messing up royally. I'm sure I was giving off I'm-flaking-out vibes all over the place.<br />
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What happened next, though, was soul crushing.<br />
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"Look at you, Kara," he said, "What are you doing? You're dressing different. Now you're wearing make up on. Eyeliner or something that's smeared more on one eye than the other...." <br />
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I felt like I had been slapped in the face.<br />
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I think it may have been the first time I felt real shame for who I was. Yes, I had certainly felt shame over actions as a child, but up until that very moment I had never felt ashamed of who I was, of the person I was. I left that coffee house humiliated.<br />
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I thought I was going to meet a friend and instead ended up feeling like I was in enemy territory.<br />
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I felt condemned, and I embraced the condemnation. I figured that I must have deserved it and I just jumped into it. I am by no means blaming my choices on this man, they were my own and I long ago accepted the consequences of those choices (hello, goofy tattoo around my ankle). But I will always wonder what would have happened if he had just loved me, smudged liquid eyeliner and all.<br />
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This guy, whatever his name was, was the only person outside of my parents who was speaking up for Jesus. In one rash statement Jesus went from being a guy I thought I could trust to a finger wagger who only loved me if I fit the mold. I wonder if I had thought that there were loving arms waiting to embrace me rather than a pointing finger if my choices would have been harder to make.<br />
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I can't believe that after 20 years that memory is still crystal clear. It makes me sad for my younger self. I was so young. I was just trying to feel my way through a really difficult turn. I was a mess but I was also really open to something and it could have been the message that 'Rich' was carrying. The message that guy was sending, though, was 'You are not welcome in your current state.'<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2DzU24g5_IgDrhu_kCdmgZcOTUDvZFD-kkxkyNCOycqC66Os5n-O9AbcE3_67stD0Fiif200Cz4ey7hCxGAbZY71B8O5CCnv0iifYVjGEH3IGCBvlm1UkV9ZIYol9WByfSulk2oAG-I/s1600/P3042798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2DzU24g5_IgDrhu_kCdmgZcOTUDvZFD-kkxkyNCOycqC66Os5n-O9AbcE3_67stD0Fiif200Cz4ey7hCxGAbZY71B8O5CCnv0iifYVjGEH3IGCBvlm1UkV9ZIYol9WByfSulk2oAG-I/s1600/P3042798.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Why do we do that to each other? It baffles my brain that in Christian circles shaming has become commonplace. We should know better. We should <i>do</i> better. Our churches should be filled to the brim with people who don't belong, who don't fit the mold. The minute they walk through the doors they should be showered with the kind of love that causes their heads to lift up - the kind of love that lifted us up.<br />
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No one should feel ashamed of where they're at, and certainly no person should be shamed by a another who claims Christ. Life is hard enough without making it more difficult for one another.<br />
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I am thankful for the memory of that day, though. It was an excellent what-not-to-do lesson. I believe it has equipped me to love my people, and even people who aren't mine yet, right where they're at. I'm not perfect at it. I mess it all up. A. Lot. I try to drive home to my children, more than anything, that the voice of Christ is never critical.<br />
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"I will fail," I tell them. "I will mess up big. But the One who loves you more than I ever could will never mess up. Let his voice be bigger than mine."<br />
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Let his voice be bigger.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tell-his-story/" title=""><img alt="" src="http://jenniferdukeslee.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/tellhisstory-badge.jpg" style="border: none;" title="" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Linking up at <a href="http://jenniferdukeslee.com/">jenniferdukeslee.com</a> </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-4535939098186052372015-03-02T13:15:00.000-06:002015-03-02T14:09:15.598-06:00How to Be Humbled<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Children were invented to keep adults humble, I am certain.<br />
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A few years ago I was waiting for the timer to go off so I could rinse the dye out of my hair. My oldest son was about 6 at the time and he asked me what I was doing. I showed him the picture on the box and said, "My hair is going got look like that when I'm done," pointing to the nice lady with chestnut colored hair. 25 minutes later when I had rinsed and dried my hair I went and found my boy to show him the finished result.<br />
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"See, it's all done," I said. He didn't seem convinced.<br />
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"What?" I asked.<br />
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"You just don't look anything like the lady on the box," he replied. I think I heard disappointment in his tone.<br />
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Another time I had gone to the dentist to have a crown put on my tooth. Before leaving I said "The dentist is going to fix my teeth!" I wanted my kids to feel that the dentist was a good person, not someone to be feared.<br />
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Upon arriving home my kids asked me to smile, so I did.<br />
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"The dentist didn't fix your teeth." my son surmised (yes, the same son). "They're still yellow."<br />
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Geesh. Glad I wasn't having a low self-esteem day.<br />
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I did start drinking my coffee with a straw, though.<br />
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As your kids gets older the comments get less filtered.<br />
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"When the sun shines on you like that you can really see your mustache."<br />
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"Are you going out in <i>that</i>?"<br />
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"I think tank tops are meant for athletes, mom."<br />
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"Your butt isn't big, there's just a lot of it."<br />
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"Have your eyebrows always grown together like that?"<br />
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"I love how squishy you are."<br />
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I think it's God's plan to have children be as unfiltered as possible so that by the time they are teenagers you are so thick skinned that everything your kids say literally bounces off of you. You really become rubber and not just because of the aging process.<br />
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Kids can even help you embrace your shortcomings and learn to make them a special part of being you. My 5 year old is obsessed with the crown I have on one of my molars because it's gold. Every time he draws a picture of me he colors a big gold spot near my mouth, and says, "Look, there's your golden crown, my princess."<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDRD_D8lc7GYVuLvZPlRy8Rt5z248dUCGC1E7S1LJhJkiifGSzktMX_hCHRZcvS2uWm_60M802XtsuUD-rrz0GC4gAcmfeKNeEUp3D_TL6sV08G7JNOy3avHV8q3iRZL1fcLl7mQklTc/s1600/IMG_2746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDRD_D8lc7GYVuLvZPlRy8Rt5z248dUCGC1E7S1LJhJkiifGSzktMX_hCHRZcvS2uWm_60M802XtsuUD-rrz0GC4gAcmfeKNeEUp3D_TL6sV08G7JNOy3avHV8q3iRZL1fcLl7mQklTc/s1600/IMG_2746.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See the spot of gold on my cheek? That's my crown.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-68716938279227396532015-02-24T19:29:00.003-06:002015-02-25T14:42:50.522-06:00Choose Trust<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have a dirty secret.</div>
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I often read the last page(s) of a novel before I have even started it. Or sometimes after I'm a couple of chapters in. I just want to make certain that the commitment is going to be worth it. I don't want to become emotionally invested in characters who will just disappoint me. I absolutely do not want to think that I'm following a story line that is tired and overdone. So I just peek, make sure it's ending in a way that will feel resolved.</div>
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I <i>so </i>wish I could do that in real life.</div>
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I am a born-again Christian. Jesus walked into my life 14 years ago when I said, "I do," and he has never left my side. I
can recount time upon time when his love rescued me, sometimes from
myself, sometimes from others who had left me wounded. He has never
failed me. </div>
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Yet, there are still times that I find it hard to trust him. There are times that I want to read the last page.</div>
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I mean, I know how <i><b>THE</b></i><b><i> </i></b>story ends but I want to know how <b><i>my</i></b> story ends. I want to know what kinds of twists and turns it will take, I want to know that my commitment is worth it. I want to know that the characters I am emotionally invested will not disappoint me. I want to be certain that the storyline will be exciting (but not too exciting) and that it won't be tired and overdone. I want the assurance that my story will come to a peaceful close around my 100th birthday after a long day in my garden with my kin gathered around singing "I'll Fly Away".</div>
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God, though, in his infinite wisdom does not want me to know the end of the story. He desires that I live that story trusting in him. My God desires that I not know the twists and turns of my story or where it will take me. The God that I serve asks that I embrace the characters he places in my life, that I accept the fact that I most certainly will be disappointed, and that I accept that I will do a fair amount of disappointing myself.</div>
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Fortunately God never says that trusting him looks serene and holy.</div>
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The education of the Christian is not passive, it's not easy, and it's not neat and tidy. Point A rarely leads directly to Point B. The education of the Christian involves a healthy combination of work and failure - with an emphasis on the failure. Learning from mistakes is part of it, but even more than that is learning to trust God in the midst of what looks like a failure to to the world. For me, the heart of Christian education is learning that is not our happiness that God desires, but our holiness. He will do what needs to be done to get us to that place. </div>
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It baffles my brain that I have struggled so much with trust because I have never been given any reason not to trust Jesus. I was been born in a country where freedom comes easily, in a family where love is in abundance, and in a life where hard work is a choice. I have met people from other countries where the best meal of the day is a piece of bread with a smear of peanut butter on it and yet they seem to have the whole trust thing down really well. </div>
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I have to wonder if it is all of the choices that I have at my disposal that muddle my mind and make difficult the most important decision: to trust Jesus. </div>
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That's just it, though, isn't it? Trust is our choice, every time, every day. </div>
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So maybe that's the secret.</div>
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Give yourself no other choice.</div>
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It's totally worth the commitment of not knowing the end of the story. </div>
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Choose trust.</div>
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<a href="http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tell-his-story/" title=""><img alt="" src="http://jenniferdukeslee.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/tellhisstory-badge.jpg" style="border: none;" title="" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-38294061927044233302015-02-21T08:41:00.000-06:002015-02-21T08:41:20.832-06:00No One's Friend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I recently went to the doctor with some complaints such as nigh sweat and moodiness. The good doctor felt that most of my problems stemmed from having two teenage daughters. Well, duh. Anyway, her theory is that my girls are throwing off hormones. It seems my 40 something body is the perfect catcher's mitt. She also said something about peri-menopause and I quit listening. I was hung up on teenagers being my problem.<br />
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See, it's not my teenagers that bother me. It's their hormones.<br />
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Basically, once a month I feel like a 15 year old girl.<br />
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I want to slam doors and can barely stop myself from rolling my eyes when people, even strangers, annoy me. If I remember to shave my legs I also think about how fun it would be to shave the bottom half of my hair off. I think, "That would just feel right." Honestly I have to stop myself from shaving off an eyebrow or two. That's the kind of ridiculousness that spurs teenage fads I tel you - hormones!<br />
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Once a month I feel that a butterfly tattoo on my foot would be the cutest thing in the world. I paint my nails teal blue. I stop myself before applying the electric blue eyeliner I was so fond of at 15. Once a month I want to listen to Taylor Swift and Katy Perry (<span style="font-size: xx-small;">okay, I always like to listen Taylor and Katy, but only Katy's clean stuff</span>). Sometimes you just have to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8XFBUM8dMqw">Shake It Off.</a><br />
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I remember being a teenager. I also remember feeling that my actions were perfectly rational. Never mind that I broke into tears and/or a rage when I couldn't find my favorite pair of jeans. People expect that kind of behavior from 13-17 year olds. It's a little more difficult to explain when you're 41 and supposed to be in charge of people.<br />
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I told my husband, "Listen, I don't understand it, I fight it as much as I can, but it is in your best interest to let me do what I need to do for about 48 hours."<br />
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Typically what I need to do for 48 hours is watch Pride and Prejudice while being fed a steady diet of dark chocolate and hot tea. I settle for being alone in the van with a McDonald's coffee and my daughter's iPod.<br />
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My sons and husband just hunker down together. One morning my son asked me what was wrong since I was crying while I did the dishes. I turned slowly while thinking of the best answer, "Well, son, once a month a woman sheds the inner lining of her uterus."<br />
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"Spencer, get out of there!" my husband yelled.<br />
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Spencer backed slowly out of the kitchen while throwing a trail of dark chocolate on the floor.<br />
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Hormones are no one's friend.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-963904886344675653.post-50555232792093720792015-02-18T21:23:00.001-06:002015-02-19T06:24:15.734-06:00Insulated<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Well, I'm probably in the minority here, but I love the snow. We don't get a lot of snow here, so the 10 or 12 inches that we've gotten have shut us down pretty good.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwZw0LoRwWXOivpe6Je0EfI-VzqLQ88Pz5e_SYb85RMc2N6pLJ-UwAT9QIpw6plEEQDSAmsBztHjAzIGZdzrwIjL9R1PdzRbLK7wV8F21AzK7fWo5nfPRlCq572r6KDkzk9HYWvSuhgYQ/s1600/IMG_2728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwZw0LoRwWXOivpe6Je0EfI-VzqLQ88Pz5e_SYb85RMc2N6pLJ-UwAT9QIpw6plEEQDSAmsBztHjAzIGZdzrwIjL9R1PdzRbLK7wV8F21AzK7fWo5nfPRlCq572r6KDkzk9HYWvSuhgYQ/s1600/IMG_2728.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Frankly, I love an excuse not to leave the house. We've got food, fire, and movies. The kids can play outside til they're so cold they can't stand it. Plus, it'll make spring seem that much more miraculous. We'll be tired of each other and ready for company in March. I think winter is God's perfect plan to remind his people of the fact that they need each other. The snow insulates us from the world. News is less newsworthy and nothing matters quite as much as what we're doing inside our four walls.</div>
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It's funny how three days of snow has altered our routine so much. I don't feel the urgency to wake everyone up and get things going. We make breakfast, while we eat we watch the birds at the feeders. Some of us go outside to play in the snow, some start on their school work. Mom and Dad hang out at the dining room table reading comics aloud to each other. Boys come in, clothes are thrown in dryer. Every day school gets done, laundry gets done, people get fed, and rooms are tidied.<br />
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It seems that my mind relaxes when I cannot think of a million things I could or should be doing. Each day I focus on what we need first then what we want.<br />
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I can become so enamored with shiny things - other curriculum to choose from, Pinterest projects, recipes from across the web, blogs that are polished and amazing and have the best photos, that I forget that <i>what I've got is what I've got. </i><br />
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As I watch the birds in the snow I think. I think about where they go when they're not at the feeder, I wonder if they're cold, I wonder if they're happy to have the feeders full every day. I wonder if they care that I broke the suet up and sprinkled it on the ground so that they can have some extra energy. I wonder if they know that tomorrow the temperatures are going to be dangerously low. I wonder if they are worried about how they will prepare for the impending drought in 2050.<br />
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I can get a little out of hand in my thinking.<br />
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What I know about those birds is this: they don't worry. Those little birdies that I love eat when they are hungry, sleep when they are tired, and fly when they want to go. That's a paraphrase of Matthew 6:24-35. Jesus is a little more eloquent than I am.<br />
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I'm going to try and keep this snow day rhythm I've got going even after the snow melts. I'll just let Jesus be my insulation from the world.<br />
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